Disclaimer- Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle; Holmes and Watson's personalities and traits in this particular story are based on Guy Richie's 2009 version in partnership with Warner Bros.
A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed! They are appreciated! This is NOT the end. I do plan on writing Holmes's reunion with normality.
Taphephobia
Chapter 4- The Second Day
Taphephobia: Fear of being buried alive.
….
"If the fire goes out, the room will get cold."
It was a cloudy morning. The light shining through the cracks was dark blue and dreary.
He hadn't slept. He refused. Flashes of both nightmares screamed in his mind, tearing apart the side of him that was still trying to keep calm.
The burning books… The violin… The flowers…The notes… But the coffin was empty, wasn't it? It was empty… It was…
He felt sick.
Was it possible to fall ill so fast? Head pounding, eyes heavy, throat pinching every time he swallowed...
Water.
How much longer could he survive without it?
On average, three days.
"fffhmm."
He choked out a laugh that died as soon as the dryness of his throat caught up with it. A hollow wheeze followed and tremors tore through his body until he was left feeling sicker than before. Had he been upright he would have vomited, if there was anything in his stomach to vomit and he was sure there wasn't.
Food- ... No, don't start.
It was day number two. Day two of London's great detective trapped in a bloody box waiting on what might or might not save him.
It was humiliating.
...Humiliating being barely able to raise his hand to run it down the right side of his own stubbly, tired, and damp with sweat face.
Holmes's had never been so close to death in his life… well maybe he had, but this was by far the most-.. Was there even a word to describe it?
It seemed as though he was holding onto a piece of hope that only a human who stupidly sold himself for happiness would keep. It was almost as sickening as his situation in a whole.
Almost.
He must have been falling in and out of a fitful something though, because every time he would open his eyes the light and temperature outside his hell would be slightly different… Or maybe it was just his weak senses playing tricks on him.
The thought briefly crossed his mind that in his situation he'd be better off dead, but he quickly put that train of thought to an end. It was only the second day. According to the average person, he still had one more day to be found and he hadn't completely given up, he never would. No. No, it wasn't in his character to just die.
Someone would come…You can't leave a coffin sitting out in the open forever.
HA! There goes that pitiful search for light again.
How disgustingly desperate.
...
The day went on surprising faster than expected. Not that faster was a good thing, it just meant he had less time, and the random blackouts he'd been having were nothing short of annoying.
Honestly, he had given up keeping track of time hours ago. There was no way of telling how long he'd been out, when he was out, and his head hurt too much to try and configure it. Instead, he began to think of lighter subjects to ease his itching nerves. At a point, he did somewhat think about his current appearance, but that proved to be a headache subject the moment he noticed that he hadn't needed to "use the bathroom" all day...or all night for that matter. The painful reality of dying by dehydration again became an all too real smack in the face.
He was shaking again, not of fright, but of cold. Why was it suddenly so cold?
...
"…Spooked her real good. Went and buried her head under her covers all day."
Sherlock Holmes wasn't sure when he had heard it, but he was sure he heard it.
A voice.
A man's voice.
It was still a little ways away, but close enough to understand through the thick wood and decorated lining.
"Poor thing was petrified. Eh, children will be children. But I've never heard of a girl Madeline's age thinkin' up something so unusual."
Shovels hit the earth around him, jolting him from his uncomfortable trance.
"She's always been a weird one."
"Nah, Imaginative."
"Call it what you'd like, she's as funny as your wife's great-aunt."
The voices were closer now, he was certain. Holmes fought to wake himself up as he felt and heard a shovel clank against the side of his coffin.
"Who in heaven's name rolled this boulder on top of Abe?"
"Huh?"
"Look at this! S'not like the corpse is gonna come out and get'chya! Some vandal went and dropped this boulder on Abe Wiertz coffin."
Holmes frowned. Why was he not surprised there was a giant stone covering the lid to the coffin he'd been desperately trying to escape from.
"Probably scared some shit would break in and steal the body." There was a silence and Holmes felt the box shake. "It isn't exactly a boulder, though, now is it?"
"What?" There was another pause and the clanking of shovels.
"Well, it's a rock."
"What are you going on about?"
"I'm just sayin'… A boulder is a boulder, a rock is a rock."
Holmes coughed and shook his head, but his body did nothing but lay there…
No…No! Wake up! Move!
He tried to yell but could barely utter a whisper through the bone dry flesh that used to be his throat.
Taking a deep breath, Holmes shifted sideways. The nail protruding through the bottom of the box deepened itself into his skin, but it didn't matter. He needed to move his arms… wake himself up… whatever the problem was it need to end now… He needed to get their attention. They needed to know he was there!
"That's like calling a rock a pebble." The gravedigger continued.
"Will you just help me get this damn boulder off it!"
"Rock-"
"NOW!" The coffin scraped and shook along with the "rock" that was being removed. Minutes later of torturous bumping and slamming, the rock rolled off the opposite side.
"They're just not the same thing…"
"Leroy, shut up." Another clank of shovels and Holmes finally lifted his hand to the roof of his prison. The silk under his raw fingertips was hard with dried dusty blood and ripped to shreds.
"Don't get angry I'm only-"
"Fine! It's a rock! Are you happy? Shut up!"
"Don't have to be so-"
Pound
With his arm finally deciding to obey him, Holmes used every last ounce of energy he had left to slam the side of his fist into the wood above his face.
Pound …POUND POUND
"Ya hear that?"
"You stupid idiot, of course I heard that!" There was a smacking sound and another moment where no one moved or said a word. Holmes quickly filled it with his frantic need to escape; his last bit of adrenaline taking over.
KNOCK SLAM POUND POUND SLAM... The flesh on his hand was again beginning to break; the unbearable pain returning.
Using the pain as a devise to jump start any attempt at using his vocal chords, Holmes shouted "He- hmff HELP! Hel- aHch!"
Another coughing fit was the end for him. His arms dropped to his sides. His body sank into the cheaply covered wooden bed.
"Henry, … I think…I think …" Leroy's voice was suddenly higher pitched and anxious. "Sounds like someone's in there…Like I mean a not dead someone."
"Holy lord..."
…
There were three things that Sherlock Holmes's exhausted mind grabbed onto before he blacked out…
First: The incredible rush of cold, but fresh air.
Second: The sound of a shocked man's voice exhaling "That's not Abe".
And lastly: Relief.
….
A/N: "There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction." -Edgar Allan Poe