licklesoxy | Fanfiction: Sixth of the Sixth of the Sixth

Title: Sixth of the Sixth of the Sixth
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Copyright: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (characters), Guy Ritchie (2009 film adaptation)
Summary: Missing-scene after the explosion in the new 2009 film. Slightly AU in which Holmes visits Watson without the disguise.

A residing pound after pound of feet on the hard ground, its solid and smooth surface simple to that of the sanded panels of wood that each passing door would possess, I know in certainty that my shoes are drenched and wearing thin at the soles. Not knowing how long I have been on this run, I also admire that I have no clue as to what has made me start the chase of flies that linger just ahead, forming ringlets every so often as a strange set of chords reach my ears.

A stringed instrument, perhaps the violin, sets these sounds apart from all the silence. Lacking a dignified rhythm, the music startles into a quality that separates it from becoming a beautiful melody. Still, despite this, the flies continue to circle each other with every passing note that twists and turns through the air, over their wings. I carry on with my sprint, no idea as to why this has turned inexplicably to important for my mind and heart.

There is not one sense to the pattern. The rather unremarkable black creatures are nothing but insignificant. No balance is held from them within my thoughts, and there can be no craftsmanship from my soul. Nothing about these beasts should ever hold any sort of semblance to the rational world, yet they have become the main focus of my legacy. I am running after them, pacing my legs to far more of a strain than the muscles should be able to handle; I know I should be retiring every so often, else I will fall to the floor, my wounded limb protesting against this expelling of energy that I should reserve for things more important in value. Though this is what should be reality, it is not so.

My breathing, as I understand it, is supposed to have jerked to shallow pants many an hour ago. Simple facts that I know are to be true: my heart should be beating erratically, my nerves alight with a burning in their cells, and my skin shining with floods of fresh sweat. Neither realism has come to pass, and the discovery is shocking to my thoughts.

I continue onwards, regardless.

There is something wrong. My mind has traversed so many understandable explanations, so much so that it resorted long ago to the irrational. Something must be pulling me along, tugging at my body with subtlety and objectified reasoning. I seem not able to fit the pieces of puzzle together to gain answer to the entity of riddles that exist. Attached to flies, maybe, but that makes no standard sense in knowledge. What intelligent creature, in any state of mind, would use winged insects to attract the attentions of a man?

As I knew it would, it comes again. The same set of tunes, that direct chord that sends the flies in a counter-clockwise battle of circles. Tackling each other, the noise of a rough placement of strings getting sliced through by experienced hands shouts out against the contrast of nothingness. Ignoring the violin, I allow my gaze to stay firmly locked onto the flies, my mouth falling open a touch as confusion and wonder seep into my mind.

It does not make an ounce of knowledgeable sense. Why flies?

The answer will not be told, as it seems to have been withdrawn from me for the many ticking seconds I have spent chasing the ever present, unrelenting creatures. I find it strange, when I take note of an obvious truth about the image I am sprinting after. There are but six of them, never any less, and no others will ever join the few to make a grand total of seven. Six; always. It is both annoying and comforting; knowing there is at least some trial of order to the odd chaos is most helpful...

... Chaos.

Fluttering rapidly through my head, lighting a flame of hard memory that attempts to rip open in my subconscious, the word instantly triggers something. There is a tiny key - the one that will unlock the link of flies to this chaos - yet I cannot reach out and grab it. Time afforded to the discipline of searching my own thoughts for this joint must be forgotten, for the flies are what lie with importance. I must catch them, set them apart and contain them in a vile made of glass. It will give them accordance to create simple circles in a confined space, rather than being haphazard in their experiments.

Suddenly the flies change direction. I charge after them, my breathing as calm and slow as it was at the start of this pursuit. I smell nothing, hear nothing, until the rush of the violin comes once again as my retreat down an alleyway commences. The area is dark, and I startle at the actual ability to see something other than the flying insects. The nothingness has disappeared, leaving tall walls that enclose me into a tight, straight line. Through the black I see tiny specks dancing ahead of me, and I choose immediately to forget that I can now see other objects as I reinforce my desire to capture them.

My leg does not give one sting of protest, and there is no amount of sweat on any part of my self. Lungs and heart working in perfect harmony to push oxygen through my blood to the rest of my body, I can only imagine what effects or drugs I must have inhaled for my muscles to still be contracting at peak efficiency.

Shaking my head to clear my mind of what is unimportant, I lock my eyes onto the six flies. It is most confusing, and I do not understand much at all. I desire for there to be pain upon my body. I want to hurt, as I will know then that I am actually living this horrid situation. For five hours, fifty nine minutes I have been trapped like this, chasing the flies for no apparent reason. I do not care that it is impossible that I know the time, to the second, that I have been at this. All that matters is the flies I am seeking control over. There is nothing but them, me and the sound of the chords...

And then it stops.

They stop.

The flies disappear, vanishing into the thin air that flickers around the empty space. The walls melt into nothing, and the solace I can maintain with the feel of solid under my feet suddenly goes. I am left floating in a sea of brightness, no cold and no hot surrounding in any way.

Somewhere, I hear the large clock that resides in London strike six times. Six hours have passed. Surprisingly, I have spent six unbelievable hours, chasing six flies, to the sound of a chord that Holmes once told me was the sixth in the set.

Holmes.

The realisation that I know who Sherlock Holmes is comes freely, joyfully, and the memories bring charge through my welcoming mind with a gentle warmth.

-o-

"Watson?"

I feel the force as I bolt into a sitting position. The tangle of bed clothing across my exposed skin is not lost on me, though the feel of soft white against flesh is ignored. Eyes snapping open with rapid ease, I let myself blink, my vision adjusting to the change in light considerably slowly.

"Watson?"

Turning my head to the familiar voice, I watch with fascination as a blur of browns, blacks and light creams bring together and focus in to the body of Holmes. His wonderfully dark eyes are staring at me with a trace of concern, though I can figure out clearly that the dominant emotion is relief. This revelation brings a sudden question to my lips.

"Holmes, are you--"

Cutting off in surprise at the hoarseness of my own voice, I feel my eyebrows scrunch up in mild confusion as my body takes over and I finally take in my immediate vicinity. A clean floor, tidy sheets and medical equipment surround the bed I am currently residing on. A hospital, then? Turning back to look at Holmes with trepidation, it seems that I can not help but be overcome with a strange worry.

"What happened?" It is the next question that leaves a dehydrated mouth, and, if I had not been watching Holmes' features, I know that I would not have caught the quick flash of guilt that pierced his expression. It is gone as fast as it resides, and an indifferent mask blocks out any more vulnerable feelings Holmes wishes not to be seen.

"There was an explosion."

Waiting, head shaking slightly as though the action alone will coax more from my friend's lips, a breathy sigh escapes chapped lips when it becomes apparent that there will be no further explanation. Understanding this, I allow my form to fall back against the soft mattress beneath me. Immediately I regret and startle at the movement, as a terrible pain shoots straight from my shoulder. It is trying, something that I was not expecting, and the icy shock makes me jerk a trite amount. I understand instantly that Holmes wants to help remove the hurt as he pulls his chair closer, his hands reaching out for the offending injury.

"No."

I watch from the corner of my eye as Holmes stills the second the word exits my mouth.

"It's fine, Holmes," I continue absently, eyes seeking out another object that lies precariously against the far wall. The pain is welcome, a reminder that I am with the living, though this sentiment seems to lack significance as I stare in astonishment at the dark instrument with its long strings. I catch Holmes' turn of head, see the man look back from the violin with a furrowed brow.

"I can remove it from the room if you wish. I thought the tune would offer some comfort while you were... resting."

Resting. If I had been in a fitter state of mood, I know I would have chuckled happily at the term. Resting, indeed.

"Holmes?" I ask instead, eyes locking onto my friend.

"Yes?"

I can not help but smile. "Can you perhaps play me that trying piece that affected those flies you caught before?"

The confused rise of an eyebrow is inevitable, though Holmes gets up and collects the instrument even through his bewilderment. As he settles back down, I know the question is coming before it even leaves Holmes' lips.

"I thought the chords were an annoyance to you, my dear friend. Why the sudden want to hear something you loathe so?"

The smile on my lips grows, my eyes closing of their own accord as the first beginnings of Holmes' rough fingers plucking the tight strings drift to my ears. The answer is unsurprising in its simplicity.

"I believe, Holmes, that it seems I may have a greater fondness of your habitual playings than I had first realised."