For a moment, as he opened his eyes to absolute darkness, he wondered if he was still dreaming. It would certainly explain the utter heaviness of his limbs, as though gravity was ten times normal sea level, and the strong scent of lavender. He let his eyes close again and drifted, half-asleep still and unwilling to let go of the rest.
But even in the middle of the night there should have been some light in his room. Some kind of noise beyond his own breath. If nothing else his computer was a constant background hum of fans, power and blinking lights - but there was nothing. No fans, no electricity humming down the wires, no coloured lights throwing weird shadows across the walls and ceiling. Nothing at all, in fact, but the still-strong lavender scent and the increasing tempo of his heartbeat.
It's just a dream, he comforted himself, curling up under the blankets and snuggling into the pillow. None of this is real, and chances are when I wake up I won't even remember it. Go back to sleep.
Lavender and the exploding patterns behind his eyelids lulled him back to sleep.
Showing posts with label angst. Show all posts
Showing posts with label angst. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
The Memory Tree 4/?
Fandom: XMFC
Title: The Memory Tree
Chapter: 4/?
Rating: G
Pairing: None. Charles/Erik if you squint.
Summary: Every year, Raven comes home for Christmas.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Memory Tree 3/?
Fandom: XMFC
Title: The Memory Tree
Chapter: 3/?
Rating: G
Pairing: None. Charles/Erik if you squint.
Summary: Every year, Raven comes home for Christmas.
The Memory Tree 2/?
Fandom: XMFC
Title: The Memory Tree
Chapter: 2/?
Rating: G
Pairing: None. Charles/Erik if you squint.
Summary: Every year, Raven comes home for Christmas.
The Memory Tree 1/?
Fandom: XMFC
Title: The Memory Tree
Chapter: 1/?
Rating: G
Pairing: None. Charles/Erik if you squint.
Summary: Every year, Raven comes home for Christmas.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Impossible
The impossible man talks to the only one who will never judge him, never forget him. The only one who always listens.
Subtext Textified
Erik and Charles continue texting. Because in a house full of mutant teenagers (and one adult human) - who else are they going to talk to?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Play Me Dear part 2
The second thing he was aware of when he woke up was that Jack had sedated him. He’d been so stunned by Jack’s words that he hadn’t even reacted when Jack raised some kind of gun and shot him – he had just gone blank, and then the world swam into blackness.
It was still blackness, actually. He opened his eyes, and that helped a little but the room was still mostly filled with darkness with a small sliver of light showing under the door. It was just enough for him to realise he wasn’t at the Hub or anywhere else he knew; everything was cold cement unless it was cold steel (okay so that did indicate the Hub but he knew every inch of that place, every inch, and there was nowhere there like this), and it gleamed.
Cement shouldn’t gleam, not unless it’s been repeatedly cleaned within an inch of its life, and he finally pinpointed the reason why he was so uneasy. After the warehouse, what he’d heard, what Jack had confessed to – well, the knowledge that he had a secret bunker that was so thoroughly cleaned raised issues he’d rather not think about, especially when he was the one trapped in it.
Strictly speaking he wasn’t tied down in any way. Now that he had established where exactly he was (or wasn’t), he tested his limbs and found he could move freely. The smell of new fabric reached his nostrils as the material creased around his knees and elbows, bending around his limbs as he levered himself upright. His hair was damp on the back of his neck, his wrists and head no longer hurt. He practically screamed ‘clean’ as much as the disturbingly gleaming room did. And he hadn’t been awake for any of it.
He wondered, briefly, if he would be feeling quite this calm if it had been anyone other than Jack who took him, who washed the blood off him and apparently replaced his blood-stained suit with a new one – all while he was asleep. Or sedated, or stunned, or whatever the term was for that particular weapon. Perhaps when he saw Jack again he’d ask what it was, where he’d gotten it – and of course, why they were here.
The scuff of a footstep outside the door had his head whipping around to see a shadow outside. Speak of the devil he thought irreverently, and braced himself for what would doubtless be an onslaught of light. Eyes shut tight against the glare, he waited for the light. So focussed on one sense, he almost missed the sound of the door opening in the darkness.
“It’s alright,” Jack’s voice said from the doorway, soothing in its familiar cadence. “You can open your eyes. Light will slowly return at a pace your eyes can automatically adjust to without pain. Sorry about the accommodations – I don’t have a lot of room here, and no beds. How are your wrists?”
Ianto opened his eyes mostly out of surprise, and found that the light under the door was in fact quite dim and low to the ground. In its pale reflections from cement and steel, he could just make out Jack’s shape – sans coat – leaning against the doorframe.
“The sort of place you only go to work, sir?” he asked, still unnerved by the gleaming cleanness of it.
Jack chuckled, and the low familiar tone set him at ease. “Exactly. Here, let’s get you standing.”
Jack’s silhouette strode over to him and extended its arms, and he automatically took the offered assistance. Jack easily pulled him to his feet, flush against his body so he could feel the muscles trembling with a tenseness that belied his Captain’s easy tone.
“Sir?” he asked, concern filling his tone. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s just...good to see you, Ianto,” Jack rumbled hesitantly, the sound carrying more through his chest to Ianto’s ears than from his lips. “It’s good to know you’re alive.”
“Yes sir, you retrieved me from those people,” Ianto reassured him, frowning when the muscles twitched again indicating he was thinking about something else. “Sir?”
He looked up into eyes filled with more pain than Jack had ever shown, more broken than Jack had ever seemed. He couldn’t stand seeing those emotions in the only man he would ever love, and reached up to kiss them away. Jack’s hands instantly tightened around his arms, roughly trying to pull him closer than they already were even as his lips melted around Ianto’s, soft movements drinking in everything Ianto had to give. The contrast of demand and submission showed him more than any expression or word could just how worried Jack had been. It was so quintessentially Jack – experienced lover, inexperienced at relationships.
“Let me love you,” Jack whispered against his lips, pleading – but he didn’t need to beg, Ianto would always give Jack this. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t tease him first.
“But there isn’t a bed,” Ianto pointed out, flashing Jack a cheeky smile in the light he hadn’t even noticed brightening.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Jack grinned in return, but it looked more like the macabre smile of a skull and Ianto lost the will to continue to tease.
“Love me, Jack,” Ianto whispered, and surrendered.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Obsession
Really, he should have known it wouldn't be that simple. Things involving Sherlock rarely were, even small things like getting the paper became complicated just because Sherlock was involved. So trying something that was already complicated was just asking for trouble.
He was talking, of course, about the relationship. Not that most people would see it that way because most people didn't see at all but they shared a connection that defied Sherlock's usual platitudes about being married to his work.
Then it got complicated because John was in danger, had nearly been killed, and never mind that Sherlock risked his life all the time because he always knew he could outsmart them but John... Moriarty could not be predicted, not really, and there had been every chance that John would die, would be taken away from him and he Would Not Let That Happen. John was his, and he would never willingly let him go, especially not to the grasping claws of death.
What happened that night wasn't a gentle introduction to sex, nor a passionate joining. It was hard and brutal and possessiveness in its most basic and powerful form. Mine, it said, as Sherlock's cock slammed into John over and over again with little regard for pleasure and no consideration of comfort. Mine, mine, always mine, never letting go.
Things always got more complicated around Sherlock, and this time relationship meant obsession.
He was talking, of course, about the relationship. Not that most people would see it that way because most people didn't see at all but they shared a connection that defied Sherlock's usual platitudes about being married to his work.
Then it got complicated because John was in danger, had nearly been killed, and never mind that Sherlock risked his life all the time because he always knew he could outsmart them but John... Moriarty could not be predicted, not really, and there had been every chance that John would die, would be taken away from him and he Would Not Let That Happen. John was his, and he would never willingly let him go, especially not to the grasping claws of death.
What happened that night wasn't a gentle introduction to sex, nor a passionate joining. It was hard and brutal and possessiveness in its most basic and powerful form. Mine, it said, as Sherlock's cock slammed into John over and over again with little regard for pleasure and no consideration of comfort. Mine, mine, always mine, never letting go.
Things always got more complicated around Sherlock, and this time relationship meant obsession.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Reborn
He'd always had a talent for surviving anything the world had to throw at him. The doctors had called him extraordinary as the ranks of their subjects dwindled and he remained alive. A miracle, they said, and poked and prodded him even more until he couldn't remember his name - he used the Roman numeral on his door. Until he couldn't remember where he came from, and made agony his hearthstone. We want to know your limits, they said as he screamed; we want to know how far the human body can go.
On a night of fire and pain and panic, they set in motion just how far he would go. They tried to erase all the evidence, but he refused to be erased - he would not fade with history and memory. Even though the darkness called so sweetly, he would not be swayed. Because these things that called themselves humans and heroes and saviours could not be allowed to continue the subjugation of His people.
So he waited, and planned, and waited until the rot was clear to all who cared to look, and then he made them look. Monster he may be, but he was the sword that would strike down those far worse, the shield to protect the innocent masses from reprisal. He wasn't innocent, never had been. Never would be. So he had died for the ideal, the idea of freedom.
He'd never died before, not quite. But in Evey's arms, handing over the decision to someone who was inside the system but had also been outside and could make the decision without vengeful hatred colouring their perspective, full of the bullets of Mister Creedy's most loyal - he gave in to the blackness.
And then he woke up. He remembered. In the clarity of the agony he was born in, he remembered all the other times he'd died for a cause that was just, for a people who could and would be so much more. He remembered the man who wasn't a man, the girl who had been Time, his loves and his losses. And this time he didn't cry, because by now he knew that's how it was, and he had made peace with his fate.
And in the rubble of Parliament House, an undying man who had been called many names and made someone else's his own started to climb out of the tomb of his own making into another new world.
On a night of fire and pain and panic, they set in motion just how far he would go. They tried to erase all the evidence, but he refused to be erased - he would not fade with history and memory. Even though the darkness called so sweetly, he would not be swayed. Because these things that called themselves humans and heroes and saviours could not be allowed to continue the subjugation of His people.
So he waited, and planned, and waited until the rot was clear to all who cared to look, and then he made them look. Monster he may be, but he was the sword that would strike down those far worse, the shield to protect the innocent masses from reprisal. He wasn't innocent, never had been. Never would be. So he had died for the ideal, the idea of freedom.
He'd never died before, not quite. But in Evey's arms, handing over the decision to someone who was inside the system but had also been outside and could make the decision without vengeful hatred colouring their perspective, full of the bullets of Mister Creedy's most loyal - he gave in to the blackness.
And then he woke up. He remembered. In the clarity of the agony he was born in, he remembered all the other times he'd died for a cause that was just, for a people who could and would be so much more. He remembered the man who wasn't a man, the girl who had been Time, his loves and his losses. And this time he didn't cry, because by now he knew that's how it was, and he had made peace with his fate.
And in the rubble of Parliament House, an undying man who had been called many names and made someone else's his own started to climb out of the tomb of his own making into another new world.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Burden of Innocence
It was always the same: the pain followed by death (rinse and repeat as many times as necessary), and then she would come to clean him up and put him back together - sometimes literally. He never asked and she never told him whether it was on His orders or her own will, and he was infinitely grateful for every visit, cherishing each one as if it were the last. While she worked they would talk - or she would talk if he couldn't - and it was always about small things, the things in life they had taken for granted and now recalled with a clarity that could have been painful if it wasn't shared.
"Do you remember October mornings?"
"I remember... On really cold ones, the air sparkled when the sun rose, because of frost overnight. Just for a minute, the world was made of rainbows. Then the sun evaporated it all."
"Oh God yes. Do you remember October 29th 1997? The coldest October day on record in London!"
"It was even worse on October 17th 1993 in Scotland. And don't even get me started on before records."
She laughed, he grinned; meanwhile her hands were busy with a sponge and a bucket of water, wiping the charred skin from his new flesh.
"At least the apples were good that year."
She laughed again, because if she didn't she might think about what she was doing and cry.
They never spoke about Him, or what happened to him, or what was happening to the Earth. That was their reality, and if it became their everything they just might break. The others had their own ways of coping - Francine depended on her anger and outrage at being tricked, becoming increasingly bitter and withdrawn; Clive reverted to childish optimism and idolisation of his family, refusing to see Francine as anything but his wife and Tish as anything but his innocent daughter - but Tish had been young and idealistic and when her illusions of the world were shattered Jack had been the only one to tell her it was okay to feel hurt and that it would pass.
He was right, but only because she had him. Where her family became insular and set themselves against the world, Jack showed her how to look over life and see the bad and the good - and there was so much good she'd missed before she met him. She was halfway to acceptance when He found out about their little talks and decided to punish them both.
She had to watch, this time. And every time she made a sound, every time she so much as flinched, more pain was added to his agony. It was unbearable. It shattered her acceptance and taught her to hate with a fire that never died.
But she still came afterwards, hosed down his cell and held onto him as he screamed his body back together. For once, as she sponged away the blood from the new flesh and he caught his breath, she didn't speak and she didn't smile.
"I'm sorry," he croaked after she carefully slid water down his throat, and she looked at him sharply, surprise breaking through her encompassing rage.
"What?"
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said, a little smoother this time as his throat regenerated. "I'm sorry you had to watch His cruelty. He likes an audience."
"But it was my fault, because of me! All the things He did to you, because I-"
"No, it wasn't. None of this is your fault, and it is more than you should be asked to bear. I'm sorry that this is your burden, and I'm sorry that this is so unfair - but I'm not sorry for you."
She looked at him incredulously, ready to disbelieve him - but he never lied. Not once in all their talks had he lied. As his words sank in, she examined them with all the intelligence that had led to her success, turning them over without emotional bias. And, as she peeled away the shock and the rage and the guilt, she realised they were true.
She should not have had to see that - it was His fault, He made her watch, He did everything, and He did not need an excuse. She was...just an innocent bystander.
Now she couldn't look away from him, from blue eyes that had seen to the heart of her and regretted only the circumstance. Shock filled her and held her immobile, body and mind, until he spoke again.
"Come here."
Mechanically, she followed his direction, stepping up until she looked up into his eyes from only inches away. His head tilted forward and for a panicked moment she thought he was going to break all the bonds of trust she'd laid and kiss her but - no, he did, but it was on the forehead and full of all the affection of the closest friend, all the love without the merest smudge of desire, and it broke something within her. Her guilt, the whetstone of her own self-destruction, shattered inside her as she broke through her shock. She clung to him, pressed against his chest as she cried for her own innocence and the ruin of her former life through no fault of her own, and he stood and soothed and pressed kisses to her head and let her mourn for should-have-been. He was her rock, her steadfast anchor against everything that tried to destroy her; he was her constant, and she would never let him go.
"Do you remember October mornings?"
"I remember... On really cold ones, the air sparkled when the sun rose, because of frost overnight. Just for a minute, the world was made of rainbows. Then the sun evaporated it all."
"Oh God yes. Do you remember October 29th 1997? The coldest October day on record in London!"
"It was even worse on October 17th 1993 in Scotland. And don't even get me started on before records."
She laughed, he grinned; meanwhile her hands were busy with a sponge and a bucket of water, wiping the charred skin from his new flesh.
"At least the apples were good that year."
She laughed again, because if she didn't she might think about what she was doing and cry.
They never spoke about Him, or what happened to him, or what was happening to the Earth. That was their reality, and if it became their everything they just might break. The others had their own ways of coping - Francine depended on her anger and outrage at being tricked, becoming increasingly bitter and withdrawn; Clive reverted to childish optimism and idolisation of his family, refusing to see Francine as anything but his wife and Tish as anything but his innocent daughter - but Tish had been young and idealistic and when her illusions of the world were shattered Jack had been the only one to tell her it was okay to feel hurt and that it would pass.
He was right, but only because she had him. Where her family became insular and set themselves against the world, Jack showed her how to look over life and see the bad and the good - and there was so much good she'd missed before she met him. She was halfway to acceptance when He found out about their little talks and decided to punish them both.
She had to watch, this time. And every time she made a sound, every time she so much as flinched, more pain was added to his agony. It was unbearable. It shattered her acceptance and taught her to hate with a fire that never died.
But she still came afterwards, hosed down his cell and held onto him as he screamed his body back together. For once, as she sponged away the blood from the new flesh and he caught his breath, she didn't speak and she didn't smile.
"I'm sorry," he croaked after she carefully slid water down his throat, and she looked at him sharply, surprise breaking through her encompassing rage.
"What?"
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said, a little smoother this time as his throat regenerated. "I'm sorry you had to watch His cruelty. He likes an audience."
"But it was my fault, because of me! All the things He did to you, because I-"
"No, it wasn't. None of this is your fault, and it is more than you should be asked to bear. I'm sorry that this is your burden, and I'm sorry that this is so unfair - but I'm not sorry for you."
She looked at him incredulously, ready to disbelieve him - but he never lied. Not once in all their talks had he lied. As his words sank in, she examined them with all the intelligence that had led to her success, turning them over without emotional bias. And, as she peeled away the shock and the rage and the guilt, she realised they were true.
She should not have had to see that - it was His fault, He made her watch, He did everything, and He did not need an excuse. She was...just an innocent bystander.
Now she couldn't look away from him, from blue eyes that had seen to the heart of her and regretted only the circumstance. Shock filled her and held her immobile, body and mind, until he spoke again.
"Come here."
Mechanically, she followed his direction, stepping up until she looked up into his eyes from only inches away. His head tilted forward and for a panicked moment she thought he was going to break all the bonds of trust she'd laid and kiss her but - no, he did, but it was on the forehead and full of all the affection of the closest friend, all the love without the merest smudge of desire, and it broke something within her. Her guilt, the whetstone of her own self-destruction, shattered inside her as she broke through her shock. She clung to him, pressed against his chest as she cried for her own innocence and the ruin of her former life through no fault of her own, and he stood and soothed and pressed kisses to her head and let her mourn for should-have-been. He was her rock, her steadfast anchor against everything that tried to destroy her; he was her constant, and she would never let him go.
Broken Perspective pt 4
Some people would call Jack Harkness a broken man - I couldn't tell you for sure, but he has every reason to be. After the Year That Never Was, there was only a handful of us who knew what had happened, who could talk to each other without sounding completely loony. Jack was one of us, and even if I was a bit on the outside...well, I heard things didn't I? Tish would wake up silently sobbing from the memories of what she saw done to him - silent because if she made a sound whatever it was would get worse, just for her. Not that she's the one who told me, because after all, I wasn't there, and because I wasn't there I was somehow apart even if my family was technically together again. But Jack's been over a few times, and left as soon as I showed up with a saucy grin and a wink of bright blue eyes - but my sister or my mum or even sometimes my dad will be drying tears. He's good at acting, is our Captain. I think the only one who'll ever know whether or not he's broken is himself.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Broken Perspective pt 3
Some people would call Jack Harkness a broken man - and they'd be right. Isn't it wonderful? Captain Jack Harkness, constant of the universe, and he's in pieces on the floor. My floor. I'd laugh if it weren't so pitiful - no wait, I'm laughing anyway, it's hilarious! Humans weren't made to live for very long, and the Captain has been alive much longer than he should. Not a patch on Timelords of course, but nothing is. So the Captain has been stretched and prodded and died and loved and had them die...over and over again...and just between you and me? He was already broken when he came to me, too many friends in the ground and too many lies on his tongue. Oh yes, Jack's broken. I made sure of it.
Broken Perspective pt 2
Some people would call Jack Harkness a broken man - but I couldn't tell you if they're right. I probably should, right? I'm Jack's...something...so I should know? But I don't. No matter how much I think I know him, there's always something left, something that is so at odds with everything else I know, and I'm back where I started again. I've only barely scratched the surface, and however much he protests that's all there is, I know there's something deeper there - if only I could reach it. If you want to know if Jack's broken, you'll have to ask him. Good luck getting a straight answer.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Play Me Dear
This one is for @TLorie. It's uhm...a bit graphic, so not for the faint-hearted. Or those opposed to slash.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Reminiscence
I remember Earth-That-Was.
I remember its shining cities, glass towers like desperate fingers stretching for the sky.
I remember its powerful planes, white gulls made of cold metal soaring high over earth and water alike.
I remember its monuments, inspirations of engineering and emotion that were meant to last into the annals of eternity.
I remember its natural wonders, wrought by no hand of man but the pure creation and intricate workings of the Earth itself, masterpieces of Mother Nature.
I remember how beautiful it was.
I remember its shining cities, glass towers like desperate fingers stretching for the sky.
I remember its powerful planes, white gulls made of cold metal soaring high over earth and water alike.
I remember its monuments, inspirations of engineering and emotion that were meant to last into the annals of eternity.
I remember its natural wonders, wrought by no hand of man but the pure creation and intricate workings of the Earth itself, masterpieces of Mother Nature.
I remember how beautiful it was.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
One Step Closer
"No Inspector, I really don't want you coming any closer," drawled that infuriatingly nasal voice the three of them - Lestrade, Sherlock and John - had all grown to hate: Moriarty. He was lounging in the doorway to the bank vault, gold glimmering ignored around a restrained John within. Sherlock was poised with Lestrade and his men at the top of the stairs, the red dots of their sights playing over Moriarty's face and chest - but the consulting criminal was completely unconcerned.
"I've got what I came for," Moriarty continued. "You know what that is, don't you Sherlock?"
"The original deeds of Parliament," Sherlock said quietly, eyes riveted on John, checking that he was unhurt. Apart from a bump on the head he seemed alright, but hunched over like he was it was difficult to tell whether anything else was amiss.
"Oh very good, you did do your homework," Moriarty clapped twice, mockingly. "Your lapdog seems surprised. Didn't you tell him?"
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock snapped, refocussing on Moriarty. "We've foiled your little game. Now hand over the deeds and I might be able to persuade the Sergeant to keep her overenthusiastic hands to herself."
"Tempting, but allow me to make a counter offer," Moriarty pouted, eyes burning with what could have been insanity or genius. "You let me walk out that door with the deeds - or your little pet gets himself blown to pieces. Stand up Doctor Watson, let the nice Inspector see what you're packing."
John glared at Moriarty, then flinched when the small man's hand twitched. The involuntary movement incensed Sherlock and his lips thinned with his displeasure as John obediently - if reluctantly - levered himself to his feet against the gold. Once again his jacket had been laden with explosives and detonators, enough to decimate the vault and blow back into the corridor. Donovan whistled.
"Aren't you making a little oversight here?" Lestrade drawled, seeing the explosive power present. "You set him off, you're caught in it too."
"The corner between doorframe and wall create enough of a shelter that he will be largely unharmed by the blast," Sherlock quickly dismissed the Inspector's brief frisson of hope, eyes fixed on Moriarty. "You know we can't just let you walk away with those deeds."
"Oh I think you can," Moriarty smirked. "After all, you are the great Sherlock Holmes. You can do anything with big brother looking out for you."
A sneer twitched around the corners of Sherlock's lips at the mention of Mycroft but he made no further reaction, studying Moriarty. After several long minutes he straightened and nodded.
"Alright."
"What, Sherlock, you can't -" Lestrade protested, but was cut short by Sherlock. His terse "Shut up" quieted the Inspector, more out of surprise that Sherlock practically swore than anything else.
"Good dog," Moriarty told Lestrade patronisingly. Donovan took a step forward in defence of her boss but was halted by Moriarty's hand holding a trigger. "Sherlock's pet dog has his own little bitch. How sickeningly adorable. Back in place, little girl."
Lestrade reached forward and pulled Donovan back into line, looking at Moriarty for a long moment. Then he straightened.
"Sorry John," Lestrade said softly, then quickly, "Fire!"
But there was already fire blooming in the vault, a shock wave sweeping toward them as it bent around the slim suited shape of Moriarty in the corner, and the inaudible shout of denial from Sherlock. The group on the stairs were tossed back, ears ringing and vision blurred from the force of the explosion.
In the aftermath, as the group of toy soldiers staggered to their feet and questions were shouted at each other, only Sherlock noticed that Moriarty never came up the stairs, and wondered.
"I've got what I came for," Moriarty continued. "You know what that is, don't you Sherlock?"
"The original deeds of Parliament," Sherlock said quietly, eyes riveted on John, checking that he was unhurt. Apart from a bump on the head he seemed alright, but hunched over like he was it was difficult to tell whether anything else was amiss.
"Oh very good, you did do your homework," Moriarty clapped twice, mockingly. "Your lapdog seems surprised. Didn't you tell him?"
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock snapped, refocussing on Moriarty. "We've foiled your little game. Now hand over the deeds and I might be able to persuade the Sergeant to keep her overenthusiastic hands to herself."
"Tempting, but allow me to make a counter offer," Moriarty pouted, eyes burning with what could have been insanity or genius. "You let me walk out that door with the deeds - or your little pet gets himself blown to pieces. Stand up Doctor Watson, let the nice Inspector see what you're packing."
John glared at Moriarty, then flinched when the small man's hand twitched. The involuntary movement incensed Sherlock and his lips thinned with his displeasure as John obediently - if reluctantly - levered himself to his feet against the gold. Once again his jacket had been laden with explosives and detonators, enough to decimate the vault and blow back into the corridor. Donovan whistled.
"Aren't you making a little oversight here?" Lestrade drawled, seeing the explosive power present. "You set him off, you're caught in it too."
"The corner between doorframe and wall create enough of a shelter that he will be largely unharmed by the blast," Sherlock quickly dismissed the Inspector's brief frisson of hope, eyes fixed on Moriarty. "You know we can't just let you walk away with those deeds."
"Oh I think you can," Moriarty smirked. "After all, you are the great Sherlock Holmes. You can do anything with big brother looking out for you."
A sneer twitched around the corners of Sherlock's lips at the mention of Mycroft but he made no further reaction, studying Moriarty. After several long minutes he straightened and nodded.
"Alright."
"What, Sherlock, you can't -" Lestrade protested, but was cut short by Sherlock. His terse "Shut up" quieted the Inspector, more out of surprise that Sherlock practically swore than anything else.
"Good dog," Moriarty told Lestrade patronisingly. Donovan took a step forward in defence of her boss but was halted by Moriarty's hand holding a trigger. "Sherlock's pet dog has his own little bitch. How sickeningly adorable. Back in place, little girl."
Lestrade reached forward and pulled Donovan back into line, looking at Moriarty for a long moment. Then he straightened.
"Sorry John," Lestrade said softly, then quickly, "Fire!"
But there was already fire blooming in the vault, a shock wave sweeping toward them as it bent around the slim suited shape of Moriarty in the corner, and the inaudible shout of denial from Sherlock. The group on the stairs were tossed back, ears ringing and vision blurred from the force of the explosion.
In the aftermath, as the group of toy soldiers staggered to their feet and questions were shouted at each other, only Sherlock noticed that Moriarty never came up the stairs, and wondered.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Brand New Day
This appeared as a moral dilemma
Cause at first it was weird though I swore to eliminate
The worst of the plague that devoured humanity
It's true, I was vague on the how so how can it be
That you have shown me the light
It was a chaotic few days, when Jim Moriarty played his great game to draw us in. We didn't even know who he was that first time he came to see us, to get a closer look at Sherlock and get his measure. He was just a face and a name, blundering across our path with yet another crush on Sherlock - who of course thought nothing of it. Strange how such an egotistical man can be so cavalier about the awestruck looks of women and men alike, dazzled by his towering intellect and eyes that see everything. Strange how he demands no public recognition for his feats of deduction, preferring to remain in obscurity save for his website, yet expects everyone to instantly bow to his superior intellect at every turn.
Yes he's arrogant, but he can usually back up his claims (which arguably makes his arrogance all the more grating). So, when Sherlock failed to deliver on his claim that he could catch Moriarty...well. I think we all lost faith a bit there. It became obvious - to me at least - that different methods to Sherlock's would be necessary to stop Moriarty. His deductive reasoning would provide the direction, but the solution...
I've been a soldier all my life, and a doctor too. There are times when decisions have to be made in an instant. There are times when you have to consider the greater good. There are times when one must be sacrificed for the rest to live. I've made those decisions under pressure, under fire, and killed friends.
This time there was no pressure of time, no imminent danger, and it isn't my friend I'm planning to kill. Cold calculated reason, carefully cultivated through my association with both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, has been my guide in this decision.
Jim Moriarty must die.
Cause at first it was weird though I swore to eliminate
The worst of the plague that devoured humanity
It's true, I was vague on the how so how can it be
That you have shown me the light
It was a chaotic few days, when Jim Moriarty played his great game to draw us in. We didn't even know who he was that first time he came to see us, to get a closer look at Sherlock and get his measure. He was just a face and a name, blundering across our path with yet another crush on Sherlock - who of course thought nothing of it. Strange how such an egotistical man can be so cavalier about the awestruck looks of women and men alike, dazzled by his towering intellect and eyes that see everything. Strange how he demands no public recognition for his feats of deduction, preferring to remain in obscurity save for his website, yet expects everyone to instantly bow to his superior intellect at every turn.
Yes he's arrogant, but he can usually back up his claims (which arguably makes his arrogance all the more grating). So, when Sherlock failed to deliver on his claim that he could catch Moriarty...well. I think we all lost faith a bit there. It became obvious - to me at least - that different methods to Sherlock's would be necessary to stop Moriarty. His deductive reasoning would provide the direction, but the solution...
I've been a soldier all my life, and a doctor too. There are times when decisions have to be made in an instant. There are times when you have to consider the greater good. There are times when one must be sacrificed for the rest to live. I've made those decisions under pressure, under fire, and killed friends.
This time there was no pressure of time, no imminent danger, and it isn't my friend I'm planning to kill. Cold calculated reason, carefully cultivated through my association with both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, has been my guide in this decision.
Jim Moriarty must die.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)