Note from author: I will not apologize for my delay. I will not apologize for the length.
Nope, I will apologize. This is what I will call an interlude given that I have so much more written and need to get over writer's block. If you bare with me, bless you. I often have shaky knees posting such small things. I have to thank those who have consistently read this even though I've neglected it. The hits have not ceased in amazing me and your comments have encouraged me to get over this nasty hump so I can connect the other chapters I have drafted.
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Sherlock nearly called out, but cut him self short as the cold stream thundered down his shoulders. Making our presence known to the attacker, tisk, you know better. Hardly advantageous in this state. Ugh, sounds like Mycroft, shut up… He sluggishly tugged at his hair in an attempt bring himself back to reality.
Get out…how do we get out…think.
The door was skillfully jammed under an outside metal pull bar by the table, and especially given his current lack of coordination there was no way to shove it open. The shower had a twelve centimeter gap at the top two sides for ventilation, but trying to wriggle through that would prove futile and would very possibly end in a painful plummet back onto the floor drain. Break the tempered glass? Yes, brilliant, bleed out everywhere as the assailant rushes in to club you over the head. THINK.
But think…There was a nice humming off the walls around him, the symphony of water droplets striking their own distinct notes on the hollow and pattern-etched glass. He could hear the rivets of liquid surging down the horizontal surface around him adding a treble to the high tapping of initial contact. Ah and the baritone of the current whirl pooling into the deep pipes below.
Gurgling comforting sounds of childhood – unplugging the bath till the water had swept up toy boats with superfluous sails held erect into a tornado fixed to the drain. They would clash together eternally in battle as the sea level sank around his boney knees – he could imagine the cannons going off, crew mates boarding with ropes swinging from the foremast's yard and sail rigging as the tub-tide sucked them together momentarily. Dramatic splays of afternoon light flitted through an open stained glass window across the claw footed tub. The boats would churn between the blue and red hues and from the open breeze of the garden lavender and lilac bellowed out the curtains as if to supplant his toy's mock up canvas. His fingers like prunes would wretch the hot water faucet on full, sending the death spiral into disarray, sinking a ship, prolonging his stay in the lavatory a little longer with a flood scalding his shins.
But this water wasn't warm, and that struck Sherlock's nerves more harshly than expected. The memory fractured like someone testing the shallow glazing of ice over a puddle of the first freeze. More important. The orchestra of shower spray died out with a slow twist of his wrist on the valve. Important, we need to get out – why do we need to get out? Just turn on the hot. Rustling and creaking of wood from behind his bedroom door came less muffled since he'd shut off the plumbing.
John. More important. Sherlock let his head slide back against his confinements, arching his bleary gaze upwards.
The hinges at the top of the door –
bless you Mrs. Hudson for hiring cheap remodelers –
were starting to come loose.
If he could twist them out he would be able to use the bottom set as a fulcrum to clear the table. He braced a slipping foot to the corner of the wall and stood with the pathetic scrabbling of a fawn.
The metal of the screws dug sharply into his water logged flesh, but he had to be quick about the work. With the door turned on the straining bottom hinges as an axis, the bedside table gave just enough for to Sherlock flattened his shoulder and face against the glass, stretch out his arm though the gap at the floor, and seize one of the table's legs. He sent it clattering to the left, but the door, released from the tension, snapped back now, effectively bruising him just above his elbow.
He bit back cursed grumble as yet another crash with violent shuffling and clanging followed from behind the bedroom door. His concoction still coursed in his veins enough to dilute the physical pain, but it did nothing to quell the drive and panic that spiraled up in his spine. He stood swaying and shoved the door open now, though metal and tinted glass scraped and shuttered at the movement.
His soaked cotton pants left a foot shaped puddle for several steps until he braced a numb hand against the sink. Stupid, stupid. Always cleaning up the messes you make. His eyes met his own in the mirror but the connection was wavering like his was squinting down summer heated pavement. Nausea rolled up his esophagus, trapping a bubble of air he'd just shuttered in. He choked it down, hands flexing on the porcelain beneath, meeting his gaze again. Dark hair curled limply under the weight of water, but several insurgent locks had began to defy gravity with their untamed nature. Under the florescent light the shadows of his bones where more stark, was he that gaunt? And pale? No, the last case was outdoors under that terribly blinding sun. Distracting glares off police car windows – made them move all of them away for a reason, couldn't focus on the obvious evidence. Anderson's sweaty forehead was nearly blinding. There had been flour on the grass. Just a bit, nearly eaten by the dew.
No No, something important! More scuffling from beyond this very distracting room. Sherlock bitterly regretted replacing his barbers blade for an electric razor – at least he would have had an actual weapon.
A discernible grunt and crash forced him to dispel his stupored precautions.
Sherlock pressed one hand to the wood of the door, the other tightened into a fist. Focus focus focus.
Anything you have to say is welcome.