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wickedfae · 7 years ago

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He’s Had This Nightmare Before

Summary: That one word, his name, was asking so much more of him than John could provide.

Please John, tell me this isn't real. Please John, tell me I'm wrong. Please John, wake me up from this nightmare. Please John, make everything better.

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"Sherlock?"

He should be paying attention, someone was talking to him after all, and later Donovan would make some snide comment about how disrespectful he was.

Or perhaps she'll spit out something about his lack of focus, distraction, catching him in a moment of normalcy. Tell him he's just like the rest of them. The words acid on his tongue, baiting him, a force to remind everyone that it is he that is the monster, not her. Never her.

Strange though, that he is considered the monster, isn't it? That he is the freak. The one to be avoided, to be kept at a distance, to be called upon only when he is useful, because he is too harsh and too blunt but when was he ever the one to start the barrage of insults? When attacked he responds, is that not the norm? His insults? Nothing more than observations. They're insults? Childish name-calling and casually thrown out inaccuracies. He treats them how they treat him, he always has, and yet he is always the one considered to be at fault.

"Sherlock!"

The voice is distant, a whisper at the edge of his consciousness.

"Sherlock! Are you even listening?"

The answer should be obvious, even for Lestrade, but apparently not. Sherlock shakes his head, the movement barely noticeable, and opens his mouth to speak but there is only silence. His brain has locked itself in place, frozen its concentration on the body in the midst of the crime scene, and everything else is unimportant.

Lestrade, John, Sally, the other officers. They mean nothing. Background decoration, background noise, distractions he had to ignore.

Or perhaps distractions he should be welcoming.

"Sherlock!"

He was beside the body now. When had that happened? Normally he would have made Lestrade clear everyone out, always prefering to work without the prying eyes of others to judge him. He was never fond of their accusing stares, their half-whispered muttereings of how he couldn't possibly know that but today he couldn't hear them, even if he tried.

"Sherlock?" a softer voice asked, a hand gently placed on his forearm. He jumped slightly at the touch, wretched his arm free, unconsciously took a step backwards.

Slowly he raised his eyes from the body to meet John's questioning look. John, whose eyes were always soft, always caring. John, whose words were never harsh, never accusing. John, who meant so much to him, more than he could ever voice.

John who he should tell the truth too. His mouth opened, words on the tip of his tongue, but he could not speak. A rare moment indeed, so often he had too many words to say and not enough time in which to speak but now he had all the time to speak and no words to say.

No, that was incorrect. He had the words but did not have the presence of his own mind to form them into an order resembling anything close to a sentence.

John's eyes briefly dropped to where is hand still remained, hovering above Sherlock's arm, before raising them again to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"What are you not telling us?" John's voice was barely above a whisper.

John, caring John. John, who always knew what say, what to ask. John, who could read him no one else. John, who he trusted above anyone else. John, who he was suddenly desperate to be away from.

He shouldn't be here. Sherlock knows that. He should tell Lestrade that bringing him here was a mistake. Sherlock knows that as well. He should leave. Sherlock knows that he can't.

He has had this nightmare before.

Mycroft will be here soon. Sherlock knows that. Mycroft would wake him up. Sherlock knows that as well. This is a nightmare. Sherlock knows that it is not.

His mouth opens, words formed in the back of his throat, but only silence escapes. He can't say the words, he can't make it real, he has to believe this is a nightmare. It has to be a nightmare. His mouth closes, leaving a thick silence in its wake, and his eyes plead with John. Begging him to somehow understand what he cannot voice. He tries again, mouth opens and closes but still no words are spoken. He closes his eyes, tries desperately to organize his thoughts into words he can say but his mind refuses to co-operate. His thoughts frozen, time paused, the world around him has melted away until the only image he can see is the older lady's body, pale and lifeless, and so very still.

Clothing torn, bloody nails from a desperate attempt to save her own life. Clumps of hair matted with blood from where the butt of a gun had struck her forceably behind her left ear. Ripped underwear, indicating that a terrible act had occured that he was desperate not to let his mind name.

Rape.

His eyes snapped open, a strangled sob escaped his lips. His eyes darted back and forth between the victim's too-pale face and the dark-red blood that had pooled where her legs joined her body. Blood that was not entirely dry, that if he touched it it would be sticky, would leave his fingers stained pink. His eyes drifted to the piece of rough wood, splintered and covered in blood, that lay not far from the body.

Wood. Raped. Brutal. Conscious at the time.

He closed his eyes, pressed the heel of his hands hard against his eyelids. Stop! he shouted in his mind. His thoughts were beginning to whirl back into motion. He had to stop it, he had to turn it off, he had to.

"Stop what?"

Sherlock eye's snapped open, he was not awarethat he had spoken out loud, and he turned his head to watch as John, who was knelt down beside him, gently pulled his hands away from his face. He frowned, confused, and looked down. He was on his knees but he doesn't remember when that had happened. His hands were shaking even as John held his wrists lightly. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his blurred vision.

"Stop what?" John repeated and once again Sherlock's mouth opened but closed again with no words spoken. He was still staring at his hands, wondering why he could not stop their shaking, when he suddenly became acutely aware of the beat of his own heart and the taste of bile in the back of his throat.

He jerked his wrists free from John's grasp, squeezed his eyes shut, and once again pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids so hard that stars danced in his vision but it did little to stop his thoughts. Thoughts that rushed through his mind as fast as his blood rushed through his own body.

"Can't. Stop." He muttered. Not exactly a complete sentence but what more could he manage when his thoughts were as coherent as his current ability to speak?

"What's up with the freak?"

Sherlock visubly shuddered at the words he knew could only be spoken by Sally. He knew he should answer, find some scathing reply to shut her up, but his focus was not on such trivial things as incompetent police officers and petty grudges.

"Really Sally? Just -"

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered but he might as well have screamed it with how quiet the room went.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, returning his attention to Sherlock. The consulting detective was now hugging himself tightly, eyes still screwed shut tightly.

"Mycroft," Sherlock repeated but his voice was almost inaudible and John could not be sure he had heard his best friend correctly.

"Do you want me to call Mycroft?“ John asked but he got no further response from his friend. It was an odd request coming from Sherlock and it sent alarm bells off in his mind. Frowning he reached forward, placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in an attempt to get his attention.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and the panic that swirled in them as he stared at John made John's heart skip a beat, or two, or three.

Sherlock's mouth formed the name "Mycroft" but no sound came out this time. His eyes darted back and forth from John to the face of the victim on the floor beside them, willing John to put the pieces together. Pleading for John to understand what he could not say.

"Wake up," Sherlock whispered.

John's brow furrowed, his mouth repeating Sherlock's words as if trying to make sense of them. Sherlock's eyes were still rapidly dating between John and the victim's face and as John finally noticed he turned to look, really look, at the victim for the first time.

There was a moment of silence where time seemed to pause before John choked out, "Oh God," as his hand flew up to cover his mouth. "Oh my God," he repeated as his voice got louder, his words coming out faster and faster as realization hit him, "OhmyGod."

"John?" Sherlock's voice brought John's attention back to his friend and the pleading look in Sherlock's eyes made John's heart crack, splinter in two. He took a shaking breath, tried to calm his suddenly racing heart. Panicking would help neither him nor Sherlock. He had to stay calm, for Sherlock.

"John?"

That one word, his name, was asking so much more of him than John could provide.

Please John, tell me this isn't real. Please John, tell me I'm wrong. Please John, wake me up from this nightmare. Please John, make everything better.

John shook his head ever-so-slightly. "I'm so sorry Sherlock," John whispered as he reached out towards his friend but Sherlock pulled back from him as his eyes went wide at John's words.

Sherlock shook his head rapidly. This wasn't right. This wasn't how the nightmare was supposed to go. Mycroft was always here by now and John had never been in this nightmare to begin with. Why was everything out of order? Backwards? Scrambled like the eggs John had made for breakfast this morning.

This isn't a nightmare. The thought bounced around in Sherlock's head, refused to be ingnored, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut once again. This is reality.

Sherlock heard someone talking, faint words at the edge of his mind. "Mycroft," and "Lestrade brought us," and "yes, I know," and "he's stopped responding," and "he's waiting?" The words faded away after that, swallowed up by the grey fog the was beginng to creep upon his mind. Someone placed their hands on his shoulders but he paid them no heed. They shook him gently, called out is name, but he ignored them. So faint their presence was it was hardly worth acknowledging.

None of it matters anyways. The only person that mattered now was Mycroft. Mycroft would wake him up, Mycroft would fix this, Mycroft would do what no one else could. If he could think clearly, if his mind had not become the roaring eye of an upcoming storm, he would be berating himself for so quickly slipping into this black hole where only his brother knew the way out.

This is a nightmare.

Is it?

No.

He presses his hands to his ears. Instinct, reflex response, useless. He knows that voices in your head can't be blocked out by covering your ears. Stupid. Childish response. Illogical reaction. Shut-up!

"Sherlock?"

Who was trying to talk to him now? Couldn't they see that he was busy trying to change reality because damn it he was not going to accept this. This. Is. A. Nightmare.

It has to be. The other... No! Don't think about it. It doesn't mean— it can't— he will not believe it. He will lie, and lie, and lie through grinding teeth. Clenched fists and unfocused eyes will betray him but he will lie through it all. He will lie until he believes the lie.

"His mom."

Words so faint he hardly heard them. He wished he hadn't. Two words, barely a whisper, etched into his brain as if acid had burned them there. Echoing in his mind, bouncing off his skull, back and forth like a mad game of ping pong where no one missed yet everyone lost.

A strangled sob. Bile choked back. Eyes squeezed tighter. Hands pressed harder against his ears. He was so cold. His chest felt gnarled; chewed up and spit out. He was too aware of his heartbeat. Elevated. He struggled for a proper breath. Air felt like water, heavy and fluid and altogether foreign. Breaths too shallow, too rapid. Panic. Light-headed. Thoughts chaotic, disjointed, and disconnected from the present. Shaking. Shock.

Someone grabbed a hold of his wrists. It was a gentle touch but still he shuddered, tried to pull into himself further, tried to escape into his own mind. He failed miserably. Tried again, desperate, but whoever held his wrists was not letting go anytime soon. Their presence an anchor, ensuring his entrapment in this reality he was desperate to flee.

This. Is. A. Nightmare.

#bbc sherlock #sherlock #john watson #doctor watson #fanfic #fanfiction #this was just in my head #plz dont hate #had to get this out

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baskingintheinsanity · 8 years ago

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More Than Kind and Less Than Kind, Chapter Two

A/n: Wow, this chapter is much longer than the first. C’est la vie. Please send in plot ideas if you guys have any bunnies jumping around in your head. I know the adlock fam is much smaller than some of my other fandoms, but I love you guys and I love writing for this fandom because we get so little on screen. I hope you all enjoy. I love writing Sherlock and Irene. Their banter is my favourite. All I’ve got say is…beware the East Wind.

Find all my stories at https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3738156/PixieKindOfCrazy if you care.

Chapter 2:

“You do realize, at one point, you will have to leave this room?”

One would assume that this question was directed at Irene by Sherlock, hoping to avoid his blogger seeing the Woman. Incorrect.

Irene was leaning in the doorway, attempting to repress the urge to put her hand on her hip and scold the man lazing in bed.

“That poses a rather brilliant existential question, my love-if I stay in this exact spot forever, and the furnishings around me change, am I still in my bedroom?”

Irene rolled her eyes starkly, pushing off the wall in frustration and stalking away to the kitchen. She couldn’t help that her body portrayed her emotions with him sometimes. His presence had a way of stripping off her veneer without her noticing. It was rather irritating.

A few moments later, she heard the distinct sounds of his sluggish foot steps. She was too busy making herself a cup of coffee to bother to turn around and face him.

“I feel sorry for your mother,” she remarked as she felt him enter the room, “You must have been a hellishly difficult child.”

“Hmm, I feel sorry for you actually,” he smirked, pausing a moment to simply watch the way her hands moved as she stirred the cream into her coffee.

“And why is that?” she finally turned to look at him, blinking twice as she tests her patience to indulge him just this once.

“Because,” he chuckled, a deep timber, “I was a difficult child. And I still am,” he finished, taking the mug of caffeine from her hands smoothly.

He sipped it in appreciation and held back the full smile that often wanted to break out on his face whenever he teased her, “Mmm. Quite good.”

Her stare became icy and her eyes resembled those of a feline, hunting and planning its next move.

“Oh stop,” he mumbled, handing her the mug back and giving a quick, amused snort as he walked to the refrigerator. He opened the door, looking around for the experiment he started the day before. Where are those eyeballs??

“Excuse me?” she bantered back, “Stop what?”

“The look on your face,” he gestured vaguely to her expression, not bothering to actually look at her.

“The annoyed look? I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that may stay on my face for the majority of the time we spend together, darling.”

He grimaced at the pet name and leaned against the counter, nibbling on the biscuit he’d gotten out of the fridge John kept telling him that biscuits go in the cupboard, but he liked them better cold.

“No-the murder-plotting look. As you stated previously, you can’t kill me and hide the evidence before John gets here.”

She scoffs, “Please, I don’t have a-“

“It’s the same look you get whenever I stop moving right before you orgasm or if I wake you up before your alarm goes off. When I leave a plate out on the table after dinner-that look,” he points at her face, matter of fact, “And when you find one of my experiments on top of your bag, I can tell the murder would be quite creative. Call it what you will, but I know what you’re thinking when that look is on your face-you’re imaging creative ways to maim me.”

“Hmm. He’s learning,” she cooed and carefully pressed her body close up against his, loving to feel how his heartbeat sped up as he squirmed. She smiled up at him, fake sweetness and eyelashes, as she slid her hand expertly up the collar of his robe. His eyes flickered down to follow the movement of her hand, for once, unaware of his actions.

“However….” She breathed softly, her face tilting up towards his.

“However…?” his gaze is trapped on her lips now, smeared lipstick still there from the night previous and he wondered if she has left the same mark on him. Most likely.

She deftly grabbed the biscuit out of his hand and stepped back from his body, leaving him cold. She hopped up to sit on the kitchen table behind him and grinned. It is the only time Sherlock could remember having ever seen her resemble a child and a mischievous one at that.

“However, I’m the master.”

His expression automatically fell into Pout Number Three, as she liked to call it. Or ‘the one where Irene beats me and I don’t get to feel like the cool one.’ She forces herself not to admit that the frown looks a little bit charming on his daft face as he mutters, “Biscuit thief, more like.”

He grumbled slightly as he pulled up a chair at the island and sat next to her, picking up the newspaper whose origin of appearance had had no idea of. He hadn’t picked one up yesterday and he didn’t remember seeing Irene with one. Quite a small, unimportant detail, but it perturbed him; he hated not noticing things. She distracted him.

“Sherlock!” the two strange creatures inhabiting the flat heard a voice call out as marked, familiar footsteps approached, “You better still be in here of sound mind or I’ll be having a talk with Greg to get guards at this door,” John Watson walked into the flat quite casually, like he was still living there, and hung his coat on the rack. His back was towards them so he had yet to glimpse the woman, sitting on the kitchen table in his best friend’s dress shirt.

Sherlock smiled ever so slightly, the tiniest bit amused, and nodded at Irene. It was a silent gesture for her to hide. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want his trusted friend to know that he…kept in contact, so to speak, with the Woman. But he had an idea in mind.

Sherlock didn’t say a word, but Irene knew that he wanted to play a game on his blogger. Their similar world-view lends the couple several advantages; the gift of silent, efficient communication is probably the most useful.

Before the good doctor could even turn around, Irene had slipped from the kitchen to hide in the bathroom alongside. She briefly wondered what Sherlock was playing at and how long it would take John to notice her signature Louis Vitton heels on the floor by Sherlock’s chair.

“Oh calm down, John. I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself. You lot seem to forget, but I am not actually an infant.”

John fixes his friend with a potent glare, “No, actually-my infant is easier to watch after. At least she doesn’t shoot up heroine when she’s upset.”

Sherlock held back the first acrid thought that came to his bitter mind- ‘that you know of’ probably wasn’t the best joke to tell a man about his daughter soon after his wife had died.

Instead, he lightly rolled his eyes and went to sit down in his chair in the living room, still reading the paper, “It was cocaine this time, actually.”

John walked further into the flat and heaved a sigh, nodding, “Of course it was. You don’t-“

“No, Watson. I don’t still have any; Lestrade made sure to confiscate every last piece of contraband I own. Well, of the drug variety.”

John frowned slightly in response, wondering about that last remark for a split second before he cut his thought process off, “Nope. Don’t need to know the particulars. Don’t live here anymore. And I am not your babysitter, Sherlock.” “Could’ve fooled me.”

The shorter man paused, a little thrown by the change in his friend’s attitude. He seemed…less down than the night before. His tone was distinctly less pained than yesterday. Almost playful. When john looked at his eyes, he could tell the pain and guilt were still there. But there was something else. “Are you…high right now? Or perhaps a little drunk…”

“Wha-“ Sherlock scoffed and put the paper down dramatically, “I just told you that I don’t have any drugs in the flat. I know you’re not dumb, John, so maybe you’re going deaf?”

A comment that should have stung simply bounced off John’s jacket; he was too used to Sherlock’s verbal antics and deflections.

“No, you just seem….” He scanned the room for clues- something he learned from the man he was currently analyzing- and his eyes fell on a distinctive pair of high heels with red bottoms, “distracted….better, maybe. Than yesterday.” “Hmm,” Sherlock hummed neutrally, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, as he watched John’s eyes to see the gears grind in his head, “Well I am certainly not high, unfortunately. I can assure you that.”

The room is dead silent for a minute before the sound of Sherlock groan of pleasure cut through the air. Which was quite confusing for John considering Sherlock’s mouth had not opened or moved. The man looked rather bored, really.

“Sherlock??” John raised an eyebrow in a slightly disturbed, confused expression, “Was that-“

He sighed as he hears a woman’s voice cursing quietly from the hall, “No…well, not live,” he rolled his eyes as Irene walked out from the bathroom and came to stand behind him, “It was Irene’s text-tone,” he sensed her behind him and turned slightly to give her a brief, annoyed stare, “I still don’t understand how you recorded that without my knowing. Or why.”

Irene Adler laughed softly to herself in a way a woman does when a man asks a very dumb question. She moved to position herself in front of the chair, sitting on the arm of it and draping her legs across Sherlock’s lap. She smiled briefly at John, enjoying his bewilderment.

“Do use that beautiful brain, Sherl. You know you don’t notice much when I’m getting you to make those sounds.”

Sherlock’s eyes flare at her in annoyance as John’s widen in shock. “Irene…” John says her name, almost to himself, as he stares at her and tries to ascertain if she’s real or not, “I knew you weren’t dead, but-“ he blinks, stopping as something suddenly catches up with him, “Hold on, did she just call you, Sherl?”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation-he had hoped his friend wouldn’t notice that part- and reluctantly bit out, “Apparently, it’s her new method of torture. I’m trying to get her to stop.”

“Right,” he nodded to himself continually, too shocked to process all of his thoughts, “Okay…..” he stared at the previously dead woman lounging on the detective’s lap and can’t seem to accept the visual in front of him. This was worse than the time Sherlock had pretended to date what’s her name, “Why is she sitting on your lap? There is another chair.”

“She,” Irene suddenly spoke up, with a slight spike to her voice, “is sitting right here and can speak for herself, Dr. Watson. I’m in this chair because the other one is yours. Obviously.”

John froze, taken aback at the respect that she had automatically showed him, “Oh…but I’m not using it.”

“No, but you always come back to that chair. And argue with Sherlock. He needs that. If I sit there, I might eventually get in the way.”

Sherlock looked out the window and shoved the smirk he waned to let out back down into his pocket, “Plus it is easier for her to manhandle me this way.”

“Hush, you love how I handle you.”

Sherlock did not blush. He does not blush. Ever.

He may have blushed, “Woman…” he pinched the bridge of his nose, impatient with her, “Would you please refrain?”

“Of course,” she stood up gracefully and leaned over to kiss his lips- a short, surprisingly loving touch, “I have to go shortly, anyway. Business to attend to.” She headed to his room to get changed, but not before giving one last sharp remark, “The cinnamon roll in the fridge is mine and if you eat it while I’m gone, I will bake your microscope in the oven until it’s just as gooey.”

“Noted.”

-----------------

The two men sat in silence in the small, shabby living room. One casually flipped through the newspaper, pretending to be interested in it to avoid the other man’s gaze. The other man, for his part, waited until the woman had shut the door of the bedroom before he exploded on his friend.

“Sherlock!” he almost shouted, sputtering, “I can’t believe…actually I can,” he took a deep breath and shook his head, calming himself down. “Explain,” he demanded.

“What exactly do you want me to tell you? I thought the situation was self-explanatory.” Sherlock was genuinely confused.

“Don’t give me that! Until the other day, I thought she was dead! Then I have to piece together by myself that you saved her. And now she shows up in the flat. I knew you kept in touch with her occasionally, but…she’s wearing your shirt Sherlock and I know what that means.”

“I don’t think you do-“

“I’m a grown man. I know how sex works.”

Sherlock held his tongue in his cheek for a second before explaining, “She’s not wearing it because of some sexy cliché. I ripped her dress. She has nothing else to wear.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,” he nodded, pretending not to be proud of himself for that.

“That still explains nothing!” he snapped, “I’m your friend, Sherlock….this sort of stuff-major life stuff…well, I kind of thought you would tell me about it.”

He wanted to tell him not to be a girl about this, but he could sense that that would be indelicate at the moment. As Irene said, he was learning; his emotional intelligence was growing.

Sherlock groaned, unsure of how to be proceed, and feeling a slight stab of guilt. He had already caused John too much pain, “John…you are my only friend. Really,” he shrugs, “And I wasn’t hiding her. It’s not as if I don’t trust you.” “Then why did I have no idea?”

He broke, “Because I don’t know how to do it, John! It wasn’t a plan. I didn’t come up with an elaborate secret and purposely keep it from everyone. I just didn’t talk about it…about her. Because I don’t know how to. Not knowing makes me uncomfortable, you know that. So I avoid the topic. Until she shows up.”

John nodded in understanding. Sherlock really wasn’t as complicated of a man as he would have liked everyone to think. He was a brilliant mind guided by the soul of a confused child that only ever wanted adventures. Interpersonal relationships were not his forte. Most children learned to navigate their way through relationships, romantic or otherwise, as they grew up and became adults. Sherlock skipped that stage. He went straight from child to adult; the empathy, the stage that links childhood to adulthood, was thrown out in his upbringing. And the reason for that dismissal of empathy was erased, replaced by a macabre nursery rhyme.

“So…” John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, ready to listen, “Why did she show up?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, glancing to his phone before he could control the impulse.

“Ah,” John smiled, proud that Sherlock had taken his advice, “You texted her.” “Yes,” Sherlock assented, “…We talked about cake.”

John threw a disbelieving quirked brow at his former flat mate, “Is that all you talked about?”

Sherlock did not move. His body stayed still as his mind whirled, debating how much to tell John. It is still a sensitive subject for them both.

“No,” he hesitated before continuing, “Of course not.”

“Then what-“

Sherlock ran a hand over his face, rubbing his forehead in distress, “Mary. We talked about Mary.”

John’s eyes widened for a second, a little worried that Sherlock was sharing such personal details to a woman that was technically a criminal.

Sherlock shook his head, reading the thought off of John’s face, “I didn’t tell her. She already knew. I just…elaborated. On my part of the story.”

“There’s still something I don’t understand, though. Why? Why did you message her in the first place? I thought you didn’t text her back.”

Sherlock chuckled at his friend’s see-through lie, “No, you didn’t. You didn’t believe me when I said that.”

John smiled, happy to see his friend more at ease now than he had been the last couple of weeks, “No, I didn’t. You’re not as good a liar as you think.”

“I know,” he said, “I…wanted to talk to someone that I didn’t have to explain things to.”

John frowned again, offended just a tad, “Just because I’m not as intelligent as you, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t understand what you were feeling.”

“No!” he explained, “I didn’t mean it like….I’m honestly not sure how to explain this, but Irene knows what I’m thinking. You know I don’t like to voice my feelings out loud. Especially the really difficult ones. If I talk to her about everything, I don’t have to say what’s bothering me. I deflect her questions too, when she probes too deep, but she reads between the lines of my words and…she knows what I’m refusing to say.”

The way John was looking at him at that moment made Sherlock want to take back everything he just said and throw himself into a black hole. Why does everyone have to look at him like that green Christmas monster that grew a heart whenever he talks about what he feels? It’s not a conducive reaction if they’re trying to get him to open up more often.

John looked at Sherlock like he finally realized his friend was capable of real human emotion. And, admittedly, it made John feel good that there was finally something he knew more about than Sherlock.

“So you wanted to talk to her so you could feel like someone was sympathizing with you, without having to do any work?”

Sherlock glanced down at the paper again, supremely uncomfortable and uninterested in the daily news, “I guess it was just easier,” he said, “She understood. Didn’t think I was crazy, or going soft. And it helps that she doesn’t look at me like a baby learning to speak when I announce that I ,in fact, do have emotions.”

John felt a little bit bad for that part, so he gave in, “Fair point.”

---------------

The restaurant she was supposed to meet her next client at was filled with pretension. The overly ornate curtains covering the glass windows had fleur de lis carefully stitched onto them. The hand folded napkin at each place setting was an origami swan. The entire décor screamed for attention, but Irene was not intimidated. She knew how to make herself appear as if she belonged anywhere. She was the ultimate chameleon and her sleek dark blue dress was all the camouflage she would need today.

For the man she was meeting, however, she could not say the same. As she walked in, she saw him sat at one of the front tables by himself. He was meeting the dress code of the restaurant, yes. But only technically. His sport coat was a size too small-obviously borrowed from a much fitter man whom could afford fancy dress. His face was freshly shaven, but littered with tiny razor nicks, as if he didn’t groom himself often enough to know how to do so properly. The little hair he had was combed over into the only decent style he knew. As much as she hated crediting Sherlock’s ego, she had to admit that spending time around him seemed to have given her powers of observations a tune up.

The man did not fit in in this place, but he was trying hard to disguise himself. That fact put Irene off just a little bit. Usually, if a client is unkempt, they don’t ask to meet in a place like this, knowing they wouldn’t blend in. But she sat down across from the man regardless.

“Your associate said you had some information I might find useful…” she let her red-painted lips naturally curve into the sinister smirk that never failed to ensnare every one of her clients.

He swallowed and used the pristine napkin to wipe the slight sweat that had accumulated off his forehead. Nerves. Why is he so scared? She wondered as she slightly narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Yes,” he managed to stutter out, eyes darting from side to side once, checking if he was being watched? “And I will tell you, I swear. But I believe my associate mentioned something about your methods of compensation?”

She rolled her eyes elegantly, picking up the menu to scan it for her favourite cocktail-dealing with this man may require booze, “Recreational scolding. The rough stuff,” she flicked her eyes back up from the menu to meet his in order to gauge his reaction, “If I deem the information you give me to be valuable, then I will pay for it.”

“Wait, you mean…if I tell you first, right here, then you will…punish me?”

She sighed and nodded nonchalantly, bored, “Yes. But only if the information is worth it.”

“No!” he frowned at her, fear in his eyes, “I want a guarantee that I will be paid. This information…it isn’t safe for me to be giving.”

“Not safe for you or not safe for me?” she lifted an eyebrow curiously.

The man suddenly became serious and a cold look came into his eyes, as if a chill had invaded his bones, “Not safe for either of us.”

“Oh, I’m intrigued,” she grinned, refusing to allow this man’s fear to rub off on her, “Do explain, sir.”

“Guarantee my payment. I guarantee you it’s worth it…if you value your life.” In Irene’s line of work, threats to her life were not uncommon. She refrained from another eyeroll, “Of course I do. But how can I be sure that you aren’t simply pulling my leg?”

“I know who you are, Ms. Adler. You’re supposed to be able to tell when a man is lying to you. That’s what they say, at least. Look at my face, look in my eyes….I’m not faking.”

Irene paused, briefly admiring the hit at her ego as an attempt to persuade her. She examined the man’s expression, the thoughts behind his eyes, and something there shook her a little, “You really are scared…But, of who?”

Most people would ask ‘Of what?’, but it’s quite obvious what he is afraid of-whoever he got this information from will kill him if he relays it to her. Ergo….who?

“Someone that is very interested in you, that you better pray you never meet.” “Is that all you can give me?” She pretended to not be affected, as was her method.

“I can tell you that the man I got this information from checked himself into an asylum the next day, muttering ‘Don’t let her in.’”

“So it’s a woman that’s in control, huh? Refreshing,” she quipped, looking the man up and down for a second, “And what is this information you’re lording over me?”

The man’s face went pale, all life drained away as he looked towards the door for a second then back at her, “Leave England. She’s after you. The man I spoke of…he gave me this, stole it from one of her guards.”

As he handed over an old crumpled note, she frowned in interest, “She has body guards?”

“No…cell guards. My informant worked as a janitor at her prison.”

She took the note from him carefully, a dubious expression etched onto her face, “She’s coming to get me…from jail?”

“Oh yes, Miss. Read the note.”

The woman looked down at the faded piece of parchment in her hands as was barely able to discern ‘Irene Adler-221 B Baker Street.’

The man nodded at the aghast look that came over her face; Irene hid it well, but the fact that this crazy woman knew she would be at Sherlock’s place worried her, “She was scribbling that over and over again on the walls of her cell.”

“But this isn’t even the current address of my hotel in London.”

“No,” the man smiled, darkly amused despite himself, “But it’s where you were last, isn’t it?”

A silence fell across the table as Irene considered this pathetic, little man, and whether to trust his story. When she got up from the table, she still hadn’t decided, “This meeting is over. Consider my payment nullified.”

She drowned out the man’s indignant complaining as she walked out of the restaurant, her heart beating in her ears.

-------------

She honestly wasn’t going to concern Sherlock with this worry. She could take care of it herself; this type of thing has happened to her before. And she certainly wasn’t running from London because of a sad, horny man’s anonymous tip.

But she had gone back to 221 B, as the note had predicted she would. Her desire to be unpredictable lost to her stubbornness to admit she was afraid. She was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea when she received a text from an unknown number and dropped the cup to the floor, the pieces shattering as her skin went icy.

Contact: Unknown, received 2:05 p.m:

As the east wind blows to beautiful Calypso So approaches his test The sea has grown treacherous, the waves don’t love him They will give him no rest When the waters turn against, his body fully spent He might give up his quest If I wreck his ship and he still doesn’t quit Should I take the pirate’s treasure from his chest? His spoils mean nothing, his gold is rusted These things hold no value for this man But if I wreck the siren, calling to be trusted, He will swim where no one can After all, If you take a man’s heart from his breast, Really, truly, what will be left? -Much love. “Eurus…” she said the name on an exhale of breath, feeling like a ghost had entered the room and was now watching her. She had been begrudgingly worried before; no matter how used to danger you are, it’s still a little concerning. But now…

Normally once she figured out who was after her, the process became easier, but not this time. This time, knowing only terrified her. Her sources had informed her about Sherlock’s sister before, obviously. She was not someone to challenge. She had to admit, from what she had heard, Eurus was smarter than her. Smarter than Sherlock. And Irene had learned a long time ago to never challenge someone smarter than yourself. Muscles really didn’t intimidate her; they weren’t the biggest sign that a person was dangerous. The weakest, scrawniest person could burn down the entire world if they knew how. And Eurus, despite being locked up on her own personal island, had managed to make men oceans away tremble with fear. Sherlock told her that her guards’ time in her cell was always carefully monitored because she could essentially brainwash people into doing whatever she wanted.

Sherlock’s head ticked up immediately when Irene muttered the name. He took in the broken tea cup on the floor and the fear on her face as she stared at her phone. From that, it took his mind less than two seconds to realize that Irene was looking at a message from his sister. Or rather, a threat.

“Show me the phone.” His voice was modulated and in control. It was a tone that says ‘don’t argue’. Usually, his demanding anything of her would not end pleasantly for him. But Irene was in a state where all she could do was lift her arm and hold the phone out for him to take as she thought about the message, replaying it in her head.

He took the device from her, keeping the hand he took it from in his larger one, squeezing her fingers. He may not be good at vocalizing feelings, but he can express himself very well physically.

He quickly read over the text and the old lyrics that Mycroft used to sing to him, out of key, floated into his head, I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beach tree…

Sherlock’s mind jumped back to the first time he had learned what terror felt like. A picture of Redbeard flashed through his mind, first the imaginary dog, then the little boy he had lost. For a minute, he was a curly-headed child in the long grass, running to save his best friend. He remembered how the cold wind whipped his nose until it was red, how the air smelled faintly of honeysuckles from his mother’s garden. But all he could taste was the bitter tang of dread as saliva gathered in his mouth. That was when he learned that fear had a taste. He remembered looking down into the well and seeing the last light of the day reflecting against the top of the water. His friend’s triton hat floated to the surface, soggy and tired. He picked it up and sat by that well, staring at the sun going down.

Mycroft had found him still sitting there the next day, barefoot and shivering, and refusing to speak. His eyes were empty. He supposed that was why Mycroft decided to make him forget the event. And her. He had to fill his eyes again; he couldn’t grow up knowing what had happened. Mycroft knew that his little brother wouldn’t have been able to live with it.

Never again. She will not destroy someone I love again.

He came back from his reverie and felt something squeezing his heart, “Irene…” The way he said her name, with such sincerity, broke through her shock and caused her to meet his gaze, “Sherlock?”

His voice was steel as he vowed to her, and himself. “She will not take you from me.”

#Irene adler #adlock #Sherlock holmes #bbc #fanfic #drabbles #more than kind and less than kind #eurus holmes

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nightingveilxo · 8 years ago

Photo

BBC Sherlock is picking up where Casablanca left off. “The stage is set, the curtain rises, we are ready to begin…” Which is important, because before it was a film, Casablanca was an unproduced play.

First, I’d like to give credit to @deducingbbcsherlock for the original meta about John on the tarmac: ( x ) This post, is a follow-up of sorts, in that it deals with what happens afterward, and how we all land.

Take into account, that when Casablanca was made, the people we now think of as refugees, were still living the events. The film did create a rallying for those same people, and included refugees in its scenes. The LGBTQA+ viewers hoping for representation are the Sherlock refugees.

I included the images above, because of the blue/slightly rainbow lighting effect that occurs in the scenes, and due to pondering why they were having Mycroft watching an old movie (which we know was made for the show). Blue lights invariably spring up around anything involving Sherlock and John’s hearts (especially phones, bombs, and police lights). In the scene from T6T, the blue lights mimic a runway. In the first of the two images from TFP, after Sherlock breaks down the fourth wall, it even looks like he is coming down from a plane ramp.

From a previous piece I worked on:

Lights and Landing. I keep thinking it’s going to /come down/ to lights. On ASiB, Flight 007, the lights were out, and Nobody (TLD/Nemo TFP) was home (because they were all dead). During the stag night, Sherlock and John are drinking by a table, where Sherlock’s (heart) phone is left glowing blue next to four candles. If we’re still on the roof of TRF, John had his lights knocked out, but only after he and Sherlock escaped the police with their blue lights. In TEH, the lights are on the (heart) bomb. In HLV, Sherlock shoots Magnussen, and then a huge light lands on him from the helicopter. In TAB, Sherlock’s lights kept going out. In the flight of T6T, again everyone’s lights are out, except John’s. In TLD, Sherlock figures out the issue of the illuminated Miss Me from Eurus’s note, in the same way he noticed Help Me on the wall when Anderson missed it (which is also the text Sherlock sent Lestrade in TSoT that then results in blue lights through 221B’s curtains). In TFP, the little girl mentions seeing lights right before Sherlock figures out the code to locate John. We already know there is this recurring issue of projectors/projections/premonitions.

Which is why I don’t think it’s an accident that we go from the Casablanca-style scenes in HLV and TAB, to Sherlock and John beating Mary Rosemund to Morocco, in T6T. At the beginning of T6T, Sherlock says, ““I’m the target. Targets wait.” “How did you find me?” Mary asks. “I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he shrugs. He waited. For John. For her. There were premonitions...

Also, it works with the scenario of Victor Lazlo. Early in the movie, Victor Laszlo acquires a large scar over his left eye. The reason for the scar's existence is never addressed in the movie. Likewise, @inevitably-johnlocked surmised that John has lost his left eye ( x ) In TFP, as a child, Eurus always has brown eyes--except in the scene where she is lighting the match. In that scene, it’s blue. I never understood why, until this.

The water scenarios we keep getting in S4, and the idea of TD-12 or a coma causing this to all be misinformation or somehow incorrect.

Captain Renault: What in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?

Rick: My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters.

Captain Renault: The waters? What waters? We're in the desert.

Rick: I was misinformed.

We’ve already had a parallel between Rick and Sherlock from TGG, albeit in reverse.

Rick: And remember, this gun is pointed right at your heart.

Captain Renault: That is my *least* vulnerable spot.

Then, there’s John as Ilsa. A blonde married to a blonde, pining over a dark-haired man that is represented as anti-social. Renault has the ability to mirror Sherlock or John.

Ilsa: It's about a girl who had just come to Paris from her home in Oslo. At the house of some friends, she met a man about whom she'd heard her whole life. A very great and courageous man. He opened up for her a whole beautiful world full of knowledge and thoughts and ideals. Everything she knew or ever became was because of him. And she looked up to him and worshiped him... with a feeling she supposed was love.

Now, we come to the parallels between the tarmac scene and TFP:

“Another well-known story is that the actors did not know until the last day of shooting how the film was to end. (Delayed Sherlock scripts, and actors saying they didn’t know in advance where their story arcs were going.) In the case of Casablanca, this was later refuted... The original play (set entirely in the cafe) ended with Rick sending Ilsa and Laszlo to the airport. During scriptwriting, the possibility was discussed of Laszlo being killed in Casablanca, allowing Rick and Ilsa to leave together, but as Casey Robinson wrote to Hal Wallis before filming began, the ending of the film "set up for a swell twist when Rick sends her away on the plane with Laszlo. For now, in doing so, he is not just solving a love triangle. He is forcing the girl to live up to the idealism of her nature, forcing her to carry on with the work that in these days is far more important than the love of two little people." (Remember, John is Ilsa) It was certainly impossible for Ilsa to leave Laszlo for Rick, as the production code forbade showing a woman leaving her husband for another man. (Much like the film code prevented TPLOSH from having Holmes and Watson as a gay couple). The concern was not whether Ilsa would leave with Laszlo, but how this result could be engineered. The problem was solved when the Epstein brothers, Julius and Philip, were driving down Sunset Boulevard and stopped for the light at Beverly Glen. At that instant the identical twins turned to each other and simultaneously cried out, "Round up the usual suspects!" (Which is literally what they did in S4, especially TFP. The key players are all rounded up, and we have our twins reference) By the time they had driven past Fairfax and the Cahuenga Pass and through the Warner Brothers studio's portals at Burbank, in the words of Julius Epstein, "the idea for the farewell scene between a tearful Bergman and a suddenly noble Bogart" had been formed and all the problems of the ending had been solved.” (No loose ends...)

That issue of the Prime Minister, that came up in T6T? In the original play (the curtain rises, the scene is set), the correct PM is written: Weygand. In the subtitles for the English DVDs, it says De Gaulle. At the time of the film, he was head of the Free French government in exile, so a letter signed by him would have provided no benefit.

In the scene where Lazlo begins the national anthem, La Marseillaise, these are the lyrics:

Arise, children of the Fatherland! The day of glory has arrived! Against us, tyranny raises its bloody banner. Do you hear, in the countryside, the roar of those ferocious soldiers? They’re coming to your land to cut the throats of your women and children!

To arms, citizens! Form your battalions! Let’s march, let’s march! Let their impure blood water our fields!

John in TFP: Today, we have to be soldiers, Mycroft, soldiers. And that means to hell with what happens to us!

Sherlock: Soldiers.

John: Soldiers.

Going back to the first image, look at the name of the bar. The Attic. Where does Sherlock locate Eurus? In the attic (last image)...

Tellingly, this is what Umberto Eco said of the film (which originally, had a solid opening, but nothing meteoric) "Thus Casablanca is not just one film. It is many films, an anthology. Made haphazardly, it probably made itself, if not actually against the will of its authors and actors, then at least beyond their control. And this is the reason it works, in spite of aesthetic theories and theories of film making. For in it there unfolds with almost telluric force the power of Narrative in its natural state, without Art intervening to discipline it....When all the archetypes burst in shamelessly, we reach Homeric depths. Two clichés make us laugh. A hundred clichés move us. For we sense dimly that the clichés are talking among themselves, and celebrating a reunion. Eco also singled out sacrifice as one of the film's key themes: "the myth of sacrifice runs through the whole film." It was this theme which resonated with a wartime audience that was reassured by the idea that painful sacrifice and going off to war could be romantic gestures done for the greater good. (We’re back the Greek references that permeated S4, the status of Anteros at the beginning of the opening credits to the show, and the overall reception from viewers of TFP.)

Also, remember Mark saying: “I’m a gay man. This is not an issue. But we’ve explicitly said this is not going to happen—there is no game plan—no matter how much we lie about other things, that this show is going to culminate in Martin and Benedict going off into the sunset together.” Well, if John as Ilsa has vacated the premises, and left that part of himself with Mary, it makes sense. Because, at the end of Casablanca, Rick walks off into the fog with Captain(!) Renault.

Regarding the clues we’ve been getting about 6, 40, & 27. In the summer of 1940, the 27-year-old teacher Murray completed the play in six weeks with the collaboration of Joan Alison. It was never shown as such until London in 1991, for 6 weeks.

Tagging @graceebooks @impatient14 and @whimsicalethnographies @may-shepard @jenna221b because they replied to some of the minor bits I added onto existing posts, which then became this...thing. Anyway, thanks for reading.

#the lost special #moroccan mayhem #smoljohnlock #tfp

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