Sherlock BBC Fic: The Most Permanent Destination - Flying: One (2/2)
MASTERPOST | ZERO | ONE (1/2) | THREE
ONE (2/2)
Sherlock was surprised to learn that, more so than having an assistant or a flatmate or a sounding board, a compatriot with whom to chase down criminals was very handy indeed. This puzzled him: he didn't actually need the help -- he was perfectly capable of running on his own, and had he been on his own he would have caught up to the cab much quicker by necessity. So he didn't know why it made a difference. Somehow, it did.
John was close behind him, always, never permitting himself to be left behind. Full of energy and confidence and single-mindedness, Sherlock tore across the rooftop. He came upon the building's edge and, with barely a second to ground himself or to look down or to catch wind in his wings, was airborne and bridging the gap easily. He landed, turned. John had stopped, feathers twitching and eyes cast to the formidable drop to the back-street below. Something had leaked right out of him right there, something important, and Sherlock found himself reaching out, hand extended across the gap.
Shouldn't he have been going on without him? He should have been going on without him. Why wasn't he going on without him?
"Come on, John! We're losing him!" His voice was impatient. That was good. That was normal for him, and normal was a nice thing to be again on a night when nothing else about himself made any sense.
John looked at the hand, still extended and trembling, and blinked. Then he backed up, took a running start, and crossed the gap in a leap.
And then the chase was on again.
As it should be.
______________________________________________________________________________
By the end of the night, John's nerves were spent. He was openly pitied by the Yarders come to ransack the flat. He was abandoned, misused, and insulted by a lunatic who was fascinating and impossible and who quite obviously had no need of him. John wanted to stay, because Sherlock's life was exciting and it would kill him and that was bloody beautiful, but he refused to believe he was pathetic. Broken men have their places, useless ones do too, and since this Baker Street life was obviously not meant for him it would be foolish to stay.
As the Yarders packed up, resignation and irritation together in their faces, John looked to the man who seemed to know Sherlock best, DI Lestrade. The human was very tired, and very disappointed, and in turn asked John for an answer.
"You know him better than I do."
"I've known him for five years, and no I don't." He said it like it was a realisation, like he'd just discovered how thoroughly he didn't know the consultant.
"So why do you put up with him, then?"
"Because I'm desp'rate, that's why." It was an accurate word for all of the Yarders, every last hopeless one of them: caught inexorably in the madman/monster's orbit, driven to desperation by his presence and by his absence. John did not want to admit to himself that he might have reached that point, too.
The DI went on: "And, because Sherlock Holmes is an angel, and I think, one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good person."
John watched the DI go, knowing too well why that should not have been enough reason for he himself, and wondered when he'd turned this bitter.
Bitterness drove him to the door.
One last chirp from the GPS begged him to stay for a moment longer, afford Sherlock one last chance. And when he looked at it, when he understood, blood was already rushing like wind inside of him and his legs were carrying him to where he could be useful, where he knew he was needed, because no-one else on the planet seemed to care if Sherlock Holmes, monster and half-man and abomination and vile thing that he was and had made himself into, died.
But many brilliant things are born with hellish hides.
______________________________________________________________________________
Sherlock had never entirely believed the idea that angels were good or especially selfless people; he'd met plenty of angels who were rotten to the core, and plenty of humans who could hardly do any wrong. It seemed to him largely to be an outdated and prejudiced piece of rhetoric, and religious at that. (Sherlock had no patience for religion; it was merely institutionalized idiocy, and the world already had quite enough of that.) He would have been a fool to deny the existence of good people, but he hardly believed that angels were exemplary. People were people, and people cared first about themselves, no matter how spotless their wings were.
But something happened to him that night, something peculiar and unexpected and thrilling. He'd run through alleys and streets and rooftops, had climbed into death's chariot and had held his own demise in the palm of his hand, played with death and knowledge and so many wonderful forbidden things with curious, twitchy fingers. He had sampled the bitter taste of realisation and culmination and everything, had felt himself powerless before the allure of that unknown infinity. He knew that, in every possible timeline, that pill and his lip would meet, and, for the first time in his life, surrendered himself to fate. His wings spread wide in anticipation. He was transfixed, he was transported, he was so much more than human.
He would remain forever so now, even if he had only touched brilliance for a moment.
But then the future had shattered with a bang and his escort down the River Styx was down bleeding, and the world was tilting weirdly and was that normal? His brain felt scrambled and he groped in the dark for knowledge or a future or past or anything, but all he could come up with was the present, Sherlock Holmes will not die today, and had no idea what it might mean.
What was the present, anyway? Why had the cabbie died? Obvious explanation; to be honest, he was rather put out at having been caught in a web of what looked like simple assassins' intrigue. It was always the bad ones who had interesting things happen to them, wasn't it, and here he was stuck with an orange shock blanket and the fog of never knowing. He thought he would have followed the man's lead, followed his faint hissing lisp, to hell and heaven and whatever there was in between.
But then something pulled at him and he looked up and, mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-desire, mid-breath, felt the world go on its head.
Apparently, there was such a thing as a guardian angel.
______________________________________________________________________________
"...Two pills? Dreadful business, isn't it, really, dreadful."
"Good shot."
"...Yes, must have been, to go through that window -- "
"Well you'd know, wouldn't you?"
John's look was predatory.
"We've got to get the powder burns out of your fingers; I don't suppose you'd serve time for this but let's avoid the court case..."
John looked distinctly unremorseful. Sherlock stared at him.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, of course I'm alright."
"You have just -- killed a man."
"Yes, I -- that's true, isn't it?" John fixed him with a look, and it was cold, quite cold, and Sherlock swallowed quietly and wondered how much else there was that he'd never understand or know. "Well, he wasn't a very nice man."
"No... no, he wasn't, was he?"
"And, frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."
Sherlock laughed. He permitted himself to laugh, because John Watson, impossible angel, had killed someone for him and he wasn't sure if he should be grateful or terrified or both. The angel laughed too, and Sherlock felt giddy, and as they walked away from the police cars and John reprimanded him, Sherlock wondered what other unplumbed depths existed in this living contradiction of a man.
"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"
"Of course not! Biding my time... knew you'd turn up."
"No, you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it: you risk your life to prove you're special."
"...Why would I do that?"
"'Cause you're an idiot."
Sherlock stared at him. Then, he thought that maybe he understood why John Watson, a soldier always in need of a war, willing to do the unthinkable, was so thoroughly blackened and remorseless and damaged and brilliant.
He hoped John would stay.
mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">
TWO
ONE (2/2)
Sherlock was surprised to learn that, more so than having an assistant or a flatmate or a sounding board, a compatriot with whom to chase down criminals was very handy indeed. This puzzled him: he didn't actually need the help -- he was perfectly capable of running on his own, and had he been on his own he would have caught up to the cab much quicker by necessity. So he didn't know why it made a difference. Somehow, it did.
John was close behind him, always, never permitting himself to be left behind. Full of energy and confidence and single-mindedness, Sherlock tore across the rooftop. He came upon the building's edge and, with barely a second to ground himself or to look down or to catch wind in his wings, was airborne and bridging the gap easily. He landed, turned. John had stopped, feathers twitching and eyes cast to the formidable drop to the back-street below. Something had leaked right out of him right there, something important, and Sherlock found himself reaching out, hand extended across the gap.
Shouldn't he have been going on without him? He should have been going on without him. Why wasn't he going on without him?
"Come on, John! We're losing him!" His voice was impatient. That was good. That was normal for him, and normal was a nice thing to be again on a night when nothing else about himself made any sense.
John looked at the hand, still extended and trembling, and blinked. Then he backed up, took a running start, and crossed the gap in a leap.
And then the chase was on again.
As it should be.
______________________________________________________________________________
By the end of the night, John's nerves were spent. He was openly pitied by the Yarders come to ransack the flat. He was abandoned, misused, and insulted by a lunatic who was fascinating and impossible and who quite obviously had no need of him. John wanted to stay, because Sherlock's life was exciting and it would kill him and that was bloody beautiful, but he refused to believe he was pathetic. Broken men have their places, useless ones do too, and since this Baker Street life was obviously not meant for him it would be foolish to stay.
As the Yarders packed up, resignation and irritation together in their faces, John looked to the man who seemed to know Sherlock best, DI Lestrade. The human was very tired, and very disappointed, and in turn asked John for an answer.
"You know him better than I do."
"I've known him for five years, and no I don't." He said it like it was a realisation, like he'd just discovered how thoroughly he didn't know the consultant.
"So why do you put up with him, then?"
"Because I'm desp'rate, that's why." It was an accurate word for all of the Yarders, every last hopeless one of them: caught inexorably in the madman/monster's orbit, driven to desperation by his presence and by his absence. John did not want to admit to himself that he might have reached that point, too.
The DI went on: "And, because Sherlock Holmes is an angel, and I think, one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good person."
John watched the DI go, knowing too well why that should not have been enough reason for he himself, and wondered when he'd turned this bitter.
Bitterness drove him to the door.
One last chirp from the GPS begged him to stay for a moment longer, afford Sherlock one last chance. And when he looked at it, when he understood, blood was already rushing like wind inside of him and his legs were carrying him to where he could be useful, where he knew he was needed, because no-one else on the planet seemed to care if Sherlock Holmes, monster and half-man and abomination and vile thing that he was and had made himself into, died.
But many brilliant things are born with hellish hides.
______________________________________________________________________________
Sherlock had never entirely believed the idea that angels were good or especially selfless people; he'd met plenty of angels who were rotten to the core, and plenty of humans who could hardly do any wrong. It seemed to him largely to be an outdated and prejudiced piece of rhetoric, and religious at that. (Sherlock had no patience for religion; it was merely institutionalized idiocy, and the world already had quite enough of that.) He would have been a fool to deny the existence of good people, but he hardly believed that angels were exemplary. People were people, and people cared first about themselves, no matter how spotless their wings were.
But something happened to him that night, something peculiar and unexpected and thrilling. He'd run through alleys and streets and rooftops, had climbed into death's chariot and had held his own demise in the palm of his hand, played with death and knowledge and so many wonderful forbidden things with curious, twitchy fingers. He had sampled the bitter taste of realisation and culmination and everything, had felt himself powerless before the allure of that unknown infinity. He knew that, in every possible timeline, that pill and his lip would meet, and, for the first time in his life, surrendered himself to fate. His wings spread wide in anticipation. He was transfixed, he was transported, he was so much more than human.
He would remain forever so now, even if he had only touched brilliance for a moment.
But then the future had shattered with a bang and his escort down the River Styx was down bleeding, and the world was tilting weirdly and was that normal? His brain felt scrambled and he groped in the dark for knowledge or a future or past or anything, but all he could come up with was the present, Sherlock Holmes will not die today, and had no idea what it might mean.
What was the present, anyway? Why had the cabbie died? Obvious explanation; to be honest, he was rather put out at having been caught in a web of what looked like simple assassins' intrigue. It was always the bad ones who had interesting things happen to them, wasn't it, and here he was stuck with an orange shock blanket and the fog of never knowing. He thought he would have followed the man's lead, followed his faint hissing lisp, to hell and heaven and whatever there was in between.
But then something pulled at him and he looked up and, mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-desire, mid-breath, felt the world go on its head.
Apparently, there was such a thing as a guardian angel.
______________________________________________________________________________
"...Two pills? Dreadful business, isn't it, really, dreadful."
"Good shot."
"...Yes, must have been, to go through that window -- "
"Well you'd know, wouldn't you?"
John's look was predatory.
"We've got to get the powder burns out of your fingers; I don't suppose you'd serve time for this but let's avoid the court case..."
John looked distinctly unremorseful. Sherlock stared at him.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, of course I'm alright."
"You have just -- killed a man."
"Yes, I -- that's true, isn't it?" John fixed him with a look, and it was cold, quite cold, and Sherlock swallowed quietly and wondered how much else there was that he'd never understand or know. "Well, he wasn't a very nice man."
"No... no, he wasn't, was he?"
"And, frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."
Sherlock laughed. He permitted himself to laugh, because John Watson, impossible angel, had killed someone for him and he wasn't sure if he should be grateful or terrified or both. The angel laughed too, and Sherlock felt giddy, and as they walked away from the police cars and John reprimanded him, Sherlock wondered what other unplumbed depths existed in this living contradiction of a man.
"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"
"Of course not! Biding my time... knew you'd turn up."
"No, you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it: you risk your life to prove you're special."
"...Why would I do that?"
"'Cause you're an idiot."
Sherlock stared at him. Then, he thought that maybe he understood why John Watson, a soldier always in need of a war, willing to do the unthinkable, was so thoroughly blackened and remorseless and damaged and brilliant.
He hoped John would stay.
mso-ansi-language:EN-GB">
TWO