[fic] sherlock - dream of smoke
Title: dream of smoke
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,465
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock is John's guardian angel. Or at least he was.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Author's Note: This fic was written for Melody in response to a picture and set of tags that she reblogged. ♥ It has not undergone any external editing since it's not very long.
There’s disbelief at first as John lies on the packed dirt and squints up at the blinding sky. It’s bright even if the sun isn’t shining directly in his eyes. Then the numbness gives away to pain and John hears himself whimpering. It hurts so much that shame is the farthest thing from his mind.
Someone blocks out the sun and presses a hand against his shoulder. “Don’t you dare,” the man growls, “I kept you alive for this long.”
John forces his eyes open, breathing out on a high whine as the hand presses harder into his shoulder. He can’t see much through the tears in his eyes-a shock of dark curls, high cheekbones, something that looks like wings curved around the two of them.
“I looked away for one moment,” the man says and John’s only half listening through the pain. “This isn’t your fault John Watson.”
“Let him live,” the man says. As John’s eyes slip shut, the man calls into the sky, “Let him live.”
_____
Later, John realizes that his platoon was halfway across the village and in no position to assist him when the sniper missed the headshot and caught him by the shoulder instead.
A hallucination then.
But how is he still alive?
_____
John dreams of airstrikes called in too close, heat and light against his face as he shuts his eyes and listens to buildings crumble. He dreams of half mangled bodies in the streets of Afghanistan, torn apart by gunfire and turned into unrecognizable pulp by military vehicles. He dreams of sandstorms forever clogging up the engine of his humvee, being stranded in the middle of nowhere without a convoy or a supply line. He dreams of sand filling his mouth and over his head until his lungs are full of dust and he no longer exists except for his bones and the rifle pressed against his chest.
He dreams of a man with dark hair and wings like a thunderstorm. He says the same thing every time: Find me.
_____
“Nothing ever happens to me,” he tells his therapist.
His hand shakes. The cane is unbearable.
_____
He sees the man standing in the morgue and he thinks, I know you.
He gets a name to go with the face. Sherlock Holmes.
He can’t tell if he’s terrified or excited.
_____
He never says anything. How could he even ask without sounding insane?
But sometimes when Sherlock walks down a crowded London street with John trailing behind them, sometimes when they walk past the darkened windows of a shop, John thinks-he swears he sees wings folded against Sherlock’s back. Just for a moment, reflected in the glass. But whenever he looks more closely, they’re gone.
_____
Sarah is crying next to him and he’s trying to convince the Black Lotus that he’s not Sherlock Holmes. He’s watching the sand trickle down and twisting furiously at his bindings when he sees the silhouette of a man against the far end of the tunnel-a man with huge wings.
It must be a trick of the light or a product of his panic because Sherlock has nothing of the sort when he comes into the light of the fire.
_____
He has semtex strapped to his body and he sees the way that Sherlock’s eyes widen when he walks into the pool.
_____
Sherlock can’t stop touching him when they leave the pool. He sits with his thigh pressed up against John’s for the entire cab ride home. He has a hand at the back of John’s elbow as they climb the stairs. He stands right in front of John when John drops into his chair and tilts his head back, closing his eyes.
“I failed you,” Sherlock says.
“S’okay,” John says, not opening his eyes, “We’re still alive, aren’t we?”
Sherlock puts his hands on John’s knees. John lifts his head and looks at Sherlock who is now kneeling with his head bowed. “I failed you.”
“Sherlock?” John asks. He stares at the top of Sherlock’s head-and then-
It takes a moment for John to realize what he is seeing. The air at Sherlock’s back is shimmering, something like transparent smoke coalescing into a solid shape. Sherlock’s forehead is on his right knee. John can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
“You,” John breathes.
“Do you understand?” Sherlock says without lifting his head.
“You saved me,” John says. He touches the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers slipping into his dark curls.
“I put you in danger,” Sherlock says, “I failed you.”
“That’s not-” John swallows. “Sherlock, look at me.”
Sherlock lifts his head. His wings are solidifying with every passing moment. John takes his face in his hands and kisses him.
_____
“You saved me,” John says into Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock doesn’t answer. His palm is pressed against John’s bare back.
_____
They don’t speak about it again.
John stops looking for hints of Sherlock’s wings in mirrors and panes of glass. He stops worrying about Sherlock so much. Angels were immortal.
_____
They’re chasing a suspect across the bank of the Thames when she turns abruptly. John sees the glint of metal too late-shouts, “Sherlock!” too late. Sherlock crumples. The suspect gets away.
John kneels next to Sherlock as he dials for an ambulance. He’s running on autopilot, over half a decade of military training setting his limbs into motion even as his mind is frozen with shock. He pries Sherlock’s arms away from his torso to assess the damage before holding pressure.
“Don’t you dare,” John tells him.
Sherlock smiles back weakly.
_____
John sleeps with his head on Sherlock’s hospital bed. He wakes only when he feels a hand trail up his forearm and settle in his hair.
“You’re okay?” he asks, lifting his head.
Sherlock hums in answer.
“I didn’t know you could get shot,” John murmurs.
Sherlock looks at him. And then he says, “I fell.”
_____
Of all the things John regrets doing in his life, he will never forgive himself for what he did to Sherlock.
_____
They don’t touch any more. John feels so guilty that he finds excuses to not be in the same room as Sherlock as often as he can. And then he feels even guiltier for the look that passes over Sherlock’s face, for the way he shrugs and says “fine” even though nothing is.
_____
He can’t fix Sherlock, he can’t give him back his wings, and he knows he’s just making things worse. But he keeps thinking about the two days that Sherlock had been sick with the flu three day after Sherlock had revealed himself. The two days he had spent locked up in his own room, the two days when his wings must have been ripped from his back without John even knowing what was happening on the other side of the door.
He can’t fix Sherlock but he keeps coming round to what-if’s: what if he had better self-control? What if he hadn’t kissed Sherlock, what if he hadn’t forced such blasphemous acts on an angel, what if he let Sherlock go?
_____
“It’s not as bad as you think it is,” Sherlock says one evening apropos of nothing.
John stares at the blog entry he’s writing but his concentration is gone.
“I wish you could understand,” Sherlock says and goes back to reading.
_____
John loses his footing on a slippery patch of ice at a crime scene. Sherlock steadies him with a hand.
Their fingers brush when John hands Sherlock the tea he’s made.
They’re panting and running on two hours of sleep and an adrenaline high after a chase when John leans in to kiss Sherlock.
_____
Sherlock stands on top of Bart’s and he tells John not to move. John can’t stand to hear his voice, tinny over the mobile, at the other end of static. It doesn’t feel real, the way that Sherlock tells him to stay there, the way his words come out in a rush. If they both threw their phones down and shouted at each other over the wind, perhaps John would feel like he wasn’t watching this scene through a haze of surreality.
He can’t, John thinks.
The line goes dead and John screams, “Sherlock!”
He can’t, he can’t.
_____
Some part of him expected Sherlock’s wings to suddenly flare into existence, for Sherlock to catch an updrift of warm air and touch down softly on his feet.
Instead Sherlock bleeds all over the pavement and John’s vision goes grey when he comes close enough to see.
_____
“Please,” John begs the headstone, “Please.”
The wind whispers through his hair and sighs through the tall trees. John thinks of smoke coalescing in sunlight.
“Sherlock,” he says.
Nobody answers.
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,465
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock is John's guardian angel. Or at least he was.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
Author's Note: This fic was written for Melody in response to a picture and set of tags that she reblogged. ♥ It has not undergone any external editing since it's not very long.
There’s disbelief at first as John lies on the packed dirt and squints up at the blinding sky. It’s bright even if the sun isn’t shining directly in his eyes. Then the numbness gives away to pain and John hears himself whimpering. It hurts so much that shame is the farthest thing from his mind.
Someone blocks out the sun and presses a hand against his shoulder. “Don’t you dare,” the man growls, “I kept you alive for this long.”
John forces his eyes open, breathing out on a high whine as the hand presses harder into his shoulder. He can’t see much through the tears in his eyes-a shock of dark curls, high cheekbones, something that looks like wings curved around the two of them.
“I looked away for one moment,” the man says and John’s only half listening through the pain. “This isn’t your fault John Watson.”
“Let him live,” the man says. As John’s eyes slip shut, the man calls into the sky, “Let him live.”
_____
Later, John realizes that his platoon was halfway across the village and in no position to assist him when the sniper missed the headshot and caught him by the shoulder instead.
A hallucination then.
But how is he still alive?
_____
John dreams of airstrikes called in too close, heat and light against his face as he shuts his eyes and listens to buildings crumble. He dreams of half mangled bodies in the streets of Afghanistan, torn apart by gunfire and turned into unrecognizable pulp by military vehicles. He dreams of sandstorms forever clogging up the engine of his humvee, being stranded in the middle of nowhere without a convoy or a supply line. He dreams of sand filling his mouth and over his head until his lungs are full of dust and he no longer exists except for his bones and the rifle pressed against his chest.
He dreams of a man with dark hair and wings like a thunderstorm. He says the same thing every time: Find me.
_____
“Nothing ever happens to me,” he tells his therapist.
His hand shakes. The cane is unbearable.
_____
He sees the man standing in the morgue and he thinks, I know you.
He gets a name to go with the face. Sherlock Holmes.
He can’t tell if he’s terrified or excited.
_____
He never says anything. How could he even ask without sounding insane?
But sometimes when Sherlock walks down a crowded London street with John trailing behind them, sometimes when they walk past the darkened windows of a shop, John thinks-he swears he sees wings folded against Sherlock’s back. Just for a moment, reflected in the glass. But whenever he looks more closely, they’re gone.
_____
Sarah is crying next to him and he’s trying to convince the Black Lotus that he’s not Sherlock Holmes. He’s watching the sand trickle down and twisting furiously at his bindings when he sees the silhouette of a man against the far end of the tunnel-a man with huge wings.
It must be a trick of the light or a product of his panic because Sherlock has nothing of the sort when he comes into the light of the fire.
_____
He has semtex strapped to his body and he sees the way that Sherlock’s eyes widen when he walks into the pool.
_____
Sherlock can’t stop touching him when they leave the pool. He sits with his thigh pressed up against John’s for the entire cab ride home. He has a hand at the back of John’s elbow as they climb the stairs. He stands right in front of John when John drops into his chair and tilts his head back, closing his eyes.
“I failed you,” Sherlock says.
“S’okay,” John says, not opening his eyes, “We’re still alive, aren’t we?”
Sherlock puts his hands on John’s knees. John lifts his head and looks at Sherlock who is now kneeling with his head bowed. “I failed you.”
“Sherlock?” John asks. He stares at the top of Sherlock’s head-and then-
It takes a moment for John to realize what he is seeing. The air at Sherlock’s back is shimmering, something like transparent smoke coalescing into a solid shape. Sherlock’s forehead is on his right knee. John can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
“You,” John breathes.
“Do you understand?” Sherlock says without lifting his head.
“You saved me,” John says. He touches the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers slipping into his dark curls.
“I put you in danger,” Sherlock says, “I failed you.”
“That’s not-” John swallows. “Sherlock, look at me.”
Sherlock lifts his head. His wings are solidifying with every passing moment. John takes his face in his hands and kisses him.
_____
“You saved me,” John says into Sherlock’s skin.
Sherlock doesn’t answer. His palm is pressed against John’s bare back.
_____
They don’t speak about it again.
John stops looking for hints of Sherlock’s wings in mirrors and panes of glass. He stops worrying about Sherlock so much. Angels were immortal.
_____
They’re chasing a suspect across the bank of the Thames when she turns abruptly. John sees the glint of metal too late-shouts, “Sherlock!” too late. Sherlock crumples. The suspect gets away.
John kneels next to Sherlock as he dials for an ambulance. He’s running on autopilot, over half a decade of military training setting his limbs into motion even as his mind is frozen with shock. He pries Sherlock’s arms away from his torso to assess the damage before holding pressure.
“Don’t you dare,” John tells him.
Sherlock smiles back weakly.
_____
John sleeps with his head on Sherlock’s hospital bed. He wakes only when he feels a hand trail up his forearm and settle in his hair.
“You’re okay?” he asks, lifting his head.
Sherlock hums in answer.
“I didn’t know you could get shot,” John murmurs.
Sherlock looks at him. And then he says, “I fell.”
_____
Of all the things John regrets doing in his life, he will never forgive himself for what he did to Sherlock.
_____
They don’t touch any more. John feels so guilty that he finds excuses to not be in the same room as Sherlock as often as he can. And then he feels even guiltier for the look that passes over Sherlock’s face, for the way he shrugs and says “fine” even though nothing is.
_____
He can’t fix Sherlock, he can’t give him back his wings, and he knows he’s just making things worse. But he keeps thinking about the two days that Sherlock had been sick with the flu three day after Sherlock had revealed himself. The two days he had spent locked up in his own room, the two days when his wings must have been ripped from his back without John even knowing what was happening on the other side of the door.
He can’t fix Sherlock but he keeps coming round to what-if’s: what if he had better self-control? What if he hadn’t kissed Sherlock, what if he hadn’t forced such blasphemous acts on an angel, what if he let Sherlock go?
_____
“It’s not as bad as you think it is,” Sherlock says one evening apropos of nothing.
John stares at the blog entry he’s writing but his concentration is gone.
“I wish you could understand,” Sherlock says and goes back to reading.
_____
John loses his footing on a slippery patch of ice at a crime scene. Sherlock steadies him with a hand.
Their fingers brush when John hands Sherlock the tea he’s made.
They’re panting and running on two hours of sleep and an adrenaline high after a chase when John leans in to kiss Sherlock.
_____
Sherlock stands on top of Bart’s and he tells John not to move. John can’t stand to hear his voice, tinny over the mobile, at the other end of static. It doesn’t feel real, the way that Sherlock tells him to stay there, the way his words come out in a rush. If they both threw their phones down and shouted at each other over the wind, perhaps John would feel like he wasn’t watching this scene through a haze of surreality.
He can’t, John thinks.
The line goes dead and John screams, “Sherlock!”
He can’t, he can’t.
_____
Some part of him expected Sherlock’s wings to suddenly flare into existence, for Sherlock to catch an updrift of warm air and touch down softly on his feet.
Instead Sherlock bleeds all over the pavement and John’s vision goes grey when he comes close enough to see.
_____
“Please,” John begs the headstone, “Please.”
The wind whispers through his hair and sighs through the tall trees. John thinks of smoke coalescing in sunlight.
“Sherlock,” he says.
Nobody answers.