Author's Note:

Updated a day early. I spoil you guys. xD

I think I can get this published by summer. The next install is already written. =) Btw, this installment… is pretty serious. I mean, I've read worse, but this is pretty bad as it is.

Oh, and cookies to four of you for placing the quote! I think it was KCS's Powers of Evil that drew my attention to it. So, yeah, Hound of the Baskervilles.

To my reviewers:

nomdeplume30: Thanks, and nope, not good at all.

Moonspun Dragon: *snatches back notebook* You can prove NOTHING! HA! …Okay, we'd better stop this. I don't want people to think I'm losing it. xD Anyway… don't worry, I will definitely let you know when the book is out. (The trumpet fanfare should be a big clue. ^_^)

Spockologist: Thanks! Creepy, yes! =)

O'FoggageGreen: *grins* I don't mean to torture you, just Holmes. ^_^ And don't worry, I'll make sure you know where to buy the book!

reflekshun: Oh, thank you! Both for the review and for the permission!

Mam'zelleCombeferre: Here ya go!

==10. Light==

Rating: PG-14
Summary: This is not life, and he can no longer recall what life is like.
Warnings: drug use, torture
Word Count: 760

The world is a haze of shadows tinted red. Every touch upon his person is agony; every blow is unspeakable torment. His heart crashes against his ribcage so forcefully that it is a wonder it does not burst out of him altogether.

Through this existence of pain—for this is not life, and he can no longer recall what life is like—a voice penetrates to his very soul. It is kind, this voice—soothing and benign. Mesmerizing, even.

It calls him by name and gently reasons with him.

It is not the voice of his brother, nor is it the voice of his best friend. Some small part of him is able to realize this. It is that part that warns him that, although he knows the voice, he should not trust it.

But the voice wants his pain to end. Why shouldn't he trust it?

The voice asks him about the smuggling ring he was ferreting out in East End. Why does it ask about that? He can hardly even recall—those memories belong to another man, another life, far away from this darkness and pain, if such a thing is possible.

Something that he vaguely identifies as a hand brushes against his cheek, and he whimpers. It hurts. The voice continues, and he thinks the hand is connected to the voice. Why won't it stop touching him? Can't it see that it's hurting him? He writhes feebly on a cold, hard surface, and the pressure on his cheek intensifies.

Unable to bear it any longer, he screams.

The voice hastens to reassure him. His pain can end. He simply needs to reveal the whereabouts of some incriminating documents, and he will be released. He can leave not only the pain, but the darkness, too. This infinite darkness which has trapped him—suffocated him—for so long. He can be free.

He wants so terribly to yield to that voice.

But.

But, there remains a small piece of himself left. The man with the swift, brilliant mind who takes life to be an exercise in intellect, a puzzle to be forever worked upon and never solved. The man with an appalling quantity of self-confidence who guards a great heart jealously and allows only one man to glimpse at it on occasion.

And it is this piece of himself that knows that if he yields, he will lose.

The red tint is fading away, as is the voice and the pain, all swallowed by that omnipresent black. There is not much time left for him, that small piece of himself realizes. So be it. If he must, he will take his knowledge with him to the grave. His victory lies in death.

Gradually, something soft and golden bleeds into his vision, and his brain works for a minute before it can put a name to the phenomenon.

Sunlight.

It is golden and pure and warm, and it reaches out to him. He will follow it. He knows, and he is ready.

Until he hears a voice. It is not the voice from before—this new voice is completely different. It is weary and thick with unshed tears. And it is pleading.

"Dear God, I am not a man of prayer. But I know not what else to do."

This voice is keeping him from that light. He stays where he is, because he wants to know why he is hearing that voice, who it is, what it will say.

"He has been missing for so long. And now, tonight, I've had this horrible feeling. Perhaps it's a premonition; perhaps it's nothing at all. But I cannot shake off the feeling that something terrible is happening to him right now. Please, dear Lord, let him live. Bring him back to me. I've lost so many people I've loved. Please do not take him now, too. Please."

He finally places a name to the voice, and realization comes crashing down on him, breaking his heart.

Watson.

He knows he is one of the very few friends the good Doctor has, and the only close friend. He cannot abandon Watson like this. He will not.

He would have died for a secret. But he will live now, for a friend.

He shuts his eyes, longing to look upon the light, longing to follow it.

But he shall not.

Sherlock Holmes turns away from the light and wills himself to begin the long, hard trek back to a world of darkness. He does it for one who needs him more than Heaven does.

==Fin==

Author's Note:

Wow. I haven't written anything like this in a long time. Not only have I not lost my touch, I've gotten better! *whoops* I actually love this one. Seriously.

I had this long explanation about how this could possibly fit into Canon, but I didn't have time to type it out. Pretty soon, though, I'll have a Moriarty fic out, and I'll just explain it in there. ^_^ (Check the latest chapter of Study for spoilers.)

Next up (quite possibly Monday)… Choke. No, it's not what you think. ;-)

Please review!