The ride isn't pleasant by any means. Road is bumpy, the air in the cab stuffy with sweat and old tobacco and yet, it's freezing, breath going out in milky cloudlets. Sherlock snuggles into his coat, trying not to think how wet in reality it is. Cabby is constantly smoking Marlboro menthol cigarettes, gesticulating lividly. Even though Sherlock hasn't said anything beside roughly whispered "Baker Street"to him, he has already shared with him some juicy gossip on some girl whose name was identical with some capitol, the youngest Windsor boy and asked for his opinion on the colour he should paint his summer house this year. If Sherlock heard right, the cabby was going to paint it purple.
Sherlock looks out the window, not even bothering to pretend being interested in his ramblings.
Ice flowers on the pane catch his attention. They are marvellously fragile in their complexly, each blossom different and yet so fitting in with the others. Sherlock traces some leafs with one of his fingertips, coldness making it quickly numb. It's so refreshing all of the sudden, he think to himself, puffing lightly onto the glass. It shimmers delicately under his breath, lanterns smudging away, dancing across his eyelids with their dimmed light. Snowflakes fall from time to time onto the pane and Sherlock observes them intently, tracing each of them with a fingernail. He huffs more onto the window and soon it mists over completely, a new opaque surface meeting his eyes. Sherlock touches it pensively, unconsciously drawing a lopsided smile. A teardrop. A broken heart and a string. He toys with his fingers for a moment, the man suddenly not talking anymore. Ah. He switched the radio on.
Or rather a CD player installed into it.
The cabby doesn't look like a person who'd enjoy classical music and yet he sure does. He hums to "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen" from Mozart's "Die Zauberflöte" Sherlock thinks, if the echo in the cab doesn't deform the sound too much. It resembles the version sung in "Amadeus" but hell. It's quite an interesting discovery but Sherlock really doesn't feel interested enough, too focused on the pane. He tries not to hear the high notes piercing through his skull, or try to count the tapping noises the man seems to make trying to catch up with the rhythm of the opus. It's bothersome at best, especially when he remembers just how long exactly it took him to get to that damned warehouse in the first place.
Damn.
Stars are blinking lazily at Sherlock through some lopsided grins and letters he's drawn. He's frustrated. Bored. Hungry. Alone. Little "J"s flow across the pane, followed by "S"s and his head feels so heavy all of the sudden. The cab sways slowly through the streets, occasionally stopping at lights, his coat is warm, full of exquisite smells he hasn't noticed before and soon, a wonderful mist encircle his senses completely.
A sudden choc and a stream of curses wake Sherlock with a jolt. He is still in the cab and it looks like it's the middle of the night already. He can't remember his dream, shreds of some talks, pictures slowly melting into thin air and yet echoing dully in his head, his nostrils full of something akin to male cologne. Even though it cost him several dozen priceless minutes, Sherlock must say he feels now a lot better. His head is clearer and although he'd never willingly admit it, his insides seem to function properly at last, that unbearable pressure and aching he's felt for the past few days near his breast bone a bit smaller and not as absorbingly bothersome as before. He's calmer, colder and more collected.
"What's the matter, sir?" He asks the driver when they soon begin to move once again, a new kind of cigarette never leaving the cabby's mouth. His face is a bit flushed, hair a mess. The newest milky smoke tastes kind of like chocolate or vanilla, Sherlock isn't entirely sure. "Where are we? Is it Westminster City already?"
"Huh? No sir, we haven't left Greenwich yet. We're still on the right side of The River Thames. Must've fallen asleep some time ago, now haven't you, sir?" The man chuckles for a moment, glancing at Sherlock in the rear-view window. He winks at him the moment their eyes meet. " I'm not too surprised considering the weather. On the other hand, for God's sake, I'll never understand those pairs going clubbing five to midnight! Firstly they get drunk, then do obscene things on the street and lastly fall asleep in the middle of it. A few inches closer and that girl wouldn't be able to kiss her guzzling booze boyfriend any time soon!"
Sherlock nods numbly, running his fingers through the hair. He leans onto the back of his seat, once again gazing through the window. It's greyish, warm lights making the flowers sparkle once again. Snow is still falling but compared to the outskirts, there are very small amounts of it on the sidewalks in this part of the city. Streets are dirty with mud-coloured water and old dead leaves, their brownish, sad almost look making him feel uncomfortable. He wonders whether it's possible or not to get pneumonia because of a badly picked overcoat. Or maybe this one is a good one after all? Sherlock snickers at pettiness of his thoughts, trying to think of John.
Well, cross that one out. It's surely not the brightest of his ideas. To tell the truth, none of the recent ones is bright, not even convenient or thought-out
He was far too judgemental, too jealous to see the point in John's requests and then threats. Really, is it that hard to clean the flat once in a while? To not play the violin at three in the morning when the other has a job and must sleep well in order to get them some money? To buy some of the goddamn milk when there is only an empty carton in the fridge? To not make those smart-ass comments when nobody really needs them? To not be so cold?
Truth be told, it's hard to keep doing those things beside John.
Especially beside him.
He's not sure what the time now is or how long he has been thinking melancholy, eyeing either the pane or the street. He once again wants to sleep, pulling his knees up to his chest as close as possible. He can nearly see John's face in front of him, eyelids heavy with promises of a moment of instantaneous forgiveness and utter, blissful oblivion. He wants to see that face once again, desperately needs to whisper those three clichéd words into his ear and be able to touch him, to know that even though he, Sherlock, has himself screwed that one pretty nicely, it's just a moment, just a nightmare that will soon end. Smells mix up against his face and now that he closes his eyes once more, they all create a wonderful, fantastic world, blowzy thoughts turning slowly into liquid lines of shallow words, guilt burning his insides with its fire, slowly, hauntingly reminding all the way to the ground of his mind that it could have been done differently, that today could have looked more beautiful, more regret-less.
Then, when he begins to clench his fists to prevent the tears from selfishly falling down onto the collar of his coat, lips quivering at the unfairness of it all, his mobile lights up, buzzing in one of his pockets nervously, a melody suddenly slipping in between his thoughts.
Now that he thinks of it, changing his ringtone and choosing a sound resembling John's laughter for the new one was a bad idea. A very bad one indeed.
Sherlock can't help feeling at least a bit hopeless when he presses the green earpiece, not even bothering to shush his swear when no one answers his "Hello?", the silence and that dull noise of a broken connection heavily echoing in his ears. It's all a game, a game which will end eventually, in a tiresome way but when, nobody knows that.
Sherlock highly doubts the possibility of Moriarty knowing it himself.
A message appears on the screen after a minute or two and Sherlock greedily opens it, not noticing a grim look aimed at him by the cabby. It's noticeably a bit longer than those previous ones, with a smiley added at the end. Before he can have the chance of reading the newest piece of information though, the mobile makes a few high beeping noises as more messages come. Sherlock is sure he doesn't like it.
Wifey, Puppy's really sick. We're out of Dicodid already but hey. Vicodin to the rescue! ;)
His skin is still moist but the tremor seems to be the matter of the past.
've always known I'd make a nice doc.
Ah, he looks happy.
Oops, knocked out once again.
Ritalin ought to make him more responsive once again, don't you think?
Sherlock can't move. It must be a joke, a dream, a horrible, disfigured vision.
Or maybe a good dose of Strychnine? Hmm...
John. John. John.
JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn
John.
JOHN.
Look out the window, darlin'.
Sherlock dizzily does what he has been told, opening the window. They're currently in Soho district, driving through some dark, narrow street. There are lots of alley cats lazily opening their coats at the sight of men coming their way, wiggling at the spot, queans waving at people going up the street to come 'nd enjoy what they're offerin'! Show windows tint the snow lying around the lanterns most of the whores curve beside bloodily, ornaments on the grating arabesque-like on the ground. Some done up to kill girls wink at him, pouting with their pinguid from some old lipsticks lips, gathering up their dresses and either flashing their enormous, brownish boobs at him or mooning him.
Sherlock's face wrinkles in distaste, but he doesn't look away. He can't, he doesn't dare to. The air smells foully, of old garbage and dead animals, excrement mixing up with the snow and some stagnate, revolting water flowing near the steps to some brothel whose male occupants hail at him, fondling the front of their pants, gazing at him lustfully.
He doesn't know what he should be looking for and that futile, burning need to act, to DO SOMETHING drives him insane.
And then, something white catches his eye. At first Sherlock doesn't believe he truly sees it, his senses screaming at him that it can't be possible. But he's too desperate to not believe in miracles.
He cries for the cabby to stop and the moment he can, he jumps out of the car, nearly falling flat onto his face into the snow. His legs are jelly-like but Sherlock needs to get up, needs to move, needs to see if he's already gone crazy in the past few hours or not yet. He levers himself up and runs for it, as if nothing has ever mattered as much as this one run, this one quick movement.
In the furthest corner of a westward alley, John's ivory sweater weaves tiredly over some laying figure, its sleeves torn and bloodied.
A/N:
Dicodin and Vicodin are drugs whose main aim is to relieve moderate or severe pain. If used orally, their effect is one and a half stronger than the one of morphine's. It's very easy to become addicted to those drugs. Side effects include convulsion, moist skin, faints, muscle twitches, hearing loss or unusual fatigue. They both consist of hydrocodone and paracetamol.
Ritalin is a drug used to treat for example ADHD or narcolepsy. It can be also used in some other cases, like depression or obsessive-compulsive disorder. On the whole, it increases the level of dopamine in the brain. Its pharmacological effects resemble those of cocaine. It stimulates the central neuro system. It arouses average men and calms down those ever so lively (vide: used for treating ADHD).
Strychnine is an alkaloid widely known for its toxic properties. It stimulates neurons, causes muscular convulsions and eventually death through asphyxia or sheer exhaustion. Many people use it for killing rats, birds or wild dogs (vide: Australia).
Thank you so much for reading this story! It's really fun to write and getting such a nice feedback on it is lovely. I'll try to update again as soon as possible. Thanks once again!