To Vicky, my John in friendship (and height). Happy birthday. Our chase is immortal. -Ctenophore. D
*Disclaimer: everything you recognize is not mine.
Cold wind slaps you hard on the face. Your Belstaff is billowing in the wind, making you look somewhat like a bat. Your raven curls blow into your eyes, and your blue scarf flaps limply behind you. You fight to keep your eyes open against the wind, squinting, your brain whirring fast as you recall each road and alleyway in London. You run on.
"Come on, John!" You shout, glancing back to see the blond man huffing behind you. He nods, a bit out of breath to answer, but gives you a reassuring smile. For a moment you wonder how he keeps up with that limp, and then your lips curve into a smile as you realize that John doesn't have his cane anymore. Well, one problem solved, you think. And so you run on.
You swerve left, and the city lights dim as you continue to jog. You know exactly where to anticipate the cab, and the exact shortcuts. You hop on to a rickety staircase, your shoes thudding as the rusted metal squeaks. You feel like flying as you ascend, and a soft manic laugh escapes your lips, unheard. Finally you reach the roof, the city spread down below. The wind tousles your curls, and the coolness feels good on your face. You turn back to look at John, who's jogging steadily behind you. The limp is gone, and his eyes are shining, and that's what's worth it. And still you run on.
There's a gap between the two buildings, and you leap without hesitation as a train thunders through under you, your hair blown back by the wind. You land and start running again, only to pause at John's hesitant call: "Sherlock?" You turn to see him lingering on the edge, eyeing the gap. "Come on, John!" You say, holding his gaze. You hear an intake of breath, and footsteps pound. Suddenly John's soaring over in a blur of gray and blond, and within a few moments he's next to you, skidding to a halt, a laugh of pure ecstasy echoing from his mouth. "Wow," is all he can manage. And so you run on.
You meet the end of an alleyway just as the cab speeds by. You huff, frustrated, but proceed to cross the street unstopping, swerving past a car and leaping over another. Honks of protest screech, and you hear John's loud holler of apology. But still you run on.
You anticipate the cab—well, nearly barrel straight into it, but that doesn't quite matter. The passenger's just arrived from LA—good alibi—and he's most certainly not a serial murderer. "Wrong guy," you mutter to John, as he gapes at the bewildered passenger. "Welcome to London," you hastily say, showing Lestrade's card, and slam the door. John opens it and says something else, before running to catch up with you. He's giggling, and suddenly, you are too.
And the two of you run on.
It's silent laughter on the way home to 221B, as the two of you giggle like schoolboys while desperately trying to stifle it, texting Angelo on the way. As you unlock the door with shaky hands and collapse against the wall, you meet John's eyes.
Maybe one day you'll be remembered as the best detective in the world. It's your cases that live on forever, The Green Ladder, The Aluminum Crutch. It's the stories that will be immortal—to everyone else.
But, as you see the glimmer in John's eyes, the two of you share a smile.
To William Sherlock Scott Holmes and John Hamish Watson, it's the chase that's immortal.
Somebody's knocking at the door-Angelo, you deduce.
And hand in hand, you run on.
Cause we could be immortals
Immortals
Just not for long for long
-Immortals, Fall Out Boy
Leave a review ;)
