My first Sherlock story, and it's leaning towards Molly/Sherlock. Somehow it slightly appeals to me in this form. Not sure why. I do ship Johnlock, but this is also there, somewhere in my mind. It's like this tiny thing, a little bird, fledgling. And I don't know if it'll grow it's true feathers.
On the day Sherlock Holmes falls.
She's watching
(and she can't breathe)
On the day Sherlock Holmes falls
She's breathless
(and he's stolen)
On the day Sherlock Holmes falls
She's dreaming
(and she's asking)
On the day Sherlock Holmes falls
She knows
(but how can she understand?)
There's a chemical in your brain
It's pouring sunshine and rage
You can never know what to expect
You're manic, manic
- Plumb (Manic)
When she was a child, she flew.
(high up in the atmosphere, with drops of Jupiter in her hair…)
The glass elevator, shining, gleaming
(he doesn't gleam)
And her hair in braids, a little girl she was with her father
(a little girl she feels always)
And she saw above the clouds
(birdsong)
Saw the blue sky, saw it all shining.
(it'll all get better in time)
On the day Sherlock Holmes falls she remembers
(she'd locked those dreams up and shot them down, she'd thought, never to see them again)
All those half-thought, never-realized (always true), sharply vivid dreams of standing on those tall buildings like the one with the glass elevator and her father and her hair in braids were broken and melted.
(and out of them she saw reality stretch it's wings a little, chirp birdsong with drops of Jupiter in its hair)
Does that make it a dream?
(does that make her broken?)
On the day Sherlock Holmes falls, she watches, flashes of all the dreams peppering dark, old reality as she sees Sherlock Holmes plummet from the tall building that was her place and plunge through the air, dark, black and broken and oh-so beautiful with the scream of wind she knows is singing around him.
She's standing on the top of a building, the building with the glass and her hair in braids. And she smiles brightly and leaps off the roof again and again and again, but every time the brief, fleeting glory-burst of flight inevitably melds into the near-heartstopping, stomach-jerking terribleness of a steep glide that always (always) ends in the gritty ground and blossoms of blood all around, except she can't get up, her legs won't work until she wakes to the cold light of morn with its gaping tears.
She's not smiling then.
On the day Sherlock Holmes falls, shes not incredibly sure what's going on, but her face is twisting in a different way, an old way that hasn't happened ever since those dreams in real life. It's a way that it had been when she was a little child, standing in a glass elevator. She wasn't it now, so it's twisting, twisting what she's made.
And she thinks that maybe, maybe it's because her dream came to life.
(does that make Sherlock Holmes a dream?)
And even after he leaves her apartment, leaving her with the image of his high cheekbones and dark hair and those strange, colorless eyes and a smile that curls and crinkles dry and the haunt of a violin unplayed, she still sees him, the picture of Sherlock, arms spread like a dark, dark and pale swan with the sad look that crosses his face when he thinks everyone is smiling (but Molly hasn't smiled proper 'til now, did you see? Can you see?) and no-one is watching (no-one is seeing).
Like now.
Does that make Sherlock Holmes a dream?