|FastForward|01012011|Play|
The fireworks are absolutely phenomenal. They explode, fly, wheel across the indigo sky sending sparks and colours dancing as far as the eye can see.
"Beautiful," Sarah breathes. Her voice goes unheard by everyone, but she feels John's arm tighten around her shoulders and she smiles.
They have had an enchanting evening; dinner had been delicious, completely delightful and conversation had been easy; so full of anecdotes and jokes, laughter and chatter about anything and everything. John had remembered Sarah's preference for Italian food and had booked them a table for two at Strada, one of her favourite restaurants. There, they had taken their time, had eaten at their own pace and revelled in the feeling of being completely at ease in each other's company. So many other people, all out to celebrate the turn of the New Year, had surrounded them but they let the constant murmur of chatter go straight over their heads.
Their next stop had been the London Eye and they had made their way slowly along the Southbank, hand in hand towards their destination, desperate to get as close as they possibly could to the firework display.
It is cold, so cold, but the display has taken their breath away and they can no longer feel the bite of the wind, the chill in the air. With each firework, the colours grow more and more extravagant, spiralling seemingly out of control.
It has taken John a while to stop flinching at the cracks and the bangs, the noises so reminiscent of those from the war zone, but once he is able to relax, he allows his eyes to dance after the dazzling oranges, yellows, pinks, the music blaring out from the speakers overhead. He nods his head and taps his foot to the beat and let's himself simply be transported away.
"That was amazing," Sarah tells him once it is finished, "absolutely amazing."
He kisses her then- just a light brush of his lips against hers and her arms wind around his neck. She smiles against his mouth before pulling away.
"Kissing on the first date?" she asks in a wry tone, "tut tut John Watson, never would have put you down for someone who did that."
"It isn't our first date," John points out, "more like our... 50th."
She laughs and takes his hand.
-x-
3 Hours Earlier
It hasn't taken him long to unscrew all four legs and shift the main bed frame into the living room. In fact, it takes more pain than it does time: he knocks his funny bone against the door, stubs his toe on the chest of drawers and manages to prick his finger on a protruding screw. They are all setbacks; nothing major, but all adding to the seconds he is wasting of his valuable time.
He looks down at his handiwork with a proud air about his being: hands on his hips, dark hair slightly damp with perspiration and his breathing is heavy. But finally, he is ready.
A chair, a small table and now a bed have been placed in a row in the centre of the room, on top of the plastic sheets that have been laid out across the floor and draped over the furniture. Dustsheets have been hung over the curtains and Sherlock stands before them in safety goggles and an oversized science overall. He is already brandishing a feather duster in one hand, but his other hand remains empty.
"Right..." he says to the empty room, "come on."
He manages to shred the majority of the bed before Mrs. Hudson comes bursting in through the door.
"Goodness grief Sherlock, what are you doing?" she cries in dismay. Sherlock sighs the sigh of an important man interrupted before poking at the ever growing pile of sawdust and covering his mouth with his forearm as plumes of miniscule wood particles get catapulted into the air.
"Woodworm." Sherlock bellows over the sound of the shredder, as if he is merely stating the time in a very loud voice, "they're completely destroying the furniture. I'm simply getting rid of them."
Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway, looking as though she is torn between strangling the man in front of her and fainting from the amount of dust that is swirling around the room.
"Woodworm!" Sherlock exclaims as he leaps around with his arms outstretched, giving off a rather impressive impression of a mad scientist, the goggles still perched upon his nose and his overall swirling around his body like a cloak.
"You stop this racket and clear up this mess right now young man and then you can come downstairs. You can buy a new bed using your rent money," Mrs. Hudson tells him. Her voice is dangerously stern and she turns on her heel and storms from the room.
Sherlock sighs yet again; there goes another perfectly sound, in control experiment, ruined by the ignorance of another human being.
-x-
It all starts going wrong at around 2am. They have just passed Regents Park and have made their way onto Marylebone Road, the road that runs perpendicular to Baker Street, when they hear the shout.
"John!" Sarah cries, pointing to the other side of the street.
John hears the thwack of the suitcase hitting the floor, the scream of pain and the shouts of the men before he sees anything. When his eyes finally do focus in the dark, he is met with the vision of two- no, three men advancing on a young woman. She is sprawled on the ground, a thick, red substance matting her hair together; the case on the ground is stained with the same colour.
"Hey!" he shouts, before sprinting across the road. He runs, stooping slightly and grunts as his shoulder connects with the stomach of one of the men. They both topple to the ground, one on top of the other and he is vaguely aware of someone sobbing, crying, begging for help, but there is nothing he can do from down here; his shoulder hurts, his head hurts but there's someone standing over him-
"John! He's got a knife!"
He rolls to the left and springs to his feet as the man above him lunges downwards. Sure enough, a blade glints in the moonlight and John leaps backwards out of harms way. He feels the swoosh of the knife as it cuts through the air, narrowly missing his thigh and he curses- whether he speaks out loud or in his head he doesn't know. Everything seems to be happening so fast, he doesn't even have time to think.
The man stumbles and trips, heavy on his feet and even heavier on his face as he falls with an undignified 'thump' and crumples into a heap.
"Back off!" John shouts at where he thinks the other two men are standing, hovering in the darkness, waiting for their turn to strike.
Pain explodes from somewhere, everywhere on his face and hot liquid spurts down his chin, dripping onto the stone below. He staggers backwards, slumping against a lamppost, hands grabbing at his face, desperately trying to locate the source of the bleeding, knowing he needs to stop the flow, has to-
Another thump and another strangled sob brings him back to reality before two figures storm past him.
"They're getting away!" Sarah cries, but then she's by his side, crouching down beside him, hand gently pressing against his nose.
"Hold still," she soothes, "it isn't broken. Don't tip your head too far back, you'll choke- here."
Something soft is being pressed against his nose, a scarf, and he realises- Sarah's scarf. But there was-
"A girl!" he slurs, heaving himself to his feet, "girl..."
He sees her, her body pressed up against the wall, arms hugging her knees, her belongings strewn over the street.
"Are you okay?" he asks through layers of fabric, scarf still soaking up the blood, "Are you hurt?"
She looks at him with terrified eyes, but then her gaze shifts to something beyond him, something on the floor.
"Broken," she stammers, "it's… it's broken. Don't touch me!"
She tries desperately to pull away, straining against John's grip as he attempts to help her to her feet. She's injured, has a rather severe head injury from the look of the blood dripping from her hairline and into her eyes, across her face and dribbling down her neck and she sways, her feet unsteady and vision blurred. John gestures for Sarah to help him and together they manage to help the girl to her feet, holding her up between them.
"Can you walk?" Sarah asks.
The girl begins to nod, but then her vision goes clouded-
"Broken," she gasps, before collapsing into their arms.
"Baker Street," John says, still trying to staunch the stream of blood coming from his nostrils, "Come on!"
-x-
"Sherlock!"
John calls out to his flatmate frantically, but the house is seemingly empty. He helps Sarah get the injured girl up the stairs before barking out orders for someone, anyone to call an ambulance, and then he descends the stairs once more.
He pauses once he reaches the bottom and strains his ears for any sound of life. His nose has stopped bleeding now, but the pain is starting to kick in. He clutches at Sarah's scarf, twists it round and round his fingers, desperate to stay focused. There is music coming from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, he suddenly notices with a hint of surprise and so he totters to the door and raps on it with his knuckles.
"Woo hoo!" comes a cheerful voice from within, "it's open!"
John pushes open the door.
"Mrs. Hudson!" he gasps, "do you know where Sh-"
He stops dead at the sight before him.
Mrs. Hudson is stirring something in a large mixing bowl and Sherlock... Sherlock is wearing safety goggles, a lab coat, a kitchen apron and- and bright pink oven gloves. Flour peppers his dark hair and he has a smear of icing atop one prominent cheekbone.
"We're baking," he says in terms of explanation, "I can tell you've got news. Did you know you've got blood all over your face? Honestly, are you people dressing up for New Years Eve now? I thought it was Halloween you did that. Either way, you might want to wash up, I don't think Sarah or Tina or whichever one of your girlfriends you're going out with will appreciate it."
"Sherlock!" John says urgently, "We need you upstairs! There was an attack!"
Sherlock drops the wooden spoon he has been holding and turns to look at his friend.
"An attack?"
"Yes!"
"Anyone hurt?"
"Yes! Does the blood on my shirt mean nothing to you?"
Sherlock's face falls and John tries not to feel offended.
"Anyone else?" Sherlock asks sounding… it takes John a second to recognise the tone, but yes, his friend definitely sounds hopeful.
"Come upstairs," he says, "there was someone else. A girl… woman. Womangirl."
He leads the way up the stairs, each one creaking more than the last and he pushes open the door to their flat with a shaking hand. It is shaking, he notices and briefly wonders why. Adrenaline, perhaps. Pain.
"Put her in my bed," John says to Sarah, who has laid out the fourth member of the room on the sofa, "We need to keep her comfortable. Although we probably shouldn't move her anymore, we don't know how bad the wound is, she might be concussed or something. There's a lot of blood, a lot of…" he sways suddenly and puts out both hands to try and regain his balance. Sarah leads him to his armchair and helps him to carefully sit down.
"You shouldn't be moving either," she tells him, "stay there. Doctor's orders."
"But…" John starts, "you should help her to my room."
"Ah," Sherlock says, walking purposefully over to the unconscious girl, "not possible, I'm afraid."
"What are you talking about?" John asks, brow furrowing in confusion, "My room makes sense, it's closer. Just put her in my bed, it'll be more comfortable for her."
"You can't," Sherlock says, "for one thing, my room is closer and not yours. And another thing… it just isn't a good idea."
Sherlock is not looking at John as he speaks and instead focuses his attention on his patient.
"Why not?" John asks, getting to his feet and walking carefully up the stairs and towards his bedroom, "it's my bed, surely I can- oh Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Where the hell is my bed?"
"Over there," Sherlock says in a monotone, giving no indication of where said bed is, and instead running long fingers over the girls head. John is left to scan the room in disbelief.
"Oh bloody hell, Sherlock it that... That's... Did you set fire to my bed?"
"Woodworm," Sherlock says, "and I didn't set fire to it, I put it through the shredder- are you blind?"
"Woodworm." John exclaims, "Bloody woodworm! Oh, of course. Why couldn't you have burnt your own bed instead of rendering mine to a pile of useless ash?"
"Why on earth would I set fire to my own bed?" Sherlock asks in a tone that suggests he simply doesn't care for what the other man has to say, let alone the fact that John looks like he is dead set on murdering his flatmate. Instead, he simply says,
"It's sawdust, not ash. Now please do be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate."
"I called an ambulance," Sarah says, "It should be on its way."
"And when I said be quiet, I meant everyone and not just John."
Sherlock has removed the stranger parts of his attire and is now kneeling by the sofa in only his suit and socks, swift fingers still skimming over the head of the unconscious body.
"No serious head wound…" he murmurs, almost to himself, "it's just superficial, a lot of blood. The cut isn't deep, the aim wasn't hard enough to knock her out, let alone cause any serious or permanent damage."
"But inside her head," John starts, "she could have concussion."
"We won't know until she wakes up."
"She needs an x-ray, Sherlock, she needs medical attention and she needs it fast."
Sherlock ignores him and strides over to the door, wiping the icing off his face as he does so. He licks it off a long index finger before saying,
"Call me when she wakes. Phone Lestrade. I have things I need to do."
"What, that's it?" John spits walking up to Sherlock and stepping into his personal space, "that's it?"
"Yes," Sherlock replies, "what else would you have me do? I believe my assistance is needed elsewhere and I have better things to do than watch a girl sleep on our sofa. You are the doctor here John; this one is over to you. I believe I have some chocolate cupcakes that need attending to, so if you'd please..."
He leaves, side steps around the smaller man, who is left to watch all 6ft of his slender frame disappearing down the stairs. John kicks out savagely at the wall.
"Hey, hey," Sarah says, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him back towards his chair, "you need to relax. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," he tells her honestly, "face hurts a bit, but that's to be expected… he had a decent right hook."
She gives him a small smile- a small, sad smile and he returns it because he knows what that means: that this is the end of them, the beginning of the end and while they may remain friends, the chance for anything more is gone.
-x-
Lights. Flickering: on. Off. On. Off. On, off, on, off onoffonoffonoffoffonofnoffnon…
It hurts. The light, the darkness, it's nauseating and the sickness is building up and up and up…
And then it's gone but there are voices now, talking, talking to her and there is unpleasant warmth on her chest and a pounding in her head and she's uncomfortable and sweaty and it hurts.
It is below her to cry.
Don't cry they said to her and she will remember that and she will honour it and she will live by it.
Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't….
But maybe she is dead. Maybe this is death. There is no bright white light, no angels, no pearly gates and she feels cheated because she was promised peace. This isn't peace. This is pure, undiluted pain and it's torture and she can't….
There are hands on her, she can feel them but she can't move and it's a horrible sensation- she feels violated even though these hands are gentle. She can still hear murmured conversation but she doesn't know who these people are.
Her head is burning. Her eyes are burning. Her body is burning. Everything around her is burning and this has to be the end because it is too much.
And still, she does not cry.
