Chapter 7: A Seat by Haunted Fires~
By and by they found their way to an old hotel,much like the one they had stayed in when they were solving the case of the "Hound of Baskerville".
Only in this musty old room, with many oaken tables, and the stone hearth, there were no people. They were alone, like in days-gone-by, and very gladly, for all their pain , alone.
"It's cold."Sherlock observed, pushing John into one of the chairs. He lifted an old wool blanket ,woven in a rare Tartan pattern,and wrapped it around him. And then he sat opposite him, and propped his chin on his knuckles, staring into the flames of the low burning fire. Was not satisfied with it, and blew a great breath into it. The flames leaped up in the shape of wolves,and howled at the moon.
John flinched."Easy..."Sherlock laughed, deep ,rumbling, like the far away summer storm, laughter.
"What the-?"
"It's under a spirit's enchantment..."
"Really,Sherlock?"
"Would I lie to you?Oh never mind, don't answer that."
John's jaw set."Wait! No!,no one would ever be able to convince me that you would lie to me ,EVER."
"The fire is bewitched. Haunted,you may say."
John is quiet then.."And who is it being "haunted"...by?"
"Me ,of course." Sherlock laughed, a chittering sort of laugh, that made the flames suddenly turn into a hundred little dancing people, and John realized one of them was playing a violin.
The scene of his wedding ,re-created in fire.
"This fire is my soul ,set bare before you. I can show you anything you want to see ,from the depth of my own heart. I don't SAY what I'm thinking, because some things cannot be SAID."
His eyes get a distant look.
John swallows..."Don't show me..."Sherlock looks up,and the flames die down."I mean..I was about to say, Don't ONLY show me what I NEED to know...Show me...uhhh..."
He idea of Sherlock's soul being as clearly visible before him as the inner workings of a gypsy's crystal was...almost unsettling. How Sherlock felt about the world, and the people in it, about him...
"Show me everything..."
Sherlock closed his eyes, and the fire began to ripple ,like water springing out of a fountain.
And then, the fire stood up as a wall, like a screen, and a shadow was projected on it, somewhat like one of those "shadow plays " John saw on telly a few times, but this was actually almost like the shadows were 3 D, and moving through the fire, as if the fire were a globe, and not flat, but encompassing. The first two shapes, were of a tall ,thin man, and a little girl. Ellie developing from baby to elementary student, shown here as the center of his fire, that which gave life to his heart. The shape of a woman on one side of the fire,suddenly causes very black smoke to billow in the room,and wrap around Sherlock like the Reaper's cloak, clothing him in death and despair. The image of a man on the other side of the fire, on his knees, crying, as the tall man is shot down,and the little girl cries ,and cradles the dead man, as blue fire bleeds from his shadowy woman- shadow is clothed in green flames and dances away.
And then the entire fire is put out, and in the embers suddenly, formed by coals, the man's shape appears, outlined by the smouldering of the fire, and a blue flame appears bleeding through where his heart should be. Suddenly, images of a man tormented ,begin to take shape,hung in flames, as every scene of the infamous Hiatus plays out,from Barts to coming back to London.
Sherlock's whole life unravels in rewind then, like a spindle of flame, and John sees everything, himself mostly, and when he walks through the fire, he gives it a sudden burst ,that makes it crack like lightning's landing, and he jumps in his seat every time. Case after case, thrill after thrill, the flames swallow shadows, as if they were paper.
"It is time to face the facts for what they are. And then we can form a solution to our problem. And to tell you the truth, I am happy to be dead." Sherlock said, voice low.
"Come again?"
"Well, I'm not bound by the social confines that held me anymore. As I saw it, my very self, was a cage. She ended me, so I am free now. And my memory, and love, and the things I cared about, that I was groomed to hide..."he smiles,bitterly. "She did what she had to do..."
John's mouth is gaping. He wondered how this revelation was supposed to get him any closer to forgiving Mary?
"She had...to kill you, Sherlock, that was necessary?"
"She RELEASED me!"Sherlock says, and stands up,and the fire leaps out of its place,and swathes him in itself. John gawks at him, clothed in the eyes are fuel for his fire, and glitter in the light.
"She released me to a clearer vision."he says."To an ultimate reality. She taught me the diffrence between right and wrong. And just because what she did was convenient,and "the best solution" that did not make it RIGHT. I have solved a major thing for you,just now, an unresolved question-the "why". Well,John, the "why" is, she didn't care. Which is preciscely "why" you are so angry,and can't let it go. You really DO care. But she did not weigh the consequences. She miscalculated ,horrendously, by horribly misjudging the outcome of actions. Her shot was originally intended to critically wound me. Your entrance is what caused her to misfire ,just slightly enough to kill me..."
John's mouth twitched, but Sherlock knew the question, and never let it be said, "But, how could it have been your fault? They were her actions, whether you had entered the room or not. She has made horrific choices...The consequences have been absolutely astronomical for you to have to pay. And you want to forgive her, because you still love her, but you are looking for a good enough "why" of your own. You have done things in war yourself, for which ,you feel, you can receive no forgiveness. You feel as though there is no good enough "why" to have what you want, which is ultimately, the return of your wayward wife, because you feel this is a punishment of sorts. You can't be released from the grudge you hold, because you don't deserve to be free of it..."
John is shocked by his ability to burn right through him, and his stone walls, and lay the truth at his feet.
"But I showed you all that other, and there is yet more I could show give you a good enough reason why. John, how STUPIDLY simple...YOU are a good enough reason why.."Sherlock unrolls the flame cloak,and lets it slip back into the hearth, as if maybe he will again tell stories on the flaming scroll with which he writes his heart.
"The "why" you seek, the reason you could do it for is this-you are better. And you care, and you know the consquences,and you can pay them. You are better than us, John. Your heart is light, where mine is darkness. For the merit of your own identity, you should do this. Or ,do you KNOW, who you are?"
The question stung like a billion hornets...
"I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to save people. But... I couldn't save you."
Sherlock turns. "You couldn't then. You can now."
Then he lifts his shirt, and shows that he is wrapped in horrific chains, that are halfway lodged in his bones, and half way protruding from them. And that slide and scrape,like the bow over violin strings, against his ribs, eliciting the song of agony from his very fire.
"Your forgiveness can unbind my chain..."he whispers..."If you simply realize what you ARE, and most importantly WHO you are, to me in particular.." he smiled.
"You could save me, and thus forgive yourself. Which would set you free to forgive her...There I've solved your case...now..."
He snaps his fingers under John's nose, like a hypnotist. And John realizes then, that the keys to unlocking Sherlock's chain, are hanging on a ribbon, tied about his wrist.
Sherlock sits in his chair, and folds his long legs."The choice is yours, and we've got all night...But only YOU can take these.."he indicates the bundles of steel cocooning his ribs,"Off of me..."
John's hand covers his mouth in horror...
He was at the greatest cross- roads of his entire life. Had always managed to forgive, in the end. Had forgiven in the guy who shot him,...Sherlock for leaving...,and even in his heart, he had already forgiven Mary though he didn't know it yet.
It was himself he never could forgive...
Not until tonight.
Tonight he raised the key, and contemplated its power, trying to dig it out of his bones, the will to use it, pleading with God to give him some sort of motion.
Sherlock lay back, in silence,as if he were dozing,and let John decide.