It is a dull Monday morning when John Watson
meets a boy bleeding profusely from his throat.
The boy is young, stumbling around.
Blood staining the fabric of his black coat.
John is the first to approach the boy.
Tries to calm him down, calls for a nurse.
The boy stands there, utterly frozen.
Whispers, "Please, doctor, it really hurts."
The boy's hands are shaking. Refuses
to let John see the damage to his neck.
"Please," John pleads, a nurse joining
his side. "You need to let me check."
The nurse touches the boy.
They take him to a room.
So careful, they set him down, prying
hands from neck, meeting a sick, dark doom.
One filthy line is across the skin.
The boy will not keep still. Often stirs.
There is blood, muscle, bone.
Slowly, "Is it bad?" the boy slurs.
John cannot see. More doctors approach.
Point at the sight of the boy's spine.
John rubs the boy's shoulder.
Tells him he will be just fine.
The cut is deep.
It looks so disgusting.
It's black inside, and the dried blood
on the boy's face, his hands,
is already crusting.
John works. Everybody is fast.
The boy's breath is so off and on.
They patch, they mend, but someone
touches John's elbow, says, "Doctor, he's gone."
The boy's name is Sherlock Holmes.
He is nineteen years old.
John accompanies him to the morgue
and acts like the saddest person in the world.
"He wasn't going to make it," a fellow doctor tells.
"I wonder what happened." John stands over the body.
Stares at the open eyes. The gaze is ice-blue.
And a little bit gaudy.
"No idea," John theorizes.
Slides the lids over the eyes.
John finds out, a few weeks later,
the boy hadn't really died.
It is another Monday morning when John
sees him. He is running late for work
when he runs into the boy. Gets a face full
of wool and a wild, cheerful smirk.
"Hello, Doctor Watson," the boy's voice chimes.
The smirk is happy, somewhat presented proudly.
John stares at the boy, at this Sherlock Holmes.
His hands shake, he blinks, he exclaims rather loudly.
John can't remember what he had uttered,
what he had shouted, what he had said,
but he's sure it's relevant to Sherlock Holmes'
previous state of dead.
Sherlock Holmes seems healthy—his skin white,
eyes bright, stitched together with many different hues.
John is scared, almost speechless. Wonders
how Sherlock's neck looks underneath his scarf of blue.
Of course, he can't ask. Your neck was
almost severed. That would be impolite,
if he had dug his fingers underneath
Sherlock's scarf, given them both a fright.
"Come see me sometime,"
John whispers, very quietly.
"Professionally, I mean." Sherlock
smiles. Accepts the offer kindly.
John doesn't see Sherlock Holmes
for a long time after that.
John's dreams are haunted by split necks,
droplets of blood that go splat, splat, splat.
Sweating cold and
breathing terribly, he's had a horrible nightmare.
He goes to stand, to get some bearing,
when he sees a head of black, curly hair.
"Oh! I didn't mean to wake you!"
Sherlock Holmes says, fingers to his lips.
John holds out a hand. Tells him to stay.
Can practically see Sherlock's neck, the scarlet drips.
"How did you get in here?" John says, once he calms down.
"You can't just wonder into somebody's home."
His voice is strong. Trying to be intimidating,
but he is laughed at by one Sherlock Holmes.
John isn't getting anywhere with this boy, so he
puts a hand to his back. Shows him to the door.
Sherlock isn't wearing the scarf around his neck.
Only a blue choker. John points, says, "What's that for?"
Sherlock pauses. Eyes wide, lips parted.
Softly, he replies, "Maybe I'll tell you some day."
John is still touching Sherlock's back. Hears Sherlock add,
"I think you're pretty cute… by the way."
John knows he shouldn't laugh, but he is.
Sherlock starts to chuckle, too.
John begins to flirt. It's a subconscious reaction.
"I really like Thai food."
"Thai food, it is, then," Sherlock says,
John nods. They smile.
After seeing each other off, John goes back to bed,
not knowing he wouldn't see Sherlock for quite a while.
They never get Thai food,
at least not that soon.
John eagerly waits,
his hopes blowing up like a little balloon.
At work, he peers around corners
and skips out on lunch.
When he walks home,
his ears perk every time leaves crunch.
Eventually, he grows tired,
believes he was lead on.
One night, getting ready
for bed, he hears a soft, "John."
Turns around. Sees Sherlock,
dark-eyed and pale.
John touches him, feels the skin
as if he were reading Braille.
"What's wrong?" John asks,
scanning, reading the look behind those eyes.
John is scared, if only for a moment,
at the possibility of Sherlock about to cry.
"I'm fine," Sherlock reasons,
his hands shaking,
taking hold of John.
"Actually, I feel like I'm breaking."
John takes care of Sherlock the best he can,
although his best is just shy of mediocre.
Sherlock goes to bed, out like a light.
John is weary of that blue choker.
It's around Sherlock's neck again,
wrapped like a blue vein.
John stares at Sherlock's coat now,
seeing the tell-tale signs of red stains.
Sticking to the collar.
John grows suspicious.
Sherlock is here. He hasn't died.
This is all a little fictitious.
John goes to bed. Lying
beside Sherlock. Feeling bad.
Doesn't know what's going on.
Thinks he might be going mad.
In the morning, Sherlock is
there. Wakes with a smile.
After a breakfast of nothing,
John won't see Sherlock for a while.
He wants to be proven wrong,
wants to see Sherlock.
He wants to hear his voice,
wants to hear him talk.
Sherlock is so young.
John doesn't know why
he's so affected by someone
who he had seen die.
Except Sherlock isn't dead.
At least, John doesn't think.
Sherlock is alive. He's at John's
work now, asking him for a drink.
John is frozen, looks at
the nurses and doctors.
They stare at John, at Sherlock.
Either they see them both, or they're really good actors.
John proceeds cautiously,
accepts his offer with a brief nod.
Sherlock tells him a time, turns on his heel,
and a nurse remarks, "Well, isn't that odd?"
John quirks an eyebrow,
asks for clarification with a raise of his head.
The nurse only shrugs and looks at
Sherlock's retreating form. "I thought he was dead."
"Apparently not!" John says.
Maybe a bit too rude.
The nurse exits, he scowls,
decides he's in a terrible mood.
He couldn't tell if Sherlock's
neck was wrapped with the blue choker again,
but John can explicitly remember
the crusty remains of blood stains.
Doesn't he wash his coat? John wonders.
Gets upset at that thought.
He doesn't understand anything.
Sherlock is probably something he's not.
Sherlock had told him to be
at the pub at a quarter to nine.
John doesn't know Sherlock's plan,
but hopes it's relevant to being wined and dined.
Sherlock looks so nice with
a gray shirt and his dark coat.
John is all bubbly and full of
materials which make up love notes.
They don't drink a lot.
Barely at all.
Sherlock kisses John,
and John holds his waist, so small.
Sherlock is wearing a blue ribbon
around his neck tonight.
John wraps his fingers around the
bow and considers it just right.
They kiss some more,
their lips raw and red.
John tugs Sherlock from the pub, calls for a cab.
"Let me take you to bed."
Sherlock appears to float.
He is full of fluffy air.
John kisses him in the back seat,
his fingers finding purchase in his black hair.
At John's flat, they remove
part of their clothing.
Neither of them knows
where it'll be come morning.
John is careful, lips tender,
marking the white flesh of Sherlock.
Sherlock is whimpering, toes curling,
his eyes on the clock.
"John," he breathes,
"I have to tell you something."
His fingers touch the buttons of his shirt.
John feels ready to sing.
"What is it?" he asks,
helping Sherlock undress.
They kiss, but John stops,
sensing Sherlock under some stress.
"What is it?" John repeats.
He stares at Sherlock's face,
then at his bare chest. Can't help his eyes
when they fall on the ribbon that looks so out of place.
"You said you were going
to tell me some day."
John points at the blue thread.
"Could some day be today?"
Sherlock contemplates.
He doesn't answer verbally,
tells John with his body he'll reveal
when they reach their finale.
So, they touch each other,
rick-rock, and slide.
John doesn't think about that time
Sherlock broke into his house or when he had died.
Their minds are full of thunder, lightning,
and overwhelming bliss.
They come undone with shaking hands
and a sloppy, wet kiss.
Lying side by side, John smiles at Sherlock.
Gestures with a hand. "Now?"
It takes a minute for Sherlock to
come around, to give his head a bow.
After
a cough,
John unwinds the blue ribbon
and watches Sherlock's head fall off.