I should really by finishing "A Night to Remember", but this has come up time and again all year and wanted to be written.
Well, here it is. Posted as a Christmas present for my beta, Impractical Beekeeping (thanks for your unwavering support).
eohippus
P.S.: This is NOT a cosy, cuddly tale, but deals with Sherlock´s addiction - so please be warned :)
Christmas Eve
"If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows" (Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, mid-1800s)
"Get out. Hurry up."
Hands which had explored his bare skin earlier tug roughly at his wrists, attempting to pull him into a sitting position. His clothes land in an untidy heap beside him. He is too dazed to react, his limbs too heavy to obey.
"Come on." The man hauls him up, and he stands, swaying and shivering. His jumper hits his face, followed by his coat, which he manages to catch. With great effort, he wraps himself in the fabric. It smells faintly of cigarette smoke and chemicals, and of too many nights spent in clubs and strangers flats. The smell is soothing while the music floating from the living room is annoyingly syrupy and tawdry. He can clearly recall how infuriated he was to be pestered with kitschy Christmas tunes, but also, bitterly, why he stayed.
"Here. One for the road." A tiny plastic bag is being thrust into his hand, a door opened, and the man pushes him towards the steps of the Edwardian entrance.
"Now leave," the stranger orders, fear and urgency in his voice, and Sherlock staggers down the stairs, clutching the iron fence tightly to keep his footing. A silver light in the sky catches his attention, and he looks up. The stars twinkle back as if to mock his ungraceful retreat. It is freezing , although the fierce gusts of earlier have abated, and he can taste the river, salt and earth carrying the sea´s greetings. He inhales deeply, suddenly longing for carefree summer days at the rugged Brittany coast, a time when he wasn't yet aware how his ever-observant mind could turn against him.
A cab passes, and he raises his arm to alert the cabbie to his presence. But the shadow behind the windscreen only shakes his head and passes. Sherlock´s mind, slower than usual but nevertheless in high gear, assures him that no cabbie will take an inebriated stranger who can´t walk straight. There are not too many cabs available on Christmas night anyway. He´d better walk home.
Walking proves more difficult with every faltering step he takes. He struggles on, desperately clutching onto the fence. Snow starts to fall, veils of silver in the streetlight´s glow reminiscent of the beautiful patterns the world forms itself into whenever he is high. His heart beats too slowly, a foreign object threatening to rob him of oxygen, but he keeps on moving.
The iron rods are gone, replaced by a reassuringly warm presence. A door. He is instantly reminded of a larger entrance, flanked by statues, opening into a marbled hall, the promise of a fireplace in a room thriving with books. He shakes his head, determined to rid himself of these images of his past. These days, he hardly ever seems to be able to get warm anymore. And the rooms of his family manor are no longer accessible to him.
His breath is coming in shallow waves now, the effort of getting enough air leaving him powerless and shaking. After a few more paces, his knees give out, and he loses his hold on the iron bars. He hardly feels the pain of the impact, his mind blissfully blank as darkness closes in on him, shielding him from the cold winter´s night and his beloved city.
A soft whirring as black feathers are stirred and the shuffling of bird´s feet on the pavement startles him back into consciousness. He needs to see and understand. But what he observes is too bizarre to register as reality. There´s one black bird picking at his sleeve while another is keeping watch at a safer distance, head cocked, onyx pupils glinting with curiosity. A crow and a raven. He has always been fond of corvids, feeding them breadcrumbs and biscuits whenever he fled to one of London´s parks to distract himself from the vicious circle his life had become. Or, a long time ago, with Victor. The old, familiar ache pierces his heart, and he groans.
The raven hops nearer as if it had noticed his distress, head cocked as if pondering him. The streetlamp´s light casts an unearthly shade of silver on its feathers. Sherlock´s mouth curls in a wry smile as he remembers being called Raven on more than one occasion, for his graceful air and black curls. He always countered with contempt and sarcasm, to hide his vulnerability.
Shudders run through his legs, and a profound tiredness threatens to drown him. If he closed his eyes now, his shallow breathing might just cease entirely. He makes a weak attempt to push himself up, but a croaking voice, ancient and wise, disrupts his disassembling thoughts.
"He will be. But he must choose life first," the raven says. With a flap of its wings, it disappears into the sparkling curtain of numerous lights over the river. The crow follows closely. Sherlock squints into the too bright light, suppressing the illogical urge to call the creatures back, to beg them not to abandon him. He staggers to his feet and sways, his hands on his thighs, and spots a dark shape on the ground. Carefully, he lowers himself down again, his trembling fingers touching the smooth case of his mobile.
If he closed his eyes, he could simply get back to sleep. The raging machine of his mind would stop forever. He would finally be ordinary.
"He must choose life first. But I am afraid he might not."
The ancient voice is whispering persistently in his head, culminating into the very essence of the raven itself. Ravens do only talk in fairy tales, he reminds himself. There is no magic in this world. He can´t be saved.
A sharp pain runs through his torso, and he gasps for breath, suddenly terrified of collapsing in this god-forsaken spot. His fingers touch the mobile´s screen, and a row of digits lights up. He stares at the familiar number he assumed he had deleted a long time ago, and finally pushes the button for call.
Only when he listens to his brothers concerned, reassuring words does he realise how scared he really is. Tears of relief start to pool in the corners of his eyes. He sinks back against the brick wall, starting to drowse.
Relieved, he ceases to fight the tiredness, and his eyes drift shut. The shadows of two black birds telling each other a long-forgotten tale guide him into the darkness.