Title: Sirius
Author: unwinding fantasy
Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine (I can only dream!)
Rating: K+
Warning: Non-violent character death.
His body is limp. He never expected to see old age given his penchant for charging headlong into any situation so it's surprising he's now feeling the energy fading from his extremities, a gentler death than he thinks he's earned. For months his body has slowly been shutting down and though he tried to hide the fact it was only a matter of time before his state of being became obvious, his organs began failing, his stalwart heart started stuttering. He stumbles when he tries to walk. It makes him think of young things - squirm, crawl, walk reversed - makes him consider how in the end, we all return to our origins.
He finds it hard to think of his beginning in this manner though. If he's honest with himself, his true beginning, the genesis of sound and taste and colour and light, is the person in whose arms he is now cradled. Sherlock looks at him, a maelstrom's intensity tightly reigned behind his eyes as he tries for a calmness he clearly doesn't feel. Once he was too proud to let this man hold him like this but now they are older, maybe even a little wiser, and at the end of all things he figures it doesn't matter all too much. Doesn't matter that his natural instinct is to turn tail and run from someone who might keep him restrained. With anyone else he would be unsure but he knows Sherlock is the last person on Earth to keep him tethered. This is partially because Sherlock couldn't stand to see him captive but also because such effort would be redundant. Leaving is an impossibility; the man's gravity keeps him orbiting despite countless universal forces that seek to keep them apart, isolated in space. He can admit it now: Sherlock is his alpha. Always has been.
The metal is cold beneath him and he wants to get away from this reminder of solitude. Sherlock seems to know what he needs. The man struggles a bit beneath the weight of his companion but manages to help him outside, folds them gently together on the grass. The two of them are enveloped by the breathless hush of evening's approach and never has Sherlock looked so soft, so vulnerable, so human. It hurts like all the wounds he's ever received but behind, the warmth of the setting sun makes it bearable. The sky is turning liquid, an ocean at dusk, and he marvels that his whole life has been leading to this moment, carried away on the tides of time.
He can remember how they started. At first he was hardly of interest to this high-functioning creature, a worm beneath an arctic gaze and abrasive tongue and if he'd been less brave he imagines he would've left right then. There was something beneath that glacier though: the slightest sliver of interest glinting in his eyes, a vague scent of intrigue beneath the antiseptic and agar and countless meals gone cold. He had felt weak back then, limbs not properly obeying him. His reticent nature borne from harsh early years had struck others as unnatural when all they seemed to want was affection, which was perhaps why they gave up and sort of deposited him with Sherlock. The morning after his arrival, he had walked into the kitchen half foggy from sleep and bumped into Sherlock where he stood crouched over a microscope, the shape of him cutting a sharp profile in the morning sun, a study in lines and angles. Even then he had stood out as something unreal and undefinable. Remembering it warms his heart.
"Don't die," Sherlock says. There are so many ways Sherlock can give a command: whip-sharp, exasperated, desperate, bored, he's heard every variation except this. For the first time he can add 'broken-hearted' to the list. Furthermore it's an illogical comment from someone who values logic above (almost) all and this just about undoes him but he knows he has to be strong. Now more than ever Sherlock needs him to be brave so when he cries it is done softly, without tears, and he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on his sun.
Their shared life has been good. They ran together. They learned to ignore, tolerate and revel in one another's habits (who would have guessed this man would be messier than him?) They sniffed out crime together. They travelled the seas together. He came to love the piercing look in Sherlock's eyes, the cadence of his voice. It didn't matter if Sherlock was laying out deductions one piece at a time, lining up the facts like so many pieces of a shattered mirror, slotting them together razor-quick, or if he was humming as he composed, hands sweeping graceful arcs through the air while visualising a melody, or if he was speaking warmly to him. The longer they spent together, the more frequently this latter phenomenon occurred until it became obvious that Sherlock preferred no company above his. He became Sherlock's harmony and in turn, Sherlock appreciated his steely resolve, acknowledged his emotional intelligence, enjoyed having some muscle around as a baddie deterrent. Sherlock was his leader but at some point he evolved beyond a follower. He became a guardian, confidante, partner and friend. He even earned Sherlock's respect. For whatever reason, this outwardly callous person somehow taught him to trust again.
As his feet start tingling and his breathing becomes laboured, he looks up into the face that has burned into his dreams, into eyes now clouded with sorrow, and tries to convey his appreciation and love, all he is feeling but cannot say. It brings him comfort, knowing his best friend is with him. It hurts too, knowing how much his counterpart is hurting. To think he'd once believed Sherlock Holmes, so different from other people, incapable of emotion!
He feels droplets of water hit his face, thinks how strange given the absence of rainclouds in the orange ocean-sky. The shadows behind Sherlock are growing longer. Musician's fingers begin tracing through his hair as the man murmurs a sleep song. He yearns for the days when they could run together but this, this is also nice. He thinks he can die happy like this. Thinks, "I'll be waiting for you. Years from now when you have to make this journey, I'll be there. You can follow me and we'll run together again."
He tries to stay focussed on Sherlock but the light is fading fast now, fleeing along with the pain that has been wracking his smaller body. Suddenly he is scared of what awaits him after this final fall, the never-ending darkness that might engulf him, a black hole. A small whimper escapes his mouth.
Then Sherlock says, "I'm here, boy. You're a good dog, Redbeard."
Courage rekindled, his eyes slip shut and as he drifts away, the afterimage of his sun leads him on.
Sirius
The brightest star in the night sky seen from Earth.
Derived from the Ancient Greek Seirios ("scorcher").
Associated with canines: dogs, coyotes, wolves.
In Sanskrit, it is known as Mrgavyadha ("deer hunter").