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sherlockholmesHe's falling.
Holmes doesn't feel the bed he's laying on, nor does he feel the warmth of the duvet that is covering him, because he only notices how the temperature drops. And as quickly as that happens, he feels himself falling into a darkness that takes his breath away. He can't breathe, everything moves too fast, and he just can't breathe. He can't move, he just shuts his eyes tighter and unconsciously his hands clench tightly to whatever he can hold on to.
He's falling. He's falling, and he can't stop.
"Holmes. HOLMES," a voice breaks through the darkness, but he doesn't recognize it right away. Not until he catches the pitch of his voice, until he recognizes a sort of desperation that makes his own explode in his chest as he finally opens his eyes.
It takes him longer than normal to realize that it isn't Moriarty the one looking at him. Moriarty isn't the one grabbing onto him as they both fall back into the abyss. Moriarty isn't the one that Holmes is holding onto as tightly as he can. Instead it's Watson, holding onto his shoulders as Holmes keeps his hands tightly clenched onto his friend's shirt.
It's Watson that's looking at him in bewilderment and concern, and when he realizes that the detective seems to be holding his breath, he tries to make his voice sound as calm as possible. "It's all right, old boy. I've got you."
Holmes stares back, almost in a trance, but slowly his grasp loosens. Slowly he allows himself to breathe, but the act looks clumsy as he begins coughing and almost choking because his lungs are greedily demanding oxygen. He sits up, unable to ignore the support that Watson offers, but he's too busy coughing as he tries to catch his breath to really do anything about it.
"I can get you some water. Or tea? Mrs Hudson--"
But before he can move, Holmes grasps onto his shirt again as if to keep him there. Don't go, his eyes demand. Don't go. Because he hears Moriarty in his head, saying how he was going to go after Watson, and even if the man is gone and things are over, there is still so much time that they lost. Time that they'll never get back, and he doesn't want to care because it worked out for the best, but...
He doesn't have to say anything, or do anything, because Watson is quick to break the distance between them and embraces him close. Holmes instinctively hides his face in the crook of his neck, focusing on his breathing and his pulse to settle his own, and he doesn't realize that he's shaking until he notices how warm John is.
"Always nice to see you, Watson," Sherlock breathes out, closing his eyes as he slowly falls back asleep against him.
Holmes doesn't feel the bed he's laying on, nor does he feel the warmth of the duvet that is covering him, because he only notices how the temperature drops. And as quickly as that happens, he feels himself falling into a darkness that takes his breath away. He can't breathe, everything moves too fast, and he just can't breathe. He can't move, he just shuts his eyes tighter and unconsciously his hands clench tightly to whatever he can hold on to.
He's falling. He's falling, and he can't stop.
"Holmes. HOLMES," a voice breaks through the darkness, but he doesn't recognize it right away. Not until he catches the pitch of his voice, until he recognizes a sort of desperation that makes his own explode in his chest as he finally opens his eyes.
It takes him longer than normal to realize that it isn't Moriarty the one looking at him. Moriarty isn't the one grabbing onto him as they both fall back into the abyss. Moriarty isn't the one that Holmes is holding onto as tightly as he can. Instead it's Watson, holding onto his shoulders as Holmes keeps his hands tightly clenched onto his friend's shirt.
It's Watson that's looking at him in bewilderment and concern, and when he realizes that the detective seems to be holding his breath, he tries to make his voice sound as calm as possible. "It's all right, old boy. I've got you."
Holmes stares back, almost in a trance, but slowly his grasp loosens. Slowly he allows himself to breathe, but the act looks clumsy as he begins coughing and almost choking because his lungs are greedily demanding oxygen. He sits up, unable to ignore the support that Watson offers, but he's too busy coughing as he tries to catch his breath to really do anything about it.
"I can get you some water. Or tea? Mrs Hudson--"
But before he can move, Holmes grasps onto his shirt again as if to keep him there. Don't go, his eyes demand. Don't go. Because he hears Moriarty in his head, saying how he was going to go after Watson, and even if the man is gone and things are over, there is still so much time that they lost. Time that they'll never get back, and he doesn't want to care because it worked out for the best, but...
He doesn't have to say anything, or do anything, because Watson is quick to break the distance between them and embraces him close. Holmes instinctively hides his face in the crook of his neck, focusing on his breathing and his pulse to settle his own, and he doesn't realize that he's shaking until he notices how warm John is.
"Always nice to see you, Watson," Sherlock breathes out, closing his eyes as he slowly falls back asleep against him.
