Author's note: Good morning! New day, new chapter :) Again, thank you to TJ, and of course Isayan, as well as everyone else who is following this story - you are an inspiration.:)
Enjoy!
Chapter 9: Crucially contextual
It is strange how important context is, how it manages to redefine terms. Another important C. Context is what differentiates a killer from a saviour. Context can redefine words we thought could never be dubious in their meaning. Like mercy. Context redefines mercy, for example. One couldn't easily relate mercy to a shot to the head, but with a little help of context, what is usually considered a crime, becomes mercy. And an unwarranted, undeserved one at that, if you ask Sherlock.
When Lestrade shoots John's kidnapper in the head, death is instantaneous. The man doesn't suffer, probably doesn't even have time to realise what happened. It's mercy, because his death is rather imminent from the moment he refuses to give himself up peacefully, so the only remaining question becomes what it would look like. In this context, Lestrade is merciful, because, if Sherlock had gotten to the man first, there would be no mercy. It isn't fair, according to Sherlock, to grant that sort of mercy – not when John wasn't granted one. Not when Sherlock wasn't granted one. Their suffering for a merciful death – how is that a fair trade?
Still, context decides to make Lestrade a merciful man, and a saviour. It also allows Sherlock to do something he usually never would – something he would be appalled by if it weren't for the given circumstances. Circumstances, context, clocks, chemistry. The Cs seem to be closing in on Sherlock, forging a chain that binds his wrists and ankles, but there is still one C left, the most important one, and that is the one that doesn't fall into the chain – instead, it helps break it and helps Sherlock move. But to tell this part properly, we need to go just a little bit back, just a few moments before the shot to the head.
It is because of context and circumstances and clocks and chemistry, Sherlock forgets about the fact that he is at a crime scene – doesn't delete it, simply forgets – and tampers with it. When they arrive to the storage facility located in the centre of the imaginary clock – the circle has been completed, the only place left being the very centre, where the hands of the clock meet and are bound together - he runs right through the labyrinth of halls, pounding on the wet concrete floor and towards the body that hangs in the unit marked 16, surrounded by metallic powders and containers of liquid, with another body – person – standing over it. Sherlock can hear the ticking of the clock, and runs faster, making his steps louder than the ticking. Behind him there are other steps thundering, as Lestrade and his team chase after.
He runs, and I wonder if he knows about that feeling I was telling you about at the very start. Perhaps he knows that if you run very, very fast, you can outrun time – make it stop, as you encompass it.
Sherlock is running towards the hanging body, and his running is not a controlled collection of coordinated movements anymore – it's need, his body moving on its own accord, propelled by momentum. I wonder if he is doing it in order to stop time...but I think that's not the reason. Oh, I'm sure he would love for it to be possible – Sherlock Holmes, the man who stopped time, who raced against time and won. What a title that would make.
Still, I don't think that's why he is running, because, you see, Sherlock doesn't know about time-stopping running and all that, because he wasn't there when I told you about it. So, I am pretty sure that's not why he runs. In fact, I am pretty sure I know his reason. It's a much simpler and an endlessly more potent one. It's the same reason why he would probably wish for it to be possible to run time to a stop.
Sherlock Holmes runs because he cares.
Then there are names yelled (Sherlock doesn't even register when John's name tears from his mouth– it's a reflex, part of the momentum), shots fired, mercies extended and lives taken, but Sherlock doesn't stop running, because the clock doesn't stop ticking. It won't stop until he has reached his destination and looked for another sort of ticking – that of a pulse.
The average human heart beats 60 to 100 times per minute, when at rest. When it beats at 60, it fills a minute with as many beats as there are seconds in this minute measure of time. Let's suppose John's heart beats 60 times per minute. I could give you sound reasons for this (for example, he is physically fit, and physically fit people tend to have a lower heart rate at rest, that those who are not), but really, my reason is that it just fits so perfectly into the story. Besides, I get to have a look into that heart (both of their hearts), so I would know how fast it beats, wouldn't I? So, doubt me if you wish, but suppose, for the sake of the story, that John Watsons heart usually beats at 60 beats per minute. I say usually, because at that moment the presence of the beat is uncertain.
When Sherlock finally reaches John's body in the centre of the make-shift clock, the ticking stops for a second. It's the longest second, as he reaches up, fingers finding the carotid on John's neck. He waits for the beat of John's heart to mark the next second, substituting the ticking of the clock. There are 60 seconds in a single minute. Usually, there are 60 heartbeats of John Watson's heart within a single minute. Sherlock Holmes reaches up in the infinitesimal time frame between two seconds, and is left waiting for time to continue flowing together with John's blood beneath his fingertips.
The time between two seconds is infinitely small, and yet, look at how many words I've managed to fit in it. That's another perk of being a storyteller – to me, time is relative. It is also pliable, yielding like putty under my palms. I can stretch it or contract it, shape it to my will. I can leave you suspended in the vacuum between two seconds for eons. But I won't. Not for eons. Just for a bit longer.
