a chemical defect.
Well, this just became… oddly topical.
Title: The Duplicious Detective, Chapter 7: The King of Blackmailers
Rating: Soft R
Characters: Elementary!Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson, BBC!Irene Adler
Summary: A dynamic detective, a disgruntled doctor, and a damsel who isn’t in all that much distress, thank you very much. In which a case of identity involving Sherlock Holmes himself threatens to turns several worlds upside-down, the Watsons are left to clean up the mess, and Irene Adler? Well, she just does what she wants. Elementary/BBC’s Sherlock crossover.
“You could say I’m a fan.”
“Could you?” Sherlock croaks. “Most intriguing.”
“You’re a bit shorter than I expected.”
“Well, that’s to be expected when my current, err, companion has a fondness for high heels.” Sherlock is speaking unusually quickly now, even for him. “My previous one did not; I appeared taller by comparison. The magic of photographic perspective.”
“I see.” Milverton glances at his wristwatch, contemplates it, and says, “Yes, I daresay I’m already on schedule to miss the first act entirely at this point. Ah, well.” He looks back up at Sherlock, and his smile widens. “I always did want to hear the tale of the Aluminium Crutch straight from the source.”
this is how you understand: you don’t. you replay the last twenty-four hours of your life looking for something to dissect, something that will explain everything. when that fails, you comb the last week of your life for details, scrutinizing your last adventures from the emptiness of your living room, desperate for anything that might have been a hint.
his smile blazes. he smiled after you closed that second-to-last case, smiled so hard because the both of you narrowly escaped death (again). a smile of pure, unadulterated relief, joy; not madness.
when he fell, the side of his head was what smashed against the pavement and burst like a rotten melon. maybe his teeth remained intact. maybe he could still smile now, if he wanted to, but he won’t. people don’t smile when they’re dead.
this is how you follow: you don’t. you can’t follow him, not there. one time you sat at a soldier’s bedside in afghanistan and listened to him talk about all of the ways to kill himself. it’d be easy, he said, out here. jump on a land mine and die a hero. or we all have guns, you know. or i could just twist my sheets into a rope and hang myself. but after the soldier talked himself in circles, he didn’t go through with it.
despite this wealth of information, all the ways you know it can be done—drugs, bullets, bed sheets, gravity—it never occurs to you to do it. one day, it occurs to you that it’s never occurred to you, and you laugh, a rough bark rooted in confusion and heartache. maybe you’re just not that kind of person.
this is how you cry: you don’t. your tears dried up in a place where the sun baked your exposed skin and the wind whipped sand between your teeth. you would cry to see him alive, you think. not dead.
this is how you move on: you don’t. you don’t, even when you do. every single person you have ever loved takes a tiny part of you with them when they go, and the empty spaces that remain sting from time to time. you thought you understood this before, but you only do now, and only because the hole he left in you is a cavern large enough to walk around in. bring a torch, bring someone’s hand to hold, and explore it, chart the corridors, illuminate its darkest corners and watch as it gradually shrinks—
— “The Adventure of the Cardboard Box,” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
In which I almost recreate my sidebar art at 221B Con. (Don’t mind me, just still not over this.)
A nonsense ship more people should ship—my impossible OTP at 221B Con.
Anonymous asked: Ohh nevermind! Forget the “mourn me johnlock” I just requested! Nothing can ever beat the Irene/Victor you just did ajkldf I just saw it now and ahjdkflg
Too late anon! You cannot stop the angst train as it rumbles down its track! Reminder, this is one of many small fictions from the drabble meme.
“You probably won’t even remember this later,” Mary tells him. “I can’t—the funeral. It’s like it’s gone, like it’s just been extracted by something.”
John nods, staring blankly at the coffin just sitting there in the rectangular hole in the ground. Ironic, really. If there was one thing Sherlock could never do, it was sit still.
“I think I really—” he begins, but then his voice breaks, and he can’t go on.
Mary squeezes his wrist very lightly, and the touch is so warm, so simple, so human, that he marvels at how anything like it can still exist in this world, with Sherlock gone. “I know you did,” she says.
And they stand there together, two of the few who bothered to come see Sherlock laid to rest, and watch as the hole is filled up with earth. Soon it’s as if Sherlock had never been at all, except to those who bear the scars on their hearts as proof.