A Note From The Author: Hi everyone, considering I am having a hard time deciding, I have decided to write this little one-shot two times because I can't decide between first person and third person, and it is literally driving me bonkers. But should you get the time, tell me which one you like better, or perhaps you could riddle me this, which do you prefer to read, first person or third, past tense or present tense? Personally, I like first, you can see the characters better, but I'm rambling, so enjoy, please. And don't forget to review.
Time Lord Victorious
John
I pull open the door quietly. Sherlock, beyond a doubt, knew that I had been out, knew that I was with Sarah, but was most likely being polite and not wanting to put me out by pointing out all the numerous things that told him where I was. I step into the room to see him on the couch, surrounded by clocks, and all sorts of clockworks and things that tick. He seems absorbed in the ticking. Every clock and every ticking device ticks at the same time. It is enthralling, sort of hypnotic. The rhythm makes me want to just stand here all day, everyday just to hear the clockworks ticking. I never want it to stop, not ever. It's such a beautiful sound. Sherlock is cross-legged on the couch, an antique looking clock placed the crook formed by his legs. He has a hand on either side of the clock, as if feeling the ticking vibrate the wood. His eyes are closed. Suddenly, as if by some magical hand, the clocks all start to chime at the same time. A variety of sounds mixing together as they struck the hour, six o'clock. All the clockworks go off in their own way, buzzing, chiming, dinging, pinging, playing a melody. It is a chaotic yet somehow beautiful sound. And then it stops, and the ticking continues. It occurs to me that Sherlock must have been sitting like that for hours, waiting for me to come home. I don't know how he knows but he does, he can always find another way to amaze me. He never ceases to find some new way to surprise me. He looks up at me, peace written all over his face,
"Care to join me?"
"How could I refuse?" He clears a space for me on the couch next to him, placing a clock on my lap. He closes his eyes,
"Can you feel it John?"
"Feel what?" He looks slightly offended as he turns back to me,
"The music? The beat? The beauty of the clock? Can you not feel it?" I take a deep breath before placing my hands on the side of the clock. The ticking is relentless, taping right into my soul. That sound that is taken for granted, the passing of time, the form time takes, and I could feel it, the music. It coursed through me like some sort of drug, calming my limbs. My heart beat matched the ticking, we were one, the clock and I.
"Sherlock. It's... beautiful." No response. If anyone walks in, before them would lay a strange scene. Two men, siting side by side with clockworks all around them, holding clocks, closing their eyes, feeling at peace. I don't care that we are vulnerable. I don't care that the night is ticking away. I don't care when my phone buzzes, or when Sherlock gets a call. Neither of us move, we are at peace, feeling the clocks, feeling the rhythm. The clockworks all chime together again, all at once, making a horrendous, but strangely tantalizing noise. Seven o'clock. We spend the night like that, alive. Totally awake, but entranced by the ticking, the never ending ticking. Clockworks. Something beautiful.
John
John pushes the door open quietly, hoping, praying that Sherlock has gone to bed. He probably hasn't. Sherlock knows everything about John. He knows that John slipped away to go see Sarah. He was going to be polite. Hopefully he wouldn't point out everything that told him that John had been out. John's jaw dropped. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the couch, surrounded by clockworks. He had an antique looking clock placed the crook made by his legs. His eyes were closed, he was listening intently to the ticking, hands on either side of the clock. The ticking reaches John's ears, making him pause, it was hypnotic, it made him want to stand there forever and listen. And then all at once the clockworks go off, each making their own declaration of their existence Chiming, dinging, buzzing, pinging, or playing a melody. The sounds all conflicted, clashing together. It was a chaotic, yet beautiful noise. And in a moment, they quieted and resumed their ticking. Only then did Sherlock acknowledge John,
"Care to join me?"
"How could I refuse?" John sat down after Sherlock cleared a space. He put a clock on his lap and closed his eyes.
"Can you feel it John?"
"Feel what?" Sherlock looks offended as he glances over at John before replying,
"The music? The beat? The beauty of the clock? Can you feel it?" John takes a deep breath before placing his hands on the clock's sides. He closes his eyes and tries to be one with the clock. He feels the ticking fuse with this soul, match his heart beat, slow, one two three four, one two three four, one two three four, going on forever. He wants to be one with the clock, forever.
"Sherlock. It's... beautiful." Sherlock doesn't reply, he just sits there, motionless. If anyone were to walk in at that moment they would see two men sitting on the couch surrounded by clockworks, with their eyes closed, feeling a sort of peace. John didn't care that they were more vulnerable that way, he didn't care when Sherlock got a call, or when his own phone buzzed. He didn't care that time was ticking away, his life force slowly, slowly being eaten by time. The clockworks all go off at the same time again. Seven o'clock. The night passed like that, and they sat, alive, awake, but peaceful. Listening to the sound of the clocks, the ticking. Something beautiful.