Disclaimer: As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.
A/N: So…I graduate in seven days. From college. How awesome is that? And now that summer is nearly upon me, I will have more time to write for fun, and so I open summer with another snippet of Holmes goodness! Read, review, and enjoy!
Idea: Perseverance.
Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I realize that I am still alive. I twitch the fingers of my left hand—index, middle, heart, pinky, thumb. My right hand stays firmly in place, applying pressure to staunch the blinding wound in my shoulder.
The night has gone deadly quiet, silencing the phonograph and crushing me underneath its weight. The bricks and mortar shattered on top of me completes the job. I am anchored to this world, flattened by its adversity and tenacity.
I breathe slowly, preserving my strength. Whatever it was that collapsed the watchtower beside the office building, I do not know. Certainly, I can deduce if I choose, my brain will have already backlogged the thought, but the pain…the pain and the silence are so intense. Truly, it is all I can concentrate upon. I have endured blistering cold and burning sun, certainly I have been stabbed and even shot once. But this horrible hurt is a new sort of agony. Setting a precedent, someone attempted to destroy my mind along with my body and nearly succeeded. Were I not so determined on my goal to retrieve his red book, I would have gone mad with rage, terror, and injury.
My legs I choose to flex next, assessing that aside from bruising they are not damaged. I can feel the blood pumping through my veins, circulating through my anatomy and seeping out of my shoulder. I fear my body will go numb from the shock, and then I will slip away, unable to stop Moriarty.
Oh yes, I know he is still alive. In the silence of the night, I can hear his uneven breathing. I thoroughly believe he can hear mine as well, unless he be unconscious. We are both weakened, but not broken. He may have damaged me physically, but I have cost him time. His great war is put on hold by this confrontation. The two kings on the board have been felled; it is up to one of the bishops to get here first, to decide whether this deadly game will continue, or to kill the opponent.
I dare not open my eyes, indeed I cannot. For the first time in all my life, I do not wish to see. I do not wish to observe. I want to stay under these bricks, I want to sleep…oh dear, so tired, no rest for days…
My ears perk up as a voice calls out my name. The breath I'd been holding in for a few moments wooshes out of me, indicative of my relief. My bishop has come here first. I will live. I will go on. I will stop this madness.
Licking my chapped lips with a dry tongue, I open my mouth and croak my dear friend's name. My voice, hoarse from my screams of torment, still somehow manages to reach his hearing. The weight above me shifts, the blocks flung away, and I open my eyes. I really am still alive.
"Always nice to see you, Watson."