A/N: Be still my beating heart. -csf
2.
The absolute silence of the night is paradoxically getting me on edge. No urban or biological sound permeates the dark night, for all around us is transfixed into a semi permanent freeze-frame. Not even the buzzing of electricity through the cables, or the mechanic gears of winding clocks, no distant cry of birds or flapping winds of bats, no breathing sounds or rustling of clothes but Sherlock and I's. Just white noise, I suppose, with a deafening weight of loneliness and solitude.
It's like we are the only living things on the planet right now.
I just about suppress a shiver with all my willpower. This stillness could slowly drive a man insane.
Sherlock notices my reaction, of course he notices my discomfort, and he at once dramatically twirls his coat around announcing he'll make us some tea! I'd tell him to put in the telly or the radio to kill off the absolute silence, but I don't suspect there's a flow of images and sounds available. Our mundane distractions cut short.
I'm watching my friend make his way back inside 221 Baker Street when I notice a dark huddled something on the cold pavement. Something big, hiding from our notice in the shadows.
What's going on there?
.
'Sherlock!'
I clear my throat awkwardly as I get back up on the cold night.
'Yes, John?' his familiar voice permeates from inside.
In the absolute silence of London I can hear the distant noises from 221B's kitchen upstairs, travelling the crisp night air with clarity. Seems the detective is struggling with the electric kettle and bumping against chairs.
It's tea, Sherlock, not rocket science.
Therein lies the rub for Sherlock, I suppose.
'We seem to have a dead body on our doorstep, mate!' I call out loud, in my army captain voice, loud enough to raise Mrs Hudson – and Mrs Turner next door – from their time suspended sleep. Only they won't, they can't.
There is absolutely nothing, no reply, for a second or two. Then the genius precipitously climbs down the stairs, returning to full view with an excited gleam in his eyes.
'Oh, goodie! A dead body, John!' Sherlock's excitement is full of joy, like a child unwrapping unexpected Christmas gifts.
I'm about to mutter not good, look around covertly, clear my throat and look pointedly at my best mate to warn him, when I realise no one's watching. That gives carte blanche to my mad friend's unconventional ways. I'm the only audience awake here; and does Sherlock's morbid joy disturb me all that much? Not at all. I won't go as far as to join him in a mini jiggle of a happy dance over the corpse – yes, he's doing one – but I smile benignly as a spectator.
Besides, I know Sherlock is not happy a life has been lost. The detective can't understand mourning a stranger demurely, he thinks it a waste of time and a societal constriction when he could be already applying his deductive powers to the murder.
Most of all, deducing makes him happy. He really loves his work. That he needs to keep an undertaker's sombre attitude is unkind towards his talents, really.
I smile further. I could sense Sherlock was getting bored and so this is a good turn of events. A nice murder to keep Sherlock happy.
'This is most favourable! Ha! John, you are indeed a conductor of light and you will not be a boring addition after all!'
'Ta... I think.'
Sherlock instantly kneels by the body of a thirty-something year old man, sprawled next to the front step of 221 Baker Street.
'Ah, pupils extremely dilated, petechial haemorrhage, this man is indeed dead, John!'
'Yeah. I kinda guessed that. Being a doctor and all.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes, almost ignoring me. 'The stillness state of time suspension is akin to death in many regards. No heart beat as even the most basic autonomous body functions have been suspended, remember? You'd be easily forgiven for assuming death when in fact someone was asleep or caught in a resting position... By the way, I learnt that one the hard way.'
'I'll bet', I comment, stunned. 'But this guy here was poisoned and suffocated in his own vomit before the Big Freeze hit us all. I'm a doctor, I can tell dead people, Sherlock.'
He smirks, complicit.
'John, we seem to have a good turn of events. We have a client and a case. The client and the murder victim are the same, thus sparing me of an obnoxious interview. I may not know why he came to me, but I can easily read through the man's clothes his job as a physicist and by his haircut his desire to keep hidden his passionate interest in Japanese manga, that he kept even from his girlfriend, a former work colleague and clearly not his type even if she fits all his parents' expectations.'
'How can you tell that?' I wonder.
'Haircut, John. He didn't feel comfortable enough to share with her his visit to a manga convention where he appeared in a modified diving suit – note the distinct neoprene chaffing on the wrists – and his hair painted a particular shade of pink – still discernible at the roots, where the dye hasn't quite come off when he washed his hair.'
'That's brilliant, by the way.'
He shrugs. 'I've seen more committed cosplays. Once, there was this—'
'Is that all you can tell me about the victim?' I cut him off.
'Of course not. He recently moved out of his parents' home to live in his own place, you can tell by the lingering scent of wall paint on his clothes and a few splatters on the sole of his left shoe that tell us he's got at least one dark grey wall. Could have been a tester sample, though, keep that in mind!'
'Sherlock, his home decor hardly tells us who murdered him.'
'You never know! John, pick his wallet, we need his address!' he directs at me as he lowers himself on his knees and hands splayed just next to the body, further sniffing it. Then he starts proding it with a finger, testing the stiffness.
I clear my throat. Yeah, right, well, no one's watching. It just ends up making me chuckle. Sherlock is all fired up, as if having a man dead on his doorstep made this weird dream sequence, or alternate reality, or realistic hallucination, all the more interesting.
Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he could ignore a case like this.
Finally the detective gets up, intense gaze at the distance, mulling odds and probabilities, like a dog on a scent.
'Let's go, John!'
I look around again. 'Wait. There's a dead person on the street. Shouldn't we call the police? The morgue?'
'No one to take the call. Time is frozen, have you forgotten?'
'No, but— we can't just leave him like this!'
'No, certainly not', Sherlock assures me solemnly. 'We must get his car and house keys first.'
And he proceeds to pickpocket the dead man.
'Sherlock!' I shriek in frustration.
'What? He won't need them. And no one's watching us. It's for the bigger good. It's to solve a murder and catch the criminal!'
'Well, I guess', I hesitate. 'But it's not very dignified.' I'm not so sure I like this consequence free world; it feels very unruly.
'Oh, and I'm driving, John. I know a couple of shortcuts', he ominously adds.
.
Sherlock Holmes would make a great race car driver, if we were to enrol in wacky races. The detective takes advantage of our unique circumstances, mounting on pavements, rolling straight over grassed roundabouts, swerving easily as he avoids the few time freeze cars on the roads without slowing down. The client's car is a comfortable but modest model (with a manga character dangling from the rear view mirror) that much like everything that Sherlock commands back to life has responded easily to the ignition key.
I yawn, watching the landscape roll outside. It's the middle of the night after all, and one of us is possibly asleep, perhaps the two of us, and this is but an hyper realistic dream of sorts.
It's the only rational explanation.
The important thing is that Sherlock is not alone. I'll keep my friend safe and make sure we navigate our way out of this twilight zone.
And for that I must not fall back asleep, not yet, not before he does, so he's not alone in this strange world.
As we glance at each other in the silent car ride, Sherlock and I, both intense and protective, we try to imprint confidence in each other.
.
'Sherlock...' My voice is but a gasped whisper as I look across the windscreen. The engine dies down as the detective removes the ignition key and, cleared of further distractions, my jaw drops at the wonderful view conjured ahead.
Rain. Only it's not the pesky, never-ending England's rain anymore. Clearly defined, thousands if not more, rain droplets hang in the night air ahead of us. Individualized, wholesome, reflecting the light of the streetlamps like fireflies in the great outdoors. Tear shaped, curved and engorged by the gravity's pull underneath, smooth sleek surface, scattered in a random yet balanced pattern around us.
My senses prickle in attention. The rain droplets are not just above us or splattering on the asphalt, they are left, right, above and below eye level, tingling the senses with a pull of fascination and adventure. Rain is no longer a dull, necessary exploit of nature. It's a marvellous play on the senses, as I open the car door – those droplets in the way are obliterated by the metal surface of the car, leaving a clear, void path in their wake – and I step out, rising above the car's height, receiving these cool islands of water on my face, refreshing me.
'John?' Sherlock calls me in his turn, but I'm still having a hard time gathering my wits to such a beautiful natural phenomenon that our slow minds are incapable of apprehending without complex digital aid. Such intricate detail, perfection, purpose and accomplishment rain turns out to be.
'John.' Sherlock's voice is now calm as he joins me outside the vehicle. He seems to have read my stance with his incredible ease and he too is quite pacified by the eerie world outside us.
'Sherlock, this is amazing.'
He nods, strangely hung up on my reactions more than on the iridescent gleam of those suspended water droplets.
'I had quite forgotten the rain', he admits.
Whiplashing my neck I face my friend. His eyes are deep green tonight, I notice as a good omen.
'You mentioned the world has stopped got you, other times before', I recall.
He nods, but comments: 'Stopped, you say.'
'I'm not sure what to call this insane time suspension, Sherlock.'
'A momentary glitch, John. Nothing to worry about. Time will soon return to it's natural flow, it always does.'
I nod, full of trust. 'When, though?'
'I don't know', he admits. 'Last time this happened I was a child. Eventually I got tired of exploring the world within my reach, and I fell asleep. As I woke up, the world had resumed what is perceived as normality.'
I ponder this magical man slowly. 'Must have been terrifying for a child.'
'Boring', he deflects. Then shrugs. 'Gave me time to study my favourite encyclopaedia and produce foul smelling chemicals; that his, until Mycroft locked away my chemistry set because I kept using it unsupervised even if he kept an eye on me every second of the day. They eventually assumed I suffered from insomnias. Perhaps in a way they were something of the sort...'
'Did you try to tell your brother Mycroft about – all this?' I gesture around us.
'Of course. He didn't believe me. My brother is far too rational to entertain the possibility of this.'
'And your parents?' He shrugs again. 'A friend?' He smirks derisively.
'I don't believe I had those before you, John. Certainly no one I could visit as I couldn't leave the house without the keys.'
'There are windows and you are resourceful. You'd find your way out.'
'I believe I did', he admits, not very forthcoming. 'Mycroft nearly had a fit the next morning as I wasn't in my room. He deduced I had been kidnapped. They found me asleep on the porch, unharmed. Mycroft never really forgave me for his own incorrect deduction.'
I smile, but it's a sad smile, for the lonely child my genius friend once was. Isolated from his peers, in the knowledge of an absolute miracle and no one believed him. No one to share this with.
'You should have awoken Mycroft. He'd believe if he'd seen this.'
Sherlock's green eyes deepen in thought. Maybe he just didn't think of it as a child. Mycroft was too bossy, too old, too distant, for a young impressionable Sherlock.
'I didn't know you'd wake up, John', he reminds me with a barely concealed shiver. 'I reached out by instinct. I didn't like seeing you frozen too.'
'You went up to my room to check up on me. Thanks.'
'I was quite relieved when you reacted. It's very different to go through this again – with a friend.'
'I'm glad you tagged me in', I declare with a sincere smile.
Then, taking a deep breath I squint and add:
'Then you never – I don't know – took advantage of it?'
'What do you mean? To solve crimes apparently faster and laugh at Scotland Yard?'
'Pfft! That's just the beginning, mate!' I smile radiantly now. 'We can prank just about everyone!'
He blinks, looking at me with curiosity and a naïve face. 'Your impish smile is oddly alluring, John, but – the case!'
'We can solve the case too. Just don't fall asleep yet.'
'Neat.' He smiles and I smile, because I wish I could keep my friend this light and go lucky for a long time to come.
'What was the victim's address again?'
'Third house on the left, John. Let us go in before time restarts while we're committing a felony. You tell me we have a busy night ahead, pranking Mycroft and others.'
Oh, trust me, mate, we must make sure to make the most of this twilight zone.
.
TBC
