Dr. John H Watson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theveteran) wrote2013-03-05 07:34 pm
theveteran) wrote2013-03-05 07:34 pm
Trying my hand at some fic. Unedited, sorry for that!
Title: Grief's Conversion
Author: Duckie
Rating: PG-13 (for semi-graphic violence and mature situations)
Warnings: Set post 'The Reichenbach Fall' so implied spoilers out the wazoo. TW for talk of death and morbid dream descriptions!
The dreams always start the same. As they shift into nightmares, John knows they will always end the same. At first Sherlock is alive and well but soon enough death finds him and leaves a corpse. Its those bits, the ones in the middle between life and not, that change each time but remain equally horrifying. John can never save him. He failed his friend in reality and now he's destined to fail him for eternity in the dreamscape.
In those early days after the funeral, when the stories from his subconscious first begin playing out, John is unsuspecting of their true nature.
John and Sherlock are walking. Nearly every instances begins that way. Its their earliest days together John is taking Sherlock on a tour of what he remembers as 'his' St. Bart's, inserting anecdotes here and there. Sherlock manages to get ahead of him somehow. By the time John has caught up to one of the viewing halls, he can hear the din of voices in class. Perhaps the other man has gone inside to tell everyone, and their brother, how they're doing it wrong?
John pushes open the doors, inhaling and preparing an apology for his belligerent friend. As he pans over the space, his eyes settle on a cadaver that's half-way through an educational autopsy. The apology is lost in his throat as it goes dry. John chokes. His best friend is laid out like one of the deceased man's own experiments. John is never even given the chance to save him.
As the months in London drag on, John finds sleep increasingly elusive. He's learned what will come to haunt his nights and he almost can't bear it coupled with his hollow days. The longer Sherlock's been gone in the real world, the more graphic the nightmares have become. In his heart John cannot resolve his anguish suitably, and cleanly, enough to get even a tenuous grasp on his mind in non-waking hours.
As they are walking, this time, the beauty of the London skyline is glittering ahead. Its night and spring. The smell of little India is in the air and the detective is talking about the chemical reactions that happen when consuming curry. It's about as interesting as fifty kinds of tobacco but John humors his friend with lazy 'mm hms' that he knows will eventually get him a snark in response. Unfortunately, that expected response never comes.
The sounds of gunshots accost John's ears and the soldier takes over. He's grabbing for Sherlock but to his horror, John finds that even the fastest reflexes couldn't stop shooters from filling his best friend with bullets. Blood is pouring from Sherlock's wounds and the soldier is gone, the doctor has resigned, and its one human to another, impotently comforting Sherlock until he inevitably drowns in his own blood.
On the nights that John manages to simply doze, his rest is routinely interrupted with abstract sounds and flashes of light.
Shadows moving, just out of reach. Gunpowder explosions. Breaking bones and splitting flesh. Strangled, amorpheous cries.
The veteran is finding he prefers these times because the vagueness is far more comforting and familiar.
Author: Duckie
Rating: PG-13 (for semi-graphic violence and mature situations)
Warnings: Set post 'The Reichenbach Fall' so implied spoilers out the wazoo. TW for talk of death and morbid dream descriptions!
The dreams always start the same. As they shift into nightmares, John knows they will always end the same. At first Sherlock is alive and well but soon enough death finds him and leaves a corpse. Its those bits, the ones in the middle between life and not, that change each time but remain equally horrifying. John can never save him. He failed his friend in reality and now he's destined to fail him for eternity in the dreamscape.
In those early days after the funeral, when the stories from his subconscious first begin playing out, John is unsuspecting of their true nature.
John and Sherlock are walking. Nearly every instances begins that way. Its their earliest days together John is taking Sherlock on a tour of what he remembers as 'his' St. Bart's, inserting anecdotes here and there. Sherlock manages to get ahead of him somehow. By the time John has caught up to one of the viewing halls, he can hear the din of voices in class. Perhaps the other man has gone inside to tell everyone, and their brother, how they're doing it wrong?
John pushes open the doors, inhaling and preparing an apology for his belligerent friend. As he pans over the space, his eyes settle on a cadaver that's half-way through an educational autopsy. The apology is lost in his throat as it goes dry. John chokes. His best friend is laid out like one of the deceased man's own experiments. John is never even given the chance to save him.
As the months in London drag on, John finds sleep increasingly elusive. He's learned what will come to haunt his nights and he almost can't bear it coupled with his hollow days. The longer Sherlock's been gone in the real world, the more graphic the nightmares have become. In his heart John cannot resolve his anguish suitably, and cleanly, enough to get even a tenuous grasp on his mind in non-waking hours.
As they are walking, this time, the beauty of the London skyline is glittering ahead. Its night and spring. The smell of little India is in the air and the detective is talking about the chemical reactions that happen when consuming curry. It's about as interesting as fifty kinds of tobacco but John humors his friend with lazy 'mm hms' that he knows will eventually get him a snark in response. Unfortunately, that expected response never comes.
The sounds of gunshots accost John's ears and the soldier takes over. He's grabbing for Sherlock but to his horror, John finds that even the fastest reflexes couldn't stop shooters from filling his best friend with bullets. Blood is pouring from Sherlock's wounds and the soldier is gone, the doctor has resigned, and its one human to another, impotently comforting Sherlock until he inevitably drowns in his own blood.
On the nights that John manages to simply doze, his rest is routinely interrupted with abstract sounds and flashes of light.
Shadows moving, just out of reach. Gunpowder explosions. Breaking bones and splitting flesh. Strangled, amorpheous cries.
The veteran is finding he prefers these times because the vagueness is far more comforting and familiar.