Title: You'd Probably Go To Heaven
Author: HeCalledHerCass
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: T, but might be changed to M in later chapters
Word Count: 1,221
Warnings: Since it's set during WWII, I have no idea how much of it will have violence, swearing, mature themes, etc. Just to be forewarned.
A/N: This is a story I've started writing for my friend Emma (EvilBewareWeHaveWaffles). Enjoy :)
Sherlock Holmes was not Jewish. That was what he had told every Nazi officer, every questioning stranger, and even himself, since his arrival in Germany four years ago. Judaism wasn't his religion. He refused it to be. Sherlock had abandoned that part of himself a long time ago. Left it with his family in London, so that he could be sure to make a new life for himself.
It was easy cutting himself off from home. All you had to do was know the right people - which he did - and suddenly Sherlock wasn't a Jewish eighteen year old running away from home. Instead, he was the twenty three year old who had recently moved from Brixton to Berlin.
After awhile, Sherlock realized that his new life wouldn't be an easy one. The flat where he was currently living had horrible conditions for his work. Loud, intrusive, with overly friendly neighbors, and his flatmate, Irene Adler, was... more of an annoyance than any actual help with the situation.
"You need to leave." He had finally said one day when she walked through the door. She hadn't even gotten the chance to take her coat off before he was up and walking towards her. Studying her. Taking in everything from her pulled back, dark hair, to the fact that she had obviously walked home judging by the mud on her shoes.
"Excuse me?" She said, taken off guard, and immediately assessing him with her sharp eyes.
"Yes, Miss Adler. Excuse you." He gave her a quick, obviously fake smile, before turning away and walking into their kitchen.
It was small, but that was okay. seeing that it was still large enough for Sherlock to conduct his experiments.
He heard her footsteps behind him as he opened one of the cupboards, and tried to look for the baking soda while doing his best to ignore her.
She was more like a sister than anything- Irene Adler. When Sherlock had first moved to Berlin, he had needed a place to stay, and she was the first one to offer. Eventually, they slowly slipped into a routine of him staying around the house, and her going out and not returning until the early hours of the morning. Often with her makeup smeared and hair released from its tight bun.
"Are you in one of your moods again?" Irene asked in a mocking voice. He froze, and listened to the creak in the chair by the window, knowing immediately that she was sitting down and taking off her shoes, like she did every day after a day's work.
"No, of course not." His tone was bitingly sarcastic. Turning around, he slammed the box of baking soda onto the counter, and began setting up his microscope. He did the best to ignore the slight shake that was beginning to take over his hands. "So who was it today?" He asked.
"Some man named David- If you could call him that. I swear he was just a boy- Almost seemed a bit frightened."
"A boy asking for your... services." Sherlock did his best not to grimace. He knew all about Irene's line of work, and didn't bother to cover up his disdain for it. Whatever that boy had to go through with Irene merely got what he'd been asking for. Certainly nothing less. Sherlock felt no sympathy for him.
"But still a boy." She emphasized, letting her shoes drop to the floor. "So, what are we having for dinner?"
"I was serious."
"So am I."
"I want you to leave."
Hearing the coolness in his voice, she tried not to seem too panicked over his words, realizing that he was serious. "And where, exactly, am I supposed to go?"
"Oh, I'm sure one of your clients could manage to take you in for a few days." he snapped, taking the baking soda box in his hand and promptly crushing it.
"Temper, temper, dear." She mumbled before standing up. "When do I have to be gone?"
"The morning."
There was no room for compromise in his voice.
"Well then," she breathed, "I guess I better get going. Find myself a place."
"Hmm? I guess so." He mumbled, his attention once again captured by his microscope.
The next morning it was with many stumbles that Sherlock made his way from the bedroom upstairs to the couch in the living room. The shaking had worsened significantly over night, and there was a hunger that just kept growing more and more prominent.
It was obvious that Irene was now gone, only the smell of her overpriced perfume remaining.
That was it, he decided, roughly rubbing his hands through his hair. He needed to get some. Now.
Throwing on his coat in a flurry, he slammed the front door shut and walked down the street quickly.
No one outside took notice of him. To them, he just appeared to be normal. But if they looked - really looked - they'd see the tremor in his hands. They'd noticed that while his posture was relaxed, his strides were unbelievably rigid. And most of all, they'd see that he wasn't normal at all.
That was the thing about other people, though. They didn't try to look. They didn't care about the little things that made up the bigger picture. All that mattered to them were their silly politics, stupid religions, and keeping everyone the same.
After walking about a block, he finally reached a small shop. It was one of the only ones that still sold tobacco, regardless of Hitler's hate campaign against it. After finishing his purchase, he quickly snatched it up and went outside.
Regardless of all of the new laws that were recently passed about tobacco, Sherlock took out a match and lit the cigarette. He leaned back against the brick wall of the shop and let a breath of smoke and relief escape his mouth. Three weeks. He had lasted three weeks before finally breaking. At least it's an improvement, he thought to himself.
"Hey!" A man's voice called out from down the street, but he ignored it and simply took another drag.
Just like that, the cigarette was plucked out of his mouth and thrown to the ground. "I'm talking to you." The previous voice said.
Sherlock opened his eyes to see a man now standing in front of him. He was significantly shorter, and had dark blond, short hair. He had to be at least a year older than Sherlock himself, but he still couldn't manage to take him very seriously.
"What do you want?" He snapped, now irritated.
"No smoking in public places. You know the law. Not to mention you're practically killing yourself with that."
"I do, do I?" He gave the man a second scan over with his eyes. Suddenly he felt the need to smile. Seeing that the person standing in front of him was obviously a Nazi, but was in denial. Regardless, he resisted the urge. His eyes ponder the far too many worry wrinkles for his age. That, along with the side comment showed he still had far too large of a heart to be doing his duty to Hitler of all people.
No. He wouldn't do anything to Sherlock. It wasn't in his nature to arrest people for something so insignificant.
He stuck his hand out to him, trying not to flinch at the thought of physical contact, and gave his best to smile. "Sherlock Holmes, and you are?"
TBC :)