Author's note: Well, here it is - another multichapter :)
I seem to be covering the ABC-s of Sherlock fanfiction, so after writing a reunion piece, I now wanted to try my hand at something resembling a case-fic, although the case serves as a plot device for investigating character relationships, really.
I have to mention that this story takes place somewhere between HoB and TRF, timewise, just so the references to the series don't become confusing.
There will be 11 chapters in total (unless there is an unexpected last-minute addition somewhere along the way) and the story will be updated every two days, seeing as my real-life obligations make it a bit impractical for me to update it every day.
The title means "perpetual motion" - it will make sense by the end, promise :)
I'm runnng out of imaginative ways to disclaim things that are not mine to brag about, so just consider it all disclaimed :)
For those who prefer complete suspence, I suggest you skip right to the fic now, as what follows might spoil that suspence a bit.
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Ok, so, this will have a happy ending, depite all the angst, so don't lose heart, no matter how gloomy things may see at times. Also, there will be Johnlock, but nothing explicit, as usual.
Well, that's it from me, for now.
Enjoy your reading! :)
Chapter 1: On swift legs, run to a non-beginning
Have you ever run so fast that you felt as if, after a while, you were being propelled simply by the gained momentum, no longer truly in control of your movements? Like a roll of film being endlessly spun over a source of light, you are an image, running, running, running. It's the most astonishing feeling, once you free yourself of the aching of the muscles and the piercing in the lungs. When you run like that, in perpetual motion, every moment is a threefold, because every step is already the beginning of the next and the ending of the previous one, while all the time being just itself. When you run like that, being carried through space by a force that is no longer completely internal, you are travelling through time, while staying in all three of its dimensions. The faster you go, the slower the time flows. You are in the past, in the present, and in the future, simultaneously. You are running, and time is standing still. It feels like horizontal falling – exhilarating.
Have you ever run like that? Have you ever felt like that? If you have – good, then you know what I'm talking about.
Now forget it.
Forget it, because death feels nothing like that.
But I'm getting ahead of myself; I'm trying to tell a story from the middle. That won't do. Let's go to the beginning, then.
Well, when I say beginning... Truth is, when you come into a story, it is never the actual beginning. It might seem like one, it might seem as if there was no story before this point, but there was – there always is. Stories are like cells, born out of pre-existing stories just like cells are always born out of pre-existing cells. So, even though it might seem as if you are at the beginning, the truth is that beginnings are simply points in the story that make for good moments for you to enter it. Turning points in the plot, introduction of a new character, change of setting – all of these are simply devices which make a place in a story seem like a good place to start telling it as a new, separate story.
So, that's really what this is – where I'm taking you – a good point in a larger story, their story, which can serve as the start line for this story I am entrusted with telling you. Their story has been happening for some time now, and what I am about to tell you is just an excerpt. Well...maybe not just an excerpt. A rather important one, actually. If you are wondering what makes this particular part of the story a good place at which to start, then I guess it is a legitimate inquiry. There are several things, but most prominent ones are clocks, chemistry and caring. And running, I must not forget running, but the three Cs sounded too good together to be broken up by running. Moreover, the running is really a product of one of the three Cs (or maybe of all three in combination), so I guess it should be mentioned separately, anyway.
But I am rambling now, and a storyteller must never ramble. That's not why I'm here. So, let's get on with the story, shall we? Clocks, chemistry and caring – let's see where they take us.
The kitchen clock is the only thing breaking the morning silence, with its rhythmic, even-paced ticking.
It's early October, but the air, seemingly condensing on the other side of flat widows, turning slightly opaque as it thickens into a mist, already smells of snow that morning. What is it about the weather that makes it the eternal go-to topic? Maybe it's the fact that it is always there, always available to be discussed, saving masses from so many awkward silences. Maybe there is something about London that makes one think of the weather... Either way, that's what the weather is like at the beginning-that-isn't-really-one of our story. We take off on a cold, misty October morning that smells of snow. Is it relevant? I don't know yet. It might be. And if it isn't, you can always delete it.
"Sherlock, stop it."
John Watson is genuinely happy. It's not giddiness. It's that sort of bottom line happiness – a sense of contentment at the end of the day. Of course, there are bad moments, and bumps in the proverbial road, and it's not perfection, but when everything is examined and then stripped away, at the core of things there is a steady happiness. It has been, for some time now, because it's John and Sherlock, in their twisted version of domesticity, which consists of banter and mild gore and hazardous material and giggling at the most inappropriate thing, and it's also John and Sherlock in their twisted version of a job, which consists of guns and brilliance and criminals and very high doses of adrenalin. It's not your everyday definition of happiness, and yet, it most definitely is John's.
"John, really, I do think my physical well-being is slightly more relevant than your tea. Seeing as you can easily acquire a new cup, I fail to see why my actions pose such an impassable problem."
Sherlock Holmes is genuinely happy. It's not the run-of-the-mill, there-has-been-a-particularly-ingenious-murder sort of happiness. This happiness runs deeper, and is much less dependent upon the mental faculties of the modern criminal milieu. It tends to run deeper than the case-related highs, deeper than the thrill that comes with that 'Oh!' of realisation, and even deep enough to cut under the periods of boredom, alleviating them, if only slightly. It's John's happiness. It's Sherlock's – it's their happiness.
"Sherlock, I'm serious- Sherlock, for the love of everything!"
Ah...yes, well. I said there were bumps in the happiness road, albeit minor ones, to be honest. One of such bumps is currently present in form of Sherlock's index finger being submerged in John's tea, only to be treated to the same experience, this time in ice-cold water, a minute later.
"John, you are a doctor, if I recall correctly, so I would expect you to understand the utter importance of establishing whether or not I have any permanent nerve damage in my finger. Sense of pain and tactile experiences are immensely important as both sources of data and warning of danger, in our line of work, so I would consider it a rather pressing matter to reassure myself of their possible unavailability as soon as possible, and not in a potentially dangerous situation."
"And you just had to conduct a hot water immersion test to measure your pain response, using my tea?"
"You've used up all the hot water from the kettle, and I have no time to wait for it to boil again. Besides, I have sanitised my hands prior to this, so really, your tea suffered hardly any pollution."
"You are not actually suggesting I drink it now?"
"I was hardly suggesting anything. I was simply stating a fact and letting you draw your own conclusions as to what for the fact could be used."
"I'm not drinking that tea Sherlock. And that was the last of it, so you might as well go to the shops and get me some more, before I decide to test your pain threshold myself."
Just as John steels himself for a stare-down, Sherlock's phone gives a soft buzz.
"No time, John. It's Lestrade – we've got a new case."
And just like that, Sherlock is off, tea still dripping off his finger, and John follows after a moment, stopping only long enough to pour out the said liquid into the sink. It's happiness – tea-soaked, with a hint of exasperation on John's part and more than a hint of mania on Sherlock's, but happiness, all the same.
Remember how I told you that one of the things that make a point in a story a good place to start telling it as a new story, is a turning point in the plot? Well, unfortunately for John and Sherlock, they are our ticket into the story, because it is the fact that their steady, bottom-line happiness is about to be disrupted, that makes for our plot turning point.
See you on Friday! :)