I was listening to the song Cemeteries of London by Coldplay on the radio when I remembered the scene in The Reichenbach Fall when John and Sherlock are running through the city itself. I myself love large cities that buzz with life, so I decided to meld Sherlock and my love for metropolises (though "metropoli" feels more correct, supposedly the former is the actual word that is more commonly used).
[Insert Disclaimer] Another second-person fic. I'm becoming more and more used to writing this way, it's getting more fun every time. Enjoy!
Living in a city allows you to passively observe its gears turning and see its beauty.
Walking in a city allows you to see the good and the bad within it, the superficial evils that lie by the side of the good.
Now, running through a bustling city, looking for a place to be and being in its underground day-by-day allows you to see the real thing; running through a dark street, searching for a place to hide, your pulse echoing in your ears and your legs aching with the want to go faster and faster. To be honest, that nagging worry that was at the forefront of your thoughts just a few minutes ago is now somewhere in the back of your mind, a smile on your face as you look over at your companion next to you, running no slower. The lights that shine throughout the centre don't fail to illuminate your way in the meandering alleys; the occasionally asphalt, occasionally brick-and-stone-laid streets fail to trip either of you because you cannot and you will not fall. You are practically battling one another, trying to catch up and slowing down to match each other's speed and to have mercy on your bound wrists, when in a flash of genius, his hand and yours simultaneously grasp the other and your speeds synchronise. Suddenly, he turns, pulling you sharply to the side and you feel a sharp pain in your arm, faced with a metallic gate that punches into you and the cold cast-iron stings almost as much as your companion's somewhat contemptuous and slightly accusing gaze. Your hand and his are still connected by the handcuff and you reach for his fingers to have something to hold and pull as you climb over, lacking his elegance, but almost matching his speed. And then you keep running.
Your shoulder still aches from being yanked so, but you don't care because you simply don't notice, running down a street and pulled towards a blinding light that burns your eyes for just a few seconds before you fall onto the pavement; the fall itself is somewhat broken by your companion himself, be it on purpose or just happenstance. Then a man dies right in front of you, the one who saved you both; and you both know that he died because he saved you. But that doesn't matter right now because you need to save yourself again, you need to save your companion, adrenaline and instinct flooding your body as you navigate the streets side-by-side to get where you need to be.
This is just a facet of a battlefield, a full-scale war that you have loved, as loathe as you are admit this sometimes, and have missed more than you know. You have seen every war front and cemetery, every silent protest and open rebellion. You know London because you know how the side streets look when the scant moonlight is the only thing that illuminates them and because you know exactly where to step on every centimetre of pavement in every corner. You know what it is like to run with your heartbeat in your throat and pulse in your ears, every single nerve ending on fire because you're worried, a bit tired, but so irrefutably, wonderfully, and endlessly excited.
You know London because it is your home in every sense of the word, the most elementary part of your being.
Hope you liked it! If you did, you can go and check out some of my other stories if you want.
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Until next time.