.
Name: Tina Years: 20 From: Bulgaria Living in: United Kingdom I am a devoted Sherlockian and Benedictian. Law student. Writer. Football is an enormous part of my life. Drama and Theatre addict. Foreign languages lover. Addicted to London. Just a... dream-girl. |
Here it is: http://archiveofourown.org/works/500071?page=1#comments
Trust me, you won’t regret it! And it will put a grand smile on your face! :)
Impatiently waiting for the second chapter…
This fic was requested by slytherindoctorsat221b. <3 :)))
HAMISH AND ALEXANDRA
His ice-blue eyes smiled at the girl in front of him as his lips curved into an arc. She sighed, making small clouds against her mouth. It was devilishly cold. She didn’t even know why she consented being here when it was such a terrible winter outside (one of the rarest in London) but she knew one thing for sure – she had to meet Sherlock Holmes and to start meeting him more regularly in order to get more and more information for her father. Otherwise, he would be extremely disappointed.
His ice-blue eyes followed the girl’s short hair and frowned. He licked his upper lip, thoughtfully leaving the tip of his tongue there, then clicked it. Sighed – a sigh of a desperate and anxious man rather than of a frustrated one. Tapped the dimmed window with his long fingers several times.
‘Could you please stop doing that, Sherlock? It’s annoying. And I am trying to read!’
Sitting on his big chair, John was holding a newspaper and was scanning through rather than reading it, paying much more attention to the crimes of the week as he probably should have. He closed the newspaper and directed his eyes at his husband. Stood like this for several seconds.
‘What?’
John supposed Sherlock was looking at Hamish down there. Their boy left the house an hour ago and it was freakishly cold out there, so the logic proved Sherlock was getting a bit uneasy about his son’s health. Or at least this is what a normal father would do. Like John. Sherlock was thinking about an entirely different thing, most probably.
‘Hamish is outside.’
John smiled and put his head back, continuing to smirk. He placed his hands under his chin and entwined his perfectly shaped fingers.
‘He is ok, Sherlock. He is wearing the warm coat you bought for him last Christmas. He is fine.’
Sherlock sighed once again. He knew Hamish was fine and he could not argue over that with a doctor. But there was something else troubling him.
‘Talking to a girl.’
John let out a confused look which closed down Sherlock’s spine. Right. That was it. That was the ‘other thing’ Sherlock has been thinking about. He is desperately jealous that his son – his one and only – may leave him and may go mad for a girl. The anxiety on Sherlock’s face was slowly fading away now, just to be replaced with an odd look of curiosity. John knew Sherlock wanted to know more about the girl but was afraid – no, Sherlock Holmes was never afraid – but was unsure that his methods won’t do a lot on a 10-or-something-year-old girl. He can deduce her, of course, but what good that would do? Only getting Hamish angry, which Sherlock knew perfectly well would be the result.
‘When can I meet your dads?’
Her voice trembled and shrieked a bit out of her whisper. Hamish sighed and shrugged. It was ok for her to meet John – he was friendly and would have welcomed her at 221B any time she was around. He would have boiled some tea and would have given her Mrs Hudson’s biscuits. He is alright – children tend to adore him.
But Hamish knew perfectly well that all those children are more desperate to meet his Dad called Sherlock Holmes. They’ve heard plenty of stories about him – some real, some not so – and for them he was just like the hero from the fairytales. Except they knew they could meet and touch him, talk to him. Hamish has suddenly become the most adored kid at school. And not because he was a nice friend – no, all of the children were talking behind his back that he was strange and a freak. It was all because he was Hamish Watson-Holmes: his father was the infamous sleuth who might deduce anyone just by a look at their face. Probably Alexandra was one of those kids.
‘Soon, just not yet…’
Hamish did not know how to respond. He liked Alexandra; liked her a lot. But he knew that if his father were to meet her, it would be a terrible experience for all three of them. When meeting a new ‘friend’ of Hamish’s, Sherlock tended to be ridiculous and extremely crude which resulted in crying children and angry parents.
‘But why? Are you ashamed of me? Am I not good enough?’
No, of course not. She was the perfect friend and the perfect girl. It was not that. How can she not see he was not ashamed of her but of his father’s future reactions?
‘No, no, no. Just it’s… My father is not good with… uhm… people.’
Alexandra frowned. Her father has warned her that this might happen. Sherlock Holmes was not easy to get and one should be really calm and very patient. Meeting Dr Watson would be a success too – after all, he was the key to Sherlock Holmes’s frozen heart. Hamish and Dr Watson. If she has a control over them, she can easily control Holmes as well. Father would be proud of her.
‘Can I meet your other Dad, then?’
Hamish swallowed and looked up. He noticed his father’s contours behind the transparent curtains. Sherlock stepped back, realising the boy was staring at him.
John sighed once again and clapped with his hands.
‘Fine. Shall I go and say ‘hi’?’
John knew Sherlock so well that he was able to decipher at any second what this great mastermind of his was thinking and calculating. And despite all Sherlock’s refusals that John cannot understand and cannot help even a bit, John knew that without him Holmes was no one. For instance, in a humble situation like this one. John handled all of this type. The ‘ordinary life situations’, as Sherlock used to call them.
Sherlock smirked in response. There was no one better than John. He knew how to handle those stupid things and how to take the best out of them. He heard him jumping out of his comfy chair, putting on his favourite green jacket and popping out.
Sherlock stuck his nose against the cold window once again and his eyes followed John who was now approaching the children with both his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
‘So… You must be Alexandra, am I right?’
The girl nodded, making her hair go up and down, up and down. John smiled and hugged Hamish with one hand. The boy chuckled as he felt the warm body of his father pressed to his. He had to admit it was getting colder.
‘Alexandra, it’s getting late and it’s very cold.’
‘Yeah, you are right Dr Watson. I should probably get home.’
‘If you want to, Hamish and I can come with you. We can get a cab but we won’t leave you alone at this hour. Where do you live?’
‘South Kensington. But there’s really no need at all.’
Alexandra’s look got anxious. John knew children’s minds and thinking pretty well – he immediately understood she was afraid of something. He made a barely visible frown.
‘It’s not… far away from here… We can do that. Or…’ he paused, looking at her face getting paler, ‘Or we can go upstairs, have a cup of hot tea, and call your parents to come pick you up.’
Alexandra swallowed hard. This one was unexpected. She didn’t know what and how to do it. Father has not warned her about this. She thought Dr Watson was the easy one. If she was to go upstairs, she was to meet Sherlock Holmes too. And what would happen if they call her father? What would happen if they realise her father is their greatest enemy?
‘Fine. I’ll come with you and we’ll call him,’ Alexandra nodded and swallowed again. He was probably going to send a cab for her. Thereafter, he would shout at her and then cry and hug her, apologising for the quarrel. At least, she could gather some information. Finally, she was at 221B and she was about to meet the great Sherlock Holmes. The greatest enemy and the greatest thrive of her father. Alexandra Moriarty followed Hamish and Dr Watson as they quickly opened the door of the flat.
Another small ficlet… :) <3
YOU WILL NEVER BE ALONE
I am there for him. I would always be. Even though he thinks I am forever gone, I would still be right under the dimmed window of 221B, waiting in the wet London snow, to catch a glimpse of his shivering body next to the curtains and his trembling rough hands holding the cup of hot tea tighter to his chest.
I would be there because he is the only person I have in my life. The only one I happened to call my friend. The only one whom I care about. The only one in the world.
I would turn my collar up and I would eventually smile, remembering how he kept talking on and on about my cheekbones and my desperate need to show off and to look cool. Now I am trying to do the same – to look cool and unemotional, while deep inside everything is burning and decaying. He really did burn the heart out of me. I was alone before. Now I am lonely. Because I know that John is out there – I look up at the window once again – he is there, and I am here. I can’t be with him. I can’t hear him complimenting me. I can’t have a useless cup of hot milk. And I need all of this now. Because I am really sick. Sick of wandering around, without a goal, without a direction. I don’t need someone else to tell me I am amazing – the words would pass through me, without making any sign. His words, though, are carved down there, on the left side of my chest – a scar that keeps burning stronger and stronger with every minute of every hour.
I would go to 221B during the night. He would be asleep, but he wouldn’t snore – he does this only when he is calm and relieved. I can notice by the way he sleeps now that he’s not well. His hands are under his head, he is in his jumper (probably, not been washed for weeks – poor Mrs Hudson and her atrocious hip) and his old jeans. The blanket is on the floor – he probably noticed it falling but didn’t bother lifting it up.
So, I would be there – I smile to myself, thinking about this scenario of mine over and over again – when he falls asleep with his blanket on the floor. I would pick it and I would cover him, making sure he is good now and waiting to see this smirk of his when he is settled down and probably dreaming. I would stay there; right opposite to the sofa where he is laying now (he wouldn’t want to sleep in his bed). I would fold my legs in the chair I used to know so well, and I would watch him sleep. Sometimes he would have nightmares, but I would be there for him, pressing my cold fingers against his chins and forehead, whispering him everything is alright, until he is all good again. Then, when the dawn comes, I would fade away with it and I would be a memory, just a magic memory stuck up in his mind of dreams.
The day would start – he would go to work and I would go with him. I’ve thought it over and over again – I could hide under a disguise and be one of his dying patients but yet… He would recognise me, I’m pretty sure. I’ve always been a reliable liar but not now, not with John. I can’t look him in the eyes and tell him I am dying. Because I am already dead. And I can’t lie to him I am someone else. Because even I don’t know who I am right now.
After work, he would call Mary to see her. Sometimes, she would text him. Sometimes, I would pickpocket her (she works near Trafalgar – I know that now) and take her phone. Then I would text him, ‘What an incredible weather! Let’s have dinner tonight? –Mary’ And then I would see his entire face glowing up a bit… Except his eyes. I swear – his eyes are never sparkling now, never smiling. And I am so desperate to see the shining dark blue sky in them. Never again.
So, he would hurry up home and he would take a shower. I would follow him, trying not to run and not to scream when he forgets the teapot on the hot plate and goes in the bathroom. I would hear the water running down and I would see the hot steams coming from beneath the door, urging myself not to come closer and not to hear John humming out of tune some awful lyrics. I would make a tea for him and I would put his favourite army mug on the table. But then he would come out of the bathroom and I would try to hide and… as idiotic as I am, I would go under the table. But, as always, he sees everything but doesn’t observe. He would come right next to the table, he would see the mug, he would question its presence there. And that’s it. His routine would go on. He would drink it – indignantly pointing out that he never drinks it sweetened (he would think it was Mrs Hudson who forgot his taste once again), and he would leave it aside, unsatisfied. Then I would come from under the table, I would take the mug and I would drink the tea – as awful as it is – but I would know that it was John who tasted it a minute ago. And this would make me happy. At least for awhile.
Then he would go out – dressed up for a nice chat and, possibly, for something else later on. He would have his favourite black jeans and his favourite fluffy jumper, his favourite dark green jacket. He would take an Independent from the Evening Express nearby and he would wait for the bus. I would watch him, right behind a tree or the traffic lights, as his emotionless eyes move through the pages. He would smile now and then. He would sigh. He would lift up his head and then close the newspaper, upon seeing the bus coming. I would be late by then, so I’d hurry up to tell him that I am here and that I don’t want to leave him never again… But he would politely help the old lady to get off the bus and then he would get in. I would just manage to pass by and to touch his jacket with my glove. Then my eyes would follow the red bus as it speeds across the busy London streets.
He would have a splendid night. He would laugh, he would drink, he would talk with someone whom he actually cares about. And then he would spend the night with this lovely Mary. And as for me… I would stay here, lingering around this bus-stop, although it is snowy once again and dead freezing. Being alone is everything I have, after all. If not now, sooner or later it would protect me. The thoughts of John won’t. The undying idea of our friendship won’t. The desire of being his annoying flatmate won’t. I would do it alone, by myself. After all, I am Sherlock Holmes. The clever detective in the funny hat.
But no. Nothing happens the way I’ve planned it. I can see his swaying figure slowly approaching the black door of 221B. He is a bit drunk but he still does manage to open it – not being prudent enough to close it properly, though. I follow him – tears coming from my eyes as the wind (is it really the wind?) strikes my face. John doesn’t even bother taking his clothes off – he just throws the jacket on the floor and looks at the blanket on the sofa. Hesitates for a minute or two, then smiles bitterly and directs himself to my bedroom. I follow him, making quiet steps, my heart ripping off my chest. He enters the bedroom, sighs and takes off his muddy shoes. After several minutes I can’t hear a sound.
I enter the room slowly, barely heard. All I can see now is his golden blonde head in-between the thick bed-sheets. The same ones as three years ago. Oh, John… I go closer and closer. I watch him breathe and as I lean towards him, I notice the limpid tear coming from his left eye. He coughs a bit – the weather outside is too cold for him, I know. The tear is probably due to the wind as well. I kneel down, next to the bed, and then take my scarf off. I slide my fingers over his neck and tie it carefully. He sighs again and adjusts better. I smile, pursing my lips, desperately trying not to cry. With my back pressed on the bedside, I fall down on the floor and press my legs tighter and tighter to my oddly shivering body. All I can hear is my racing heart and John’s breathing.
‘Would you do this for me, Sherlock?’
I open my eyes quickly as I hear John’s voice. I look at him and exhale quite relieved. He is just dreaming.
‘Would you come back? Please.’
Tears are rolling down his face. The wind is too strong for both of us, apparently.
‘I am so alone, Sherlock. I need you so much.’
I can hear my own quiet sobs now as I lift myself up a bit, my nose touching the scarf on John’s neck.
‘I would come back, John, I promise. But not now, not like that. Just… keep your dreams fixed on me, John.’
And the dawn comes. I can hear John waking up, so I am in a hurry to leave Baker Street as soon as possible. And I do so. One quick look at the dimmed window up there. I turn my coat collar up again. I smile. I left my scarf with John. But it’s not the only thing I left with him. It’s my heart too.
Finally, the promised story. :) <3
‘A MAGIC TRICK’
John took the old pistol his father has given to him and pointed it directly at me. I was standing right in front of him, most definitely not amused, with kinda bored and emotionless face – I could tell, by John’s exacting look.
‘C’mon, Sherlock! Put some emotion here!’ John’s little hands with the smallest fingers I’ve ever seen – pardon me, but mine are muuuuch muuuuch longer, didn’t even tremble. God! He had nerves of steel! It’s good that I’ve taken all the bullets out. He takes the idea of being a soldier rather too much to his heart.
‘Do you really think this is a funny game?’ I myself had a small pistol in my right hand – Mr Watson wanted to surprise both John and me about month ago, when he retired.
John stood there, with a blank face but with the most intense dark-blue gaze one has ever seen, still directing his bulletless little gun at me. I sighed – probably, a little bit heavier than I should have, for he pulled the trigger. It produced a creaking sound in the dead silent room.
‘If you keep complaining, you’ll be the first to die!’
Right. John was just too much into this stupid game. I had to deal with this somehow. Clever, clever, Sherlock – you’re not an ordinary boy but sometimes you should think like one-… Oh! Yes! Of course!
There was always too much jam in our fridge – an obsession of John that I still cannot fully understand. Mummy gave me a jar when John came today – to eat together in my room. I think I’ve put it somewhere here… Fine. There it is. Just somewhere beneath… all these clothes of mine… Disgusting.
Bang! Peew! Peew! Bang!
I pressed the small jar cap which opened a little, producing a ‘bang’ sound, mixing with the creaking of the trigger. The jam was poured all over me. Definitely disgusting.
‘Arghhh!’ John stood there – eyes wide-opened, motionless, ‘John, those weren’t fake guns!’
‘What?’ John jumped and slowly approached me, ‘O… Oh… Of course they are! You know Daddy gave us his oldest ones that are out of use! Sherlock?!’
Dramatically, Sherlock. Dramatic falling. Eeeeeeeeh… bam! Wonderful. You should practice that more often. Dramatic falling, you know.
‘Sherlock! Stop kidding!’
No, actually, now I’m thinking of a better and certainly higher place to jump off from… Good I’m laying now, so I can think about that while John is in his ‘Panic Palace’.
‘Aaahhh…’
Oh, Sherlock, this was the sound Ma makes when her leg is in pain – not too plausible for a dying person.
Silence. Fine – thank you, John.
Probably, when I become older, I can try jumping off a roof or something. But without the bungee stuff. Bungee jumping is boring.
Applauses, Sherlock, you’re just brilliant. You made him believe you’re dead.
John? Oh, for God’s sake! He’s probably mourning now. My stupid John!
‘Joking!’ I raise my right hand. I open my eyes and meet his grumpy red face.
He stands up and walks away – his legs slipping over the sticky raspberry jam. He’s angry. Pff…
‘John!’
No answer.
‘John! I was just trying to make the game more interesting! You don’t have any bullets in your stupid gun – how can I possibly be dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ he murmurs, ‘Is it iodine?’
He sits on the floor – at the other corner of the room, and wraps his arms around his legs.
‘It’s iodine!’ I lie, smiling just a bit. Ok, this was too much – I have to admit. I can feel pain in my chest when I watch John’s back in front of me. I know for sure he’ll start sobbing now. This would kill me.
‘John?’ I approach him. God! This jam is soooo sickening sticky!
‘John, what would you say if I was dead?’
Silence. Is he sobbing already?
‘I don’t even want to think about that!’
Why? Jumping off a roof was a good idea. I’ll take John to watch me. Though, I have to plan it more thoroughly… A jam won’t work.
‘Oh! Don’t worry, John! You’ll be dead years before me cause you’re older,’ Sherlock, no logic in that! ‘Or because of the tons of jam you eat!’
The jam was an over-exaggeration, I accept that.
‘Don’t be dead!’
Right. John is not in his best mode of thinking today. Not very creative, at least.
‘Well, this would be pretty remarkable, but if I’m dead this cannot happen…’
John shivers a bit and swallows back his tears.
‘Fine. Then…’ he wraps his arms around his tiny legs even tighter, ‘I was so alone… And I owe you so much.’
Silence. This is not fair. I’ve already written that in my will. Plagiarism!
‘No.’
John unwraps one of his hands and sniffs like a small puppy. Yes, finally he sensed it was a jam! He dips his small finger in the sticky dense liquid and then puts the finger in his mouth. His eyes widen once again.
‘Why not, Sherlock?’
‘Because…’ I can feel my cheeks redden. I hate when John makes me feel so miserable, ‘Because these were my words, John… Because these are the words Iwould say if you die.’
Without even standing up, John leans back, unwraps his other hand, dips his fingers in the jam flowing from my clothes, and draws a heart right next to me, on the fitted carpet.
‘And never ever spoil my favourite raspberry jam again! Understood, Sherlock?’ I can hear him chuckling. He is not that stupid – at the end of the day I can always see that. Cause he is the best friend of Sherlock Holmes. My best friend. The only one in the world.
