These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.
BAKER STREET DEVIATIONS
BLAST
Ch. 1
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This five-part series is not part of the THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON trilogy and should be read as an entirely separate entity, so no worries there. Nor is this series a part of the SHERLOCK AND JOHN – SECOND HONEYMOON INTERLUDE stories. So take heart.
Each chapter is to be considered a separate entity onto itself ... until Chapter 5.
Of course, like everything else I write, THINGS MAY NOT BE QUITE AS THEY SEEM.
PROMISES: This is for those many Readers who specifically PM'd me to ask if I had other stories in the works, particularly, and I quote here, Angst. "Horror would be nice, as well." (I'm not even going to comment on that request other than to say, Your Wish is my command. So, Brave Hearts, here it is. Serving number one of angst and horror. Enjoy the wallow. But come back to us when you've had enough. We miss you!)
For those of you in love with the GRACE / BOYS/ REBELLION universe, you might want to skip this one. Fair warning.
WARNINGS: Implied Main character death. Angst. No apologies whatsoever.
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Sherlock slumps on the cobbled pavement, his back against the brick wall of the church, his legs stretched out in front of him. He seems to have lost a shoe.
His watch sits on the pavement next to him, its face clearly visible. 2:45 pm. He watches as the digital numbers slowly change. 2:46 pm
One minute past the time that time stopped.
Over his head, the sky is an unusually brilliant blue for England. Nearly cobalt. There is a sweet smell in the air, more of summer than of spring. Opposite him a small grove of oak trees is in full bloom. His mind idly supplies the correct terminology: genus: Quercus, species: robur, at the same time his crystalline eyes note and appreciate the fully blooming limbs. Green. A dark green, particularly vibrant against the deep brown of the wood.
The weight in his arms is negligible now, although a few minutes earlier, it seemed heavier.
He tilts his head back until the dark curls encounter the cool bricks, cool even in the mid-afternoon sun. Bits of the ancient church sign lie in front of him and he can just make out the remaining letters. His mind supplies the missing ones. CHRIST CHURCH. How many such named religious institutions are there in England, he wonders idly? He must look that up some time.
He watches as the numbers click over. 2:47 pm.
He dialed the emergency number four minutes ago, shouted instructions, then threw the useless mobile away from him to clatter against the rough road. He could barely hear the responses over his mobile and only hopes that someone got the call. Give them time to get round the normal traffic and that caused by the explosion, emergency rescue vehicles, fire and local police, bomb units, make it seven – seven and one half minutes then.
Seven and one half minutes. He idly speculates: if it was possible for them to arrive on scene in oh, say, five and one half minutes, it would still be six and one half minutes too late.
A small object buzzes not that far away from him, seemingly interested in the brilliant red flowers that bloom unchecked in the churchyard next to him. A hummingbird. He watches as the tiny creature goes about its business of collecting nectar, then zooms off.
A faint breeze sets his dark curls dancing and he momentarily shuts his eyes as the early summer wind blows over his forehead. He's glad it's summer. John likes summer, always has done.
2:48 pm. Three minutes past the time that time stopped.
Sherlock shifts his weight slightly, pulls the slight body more carefully into his grasp and cradles the dark blonde head against his chest. He deliberately does not look at the twin rivulets of blood that fall down the side of his new husband's face, one from each ear canal.
He thinks he hears the siren now. But not certain. All sound is muffled. Remote. Give them another sixty seconds to make their way round. Maybe they can't . It is highly probable that parts of the structure lie in the street behind them. The explosion was extensive and undoubtedly did a great deal of damage.
Indeed, the bomb did more damage of an irrevocable nature than at any other moment in history.
He wonders if John would find that observation excessively dramatic.
They had been, in fact, just a dozen or so feet away from the epicenter of the blast.
Sherlock holds more tightly to the cooling body and shuts his eyes even as his relentless mind supplies background data.
Sometimes, he hates his mind.
Most times.
The blast, obviously caused by an explosive, caused an instantaneous change in air pressure, which propagated away from the epicenter. The resulting sharp jump in pressure, the shock wave, hit them both, but John was behind him and being John, he threw himself over Sherlock and they both went down, blown off their feet by the blast wave.
Sherlock can tell it was a blast wave because of the displacement of air molecules. He felt them explode and disperse, as if space itself parted and created a path that the two of them tumbled into. But then the path closed and only one of them was able to climb out again.
The wrong one. Obvious.
Shock waves, Sherlock notes, travel supersonically, faster than the speed of sound. There was no way their human bodies could have recognized the imminent blast and gotten out of the way. A second of understanding. And John Watson threw himself over his new husband's body. And took the brunt of the shockwave.
Sherlock wonders if the action was instinctive or deliberate. And what does it matter?
John has always been one to deliberately place himself in harm's way if by doing so, he could save lives. Or save Sherlock.
"Ironic that," Sherlock thinks. The best sacrificing itself to save the useless.
He imagines the sirens getting closer now, but he cannot actually hear them as there is something wrong with his hearing. Everything is strangely silent, more or less. Muffled as the air seems muffled on a snowy day.
And people, there are other people, not surrounding the two of them but farther off, coming out of the church, those that survived the initial explosion, calling for help over their mobiles, he sees some of them crying as they wander outside, undoubtedly asking over and over again, in querulous voices, what in bloody hell was that!?
Again, his mind provides the most probable scenario as his sense of hearing is no longer a viable method of determining factors.
He opens his eyes momentarily and blinks in order to dispel moisture. It's getting harder for him to see, Sherlock realises. He postulates this is because he has suffered a head injury, one that he cannot, as yet, cognize.
He entertains the notion, no more than an exercise in speculation, really, that it proves fatal – and quite soon. It will be a great time saver. As well as conserve rescue efforts and materials expended on his behalf. Efforts best spent on those who wish to survive.
He refuses, however, to offer up prayer or supplication to the mythical sky being that John so often invoked. He will not waste precious brain resources in such a hopeless fashion.
Please God, don't let him live.
What type of explosion? Had to be a planted device, bomb, obvious. But he has no way of knowing exactly where it was placed. Not enough data. He heard the slight crackling sound which denotes a close explosion, rather than the booming sound of one far off. Doesn't matter if it gets the job done. You can call it what you will. Fine. So how many kilos of explosive needed to do this type of damage? Perhaps six or so, maybe less. No, six would be incredibly excessive since the explosion was contained within the walls. Four would do it nicely. One might suffice - if the bomber really knew his or her stuff. He assumes a male or male(s) but doesn't have enough data to really tell, now, does he?
And plenty of targets, this one apparently meant to take out the northern end of the church, and kill as many as possible on this Sunday, this day of days for the two of them.
Air molecules dispersing and the blast wave exploding outward a bit faster than the speed of sound, which means the initial wave hit them traveling faster than 1,000 feet per second….one wave and when it encountered a small object, a human body, five feet seven inches tall, weight, approx nine stone, give or take, (John had never fully recovered the weight he'd lost two years earlier), that meant the main forefront of the shock blast hit the slight body going at an approximate speed of 10,000 feet per second – or faster - he would have to adjust for unknown variables.
Sherlock applies his knowledge of explosions and knows that of the two phases, the pressure part and the suction part, it was the pressure that hit them – and effectively brought time to a screeching halt. The surrounding air does not have time to get out of the way, and something like a solid wall of high pressure is formed.
John never had a chance.
He remembers his first physics professor, quoting Joseph Needham's humorous definition of an explosion, "An explosion may be defined as a loud noise accompanied by the sudden going away of things from the places where they were before."
Truth in humor, than, as John has most definitely gone away from the place he was before.
Sherlock wonders where. And is it possible for him to follow? And how quickly?
John promised Sherlock – promised him – that he would not go where the detective cannot follow.
John lied, Sherlock muses. Lied about the most fundamental and important thing of his life, both their lives. Sherlock wonders now if John lied about other things or just this one thing, the overall important thing of all time.
There was never any question of rescue breathing. The blood on John's chest told him that, deep red, copious amounts of it and everywhere it shouldn't be. Not caused by the blast but by splinters of the church as it hit them both, by rock and brick, stone and wood.
His new husband's sweet face, gone still, just the one tiny bruise over his left eyebrow – and the wound in his chest. Over the place where Sherlock's heart used to reside.
Somehow this single anomalous event managed to rip open John's chest and tear all his promises away.
Then there's the bruise over the eyebrow, under the skin, over the skull which shelters the left frontal lobe, Sherlock notes, hating his brain as it supplies the probable results of such a blast hitting a fragile human skull at such a velocity and speed.
Death – near instantaneous.
Near.
John had shuddered once, and he had muttered one word, his husband's first name, in a tiny whisper, more of a susurrus of sound than of an actual word. Sherlock barely heard it. Then he had abandoned the small body, and gone elsewhere. And Sherlock gathered the limp form up in his embrace and held it close as he sat, legs splayed, leaning against the red brick.
He doesn't even remember how they got out here. The last cognizant memory he has is of the both of them standing together, hands joined, grinning at each other like idiots.
There are other bricks there, ripped loose from the superstructure of the aged church. Sherlock idly counts them and speculates that when the count hits 243, the ambulance will at last be there.
And they will take John away from him.
So he sits and watches the watch. 2:50 pm. Five minutes past the time that time stopped
He thinks he hears the slightest of sounds, a siren? Close and getting closer? Or just the wind in the oaks? Sherlock observes as the numbers switch over to 2:51.
Give them another 30 seconds to maneuver and park. No, let's be fair. 45 seconds then. Open the doors, jump out and open the back. Pull out their kits and yes, a gurney, because there's no way that they could know, yet, of the utter uselessness of such an item now.
One full minute then to hold his love to himself. Sixty seconds of feeling the slight weight in his arms, the smooth surface of the dark blue morning coat, gone all sticky now, the brush of the silken hair against his wrist, the one that aches so abominably. The sweet face, gone still, quiet.
Wake up John. You are missing one hell of an interesting crime scene.
Sherlock sees the ambulance pull up, the doors open. He leans his head back against the ruined red brick of the church and feels the twinge of pain in his wrist and the spreading aches all over his body. He wonders why he cannot feel his legs or feet. They seem to be there, in front of him, but he has no feeling in them whatsoever. None.
He opens his eyes as the watch John gave him relentlessly counts down time.
In a few seconds, they will rush them both, and demand to ascertain his own bruising and obvious – and not so obvious – injuries. He will dismiss those demands, however, as his own continued existence is no longer of any importance.
They will, of course, miss the worst injury he has suffered because despite his desperate willingness to follow John, his stubborn heart continues to beat. His heart, fit now only as an internal organ whose sole purpose has been relegated to circulating blood and perpetuating an existence that ceased to have meaning a scant seven minutes earlier.
John apparently took his other heart, the one that John so loved, with him when he went away from this place.
Odd that, him having two hearts, if only for a little while. Like that traveling doctor in that show on telly that John so enjoys.
Sherlock's head begins to ache abominably. He shifts his hold on the small body, encircling it within his shaking arms, and grasps more tightly of the fabric, or what is left of it. The white shirt – white no longer – hangs in tatters under his fingers.
He deliberately ignores his own growing maelstrom of pain and the warm stickiness that drips down the side of his face. Both eardrums have been ruptured - obvious - as he cannot hear any sounds now at all, despite the fact he can actually see the rescue crews racing toward them.
Everything hurts now. Everything. Except his legs and feet.
His own physical condition he relegates to the recycle bin that holds the unimportant facts and useless data soon to be deleted.
None of it matters anyway.
It is, after all, only transport.
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