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jackofknavesTitle: Sherlock's Adventures in Wonderland
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Sherlock Through the Looking Glass. It can be literal, with Sherlock ending up in Wonderland and utterly annoyed by the fact that nothing makes sense, or you could take it in some creepy abstract philosophical sense, like he takes drugs and hallucinates.
Sherlock’s eyes opened suddenly, his lips parted in a gasp that never came. He sat up on the sofa, noting that John’s jacket missing from the coat rack—he must be over at Sarah’s—and the shades of afternoon light that had crawled across the floor in a checkerboard pattern had dimmed. It must be evening. The flat was dark around him. Even his skull, which he favoured like the friendly face of an old acquaintance, appeared twisted and grim in the faded light.
He swung his legs out, standing and crossing to the door, which swung open with an ill-omened creak. There were seventeen steps down, but on the second, he stumbled, tumbling down the flight without end, feeling his skin bruise under sharp edges and his head striking against one of the banisters with a crack. Seventeen steps, but the fall went on far longer than that. The landing seemed so far away, everything cascading and blurring as he spun down the stairs endlessly. Stars burst behind his eyelids in bright fireworks of scarlet and sick green and halogen-lit yellow, before finally he found himself lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling of his flat once again.
Sherlock sat up, examining his body, noting that the purple stains which should have been blooming underneath his pale skin were absent. He rubbed the back of his head, searching for the bump that he knew should be there, but all his hand encountered were the ordinary mess of tangled dark curls.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured, looking around. The flat looked much the same as it did before, but—
The skull on the mantelpiece yawned suddenly, a bone-cracking shudder as if it were shaking out the loose limbs of a body no longer there. “Not really,” it said in a high-pitched voice that should have been impossible without breath or a tongue or tendons.
“Excuse me?” Sherlock said, staring at the skull.
It remained annoyingly silent.
“You’ve never spoken back to me before.”
The skull seemed to grin at him and let out a disconcerting giggle. “You’ve never said anything worth speaking to before. Aren’t you ready to go?”
“Go where?” Sherlock asked.
“Oh, here. Or there. It’s up to you, really.”
Sherlock frowned at the nonsensical answer. “But I don’t know which way I’m supposed to be going.”
“Then you can’t very well pick the wrong way, can you?” the skull said reasonably. There was a logical problem with that, Sherlock knew, but when he tried to examine it, the sentence fell apart and shattered under his clumsy-handed analysis, like a dream slipping away after the dreamer awoke.
“This is madness,” Sherlock declared. “I’ve gone mad, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” the skull said with false sympathy. For an object without any facial structure to speak of, it was wonderfully communicative of its moods and emotions. “But I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We’re all mad here.”
Chapter 1/6
Chapter 2/6
Chapter 3/6
Chapter 4/6
Chapter 5/6
Chapter 6/6
Author:
tripatchRating: R
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Sherlock Through the Looking Glass. It can be literal, with Sherlock ending up in Wonderland and utterly annoyed by the fact that nothing makes sense, or you could take it in some creepy abstract philosophical sense, like he takes drugs and hallucinates.
Sherlock’s eyes opened suddenly, his lips parted in a gasp that never came. He sat up on the sofa, noting that John’s jacket missing from the coat rack—he must be over at Sarah’s—and the shades of afternoon light that had crawled across the floor in a checkerboard pattern had dimmed. It must be evening. The flat was dark around him. Even his skull, which he favoured like the friendly face of an old acquaintance, appeared twisted and grim in the faded light.
He swung his legs out, standing and crossing to the door, which swung open with an ill-omened creak. There were seventeen steps down, but on the second, he stumbled, tumbling down the flight without end, feeling his skin bruise under sharp edges and his head striking against one of the banisters with a crack. Seventeen steps, but the fall went on far longer than that. The landing seemed so far away, everything cascading and blurring as he spun down the stairs endlessly. Stars burst behind his eyelids in bright fireworks of scarlet and sick green and halogen-lit yellow, before finally he found himself lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling of his flat once again.
Sherlock sat up, examining his body, noting that the purple stains which should have been blooming underneath his pale skin were absent. He rubbed the back of his head, searching for the bump that he knew should be there, but all his hand encountered were the ordinary mess of tangled dark curls.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured, looking around. The flat looked much the same as it did before, but—
The skull on the mantelpiece yawned suddenly, a bone-cracking shudder as if it were shaking out the loose limbs of a body no longer there. “Not really,” it said in a high-pitched voice that should have been impossible without breath or a tongue or tendons.
“Excuse me?” Sherlock said, staring at the skull.
It remained annoyingly silent.
“You’ve never spoken back to me before.”
The skull seemed to grin at him and let out a disconcerting giggle. “You’ve never said anything worth speaking to before. Aren’t you ready to go?”
“Go where?” Sherlock asked.
“Oh, here. Or there. It’s up to you, really.”
Sherlock frowned at the nonsensical answer. “But I don’t know which way I’m supposed to be going.”
“Then you can’t very well pick the wrong way, can you?” the skull said reasonably. There was a logical problem with that, Sherlock knew, but when he tried to examine it, the sentence fell apart and shattered under his clumsy-handed analysis, like a dream slipping away after the dreamer awoke.
“This is madness,” Sherlock declared. “I’ve gone mad, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” the skull said with false sympathy. For an object without any facial structure to speak of, it was wonderfully communicative of its moods and emotions. “But I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We’re all mad here.”
Chapter 1/6
Chapter 2/6
Chapter 3/6
Chapter 4/6
Chapter 5/6
Chapter 6/6
