A/N: Probably the shortest one I've written! lol. It amuses me because I seem to have a habit of writing long prompts for these challenges, despite telling myself that short and sweet is perfectly fine also. :-p
Prompt 18: From Tsuion – A storm in the form of a letter.
Storm
The letter was coded, indecipherable swirls and blots of ink that meant naught to anyone but Holmes. He stared at the chaotic writing, committed the words to memory like a tattoo scratching into his skin.
To the average eye, the paper could have been scrawled upon by a child in the throes of mischief, which was clearly how the sender wished for it to appear. To the detective, names and places bled through the pigment of carefully disguised musical notes and words.
His brother had gone to great means to deliver this into his hands, and Holmes briefly considered what this had cost Mycroft, both in monetary and personal circumstances.
It meant enemies were closing in. It meant Watson was in danger. It meant Mary Watson was dead.
Holmes rubbed a hand over his face. Dirty fingertips slid across the bushy whiskers he had been wearing for the past three days. He felt every bit the stranger he portrayed. At times, he had gone weeks without a name.
Yet, even here, he was not out of the storm. The dark, grey clouds that had followed him across mountains and into France remained even on the brightest of days, tainted the bluest of skies. Even here, he would never be safe.
Even here, neither would Watson.
He lifted a candle and burned the letter in his hand, watched the pieces flutter downwards like black snow. A plan slowly formulated in his mind, a brief slither of anticipation skirting up his spine at the prospect of returning home.
/-/-/
A week later, he stepped off a freighter into England, and the clouds rolling in across the ocean dispersed.
But the storm had not weathered in London.
Amidst falling papers and apologies, he saw the darkened sadness in Watson's eyes, felt the pain emanating from his friend like waves of a violent sea. Roaring water sounded in his ears as he recalled a moment when he had wished nothing more than to go to Watson's side.
Even now, three years on, it took all of his strength to turn away.
End