It has been a very many months since I have posted anything mainly due to disheartened spirits and a bad case of writer's block and um I just decided you know what lets do this to get rid of the weird oppression so this was born as a result. I've wanted to mess around with Magic Realism so I tried.
Update: January 13, 2014 I have acquired the lovely and very efficient beta writeswithfeatherquills! So this is now betaed and I would like to thank her for doing this so carefully because damn! I missed a lot of mistakes, I am rather ashamed by it!
Summary:
Anomalies exist. They are a matter of nature and because of their scarcity, the more rarer. A certain percentage that does not belong, that stands out, but to be without a ariolus is to be an outcast, an outcast feared and repulsed by everyone. But for Sherlock being an anomaly is something of pride, something he wears with valor. He is one of the infernus. He does not need anyone, not a friend, not a partner, and definitely not a ariolus.
That is what he imprints over his sealed and barricaded heart.
Notes about the universe:
Dream sharing is established and part of the norm and the ariolus are everyone's one personal link to the dream world and are much more; are partners, lifemates, companions, and soulmates. They are called many names but still to the tongue a meaning comes too short for they are those who know the darkest recesses of your mind and heart and venture in without fear. To be without one is to be the damned, the infernus the darkest and most vile of the world.
Tranlastion from Latin to English:
Ariolus = Seer or diviner
Infernus= the damned (there are more translations but for the story I used the meaning of damned)
Also this is a Johnlock story! It will be slow build so it will take time to reach slashness but it shall come!
I'm still in the market for a britprick? Are you interested please reply.
That was really damn long o_o without a further notice, please enjoy!
Board and Seal Me Up
Ancestral ornaments, and the coats of his family crests on banners and shields of knights from eras long passed, and family portraits surround him, dignified and poised with an air of royalty about them. The polished metal surfaces gleam and glint so that they reflect the ceiling and lights. The arched windows have the curtains drawn so the sun warms the air, and the windows are slightly cracked so the spring air drifts through, and with it, the scent of the blooming gardens around the estate. He can pick out each scent, witch hazel, camellia, iris reticulata, forsythia, scilla, anemone, Chinese hellebore, siebold primrose, leopard's bane, and trilliums. He is still trying to figure out all the scientific classifications‒so far he knows 35 out of the 80 flowers that bloom around the grounds. As the days warm and spring passes, more scents will mingle and the bees will be out.
Sherlock is sitting by his mummy's feet reading one of Mycroft's old science textbooks when mummy uses the words 'unique', 'special', and 'different' to describe him. Personally, he would have preferred exceptional, outstanding or brilliant, but its mummy so he lets it go and does not put up too much of a fuss.
He is well aware that he is not like everyone else, but that it's not something that brings him misery or sadness. Why would he want to be dull? Mummy's sad smile is something he did not understand, why was she not happy that he was something more, something distinguished? When he had questioned her, her smile had dimmed. She had pressed an extra long kiss to his forehead, before reminding him of his mould samples in the basement that needed attention and sending him on his way. And he had forgotten so consumed with his case, and the growth rate of mould in different environments that he did not dwell on what mummy had said.
Well, not until Mycroft had returned from boarding school for the holidays.
And only because Mycroft had an annoying habit of pestering him about what he had done in his absence, about what he was up to. His brother was nosy, and liked to stick his sugar-coated fingers into everything, so it was better to get it out of the way so he could focus on more important and interesting matters. He brings it up to keep Mycroft from being annoying and pushy really.
"Because Sherlock, she sees the difficulty ahead in life for you."
"Good then. Easy is boring." The mass of untamed curls replied absently, holding a test tube to the light and squinting his eyes in concentration. Around him, an array of textbooks and papers were scattered about as he sat cross legged on the floor, his older brother leaning against the bookcase, observing him. He had laid his claim to one of the many studies in the Holmes's estate and made it his makeshift laboratory, Mycroft had his own as well, where he should be instead of bothering him while he tried measure the microorganisms in the pond water samples.
Through the murky test tube he sees his brother's face, can see the distorted smile and somehow it's worse. Mycroft's smile is the same as mummy's, and he hates it on his brother's face. Despises it, that pity and the under lurking disappointment he can see. "You will realize that it is much harder later on‒the world is not a kind place Sherlock, especially for you. Alone it is unbearable."
"Dull. I do not need anyone; companionship is boring, friendship is idiotic and relationships are the equivalent of mental castration. I do not need anyone to torture me so." He smirked. "I already have you and your oversized waist for that."
His older brother ignored the taunt and raised his eyebrow condescendingly."Really Sherlock, not even a ariolus?"
"There is no logically reasoning behind dream sharing, so why would I want one? Other than 'soulmates', which it sounds absolutely ridiculous and religious, in fact." His nose wrinkled in distaste. "Even so I do not have one. And I am not going to," Sherlock stated proudly, turning to look at his older brother triumphantly.
"There are other reasons," Mycroft replied. "The front lobe of the brain sends out wavelengths that correspond to a receptor that sends back corresponding wavelengths, thus creating a subconscious connection; allowing the other, the ariolus, access into your mind, but only when dreaming. In dreams the ariolus have control of what you see, and the power to turn dreams into nightmares or nightmares into dreams. There are other reasons ranging from religious to mythical but it is real even if there is no concrete knowledge as to how it functions."
"But there are cases in history that prove that sometimes there is no ariolus." Sherlock's eyes brightened, a keen and excitable energy rippling across his visage. "What about them?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock there is something very disturbing and wrong with not having one."
Sherlock's lip curled in revulsion. "I don't care what anyone thinks. I will not have one."
"Then I hope for your sake you never come to understand the importance of one."
He ignores his brothers meddling, because really, it is trifling and he does not care what he has to say. Besides, what does Mycroft know, other than what is to be served for the next meal? He does not need anyone, not a friend, not a partner, and definitely not a ariolus.
As the years go many things change. His body grows and his mind expands reaching areas and lengths far beyond the normal reach of child his age.
People notice.
At first there is amazement, and he revels in it, enjoying the praise and attention, but it isn't long before that changes and the words become whispers and sneers, so he ignores it. Continues as he always does, observing and deducing, But the whispers are more insistent, the words spill onto the wind and into his ears, he hears everything and understands far more.
Sherlock is 12 when he is sent to a therapist and diagnosed–how he utterly despises the word, as if what he has is a disease, as if there is something wrong what he is, who he is. He gains a classification as a high functioning sociopath, which really is not news to him, or mummy or Mycroft for that matter, so he scathingly reduces Dr. Watterson into a sniffling mass of tears, and gets kicked out of his first of many therapy sessions. The smug smirk on his face as he leaves is fiendish and devilish, and when he meets Mycroft's unamused stare, he narrows his eyes. "There is nothing wrong with me. I had no reason to be there, you are aware of that."
"Perhaps. But reducing a well respected and well reputed therapist is not something to be proud of, little brother. There may not be anything wrong with you, but that does not change the fact that the way you do things, the way you handle things, is wrong. And one of these days mummy and I won't be able to help you fix the messes and mistakes you make." Mycroft's stare hardened, the grey steeling over. "Learn to live in this world little brother, for there is no other and being at the edge of it is not an existence to be proud or fond of."
"I do not make mistakes. They are beneath me and what I do with my life is my concern, so stop butting in. How I deal with the world and how I live is up to me, not you." The defiance blazed in his eyes, his hands curled into fists, clenching the material of his soft and expensive trousers. "There is nothing wrong with me," the words force themselves out of clenched teeth and tightly clasped lips.
Mycroft leaned further back into the leather seat and tilted his head, observing his little brother. "Your behaviour has been excused and forgiven on the realms of youth and childish innocence, but that will not always apply. Learn before it is too late little brother or you will end up in the world where there is no one."
"You make it sound if that it is a terrible existence. What is so horrible about being alone?" Sherlock demanded. "What is wrong with that? You make it sound as if it is the worst punishment, as if somehow I should fear it."
The smile returns once more, the steeled gaze softens and the bluish tint comes back in his eyes. Sherlock clenched his jaw. "You pity me, why?"
"What else do you do with the foolish but pity them? I hope for you sake that bloated pride and arrogance of yours sustains you through life." Mycroft sighed deeply and turned his attention to the window, watching the vast green meadows pass. Sherlock's nostrils flared and he released a huff of air, and then jerked his head to stare at the window on the opposite side of Mycroft's head. His arms crossed over his chest and he slumped down petulantly in the seat, amusing himself with ploys and plots to torment Mycroft throughout the ride back home.
Sherlock is 12 when Mycroft becomes too busy to visit home and mummy isn't always around. He is 12 when the childish, meaningless taunts turn into something else, something monstrous and vicious that prick at him and dig their way into his flesh like poison dipped darts that he can't shake off. They embed in his skin, sink down into his bones and travel into his bloodstream where they flow through and echo in his mind. He is 12 when he is looked at as something different, something contagious, something nonhuman, something to be feared and hated. He is 12 when he finally and fully understands Mycroft's words and warnings.
He adds a skull to his bookshelf.
When Mycroft comes to visit on the rare weekend, and sees the skull up on top of bookcase next to his chemistry set, and butterfly samples, a pitying look crosses his face and he frowns in sympathy. Sherlock's stomach clenches uncomfortably and he slams the door brutally and sharply as he leaves the room, gnashing his teeth together violently.
He burns Mycroft's books and possessions, but even the vicious stab of victory does not erase the look on Mycroft's face or the nauseous feeling rolling and tearing at his stomach lining. But it helps. A little. The fact that all of Mycroft's pants suddenly shrink in the following weeks and his brother starts declining extra helpings during meals helps a lot more.
But Sherlock starts to sleep less and less as the days go by, starts to retreat into himself. His cheeks start to sink in and his skin takes on an unhealthy tint.
One night after weeks of forced insomnia, his body finally forces him into a fretful slumber.
He wakes up in an odd vacuum that is devoid of noise and any other color but the black that is before him. He tries to call forth the previous hours and draws nothing, tries to grasp any tendril of how he ended here, where here is, but his brain fails to connect as if the neurons are short-circuiting, failing to bring forth conclusions.
A soft glow beckons and suddenly there are orbs of light that shimmer and glow with various colours of soft lights, swirling down around him in a vortex, gentle and curious. They are odd, multicolored, almost firefly-like balls of light that emit a glow that pushes the darkness away and cocoons him. His hands itch to grasp one and study it under the microscope, to dissect one and trace the veins and nerve pathways, to find out how everything works. To discover which chemical reactions cause the bioluminescence-like lights, to see whether the colours are a defence or a mating mechanism. Sherlock's hand darts out to capture one that strays too close and he closes his fist around the light. A thrill descends down his spine and a childish glee lights his eyes. But when he opens his hand there is nothing there. His brows crease in puzzlement and Sherlock tries it once more, to grab another light that drifts near his cheek but only to find the same result.
His lips tug petulantly downwards. What is this?
All of this is illogical, in the realms of the physical world impossible, there is‒oh.
Oh.
A path of light opens up under his feet, reaching over the distance, and in the darkness, the orbs of light leave him and fly down the road. Sherlock watches them for a moment, a ballet of lights that dance and shimmer, before trailing after them.
The path he travels is timeless and infinite, as if it is endless and without destination, an aimless journey an unknown location. And given his rather impatient nature, it is quite the test. He's rather tempted to somehow fall to his death or impale himself, but apparently all there is nothingness and blackness ‒like Mycroft's sense of humor.
He snorts at his own brilliance but even that cannot keep the tedious and annoying tug of boredom away for long. There is not even anything to deduce. It is absolutely the worst torture to be inflicted on him‒and he has had to deal with mummy's tea party guests and the below average morons that 'instruct' him.
Suddenly the orbs of light stop in front of him and he halts as well and watching curiously as the orbs hover and glow brighter, until their shape disappears and he has to shield his eyes from the intensity of the light. Once he deems it safe, Sherlock lowers his forearm and stares at the rather plain and inconspicuous door before him. The wood is old and rough, a dark brown similar to the ancient willow tree he had once collected samples from near their summer villa, a rather diminished and beat up brown that has weathered under the skies of England. Ivy creeps and grips the wooden frame, splaying a hand of green across the doorway. Hedera helix, English ivy his mind supplies absently as he leans closer to the door and flattens his hand against the wood, letting his thumb caress the wood slowly, and then his fingers trail down the groves and spirals.
He studies the door.
There is nothing remarkable about it, average and rather unexceptional. Many would walk past without acknowledgment, but then again, the lesser minds miss the most important details of what they deem insignificant. His hand drifts down to the doorknob with speckles of crimson rust and he wraps his fingers around it, turning the knob swiftly and walking across the threshold.
Icy crystallizes and cocoons him and his breath is stifled inside his chest, held encaged and captive, and as he breaks through to the other side he lets out his breath, which vaporizes and turns into a cloud of mist that swirls and coils itself in the air before slowly drifting away from him. The cold recedes, unwraps itself from him and in its wake leaves icy fingertips running against his flesh.
Before his eyes, there is a chasm of white. Nothing but the colour of white‒unblemished, untouched, and undisturbed. The wind brushes against his curls and slowly the snow falls, chilling his bare skin and collecting in his hair.
Which is...
Utterly boring! Boring! Boring! Boring! Of course he'd be stuck with an idiot who dreamed of nothing! Damn Mycroft! His bloody pant trousers are getting wet, oh the joy in contracting pneumonia in a dream. Why could he not have a ariolus that dreamed of murder? Was it really too much a trouble to g‒
"Oi! Oi! Watch out!"
Before he even has time to turn and look, some force knocks against his knees and he tumbles backwards, landing roughly on his back. Sherlock's eyes snap open and a biting retort is edging out of his mouth, but it fails to come out as he sees the face of his ariolus, more accurately his ariolus's choice in clothing. Well from what he make out, his ariolus has a horrendous fashion sense and apparently a partiality for ugly jumpers. His eyes drift over the face, blond hair, blue eyes, 14-16 years in age judging from the facial structure. A bit short for his height compared to the average height of British boys in his age range. He has perhaps an approximation of seven to nine years to reach a somewhat normal height, but he highly doubts that will ever happen. Either has or will develop a complex about height in the future.
All in all his ariolus is average‒a heavy pressure congeals over his chest and the frustration mounts. His ariolus is a bloody average boy. How is this boy supposed to be his? There is absolutely no compatibility whatsoever, only painful mental castration awaits, his brain cells will wither away and then he'd become just like everyone else. The intolerable horror causes an involuntary shudder to run through him.
"Are you all right there? Didn't mean to run you down but really you were standing there like a gangly tree."
"Oh God, you are so bloody average." Sherlock sneers. The boy raises his eyebrow and he rolls his eyes. Of course he'd get stuck with the one with delicate sentiments, not that it mattered, because he would never return. "Look I‒"
"Huh, so you're my ariolus I wasn't expecting anyone so posh looking," the boy grins, "guess we both got bit of a surprise."
"I assure you I was not surprised this is the face of utter disappointment," Sherlock gritted out as he struggled to get back up on his feet. The boy gets up and reaches out his hands when Sherlock fails to accept the boy lets out an amused huff and catches Sherlock by the elbow and helps him up.
"Up we go."
Once he's up, Sherlock pats himself down getting all the snow off his clothes, and he catches the odd look on the shorter boy's face. "You're staring, why?"
"Huh?" He bashfully scratches the back of his head. "Oh, well how old are you?"
"12."
"12‒are you joking? Bloody hell! 12! You're taller than me! Well that's fantastic I'm almost 16 and here is this lanky 12 year old taller than me!" John grumbles peeved. Height complex is developed then and is a bit of sore spot. The boy sighs and shakes his head. "Sorry, forget about that I'm John Watson your ariolus, nice to meet you." John holds out his hand with a broad and boyish grin.
He ignores the hand and glances around in disgust, his nose crinkles. "Why are you dreaming of such a boring place?"
"...Are you always so tactful?"
Sherlock lets out a disdainful snort. "Tact is for idiots who like to dwindle, I'd rather get straight to the point rather than waste time."
John lets his hand fall and bends down to pick up his wooden sled. "Well have you ever gone sledding?"
"No. Why would I?"
"For fun?" John suggests mirthfully as he turns to trudge back up the slope.
Sherlock trails after him with two long strides. "I dissect things for fun; going down a hill is not what I define as fun."
John halts and turns his head to glance at him. "You dissect things?" he repeats back slowly as if he misheard him.
"Bugs, small rodents, managed to get a piglet once. It's rather interesting, looking at how they function, though I wish I could get my hands on a human cadaver but that is rather difficult at my age."
"Not to mention illegal," John mutters as he turns back around and picks up his pace.
"Details really but I'm sure I can work around that."
"Really how so?" there is a curious tone to the voice soft and questioning not cruel, mocking or condescending, it is merely inquisitive and interested. It is much different from the standard norm that he generates.
"Could impersonate a doctor," he suggests absently as he tries to study John.
"Still illegal. Wouldn't it make sense do something more low key? Like the EM? Or a janitor? Their faces aren't really too well remembered, but you'd have to take care as not be too flashy and it'll probably have to be when you're a bit older and able to blend in," John tosses back as he struggles a bit to climb up.
Sherlock hums to himself. "No a janitor wouldn't have access to bodies but an EM, now that is actually a decent idea."
"...Is everything that comes out of your mouth meant to be an insult?"
Ah, there is a variation of the usual response. "I merely state the truth. Whether people get insulted is their fault, really."
"I take it you offend a lot of people then."
"Perhaps, but it's not my fault they are stupid."
John lets out a chuckle, puffs of air coil out of his mouth and has to stop walking once more, Sherlock stops next to him. John beams back up to him once he notices Sherlock's stare. "You're an odd one, but interesting."
Sherlock tilts his head. "You are as well."
"Really why?" John questions as he resumes his pace.
"Because your still here talking to me." Sherlock states as he easily keeps pace with John barely a brisk walk.
"Don't get much for second takers then?"
"Not really."
"Their loss then."
Sherlock's lip quirked. "Perhaps."
Silence settles over them as they both climb up the hill, their breath coming out in wisps of mist that curl against the sides of their mouths and then drift behind them. Their feet crunching against snow, compressing it with their weight and leaving the snow marked as they stagger up. "If this is your dream why are we walking up the hill?"
"Because it's the fun of it!"
"I fail to find the fun in climbing up a hill to merely go back down it in a repetitive manner."
"That's because you haven't tried it, now have you? Ah, look we're at the top."
"I am consumed with joy," Sherlock drawled in a monotone as he turned to look over the scene. "I am practically brimming with joy."
"Oh, shove it, try it once and then we'll do something else." John clicked his tongue. "But first you need to at least look the part." John squints his eyes and makes a triumphant sound. "There we go."
Sherlock glances down and finds himself in a snow jacket thankfully not as hideous as the one John seems to deem acceptable, fitted gloves not anything too ridiculous, a soft dark blue scarf...it is adequate enough‒considering the alternatives it is sufficient.
"I was right, you do look good in a scarf," John says after a moment with an odd hint of pride.
His eyebrow cocks at that. "I look good in anything."
"Oh God, remind me never to compliment you, I think your ego might swell too much." John shakes his head and crouches down next to his sled. "You ready?"
Sherlock stands resolutely still. "I still fail to find the amusement in this."
"Get on."
"I find this ridiculous John."
"Come on now we've come this far you might as well."
"I'm much too old for this."
"Your 12," John deadpans, "this is what you should be doing and it's not like anyone will ever know but us. Come on we've made this far. Try it." He pats the wood.
"Really this is just chil‒"
"Your 12," John repeats. "If this is about age I'm almost 16, age has nothing to do this with this you posh little shit, get on!" They glare at each other. "Get. On." John commands firmly.
Sherlock lets out a huff and sits down. "Happy?"
"Very." John settles down behind him. "Okay so grab the reigns, not like that tighter okay good, ready?"
"If I said no would you stop this foolishness?"
"Nope," John replied cheerfully and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist. "I'm going to push now okay? And here we go!" John uses his weight to propel them forward.
Sherlock eyes widen as he is suddenly pitched forward and bites back the surprised sound that peeks out through his mouth. The arms around his waist tighten and there is a steady weight and warmth against his back. John lets out a gleeful sound as they tumble down. The wind bites against the skin of his face that remains uncovered, stinging and whipping, the world rushes past them a blur of nothing but white that zooms past him only to appear once more. Then there is an odd, unpredicted, unforeseen and startling development. His chest swells with an unexpected joy and happiness, a rush of emotion. It is merely seconds, 30 to perhaps a minute that the ride lasts, and then somehow they both end of sprawled on their backs giggling absurdly, the sled tossed to the side. Once they've calmed down somewhat, John turns his head to look at him, his cheeks and nose flushed a soft pink, and his eyes convey the expectancy and question.
"It...wasn't too dreadful," Sherlock replies reluctantly as he stubbornly keeps his eyes on the sky. His eyes skirt over to John, he catches John's eye, and they hold their gaze for a second in silence. And then both of them grin madly and once more crackle with laughter. Their chests shake with the force of their amusement and at the end of it they are left gasping for breath, both flushed with a healthy glow and teary eyed.
They end up back on top of the hill merely looking down; John stretched out, his hands flat on the ground behind him as he clicks his boots together. Sherlock is next to him sitting crossed legged, his hands steeled under his chin his eyes closed he sits unmoving, frozen. "John."
"Hm?"
"We should introduce ourselves since we plan to keep this acquaintanceship, but I should tell you that my sleep habit is sparse at best, so we will not meet often, perhaps sometimes but I think our partnership has promise." Sherlock snaps his eyes open and turns to look at John his stare assessing and calculating. "I presume your answer will be an affirmative."
John raises his brow and keeps on clicking his boots together. "Is this your awkward attempt to be civil?"
"...I may have assumed incorrectly that we had not been compatible," Sherlock replies haughtily.
"So you made a mistake?" John supplies.
"I don't make mistakes, John don't reach so far," Sherlock states, agitated. "Well? Are you going to stare at me with a vacant and stupid expression or will you speak?" Underneath his words, there is a hesitance, uncertain and tentative waver in his voice.
John leans forward his eyes glinting mischievously. "I feel like I should savour this. I'm sure this doesn't happen often for you or you never admit it." When John sees the twitch starting to work its way under his right eye he grins sweetly. "Okay." John puts his mitten between his teeth and pulls wiggling his hand out he drops the mitten into his lap once his hand his free and holds his hand before him. "John Watson your personal ariolus, at your service."
Sherlock reaches out and grips the offered hand. "Sher‒"
But then something happens. At first, it is merely a speck against the corner of his eye that catches his attention and he turns to look. The once pristine white darkens, turning gruesome and horrid with pitch-blackness. The blue from the sky is stolen by the greyness and from it falls ash. Sherlock turns back to look at John when the hand around his tightens and there is such fear and terror in his face. John is so small then, it is almost as if his jacket is going to engulf him. "John?"
"You have to leave now," John, whispers quietly, his lips barely moving.
"Why?" Sherlock questions, not understanding.
"Get out."
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "No. I will not."
John snatches his hand back. "You don't understand you have to go. I'm sorry you can't come back, you shouldn't have come in the first place. I'm so‒" John freezes and stares behind Sherlock fixated on a spot, forced to hold his gaze and the fear grows before John jerks his gaze back to Sherlock. "Never come back."
"You ca‒" Sherlock's words get compressed against his chest as he's thrown back with such force and power it is as if his body and his bones are being slammed with lead. Everything deteriorates, and, it lasts for only a second but once it's over he's left gagging and clawing for air. He pants and looks up and the door he entered faces him. Sherlock sneers and stumbles to his feet, and rattles the doorknob, but it refuses to move. "Damn it! Come on!" He grits his teeth and slams his fists against the wooden frame. "John! John! Open the door! John!" Sherlock snarls and hits the door harder but the stupid thing refuses to budge. Sherlock steps back and shoves his hand through his hair in frustration, what he can do? Think! Come on think! There must be a‒no, no, no, no! The door in front of him starts to fade, so Sherlock throws himself forward and tries to hold on, tries to grab a hold but his hands merely go through and he is left helpless, feeble, and weak as he watches the door disappears entirely.
Sherlock is left in the void.
Never has the Holmes's estate bore witness to such anger and fury as it does the next morning. Sherlock has torn every fabric in his room, the curtains hang limply on the rod, the bedspread, pillows and sheets are ripped beyond repair and strewn on the floor. Everything on the bookcases finds its way to the floorboards, spines of books are broken, and the pages inside torn, glass shards and clay coat the floor in a dangerous array and in the middle of the destruction stands Sherlock. His white dress shirt is splattered with blood and missing the top buttons. The bottoms of his feet leave bloody prints as he walks and his knuckles are broken, the skin cracked and split. There are only two things that remain spared from his wrath that day and whole—his violin and skull.
Sherlock deletes everything related to the night before. Deletes from his mind the day of snow, the rush of air against his cheeks. He erases the existence of the average boy with blond hair and blue eyes.
He does not need anyone, not a friend, not a partner, and definitely not a ariolus. That is what he imprints over his sealed and barricaded heart.
15 years pass before it starts once more, before the story left incomplete and frozen in the snowy landscape begins again.
His shoulders cave as he hunches over the microscope in one of labs at Bart's, peering through the lenses and using the knobs to focus on the microscope slide. His hand drifts to the pipette and he steadily moves the dropper and drips the chemical solution slowly, watching the reaction. The microorganisms disintegrate before his eyes, reaction time 2 seconds, dosage five millilitres. If another solvent is added perhaps he could reduce the reaction time at least, but should he add a base? Or an acid? The door to the room opens, and he notes the presence of two people and then pushes it to a far off corner in his mind as refocuses his lenses. A base, yes that would be better, a milliliter or two should do it. A muted conversation takes place that he pays no attention to and continues his experiment. His phone rattles in his trousers, ah, yes time to send a little reminder to Scotland Yard of their incompetence.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asks without moving from his position.
"And what's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text."
Mike shrugs in apology. "Sorry. It's in my coat."
"Here. Use mine." Sherlock looks up at that. Blond hair, blue eyes, a rather inconspicuous man, average even. But stance, haircut, personal hygiene describe a military man, tan line, overseas, cane, wounded in battle as a result is discharged and rendered invali‒no. Wrong. Hasn't asked for a chair, so he doesn't remember the leg. Interesting.
"Oh. Thank you." He pushes himself away from the stool and walks towards the man; he glances over at Mike as a victorious smile edges across his face. Potential roommate, then. Perhaps this one would be slightly less than dull, a wounded soldier as a roommate better was than nothing. Much better than the alternative, Sherlock has to force the sneer starting to emerge down‒Mycroft wouldn't win this. He'd keep this one. Sherlock takes the offered phone and turns slightly away so the screen is concealed from the soldier as he flips open the keyboard. Mycroft could stuff his fat and bloated face with his suggestion of moving back home to live with him. He'd take the soldier over Mycroft, anything over Mycroft. The soldier will do nicely. Mycroft was about to lose this game.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
So my Latin sucks and I really don't know how to apply it very well but Ariolus means seer or diviner, I liked the word so I used it and if you happen to know Latin and I am using this wrong please correct me.
Thank you for reading. : )