Authors Note: Hello, okay so this Fic is named Timshel, from the Hebrew word phrase meaning "Thou Mayest" or "You have your choices". Some of you may know it as the song by Mumford and Sons -this is an inspiration based (loosely) from that song-. Whenever I listened to it I had a scene go off in my head, so I figured I might as well share it? This is AU, though I'm going to try to keep it as close to canon as I can. Cool. Here's the prologue! Oh, also: Minor Trigger Warning- implications of suicide. Okay.
Ice shot through his nerves quicker than lighting, his toes curled together in shock of the contact. He felt his pulse throb in his fingertips as his hands lay limply by his side. His mind as numb as his feet. Another step. Breath hitched. Eyes closed. Another small step. Ankle deep. Nothing. John opened his eyes as he lifted his chin to take in the vista. The trees stood a still silhouette mounted above the lake side. He opened his lips to take in a quick breath as he took another step, his trousers soaking every inch in, they felt arctic against his paper skin. His body was shaking, but his conscious was the frozen metaphor that was the water beneath him.
Still. He just stood, toes numb standing on top of the smooth and sharp pebbles alike. They say in a man's last moments he weighs upon past experiences, regrets, hopes, distant memories of loved ones. This all almost paled in comparison in John's mind at this very moment. He had no thoughts of his childhood or awkward teenage years, not his first love, nor his last. Not even the tall beautifuly boney man made a cameo, which is surprising for he is the reason John stands where he stands. No, not even him. An author and a phrase, that is what is John's mind. As a writer, these felt apropos; they were important to him: words, phrases, authors, motives, intentions. It's all beneath analysis.
Analysis , there, he made it. There was Sherlock Holmes. The tall, mysterious and boney man. Analysis. He remembers now.
Boy, Sherlock loved to analyze things. The first day they met. Analysis. That is what caught John: Sherlock's attention to detail. His ability to listen and analyze and connect ideas and people and events. It all seemed too familiar to John as it was the same concept in literature. He loved reading a book and analyzing the characters and motives, the syntax and content, who. what. where. why; it all was a thrill. Analysis. Uniquely thrilling to the pair.
Another step. This step was intention. This step wasn't numb, it was remembering. Why was he here. Who was he here for. What was he doing. He opened his mouth again, exhailing the littlest amount of heat his body was able to produce.