No Sound of Footsteps 1/2
Dec. 10th, 2010 11:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: No Sound of Footsteps 1/2
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John, if you squint
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, "Sherlock/John. He was a beautiful fiction I invented to keep out the cold."
Cold.
He remembered feeling cold, his bones freezing inside of him and shattering into splinters that stabbed at the inside of his skin. He imagined them stabbing through the muscles and skin, leaving streaks of red blood on the ice, a gory statue of ice and bone.
The cold faded, leaving a terrifying numbness in its wake. He couldn’t feel his limbs anymore, couldn’t even think beyond the shroud of fog that ghosted through his mind and covered his thoughts like a veil made of frozen particles of rain. His teeth had stopped chattering long ago and he missed the sound that reminded him he was still alive. Everything seemed blanketed in white, muffled, and he wanted to shout so that he could believe he still existed, but even his voice was strangled in his throat.
God, he missed the cold.
“Are you just going to lie there all day?” a voice said.
His neck wouldn’t move, but he rolled his eyes to focus on the figure forming in front of him. The figure was dressed in a great coat that looked warm even from here, a scarf covering his neck, and pale eyes piercing him through.
“Can’t move,” he tried to say. May have said. His ears had gone so cold that all they could make out was the rushing sound of wind, even though he knew there was none there.
“You really should get up.”
“I can’t, Sherlock,” he said irritably. His tongue felt like a slab of ice in his mouth. He wondered if he would get a brain freeze from it, realised he was falling into hysteria, but couldn’t even bring himself to care. “I can’t move.”
“You could if you tried,” Sherlock said reasonably, sitting cross-legged in front of him. He looked so warm that John ached to reach out a hand and touch him, even though he knew his hands would burn at contact. “It’s all psychosomatic anyway.”
John closed his eyes. “Not everything is psychosomatic.”
“No,” said Sherlock with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I imagine not. Hypothermia certainly isn’t. That’s what you’re suffering from, by the way.”
“Yes, I am a doctor,” John reminded him irritably.
“No need to get tetchy about it, I was only making an observation,” Sherlock said with a sniff. “Besides, one of the signs of hypothermia is muddled thoughts.”
“Are hallucinations?”
“Sometimes. Are you hallucinating?” Sherlock peered at him. For the life of him, John couldn’t tell if it was worry or scientific curiosity on his face.
“Maybe,” John said. “I’m trying to hallucinate a warm blanket.”
“That’s good,” Sherlock praised him. “What else?”
“A cup of warm tea.”
“Oh, don’t be so dull. Wouldn’t you rather a glass of brandy?”
John rummaged through his muddled thoughts, knowing there was a reason why warm tea would be better than brandy right now. “Alcohol. Makes hypothermia worse.”
“Very good. So a cup of warm tea and a blanket.”
“Yes,” John murmured. “That would be lovely.”
“You won’t get it unless you get up,” Sherlock said cruelly. He stood and loomed over John’s prone body.
“I can’t,” John felt like sobbing. He hadn’t cried for a long time, not since the first day in Afghanistan, when the constant onslaught of heat and butchery sent him careening to the latrine, throwing his stomach up and tasting salty tears at the corner of his mouth. Not since he was shot, blood pouring out of a wound, the pain searing through him. Even the thought of it sent his shoulder into weak spasms.
Sherlock’s face softened. “Just hold on, John. We’ll find you. Just hold on.”
He turned to walk away, shoulders hunching against the brisk chill and buried the lower half of his face into his scarf. John tried to raise a hand, attempted to ask him not to leave him here, but found that his body wouldn’t respond to his commands. As Sherlock disappeared around the corner, John thought that the silence was unbearable. Sherlock should have made some noise, even the dim echo of his footsteps on the ground, but there was nothing but the rush of wind again.
He closed his eyes. Had anyone been there to see him, they would have seen his skin puffy and blue-tinted against the white of snow, his chapped lips mumbling out an endless litany of something too faint to hear.
But of course, there was no one really there.
Warm (2/2)
Optional Tag
Author:
tripatchRating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John, if you squint
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, "Sherlock/John. He was a beautiful fiction I invented to keep out the cold."
Cold.
He remembered feeling cold, his bones freezing inside of him and shattering into splinters that stabbed at the inside of his skin. He imagined them stabbing through the muscles and skin, leaving streaks of red blood on the ice, a gory statue of ice and bone.
The cold faded, leaving a terrifying numbness in its wake. He couldn’t feel his limbs anymore, couldn’t even think beyond the shroud of fog that ghosted through his mind and covered his thoughts like a veil made of frozen particles of rain. His teeth had stopped chattering long ago and he missed the sound that reminded him he was still alive. Everything seemed blanketed in white, muffled, and he wanted to shout so that he could believe he still existed, but even his voice was strangled in his throat.
God, he missed the cold.
“Are you just going to lie there all day?” a voice said.
His neck wouldn’t move, but he rolled his eyes to focus on the figure forming in front of him. The figure was dressed in a great coat that looked warm even from here, a scarf covering his neck, and pale eyes piercing him through.
“Can’t move,” he tried to say. May have said. His ears had gone so cold that all they could make out was the rushing sound of wind, even though he knew there was none there.
“You really should get up.”
“I can’t, Sherlock,” he said irritably. His tongue felt like a slab of ice in his mouth. He wondered if he would get a brain freeze from it, realised he was falling into hysteria, but couldn’t even bring himself to care. “I can’t move.”
“You could if you tried,” Sherlock said reasonably, sitting cross-legged in front of him. He looked so warm that John ached to reach out a hand and touch him, even though he knew his hands would burn at contact. “It’s all psychosomatic anyway.”
John closed his eyes. “Not everything is psychosomatic.”
“No,” said Sherlock with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I imagine not. Hypothermia certainly isn’t. That’s what you’re suffering from, by the way.”
“Yes, I am a doctor,” John reminded him irritably.
“No need to get tetchy about it, I was only making an observation,” Sherlock said with a sniff. “Besides, one of the signs of hypothermia is muddled thoughts.”
“Are hallucinations?”
“Sometimes. Are you hallucinating?” Sherlock peered at him. For the life of him, John couldn’t tell if it was worry or scientific curiosity on his face.
“Maybe,” John said. “I’m trying to hallucinate a warm blanket.”
“That’s good,” Sherlock praised him. “What else?”
“A cup of warm tea.”
“Oh, don’t be so dull. Wouldn’t you rather a glass of brandy?”
John rummaged through his muddled thoughts, knowing there was a reason why warm tea would be better than brandy right now. “Alcohol. Makes hypothermia worse.”
“Very good. So a cup of warm tea and a blanket.”
“Yes,” John murmured. “That would be lovely.”
“You won’t get it unless you get up,” Sherlock said cruelly. He stood and loomed over John’s prone body.
“I can’t,” John felt like sobbing. He hadn’t cried for a long time, not since the first day in Afghanistan, when the constant onslaught of heat and butchery sent him careening to the latrine, throwing his stomach up and tasting salty tears at the corner of his mouth. Not since he was shot, blood pouring out of a wound, the pain searing through him. Even the thought of it sent his shoulder into weak spasms.
Sherlock’s face softened. “Just hold on, John. We’ll find you. Just hold on.”
He turned to walk away, shoulders hunching against the brisk chill and buried the lower half of his face into his scarf. John tried to raise a hand, attempted to ask him not to leave him here, but found that his body wouldn’t respond to his commands. As Sherlock disappeared around the corner, John thought that the silence was unbearable. Sherlock should have made some noise, even the dim echo of his footsteps on the ground, but there was nothing but the rush of wind again.
He closed his eyes. Had anyone been there to see him, they would have seen his skin puffy and blue-tinted against the white of snow, his chapped lips mumbling out an endless litany of something too faint to hear.
But of course, there was no one really there.
Warm (2/2)
Optional Tag
