January 15, 2012

Face Down by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, 3:14 (Mrs. Hudson)

She doesn't say goodbye when he leaves. Instead, she curls up on the sofa with a nice hot cuppa and loses herself in Love, Actually.

Sherlock drops by sometime after twelve. She's pleased to see him, even more so when she realizes he's sober. He has taken to smoking, though, and he lights up as he paws through her fridge. She smiles and lets him.

After he's consumed enough to feed ten men, chattering all the while, he examines her. He ices the bruises and slaps a Band-Aid to her cheek, where her husband's ring cut her. And she cries.

:o:o:o:

We Are by Ana Johnsson, 3:55 (Sally)

Sally can't look at the body. The face has been reduced to a bloody pulp, obviously caused by the sticky tire iron lying nearby. The corpse's clothes are ripped and torn, and more bruises peep out between the shreds of cloth. Glimmering on her wrist is a charm bracelet.

At one time, this corpse had been a pretty young woman named Marcella. She had a steady job and a family who loved her. Yet she had thrown all that away on a smooth-talking misogynist.

Sally wants to retch. She wants to cry and scream and pretend this is just a horrific nightmare. But it's not.

:o:o:o:

First Date by Blink-182, 2:46 (Sarah)

Well, that was probably the strangest date she had ever been on. And that was counting the surfing Californian and the magician who made his pants disappear.

John was a sweet guy, he really was. And taking her to that Chinese circus was both original and romantic. So what if his flatmate tagged along? Sherlock was an interesting bloke.

It became considerably less fun when she was kidnapped and had a gigantic crossbow aimed at her head. But it was… different.

And when John took her home, he lingered on the front step. He squeezed her hand and apologized. And she kissed him.

:o:o:o:

Somewhere Out There by Linda Ronstadt & James Ingram, 4:02 (Sherlock and John)

He heard Mrs. Hudson's light footsteps as she padded forward and draped something soft across his shoulders. Sherlock's dressing gown, he realized.

John pulled the blue silk close as he stared out the window. Even in town, there were stars. He wondered if, wherever Sherlock was, he could see them too.

:o:

Sherlock sprawled across the damp grass and glanced upward. The stars were rather pretty tonight. He only knew a handful of constellations, all of them obscure. John would laugh at that.

John. This was for his own good, Sherlock knew that. And yet he apologized to the stars.

"I'm sorry, John."

:o:o:o:

Bleed Red by Ronnie Dunn, 3:46 (Lestrade)

Sometimes it felt like he was wasting his time. No matter what he did, there would always be criminals and injustice and another body to find. Sometimes Lestrade didn't want to open his eyes in the morning.

And then he met Sherlock Holmes. Here was a troubled kid, with a whole slew of problems. Sometimes Lestrade thought he was a lost cause, but he kept trying anyway.

Sometimes Lestrade wonders if he failed. He stopped the drugs, but he couldn't teach Sherlock modesty or humility. Or manners. He can't mend the bridge between him and Mycroft. But he keeps trying.

:o:o:o:

Into Your Arms by The Maine, 3:59 (Sarah)

Sarah sits at the table with John, wearing her LBD—which is reserved for only the most special occasions and most special men—and she laughs when he tells her about his latest adventure with Sherlock. He offers more wine and she gladly accepts.

And then the doors open and in sweeps Sherlock Holmes, and the magic ends. He taps John's shoulder and says something about the Hunter case. John immediately stands and throws a hasty apology over his shoulder as he follows Sherlock out the door.

Sarah sits at the table, alone, and realizes John will never choose her.

:o:o:o:

Photograph by Nickelback, 4:19 (Mycroft)

Once a year, Mycroft allows himself to get drunk enough to dig out all the old family albums. He'll sink to the carpet with his glass and recline against the bedpost, letting his fingertips ghost across the old Polaroids.

There's Sherlock on his first birthday. There's icing in his hair and pieces of yellow cake cling to his fingers. There's Easter, and Sherlock is splattered with colored dye. Mycroft shakes his head. Sherlock was always covered in something.

"Congratulations on another year," he murmurs and toasts the air. The clock strikes midnight, and Sherlock ages one more year. Now it's January 7.

:o:o:o: