Just a little exercise-type ficlet, but I'm somewhat irrationally proud of how it came out, so up here it goes... And plus, this world was a quite a lot of fun to play with! I'll probably end up writing more in the same 'verse, especially since this one is quite small. Ah well! It was fun :)

(Also, this is something of an apology for... Well, for not being around much lately? I hardly think anyone is watching very closely, but still...)

I. sketch of your faces i still don't know you aren't permanent

There once was a man named Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't exist any more.

In his place stands a man who wields a sword half his weight and relishes the sensation of the steel biting into one hand and steadies a gun in the other. He loves the swing and the taste of (murder) vengeance that hangs in the air.

In his place, stands a killer.

And always by his side, his (sidekick?bestfriend?soulemate?)—

Another killer.

II. some say we're falling off the page

There once was a city named London. A tall, beautiful city, right on the crux of development.

Until they developed themselves right into death and back again.

Needless to say, it doesn't exist any more. Only a ghost of the city remains, and only the monsters inhabit it.

John Watson is very familiar with monsters. After all, he's been living with them his entire life. The one by his side now might wear a pretty moniker and a pretty coat and, undoubtedly, a pretty face, but he's a monster all the same.

Just like him. Just like them.

Perfect.

III. apartments are cages i still don't know what is permanent

There's a whine that wakes him up, rings in his ears and alerts him to something more. His mind clicks and whirrs as the gears shift into place and his eyes snap open, awake and alert and who is sitting on my chest?

He cranes his neck and it's him, it's always him. From the dirty brown leather goggles he wears to the matching holsters around his thighs, he recognises everything about him.

"Mind getting off?" he grunts out eventually.

He looks down at him and smiles. Doesn't move. "People don't come here any more," is all he says.

"Really? Then what am I doing here?"

"Well, no one that dances anywhere near as well as you do."

He doesn't mean the tango, either. Eventually, he slides off John's chest, making almost no noise as he hits the ground.

John heaves in a breath of relief and sits up, stubbornly ignoring the wave of nausea that hits. He sets a hand down to settle himself, and eventually it passes. When he lifts his hands to cradle his head, they're covered in blood.

None of it is his. It's all theirs and he's hit with another wave of nausea, one he almost fails to swallow down, but it's not his fault! It isn't his fault. He didn't ask— he didn't want—

The hand on his shoulder drags him back to reality. He passes John his boots and his jacket and squeezes the hand on his shoulder and says, "It's a crowd, out there. Ready to dance?"

He quirks his lip ever so slightly, but Sherlock catches it. He always does.

He slips his jacket around his shoulders and when he stands, he's ready. He holds his hand out for Sherlock to take. "May I…?"

Sherlock laughs and takes a little bow, then passes his Sig (handle first quick learner) into his outstretched hand.

They dance.

IV. some say we're out of our little minds

He can hear the clock tick in his mind, the perfect beat keeping time to the music in his head. It synchronises perfectly with the screams and the guttural moans that echo around him (block it out keep it out heft the sword high swing slice cut then pull out the gun and shoot straight roll with recoil and ignore it).

He can hear John's footsteps dance in time beside him, a shuffle and a beat missed but never a step out of tune. They dance a perfect dance, even as (especially as) hands grip and slice at their skin, grappling for anything to hold on to grab on to rip tear apart—

The blood splatters their clothes, but that's okay. They've long since learned to survive the bloodstains on their clothes and on their weapons and in their hair. If he's lucky, they'll go down to the stream and John will run his fingers through his hair, let them rub into his scalp and wash away the blood.

After all, better someone else's blood easily removed than their own blood not so easily replaced.

He throws John a glance and he catches it, nods, then moves beside him and they cordon the crowd off, using the steps of their dance to keep them in place.

Sherlock taps his feet with the tune. His tune. Their tune. Four bars rest then step forward swing fast quick allegretto moving into vivace and he steps beside him, gun moving in tune to his sword. It is, quite literally, a bloodbath. Each step moves them closer to another one, but in the end they all fall down.

Sherlock quick steps back, moving into a tango, and John claps.

"Well danced," he says.

"I had a good partner," he throws back with a grin.

Their dance is over (for now) but dregs of it still tingle on his skin. He kneels down, wipes his sword off on the grass and on his way up he picks up a head (still bleeding still moving? still disgusting) and dances.

—V?. -I?(?) playgrounds are graveyards and all of our scars are permanent

There once were two men named Sherlock and John. They don't exist anymore.

For now, just surviving is enough.

(and maybe a dance along the way)