Sherlock Fic: Category Two, Chapter Six
“Then how could I have missed that one detail?” Sherlock asks. The shot. The fall. Everything repeats itself, down to the last detail. John casts up his eyes, his hand pressing down on the scar on his shoulder. For a few seconds he brings the pain of the dream along to reality, realizing late where and when he actually is. Julie next to him is asleep, with her back turned on him, her hair tided back, some streaks loose. John sits up, inhales the warm air, it’s too stuffy, his lung adheres with hot oxygen, he coughs quietly. The memory of the dream is fresh in mind, pictures flickering in front of his closed eyelids.
John stands up, in dimness he slips into some clothes, in the narrow corridor he puts on his boots and grabs his coat while leaving the flat.
The nights in London are just insignificantly less loud and intrusive than the days, the murmur and rushing, created by thousands of voices, is just replaced by flaring lights and shining signs. John doesn’t head for the city centre, to overwhelming would the brightness and the pulsation of the metropolis be at this time of day. He needs silence, cold clear air in his lungs, maybe the burning in his throat, the pain in his chest. On his way to the nearby park he starts to limp again, he persuades himself that it is just his imagination. He blames the chill and knows better.
The park lies under a thin layer of snow, the silence is eerie, sometimes a shout or the sound of a police siren rolls over the treetops. The rest is absorbed by the white mass, John feels like standing in a dead room, his breathe and steps sound muffled. A bench stands waysides, facing a cluster of trees, slender birches and maples. Carved into the bench in narrow letters are the names of a married couple who donated it 20 years ago to the park. “In memory of our beloved grandchild who is no longer among us. He liked the shapes of the shadows the trees around here casted.”
John clears the bench, snow sticks to his fingers and melts. He clutches his leg with both hands while sitting down, exhales through clenched teeth, grimaces, pain floods through his body. It’s nothing but psychosomatic, John tries to convince himself, just delusion. He stretches and bends the knee a few times, the pain doesn’t cease, gets hot in his muscles and grows to a steady traction.
The chill creeps under his jacket, he releases his leg, folds his arms around his upper body, keeps the knee stretched, stares between the trees opposite. The faint light reaches just a few inches far, everything behind that lies in the dark.
When John notices Sherlock standing on the left of the bench, he doesn’t even try to look at him, he just lets him stay a silhouette in the corner of his eye. His face becomes hot, he is hyperaware of the pulse in his limbs, says nothing, concentrates on the fringe of his sight field, doesn’t dare to turn his head because he’s afraid to be wrong, to have misinterpreted the shape. But how could he, how could he not recognise the familiar shape of Sherlock Holmes, the slender high figure, dressed in a long dark coat, his posture, how his curls frame his face, the nose, the cheekbones, the chin. How could he, John Watson, possibly be wrong in that case?
“You know the pain isn’t real.” Sherlocks voice is much deeper than he remembered, snow and darkness are making it hollow.
“Oh really?” John asks, it’s supposed to sound cutting. It is supposed to contain the rage and grief of the last three years, supposed to sound reproaching and relieved at the same time, should convey his disappointment. He wants to appear hurt, but wants to offend too. He just wants to free himself from all these emotions, finally.
Instead it sounds weary, exhausted. As if he already talked and discussed and fought the whole night, he sinks down feebly. He just doesn’t have the energy for that conversation, he realizes. His leg convulses for a few seconds, his left hand darts reflexively, grabs the thigh, squeezes it and massages the hardened muscle. In the corner of his eyes he believes to see Sherlock facing him now. The spasmodic aches dissolve, John sighs, his grip loosens, his hand lies limply on his thigh. He tries to brace himself for what will follow. The explanation. He will find it difficult to swallow, won’t have the chance to scrutinize, just has to listen. He doesn’t want to make this conversation. Actually. John watches his left hand which rests on his leg. He suddenly sees the red line. The scar.
His heart trembles. His whole body convulses, his eyes widen. He slowly turns his hands around, palms facing up, looks at the wrist, spots the long red scar right across his artery. Strokes it with his other hand, fresh wound edges, they burn a bit when touched.
“Do you know the answer?” Sherlocks voice drones in his ears, impossible to tell if it is actually coming from the figure on his left side. John decides to turn around, slowly, inch by inch. The fingers on his pulse feel the first drops of blood seep out of the gash. With his hand around his wrist he tries to staunch the wound. He looks top left, stares at Sherlock, it’s really him, standing there, glancing down at him. No scarf this time, open coat, a shirt beneath which seems grey in the dim light. John’s wrist hurts, blood drops down to the snow, filling ice crystals with red.
Sherlock stands still, his face nothing more than a vague shadow, eyeless, arms hanging loosely on his side. The right hand’s missing. The handcuff lies useless in the snow.