The Meaning of Death
No one knew where he had gone; not his loyal blogger, not his daft DI and, at this point, he doubted even his archenemy knew. As a matter of fact, Sherlock Holmes didn't even know himself.
Such facts always mattered, of course they did, but when the scheme of things got grander they had lost most of their importance; no matter where he was right now, how was he going to continue being for the future?
As if from behind a waterfall he registered the arrhythmic shuffle and clank of the chains by which he was suspended. He felt the blade drag against and part his flesh, but didn't feel like pondering it; depth, pattern, he lived for such data in victims, but he couldn't inflict those same examinations on himself just yet; not until he felt doing so was no longer akin to scanning the room for an exit sign. The wielder of the knife drew back now, seemingly pleased with himself. Sherlock supposed he'd gotten a bit creative with the design… good for him. He'd carved FREAK into Sherlock's lower abdomen. A large, messy and uneven font; not too creative then. Though Sherlock supposed a more favourable title would've invited more letters onto him… EXOTIC, OUTLANDISH even!
It still ached to bare that mark, perhaps more than it did to actually bare it, and he supposed it always had somewhere far below the skin where he'd convinced himself nothing resided. Something did, of course, something small but entirely brave.
Sweat began to coat his lamely swaying body, blood crawling slowly downward, his breaths so harsh they offended even him; he was barely alive enough to verify his own misery. It had been too long… how long had it been again?
When the face of his assailant appeared before him, Sherlock was again struck by how desperately ugly it was.
"Listen up then, Freak, we'll be going now, yeah?" positively freakish teeth were shown in a horror of a grin. Nothing came forth from Sherlock's mouth beyond a lazy dribble of blood.
"Aw, chin up, lad! You won't be alone for long! Be sure to give 'em the heads up, yeah?" Sherlock couldn't fathom what the man was on about, and he didn't care either; it took such effort to be obstinate, and, as tediously human as it may be to tire, he had. He was exhausted in fact.
Pathetic to dangle there at the mercy of not even the maddest of men, but Sherlock acknowledged it as the only thing left for him in this life. Briefly, very briefly, the great Sherlock Holmes prepared himself to greet death as an old friend. He was, after all; death got him a job, death clothed, fed and housed him. He owed everything to death. Death and John Watson. It came down to which friend he wanted to encounter most.
John.
And with that, that good old Holmsian spirit kicked up again and he prepared himself for battle, he prepared himself to fight his way into his chair opposite… that other chair, with the one man with enough influence to keep death at bay awaiting him with freshly brewed tea. Though he supposed Mycroft would send a legion of highly trained agents at it and give it a good whack with his umbrella for good measure. Lestrade would make it his division and try to order it away, good old Mrs. Hudson would give it a right good scolding and send it off with a fresh slice of pie, Molly Hooper would very, very kindly ask it to leave… and Sherlock, the sociopath, would stop at nothing to keep it away from them.
He supposed that meant he shouldn't die. So he decided not to.
The assailant wasn't as ugly from behind, though he sure came pretty far. "As I understand it, there are some yarders on their way… something about a murder victim found in these parts? Reckon they'll appreciate that bit of craft there!" he disappeared for some time, leaving Sherlock ample time to imagine every shade of glee that would colour Anderson and Donovan's faces when they saw. Saw… it.
He reappeared, still entirely nameless, though regretfully not faceless. In his unsightly talons he clutched a box with salt in it. Actual salt.
Speech might've come in handy now, but Sherlock's entire vocabulary was currently cowering behind a particularly heavy door in his Mind Palace.
"No!" oh, not all of it then… No had always leapt eagerly off his tongue; no wonder it was the first word to rush to his aid.
"Sorry mate, nothing personal… just like seeing people squirm is all." oh the deductions that could be made off the back of such boundless cruelty… cast out of every social circle his life had ever known, never shown love but began to mistake fear for respect at a tender age and just ran with that. All the way into the underworld. This was what a true sociopath did to get his kicks, and it took the nonchalant sprinkling of salt into a grievous wound to convince Sherlock Holmes he wasn't one.
Chains were let loose, a dull thud resounded; a limp man's body thrown against concrete.
The concrete was cold, but the body was infested by heat and flame and the great mind unfortunate enough to inhabit it thought only of mercy… an ice man, a doctor, Mike –fucking– Stamford with a fire extinguisher… anything.
A man was screaming. Harsh, excruciating wails desperately telegraphing this tale of misery to the world… Sherlock didn't realize he could make such ghastly noises, but when it dawned on him they were in fact his, he was glad of it; this, here, was the last of the fight he had in him, so let them know he died fighting. Died like a soldier, like a Holmes, like a brave man. It might soothe the ones he'd be leaving behind, so he gave them what he could.
Even when his vocal chords had to yield and silence themselves, his body was not given rest; long elegant fingers tried to claw the offending minerals off the jagged lettering, body writhing, muscles and tendons straining against unseen barbed bonds as some foreign flame licked his earthly vessel clean of peace and autonomy.
Footsteps approached, then halted, and a lone pair of feet braved the final distance to have their owner kneel near Sherlock.
"Shit, shit… Sherlock!" Lestrade cursed, trying to pry his consulting detective's hands off the mess they guarded. "C'mon, Sherlock… let me see. It's okay, it's- I won't hurt you, yeah?" Sherlock's eyes slowly focussed on the DI, frowning and trying to speak. Leaning in to where Sherlock's lips were almost touching his right earlobe, Lestrade caught the vague enunciations as they drifted past on an exhale; "Les-Lestrade, Le… get it. G-Get i' out. Please! Pl…" get what?
"S-Salt, S-S-Salt." oh. Fuck. Sherlock continued to breathe in desperate, choppy gasps, his hands now fisted at his side. "Anderson, Donovan! Help him! Donovan; get some water, Anderson, restrain him." Sally dived toward her backpack immediately, but Anderson was reluctant to use force on the supposed freak. Not when the word both he and Sally championed was right there mocking his every good intention. What would force actually do, anyway? He'd break the man!
"Get a move on, Anderson!" so there it was, the strange tableau; three yarders huddled around an ailing acquaintance. A colleague that wasn't. Sally rinsed the salt out of the wound as quickly as she could, applying pressure to staunch the last of the sluggish bleeding when she was done. Anderson was in charge of keeping Sherlock's lower body still whilst Lestrade cradled his upper body in his lap, whispering whatever reassurances he could come up with.
"Help will be here soon, Sherlock. The paramedics said they were five minutes away when we radioed them last." they should've been there already, actually… but Lestrade figured time slowed in such dire situations. They would come.
Suddenly, gunshots were heard somewhere in the distance.
"Are they coming for us?" Sally asked, readying her weapon even as he spoke.
"N-No." there was a responding salvo right after this, proving Sherlock right; there were two parties in combat here.
"Alright… ours?"
"Mine." Sherlock said, slightly smug still. Mycroft might've been an interfering git, but the man sure had timing.
"Full of surprises, eh?"
"Greg…" this started Lestrade out of his relief; for him to not only remember the name but actually utilize it as well, the following must've really mattered. "Sherlock… you remembered!" Greg smiled, shifting Sherlock in his arms. It was a shameless deflection, but help was coming. Help was actually coming, and that meant they didn't have to do this.
"P-Please Greg… if I… if I don't…"
"You will, Sherlock. Don't throw in the towel now. You've tried too hard for that, mate, I can't let you. John would kill me, Sherlock; I can't." the mention of John caused Sherlock to inhale sharply, causing a momentary spike of pain severe enough to bring tears to the eyes of his greatest tormentors. Donovan's hand found its way into a sweat slicked wealth of curls and stayed there, trying to soothe him. All three yarders tried to comfort him, calling him by his first name and seeking some form of contact. To anchor him, perhaps… and in the end that's what they accomplished; Sherlock touched the shores of death briefly, a warm and peaceful sort of place. Tranquil. The sort of place he'd claimed to hate because he couldn't be happy there, not with such a demanding mind, but he'd always wished he could be. To take a holiday and worry about nothing but the sand in your trunks, it felt amazing… but he knew he had a life. Harder, colder than this, but he enjoyed it. It must really be one worth returning to if people who claimed to hate him tried so hard to keep him in their midst… so he did, he returned.
When he opened his eyes again, he was still laying in the warehouse, weaker and colder for the strength and warmth he'd just abandoned. Greg greeted his newly opened eyes with tears and an unsteady smile, and more footsteps could be heard in the distance. Fast, running, the squeaking of wheels.
Mycroft ran to his fallen brother's side, murderous anger rising at the familiar slur adorning his chest, but he stowed it away to save for later and laid a hand on Sherlock's head, leaning in close to assure he'd be heard.
"I'm here now, Sherlock. I'll take care of it." the prone Holmes tried to respond, but Mycroft wouldn't let him. "Spare your strength now, little brother… you've done well." the voice of the British Government had never come as near to silence as it did right then. Deep affection shone through the cultured tones, convincing the thus far disbelieving policemen that Sherlock Holmes did have a brother and that this was indeed him.
"Thank you for tending to my brother in my absence… I owe you a great deal. I trust the two of you know that that word must never be uttered in my brother's company ever again? I heard you were rather fond of it." The paramedics had loaded Sherlock onto a stretcher and the rest of the conversation took place somewhere beside it as they made their way out.
Slowly, swathed in the safety of leads and lines and transfusions, Sherlock let himself slip into unconsciousness.
Author's Note: This'll likely be a two shot. More to follow tomorrow, if there's any interest! There's a reason this is tagged with John after all.