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feralious
02 May 2012 @ 10:44 pm
A prompt fill to this.

I'd like a fic where Holmes has gotten himself in trouble (again) and Watson comes to rescue and is so relieved to find Holmes alive that he kisses him. (They are both attracted to each other but haven't done anything about it yet?)

Maybe Holmes is chained to the floor in a cellar that is filling with water, or maybe he is strapped to a bomb or a guillotine with a timer, I don't care. And Watson kisses him right there, before even releasing him, and it's foolish because there is not much time but he just HAS to because Holmes could have DIED.


No Regrets, w. 3252.


Slow.

Agonizingly slow.

Somewhere far away, in the corner of the spacious basement, he could hear the steady running of water.

Slowly but surely it climbed higher and higher, even if it was imperceptible to the naked eye.

It was only a matter of time before Holmes would die.

His tired muscles yanked once more at the heavy chains that kept him down. But he hadn't been able to free himself when he'd been at his strongest, so it was foolish to think that he'd succeed now that his endless attempts to escape had worn him down.

It had been hours, but as the water had risen to his chin he was finally starting to feel something akin to panic. His first observations had taught him that escape would be near impossible and unfortunately, as always he'd been right. The more time went by the harder it got to put up a fight, too; his muscles had starting aching with fatigue and the water that kept coming and coming made it harder to move, harder to fight.

He paused momentarily to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling but always with a steadily growing pressure weighing him down. With water covering his ears since the last hour or so, the sound of the constant stream had amplified.

He was listening to his own death closing in, the condemning noise thundering in his ears.

In a sick, twisted way, he was reminded of the waterfall that had once almost claimed his life. But now there was no Moriarty, no pulling of gravity as he soared down. Just the pestering, continuous sound of water adding to the already seriously worrisome amount.

He wondered if this was how Moran had planned for it to play out all along. After all, he could've killed him with that one shot – instead he'd used a paralyser that had numbed all the muscles in his limbs. It also rendered him speechless – no doubt it was one of Moriarty's final successful drug experiments.

What it didn't numb was the pain, making it the perfect tool for torturing.

Moran hadn't given him the hardest time – he'd had to be conscious when he opened the valve, after all. And so he'd only stuck with kicking him a few times as he was down to release a bit of his pent-up anger.

He'd felt the bruises forming on his body as he'd dragged him through the door and threw him down the stairs. It had been dark, the only light coming from a window high in the wall, facing the street. Holmes had hit his head on the rough stone, blood trickling down his temple, a slight dizziness overcoming him.

He was jerked awake, however, when cold shackles sounded.

"You know, Mr. Holmes," a low voice mused, "I had this arranged 'specially for you."

Still unable to move – let alone fight back – he felt the sturdy chains being wrapped around his wrists and ankles, tying him down to the floor. Then Moran got up and walked to a dark corner in the room behind him.

The position was rather strange and he'd wondered what Moran was up to – no doubt he wanted to take revenge for his plummeting down that waterfall with Moriarty, but what –

A splattering sound got his attention.

Water.

Footsteps approached him again, splashing at first, but firm and heavy again as they came closer.

Holmes had tried to turn his head, only slightly succeeding – it did mean though that the drug was leaving his system. Straining the muscles in his neck he was able to cast a glance at the man towering over him.

A filthy boot was roughly pressed against his cheek, turning him over as far as the chains would allow.

"Now all that's left to do... is take care of that doctor friend of yours." He removed his foot and spit on the ground, right next to him. Holmes rolled back again, staring up into his face. "The Professor told me that if anything should happen to him, I was to kill you first. You see, one might think that it would be more satisfying to murder your good friend in front of you before I put a bullet between your eyes, but he digressed... said it would be much more effective for you to know that Dr. Watson would find your lifeless body before I killed him."

He removed the cigarette from his mouth and levelled his face with Holmes. "Listen."

He didn't want to, but he obliged nonetheless. It wasn't as if he could drown out the sound of water gradually flooding the basement.

Drown out. Ironic choice of words.

Suddenly a shiver coursed through his body at an odd sensation. Cold. Wet. Even if he'd regained his ability to move somewhat, he just lay there frozen as Moran ascended the stairs, turning around and lifting his hat one last time. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. Give the Professor my best."

Water was now running past his neck, soaking his shoulders, his back, eventually his legs – it was so little but yet so frightening.

He'd waited until Moran left. It may have been foolish, in the end he could have been done in by his pride, but he'd waited nonetheless until he was all alone before he started struggling.

Struggling against the chains, the water, his fear as nothing, absolutely nothing changed, except for the water slowly rising.

And now, hours later, it was up to his chin, soaking his entire body except for his face. His prospect was perilous; pretty soon small amounts of water would cover his cheeks, make their way towards his mouth and nose. He wouldn't be able to breathe without inhaling it, until it would be too much to withstand. Despite the volume of water in the basement, he'd basically be drowning in about one centimetre of water.

He actually snorted at the thought, followed by a fit of coughing as water entered his lungs. If Moran wanted his revenge to be grand, he'd sure chosen a petty way for him to die. Nothing great about it.

His heart stopped for a moment. Perhaps that was exactly what he was doing. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective in the world, was just going to slowly suffocate with no one to witness it. He would just... disappear.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Over.

No matter what he'd do, it was over.

And all he could do was surrender.

Closing his eyes he shut down his thoughts, focusing solely on breathing for as long as he could.

Breathe in... breathe out. Again. Breathe in...

Then, all of a sudden, there were loud, strange noises in his ears. Probably something that fell into the water. He didn't give it any attention, trying his best to slightly angle his head so he could put a few more millimetres between his lips and the water – inhaling through his nose was no longer sufficient– but he couldn't, they only burned in protest. His struggles had exhausted his muscles so much that he wasn't even capable of moving anymore.

The noises came closer, which he now recognized as splashing sounds, as if something – someone – was wading through the water. Had Moran come back? No, the footsteps sounded hurried, panicky...

"HOLMES!"

He opened his eyes, his vision blurred by the water – but he didn't need to see his face to know it was him.

"Watson," he managed to get out, hacking as water poured in.

Suddenly there were two hands on both sides of his head, tilting it back slightly, giving him some room to breathe freely.

And then there were two lips on his, frantic, rushed – only for a second, but there.

"The valve," he spluttered right after they parted, having no time to reflect on what just happened. "Right corner in the back... must be a drainage beneath it..."

Watson immediately took off, the same noises as earlier distancing themselves as Holmes' head sank down again, but not before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.

Slowly but surely he could hear the stream of water diminish, until it finally stopped. However, even if Watson returned to lift his head again, he would not be able to rise above the water; his only hope was that he'd be able to open up the drainage.

It was getting really uncomfortable now though, and what made it all the more alarming was that there was no way for him to breathe. This wasn't like submerging himself in the bathtub to be alone with his thoughts, when he could come up whenever he felt like it – if his brain didn't receive oxygen within the next thirty seconds or so, it would undoubtedly shut down.

His lungs started burning, the only words dancing through his mind being breathe, breathe and his brain sending signals to his neck to move even if all his skills of logic and deduction told him that he'd never be able to take in even the tiniest breath because of the water still covering his face and his limbs chained to the floor.

Stars were now dancing behind his closed eyelids and all he could do was keep his mouth shut. He knew, despite now fearing the inevitable slipping of his conscience, that as soon as he parted his lips the water would drive out whatever oxygen he had left. He was a dead man once he let that happen.

Who was he kidding... he only had a few more seconds before death took him in anyway.

Just as his senses were starting to dull, there was a bang that resounded through the basement, followed by a thump under water. And one more. And again.

It was silent for a full second, but then –

At once the water started to retreat, gargling sounds rushing to his ears as damp air hit his lips and he breathed, he breathed as the water made its way out of the basement.

He heard Watson slump down in the corner, overcome by relief, his legs unwilling to carry him to his friend.

The water slowly withdrew, but he didn't even notice the wetness surrounding him anymore. He didn't even care about the shackles still confining him, he was free. Free to breathe, free to live. And Watson was here. Watson was here to save him, and he had. Everything was going to be fine now.

The memory of Watson pressing his lips to his momentarily escaped him – or he willed it away, because it would be of no use in their escape. He'd contemplate this later, when they weren't in danger of being attacked at any moment.

Eventually Watson came over, examining the wet chains. "Stay still," he told Holmes. Said man involuntarily chuckled despite the still very serious circumstances; he couldn't move if he wanted to.

With the utmost precision – also taking the distortion of the chains underwater into account – he aimed and fired another shot, the bullet separating the shackle from the ring on the floor. He walked over to his right side, intending to do the same –

"WATSON!"

He jumped aside without even thinking, solely responding to Holmes' cry for danger. When he looked up he saw the reason: in the open doorway, on top of the stairs, stood Moran, rifle pointed at him.

Watson quickly fired a shot, but missed. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a few conveniently stacked crates and as he heard Moran pull the trigger he threw himself behind them, firing two more shots from his hiding place.

He would've fired more, had his gun not emptily clicked in response at the third try.

Holmes yanked on the remaining chains with one last effort, desperate to help his friend – then Moran's shot whistled past him and he froze in his movements, having recognized the small object.

"Watson! It's a sedative, don't let it hit you!"

It felt a little out-of-place to say because he was the one lying in the line of fire, his friend crouched in his safe spot, but he had to tell him nonetheless – Watson might think it wouldn't be that bad if one of Moran's bullets graced him, but he hadn't seen the small dart that just flew by and hadn't experienced the effect it would have on his body.

"I wasn't planning on getting hit either way," he called out to him, eyes momentarily locking on his to make sure he was unharmed.

His hands swiftly operated the gun, reloading it, but it was another noise that jerked away his attention.

Heavy footsteps descended the stairs, approaching him while Watson peeked around the crates at the sudden sounds. He cursed under his breath, clicking back the cylinder – even if it wasn't fully loaded yet – and aimed the firearm at Moran, who was now standing on the floor.

The former marksman stared him straight in the eye, gun pointed away from him.

It wasn't the rifle that he'd used before, he was now holding a small revolver which had probably been concealed because he hadn't noticed it earlier. And judging by the startled expression on Holmes' face, the barrel pointed between his eyes, this one packed real bullets.

"Put down the gun, or the detective dies," he slowly said, eyes shining maliciously.

Holmes tried to move away from the threat looming over his face, but he was obviously unable to seeing as he was still constrained. The shackles clinked and resounded in the dark basement, but didn't give way.

That was, until Holmes remembered that Watson had shot one of them; his left arm, though weighed down by the metal, would be able to move freely.

How fortunate that Moran was standing on his left, too.

Staring straight ahead, disguising his intentions, his fingers closed around the cold chains as quietly as he could. He didn't know whether Watson perceived his actions, but his chances of succeeding would raise significantly if he could provide some sort of distraction.

Nothing happened. Time seemed to be frozen, along with the doctor – his eyes were fixed on the gun, his mind working hopelessly to find a solution. One movement, one word and Moran could pull that trigger.

There was simply no way he could save him. No way to prevent his life from being taken.

Was this goodbye?

"Holmes..."

The bound man blinked, his grip fastening. Something was happening.

"If this... if this is the end, I want to take this chance to tell you how much you've always meant to me."

"That's right," Moran growled in his low voice, loud enough for both of them to hear. "Say your goodbyes, I'll give you that much." The gun was now lightly pressed against Holmes' skin, the cool steel burning his flesh. "It will make it even harder for your good friend to watch as I murder you."

"Watson," the detective replied, his voice strained – both from the tension and his attempts to slightly move without Moran noticing – "if this is how we must part, I'm glad that you're here with me in these final moments. I wouldn't have it any other way."

He just knew there'd be tears forming in his eyes, even if he couldn't see it for himself – not that Watson would ever let him bear witness to such a display of weakness.

"Well then," the bearded man mused. "If there's nothing left to say..."

Watson called out. Desperate, frantic. "WAIT!"

And then Holmes seized his chance.

In one moment he rolled onto his right side, flinging the chain he held upwards where it wrapped around Moran's leg. Before the gunman knew what was happening Holmes yanked the iron links backwards again, pulling his leg from under him and sending him tumbling to the ground.

Even before he hit the floor, Watson was by Holmes' side, kicking the gun from his hand and, placing a foot on his throat, rapidly loading his own.

One click later had him aiming between his eyes the same way his adversary had done earlier to his friend.

He didn't need to hold him down for longer than a few seconds – unbeknownst to him Holmes' free hand had been rummaging around his pockets and at some point Moran's eyes narrowed, after which his body visibly relaxed. Watson looked back at Holmes to find him holding a small dart, a grin on his tired, smudged face.

"Guess this isn't the end after all, old boy."

He wanted to shake his head, but was by now – which wasn't strange considering his latest physical efforts – truly depleted of all energy.

"I'm glad it isn't," he slightly panted as Watson moved about to free him from the remaining chains.

A small silence followed, Watson readying his gun.

Then, in between shots, Holmes spoke up again.

"I didn't want to say goodbye just yet."

He closed his eyes, knowing a grin had spread to the doctor's face.

"Me neither, Holmes." The last shot echoed through the room. "Me neither."

"Because, you know..."

Watson turned and looked at his face, eyebrows raised. There was more?

"I think there's... things we need to talk about. Things I want to know, want to understand before we must ever part ways."

He knelt down next to him, warm hand resting on his limp arm. "Do tell me."

"Not now. Back at... back at Baker Street."

Watson nodded, slipping an arm behind his back to help him stand – though it was less helping than practically carrying him. Even as Holmes stood on his own two feet, sweat trickled down his face as he swayed slightly, holding onto him for dear life.

"Easy, Holmes. We're going home now. Everything's going to be okay."

He faintly smiled, allowing Watson to drag him towards the stairs – up the stairs – through the small hallway and out the door. He hadn't noticed inside, but the sun was already setting and the cool evening air graced his damaged face.

He didn't know if Watson knew what he had meant by those words, but if he didn't, he'd find out soon enough.

There were questions on his mind. Questions revolving around what had happened right as the water was about to suffocate him.

He had to know what it meant when Watson had kissed him.

If it had happened had all.

Because the more time passed as his strong companion carried him down the street, the more he began to doubt himself.

Doubt if it hadn't just been his frenzied mind playing tricks on him.

Nevertheless, tonight he'd see.

If Watson would deny it ever happened, he'd have his answer. And if he truly meant it, there was only one thing he could do. Whatever did or didn't occur, before he drew his final breath he was going to make him understand just exactly how much he meant to him.

Almost dying had made one thing clear, he thought as Watson opened the door to their apartment and laid him down on his bed, sitting next to him and staring into his eyes to make sure he was alright.

Holmes looked back, gaze unwavering, shakily bringing one hand up to his face, his fingers gracing his skin. Then they travelled down again, taking hold of his shirt, pulling him down until lips met.

Perhaps again, perhaps for the first time. He didn't know.

All he knew was that if he ever was going to die, he'd make sure it would be without regrets.
 
 
feralious
13 March 2012 @ 08:26 pm

A prompt fill to this.

Holmes has always had somewhat romantic feelings towards Watson, but it was never anything serious and surely nothing would have come out of it anyway, so he has kept it to himself and accepted the fact that Watson is moving out and getting married.

What Holmes did not expect was to fall completely, painfully, head over heels in love with Watson during the Moriarty case.

Whether the feeling is mutual is up to you. Does Holmes tell Watson before he "dies"? Confusion, UST, epic angst, y/y?


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23 September 2011 @ 06:09 pm
Oh my god.

Oh my god, I just fell in love with this show all over again.


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12 September 2011 @ 01:49 am
Red John is many.

This seems to be a very popular thought which I used to discard as absolute nonsense.

Still do, by the way.

Although now it's not so much the fact that I have no reason to believe it, more that I don't want to believe it.


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03 September 2011 @ 06:41 am
Just my two cents on this particular subject.


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