The tale of Sherlock Holmes… the way it would have been, if one tiny variable had been different.
This is another splitoff of The Dark Side of the Moon- except it's a multichapter rewrite. You should be able to read this without having read The Dark Side of the Moon. Now, since my enthusiasm could not be contained and people begged and I gave in before I could properly set the basic plotline, let me explain our differences, okay?
Things You'll Recognize:
-Lydia is still alive.
-Sherlock's parents are still alive.
-Sherlock's mother's name has been changed from Lydia to Siobhan, to avoid confusion. I had a brain-derp while originally writing and didn't notice that I used the same name twice.
Things You Won't Recognize: {Warning: spoilers for The Dark Side of the Moon}
-Seraphine, Sherlock's younger sister by four years, survived.
-Sherlock never went through electroconvulsive therapy to erase the memory of his father murdering his sister. Hence, he never has the flashbacks that occur in DSOTM, or the final realization that, by my calculation, will happen somewhere around chapter 150.
I'll let you figure out the rest. We're Sherlockians. We're the smartest fandom in the world, dammit.
Okay. Enough of me. Let's start the story.
My penname is Motaki, and I am very proud and honored to present…
Walk in the Moonlight
1: Una Buona Vita
(Written for ThoroughlySherlocked and Lo613, as a Christmas present, and to anyone else who wanted to see this.)
She would never clearly remember the first time.
Mycroft could recite every last detail of it; Sherlock pushed it to the very back of his memory and tried to pretend it had never happened.
But it had. It'd been the start of eight years' hell on earth for him.
She very clearly remembered the second time, though- like a laser's marks on glass. How could you possibly forget- in any amount of years, in any lifetime- the sight of your brother fighting for your life, the sound of his bones snapping as he was thrown up against the wall?
The color of his blood, spilled so hers wouldn't be?
Mycroft, leaning over Sherlock's thin, too-still frame, looking at her over his shoulder and shouting at her to call an ambulance; her mother, standing nearly catatonic- make that properly catatonic in the doorway; realizing that all these years, all her life, he'd been shielding her from that and she hadn't even known-
She tried not to think of it.
And she tried, very hard, not to think too hard about what Sherlock was doing when he wasn't around her.
They'd fled to Italy during the divorce. Thankfully, it was a country very capable of being distracting…
*
"This really does seem to happen to us far too often," he breathed, the words fogging in the cool air.
"You don't say," the other replied, her voice dry as her shoulders pressed against his, her eyes sweeping her side of the street. "That's the understatement of the century, right there. Understatement of the bloody century."
Her companion- four years her senior, her brother- rolled his eyes. "Really, Seraphine. Don't get carried away with yourself."
"You're one to talk." She pulled in a breath, preparing.
"Insieme," her comrade murmured, and she felt his muscles tense. Together.
"Insieme," she agreed, bracing. His fingers touched her wrist, a silent countdown: three, two, one…
They both lunged forward at the same time, methods varying slightly: he took advantage of his height and seized his opponent in a headlock, quickly putting them into a chokehold, patiently waiting until they went limp.
Seraphine, in the meantime, took a much more direct approach and ducked behind her enemy before jumping up and delivering a sharp blow to the base of his skull, knocking him unconscious.
"I took mine faster," she called.
Her brother rolled his eyes, disengaging from the limp form. "Mine had a lesser chance of failure."
"Come on, Sherlock," Seraphine whined, "probabilities are a fine thing in concept, but in reality, my method was more practical! Yours could have easily reached up and clawed your eyes. It also took much more time, which, if there had been more of them, is a disadvantage. With mine, I could just turn away and move on to the next one."
Sherlock snorted. "Right. But my knuckles don't hurt, do they?"
Seraphine gave him a death-glare, rubbing her admittedly-sore fingers. "They do not," she muttered.
And then her eyes brightened.
"My lip isn't bleeding."
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he touched his lip, inspecting his fingertips.
Seraphine grinned. "Might want to have that looked at. Your pretty face is your only asset."
"Fottiti," Sherlock cursed, giving her an intense glare before turning away. "It's just a scratch."
"No, that's the understatement of the century," Seraphine decided, trotting up beside him. "Half your face is covered in blood."
"Biggest overstatement of the century," Sherlock returned, rubbing at it with his sleeve. "It's no more than a quarter of my face. I'm perfectly fine."
"Suppose you'd be up for a race, then?"
She knew her brother, and competition never failed to rouse him.
"Where to?"
"Roof of that church," she offered, nodding towards it.
Sherlock considered.
"What about the top of the tower? Or-" he smirked- "is that too much for you?"
"On my count, then," he challenged, lowering his stance into a crouch that she imitated. "Uno… due… tre."
She went for the streets; he lunged for the building opposite, jumping up and seizing a windowsill, climbing from there onto the roof. There, it was child's play to jump to the next.
"My baby sister still has much to learn," Sherlock called down to her; she looked up at him, still on the street. "Do you remember nothing I taught you? Come on!"
She looked around frantically, trying to find something to use to her advantage.
"Look up," Sherlock advised, jumping to the next roof. "Don't just stay on the ground. Does an eagle fly if he never spreads his wings?"
And there it was, a flare of realization; he watched as she jumped, grabbing on to a piece of decoration on the church's walls.
He had to ring around, taking a route that cut her away from his line of sight; she reached the rooftop first, but he overtook her when she stood before the tower, trying to decide how to climb it.
Having done it several times before, it was easy: use the foothold, grab the mismatching brick that protrudes, climb along the edge of the decorative rim just below the wind on the other side, going to the left side of the tower. Climb the window, grab the edge of the roof…
He pulled himself up, turning around to watch.
She'd followed him fairly well, but now hesitated below where the stone flanged out into a ledge barely big enough to hold on to.
Unsure if she can do it, if it'll hold her weight…
She looked up at him- figuring if it worked for me it'll work for her- and then boldly grabbed it, beginning to edge around the tower.
She climbed the window, and took his hand, holding on with a vicelike grip as he pulled her up.
"If only every day could be so much fun," she said to him. "Oh, wait… they are."
They both laughed quietly. Sherlock walked towards the edge of the rooftop, sensing more than seeing Seraphine come to his side.
"It's a good life we lead, brother," she murmured, putting an arm around his waist as they both looked over Florence, the city coming alive with lights to ward off the night. "May it never change."
A part of his heart seemed to hitch.
"And may it never change us," Sherlock whispered, resting his hand on her shoulder.
**
For The Dark Side of the Moon, it was Skyrim. For Walk in the Moonlight, it's Assassin's Creed.
To finish the first part of what will be an epic journey, I'll give you this:
"Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."