Status: if you read this far, I love you.
Submersi Symphoniæ
no time for goodbye.
I.
No storm just happens; storms build. They brew and boil and bubble over, straining at the seams of their business suits, leaking animosity out of every stitch. Then they burst, spilling over in plumes of anger and terror and sadness, flooding and rushing and sweeping away everything, every familiar landmark, every well-known face, everything you can use to orient yourself, to hold yourself afloat. A storm will drown you, douse you with its icy water and plunge you into the frigid depths of—of what? Of your past? Of your soul, so that if you come up, it’ll be baptism?
If you drown, well, what the hell—we’ll call it enlightenment.
II.
Time was all they needed, but it was time that Sherlock found ticking away in red analog numbers when he opened the briefcase.
Time was what Sherlock felt bleeding away as he whirled around, grasping blindly for John’s shirtsleeve, choking out a hoarse “Run!”.
Time was what they felt rushing by them as they ran, feet drumming out a steady tempo to the seconds burning away.
It was only time that they were trying to defeat.
It was only time that broke around them in a fiery inferno, launching them forward into the fragments of what would come next.
Intermezzo
It was the fact that Lestrade meant well that really irked John. ‘Cause yeah, before the DI had said anything, John had been thinking to himself that no, Sherlock really didn’t need him to go into that abandoned warehouse to pick up the suspicious briefcase they had received a tip (ultimatum) about.
But then Lestrade moved over near him, pulled out his concerned face, and said, “You don’t have to go in there with him, John. He doesn’t need a doctor—hell, he doesn’t ever need a doctor,” and that last part was under his breath, “—but if you keep running around with him like this, in these places, John, one day you might not get out of there alive.”
And after that, dammit, he had to go in.
He would’ve gone in anyway. Can’t leave that overly intelligent brute to wander around on his own. He might break someone.
And he did.
IV.
For once, Sherlock was the one who was broken.
Yes, John was broken too, draped over that white hospital bed, melting into the gashes and internal bleeding dealt to him by the fiery explosion. The prognosis wasn’t good, it was even dire, and there was a constant stream of people that believed they were saying their final goodbyes moving through his room every day, murmuring the farewells to his unconscious form. John was undeniably broken.
But it was Sherlock that was trapped in the stark white waiting room, raging at the blank walls, spitting at every individual that walked through, arguing constantly with himself.
It wasn’t his fault, the bomber had disguised the weapon expertly, he said over and over in his head. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t his fault—
(—he knew it was his fault, the guilt was eating him alive—)
Not his fault.
But he couldn’t hold on, couldn’t keep himself from losing his mind in that room any longer, and so he lurched drunkenly out the street in a vicious attempt to flee—
(what if he’s not here when you get back?)
notanoptionnotanoptionnotanoption
—he can’t lose John.
V.
Goodbye isn’t something Sherlock is accustomed to saying.
But the storm is raging around him and he should’ve seen it all along, it was only ever building into chaos, and now it’s sweeping him and John away, pushing them under the icy waters and for once, just for once, Sherlock wishes he had a soul;
he wouldn’t mind baptism right now.
But that’s not important because it’s John that’s drowning, and no matter what Sherlock does he can’t quite reach to pull him up, pull him to safety, because in the end, Sherlock is the storm that’s drowning them and he’s really just been brewing for years. John isn’t drowning despite Sherlock; he’s drowning because of him.
And that’s drowning Sherlock too.
So they both go down together, one in a casket and one in grief. And no matter what, no matter the cocaine or the nicotine, the cases and Lestrade’s tenuous friendship, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and all the tea in London, Sherlock can’t save himself. It’s already too late to save John.
They both should’ve listened.
Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man.
No storm just happens; storms build. They brew and boil and bubble over, straining at the seams of their business suits, leaking animosity out of every stitch. Then they burst, spilling over in plumes of anger and terror and sadness, flooding and rushing and sweeping away everything, every familiar landmark, every well-known face, everything you can use to orient yourself, to hold yourself afloat. A storm will drown you, douse you with its icy water and plunge you into the frigid depths of—of what? Of your past? Of your soul, so that if you come up, it’ll be baptism?
If you drown, well, what the hell—we’ll call it enlightenment.
II.
Time was all they needed, but it was time that Sherlock found ticking away in red analog numbers when he opened the briefcase.
Time was what Sherlock felt bleeding away as he whirled around, grasping blindly for John’s shirtsleeve, choking out a hoarse “Run!”.
Time was what they felt rushing by them as they ran, feet drumming out a steady tempo to the seconds burning away.
It was only time that they were trying to defeat.
It was only time that broke around them in a fiery inferno, launching them forward into the fragments of what would come next.
Intermezzo
It was the fact that Lestrade meant well that really irked John. ‘Cause yeah, before the DI had said anything, John had been thinking to himself that no, Sherlock really didn’t need him to go into that abandoned warehouse to pick up the suspicious briefcase they had received a tip (ultimatum) about.
But then Lestrade moved over near him, pulled out his concerned face, and said, “You don’t have to go in there with him, John. He doesn’t need a doctor—hell, he doesn’t ever need a doctor,” and that last part was under his breath, “—but if you keep running around with him like this, in these places, John, one day you might not get out of there alive.”
And after that, dammit, he had to go in.
He would’ve gone in anyway. Can’t leave that overly intelligent brute to wander around on his own. He might break someone.
And he did.
IV.
For once, Sherlock was the one who was broken.
Yes, John was broken too, draped over that white hospital bed, melting into the gashes and internal bleeding dealt to him by the fiery explosion. The prognosis wasn’t good, it was even dire, and there was a constant stream of people that believed they were saying their final goodbyes moving through his room every day, murmuring the farewells to his unconscious form. John was undeniably broken.
But it was Sherlock that was trapped in the stark white waiting room, raging at the blank walls, spitting at every individual that walked through, arguing constantly with himself.
It wasn’t his fault, the bomber had disguised the weapon expertly, he said over and over in his head. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t his fault—
(—he knew it was his fault, the guilt was eating him alive—)
Not his fault.
But he couldn’t hold on, couldn’t keep himself from losing his mind in that room any longer, and so he lurched drunkenly out the street in a vicious attempt to flee—
(what if he’s not here when you get back?)
notanoptionnotanoptionnotanoption
—he can’t lose John.
V.
Goodbye isn’t something Sherlock is accustomed to saying.
But the storm is raging around him and he should’ve seen it all along, it was only ever building into chaos, and now it’s sweeping him and John away, pushing them under the icy waters and for once, just for once, Sherlock wishes he had a soul;
he wouldn’t mind baptism right now.
But that’s not important because it’s John that’s drowning, and no matter what Sherlock does he can’t quite reach to pull him up, pull him to safety, because in the end, Sherlock is the storm that’s drowning them and he’s really just been brewing for years. John isn’t drowning despite Sherlock; he’s drowning because of him.
And that’s drowning Sherlock too.
So they both go down together, one in a casket and one in grief. And no matter what, no matter the cocaine or the nicotine, the cases and Lestrade’s tenuous friendship, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and all the tea in London, Sherlock can’t save himself. It’s already too late to save John.
They both should’ve listened.
Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man.
♠ ♠ ♠
Okay, there's a little explaining to be done, but first and foremost-- if you read this far, I love you! Thank you so much.Okay. From the beginning: The song I received as a prompt was "Get Out Alive" by Three Days Grace. If you've ever heard the song, you know it's a little monotonous. When I first began brainstorming, I thought it sounded like a boring horror story. I didn't want to go that route, so I innovated by incorporating the theme into Lestrade & John's conversation and the central theme of the piece.
The title is what google translate told me was Latin for "drowned symphony". The intermezzo plays off of that symphony theme: technically, an intermezzo is an unrelated piece performed in the middle of a work of four- a symphony. That's relevant later.
As far as the plot goes, I hope you got that John was killed in a bomb explosion, and it drove Sherlock mad. That's basically it. If my writing style wasn't so weird, there wouldn't be 100 words worth of stuff here to read.
Now, a little fun technical thing I did to incorporate the song even further; I selected a line of the song ("no time for goodbye") and made the piece an anagram for it, excluding the intermezzo (unrelated piece, remember?). Each section starts with a word from that line. Woo!
And if you read this far, triple thank you! You're the bomb, and I hoped you enjoyed the piece. Feel free to leave a comment telling me how much the idea sucks or how absurd my writing style is- whatever you want.