What would you have been like, the voice might continue, had you not hidden your deepest fears in murky waters? A greater man? A better one? Would you have saved more lives? What would Victor have been like, the walls of his home sometimes ask him, had he fully grown? There, the sun had covered everything.ĭarkness, she insists, is too much like being underwater. He is reminded of the Belgravia room that he keeps quiet and untouched in his mind. When she can, she will throw open every window, pull back every heavy curtain, letting the light flood onto her bed and render them both incapable of concealing anything from the other. Her hand is curled into his hair and she runs her thumb gently over his temple. “Coming up for air?” she says, uncharacteristically kind. His head lying against the white sheet, he stares at her and she gazes back. He wants - more than anything - to be for her what she is for him.Īt that thought he pulls away from her lips. Maybe like him her storms are silenced only by the distraction of a new puzzle or the heated press of his open mouth to her neck. Or perhaps she hasn’t learned to yet herself. He must remember to ask her how she manages not to drown under the wash of her own unwanted memories. But that thought is always pushed away as soon as her hands touch his.
You don’t deserve to have her close by, a part of his mind tells him. It feels wrong now to conjure the image of her lips and ink black hair in his head without first reminding himself just how far away the real thing actually is.
She is living now in a villa on the edge of the countryside.
When it pulls away, there might be blood drying on his fingers. The shadow of a shark may move overhead and throw him into darkness. Or sometimes it will appear as a dim blue glow on his skin, strings of light moving across his hands and arms like twisting arteries. He can only stand and watch and suffocate as something he holds dear is ripped apart by churning tide. This is his mind’s way of telling him, you are powerless. He will look down sometimes to find an icy flood up to his knees, rising steadily till it threatens to swallow him whole. Water, Sherlock Holmes hypothesises, has borne witness to all his blackest moments. Do enjoy, and please bear in mind that this is the literary equivalent of belting out Celine Dion songs alone in your room at 3 in the morning. A chat I had with the lovely randomscientist encouraged me to finally upload it. It's just a rather sappy but lovingly written oneshot about the two of them dealing with such memories together. When I watched TFP, and it was revealed that there was a huge, devastating cause for all of Sherlock's imaginations featuring falls/floods, I kind of squee-ed, for the very self-indulgent reason that my first Adlock fic, "Ships in Glass Bottles", features an Irene who also has a complex relationship with water (being any more specific would majorly spoil the fic's climax, hehe).Īnyway, there's no need at all to have read that to understand this fic, which was the result of aforementioned squee-ing. Hello :) What a relief there's the Adlock category to provide a little bit to stress relief at the end of a long day (and I've had a whole bunch of long days recently).
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