FIC. Sherlock Holmes. our reverberations.
Title: our reverberations.
Pairing: Watson/Holmes
Summary: Watson is affected by Holmes.
Word count: 667
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. But not really the way you think. However, there is angst.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me in any capacity! :D
Notes: Totally inspired by Florence and the Machine's "Drumming Song" and written with motivation from Iambic. :D I hope it isn't too confusing.
our reverberations
i run to the river and dive straight in;
i pray that the water will drown out the din.
but as the water fills my mouth,
it couldn't wash the echoes out.
i swallow the sound and it swallows me whole
til there's nothing left inside my soul.
{florence and the machine - drumming song}
~
Watson knows he should resist--there are obligations and propriety to consider--but propriety be damned, Holmes throws out all the light of a perpetually exploding star, and Watson is rendered powerless. He's plagued by pangs of conscience each night as he watches moonbeams shift Holmes's sleeping form into an abstract painting, all skewed lithe limbs and charcoal hair a mess on the pillow.
~
The intractable river swirls under Vauxhall Bridge, and Watson finds no peace in it, only a bizzare sense of turbulence. Overhead, the sky's oppressive slate-grey weight presses onto his shoulders, crowds him closer to the whole matter's unavoidable conclusion: he will never escape Holmes's gravity, nor is he entirely sure he truly would like to. A world without Holmes seems a colorless, trying place. Holmes is the inferno to Watson's condemned man, and Watson feels himself consumed more wholly with each moment.
Even now, Holmes is here, if not in body then in spirit. He stands just behind Watson, looking at him with astute eyes, a sardonic twist to his mouth.
"Observe, doctor. Our victim threw himself over this exact railing, plummeting a distance of approximately forty feet before making impact with the water's surface. Would you say it is possible to survive such a fall?"
Watson remains silent. Something is not quite right.
~
"He had, I believe, an injured leg, judging by two uneven indentations in the iron, here and here,” Holmes proceeds, “which indicate to us where he must have stood. You see that one is deeper than the other."
"Indeed," Watson murmurs, though his remark hangs in the air seemingly unheard.
Holmes stares at a point somewhere beyond Watson's shoulder, deep in thought. Then, he begins his customary rounds of the scene, scouring the ground for data, going so far as to scrutinize the toe of Watson's shoe with his lens. He is a positive whirlwind of investigative energy, face drawn in concentration and eyes glinting with a nearly maniacal fervor. It is this, above all else, that Watson finds fascinating about Holmes.
~
"Ah!" Holmes exclaims nearby, voice incongruously grim, and rises from his knees to show Watson something insignificant he holds between forefinger and thumb. "A single human hair of a particularly telling tawny color. Not long enough to have come fallen from the scalp. Deduction - it is nothing more or less than one of our victim's whiskers. We might also extrapolate that the man was a surgeon; the faintly discernible odor of chloroform gives him away."
Inexplicably, at Holmes's words, Watson senses a sudden chill that spreads, insidious, from his extremities to his core. His teeth chatter, and a cold sweat breaks out over his brow; he wonders how Holmes has not yet asked after his health, for surely his cheeks have gone ashen.
"Holmes," he says, voice hoarse, unrecognizable. Holmes is kneeling again and pays him no mind, simply continues to scoop a sample of the gravel underfoot into a small silk satchel. "Holmes!" Watson repeats, raising his voice slightly.
~
Once more, no reaction.
Watson's vision dims at the edges. He submits to panic in earnest, reaches half-blindly for Holmes's arm. "Sherlock! Dear god, man, why will you not hear me? Hol-" The very speech is stolen from his mouth, the name left unfinished. Holmes's wrist falls from Watson's slack grip. The earth tilts sickeningly on its axis and begins to fall away, lose depth.
Soon the one thing left to Watson's feeble sight is Holmes, made of such sharp, dark, beautiful angles, his presence on the gloomy bridge somehow mesmerizing. In the last dizzy, surreal moment, Holmes lifts his eyes from his notebook to smile at Watson. His eyes are silvery and enlightened, his voice uncharacteristically regretful. "Surely you now understand, Watson, how plain is our solution."
~
Abruptly, Watson's world becomes only the inky black depths of the Thames, an insistent current buffeting above and below and around. It is rather peaceful, he thinks, Holmes’s charm distorted by the waves.
Pairing: Watson/Holmes
Summary: Watson is affected by Holmes.
Word count: 667
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. But not really the way you think. However, there is angst.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me in any capacity! :D
Notes: Totally inspired by Florence and the Machine's "Drumming Song" and written with motivation from Iambic. :D I hope it isn't too confusing.
our reverberations
i run to the river and dive straight in;
i pray that the water will drown out the din.
but as the water fills my mouth,
it couldn't wash the echoes out.
i swallow the sound and it swallows me whole
til there's nothing left inside my soul.
{florence and the machine - drumming song}
~
Watson knows he should resist--there are obligations and propriety to consider--but propriety be damned, Holmes throws out all the light of a perpetually exploding star, and Watson is rendered powerless. He's plagued by pangs of conscience each night as he watches moonbeams shift Holmes's sleeping form into an abstract painting, all skewed lithe limbs and charcoal hair a mess on the pillow.
~
The intractable river swirls under Vauxhall Bridge, and Watson finds no peace in it, only a bizzare sense of turbulence. Overhead, the sky's oppressive slate-grey weight presses onto his shoulders, crowds him closer to the whole matter's unavoidable conclusion: he will never escape Holmes's gravity, nor is he entirely sure he truly would like to. A world without Holmes seems a colorless, trying place. Holmes is the inferno to Watson's condemned man, and Watson feels himself consumed more wholly with each moment.
Even now, Holmes is here, if not in body then in spirit. He stands just behind Watson, looking at him with astute eyes, a sardonic twist to his mouth.
"Observe, doctor. Our victim threw himself over this exact railing, plummeting a distance of approximately forty feet before making impact with the water's surface. Would you say it is possible to survive such a fall?"
Watson remains silent. Something is not quite right.
~
"He had, I believe, an injured leg, judging by two uneven indentations in the iron, here and here,” Holmes proceeds, “which indicate to us where he must have stood. You see that one is deeper than the other."
"Indeed," Watson murmurs, though his remark hangs in the air seemingly unheard.
Holmes stares at a point somewhere beyond Watson's shoulder, deep in thought. Then, he begins his customary rounds of the scene, scouring the ground for data, going so far as to scrutinize the toe of Watson's shoe with his lens. He is a positive whirlwind of investigative energy, face drawn in concentration and eyes glinting with a nearly maniacal fervor. It is this, above all else, that Watson finds fascinating about Holmes.
~
"Ah!" Holmes exclaims nearby, voice incongruously grim, and rises from his knees to show Watson something insignificant he holds between forefinger and thumb. "A single human hair of a particularly telling tawny color. Not long enough to have come fallen from the scalp. Deduction - it is nothing more or less than one of our victim's whiskers. We might also extrapolate that the man was a surgeon; the faintly discernible odor of chloroform gives him away."
Inexplicably, at Holmes's words, Watson senses a sudden chill that spreads, insidious, from his extremities to his core. His teeth chatter, and a cold sweat breaks out over his brow; he wonders how Holmes has not yet asked after his health, for surely his cheeks have gone ashen.
"Holmes," he says, voice hoarse, unrecognizable. Holmes is kneeling again and pays him no mind, simply continues to scoop a sample of the gravel underfoot into a small silk satchel. "Holmes!" Watson repeats, raising his voice slightly.
~
Once more, no reaction.
Watson's vision dims at the edges. He submits to panic in earnest, reaches half-blindly for Holmes's arm. "Sherlock! Dear god, man, why will you not hear me? Hol-" The very speech is stolen from his mouth, the name left unfinished. Holmes's wrist falls from Watson's slack grip. The earth tilts sickeningly on its axis and begins to fall away, lose depth.
Soon the one thing left to Watson's feeble sight is Holmes, made of such sharp, dark, beautiful angles, his presence on the gloomy bridge somehow mesmerizing. In the last dizzy, surreal moment, Holmes lifts his eyes from his notebook to smile at Watson. His eyes are silvery and enlightened, his voice uncharacteristically regretful. "Surely you now understand, Watson, how plain is our solution."
~
Abruptly, Watson's world becomes only the inky black depths of the Thames, an insistent current buffeting above and below and around. It is rather peaceful, he thinks, Holmes’s charm distorted by the waves.