20 Works by HumanError
Listing Works
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John lays awake on the sofa, listening as Sherlock plays Rosie’s lullaby over and over and over again on the violin. He’s been playing for hours, insisting that he’s fine. Occasionally the violin will screech, and John knows that Sherlock’s thinking too much again, becoming distracted from the notes he is playing. That great brain of his, lost. Confused.
He can’t sleep, knows that if he does manage to slip into a dream that it’ll soon morph into his daughters face, crying in pain. It’ll turn into Sherlock’s anguished cry as he holds his daughter one last time. It’ll turn into her skin, slowly becoming cooler in his palm as he clings on to her hand, hoping that all of this is a cruel game.
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Just like that he thought, trying with everything he had left in him not to cry, just like that. Everything can come crashing down.
There is a hesitation before Sherlock’s arm encompasses him and pulls him against his chest. A hesitation before there are fingers placed gently on his back, timidly caressing until finding a resting place on his neck. John leans into the tender embrace; it’s welcoming. -
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He’s been out there for almost three nights now with a hole ripped through his shoulder and an infection that is dragging him closer and closer to the brink. No one will find me, John thinks as he lays in the dirt.
Sherlock curls in on himself and presses the needle in to his vein. He can no longer feel the jab when it is pressed into his skin, or the rush in his bloodstream when the drugs are injected.
Two broken men, two different worlds. Maybe who they need is closer than they think.
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Lestrade clenches his fist and slams his knuckle against the side of the building. How could this happen? How in God’s name could a case go so horrendously wrong for them?
And that’s when he hears it. He hears the sobs, and the panic and the absolute despair that is coming from Sherlock’s throat. And he knows that Sherlock’s trying his best to not let his emotions show but it’s not working. The detective is in absolute, utter agony.
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One moment he's running. The next, he's on the cold ground of London. Then, he's back in Afghanistan.
John recollects the blistering heat of the Afghan sun, and he hears the deafening blasts of the exploding field around him. Not this again he thinks, or, he would do if he had any rational thought left in him. If he could think properly, he would be remembering the correct methods used to minimise the impact of a gunshot wound. But no. All he's thinking now is fuck. This hurts. I am dying.
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"My mum used to tell me all about the constellations when I was younger. The stories she told were of magnificent creatures that were lost to the heavens, only to be remembered at night time. Aquila was always my favourite."
John has to learn to cope with the loss of his mother. Sherlock will be with him every step of the way.
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John is faced with the most heartbreaking moment of his life and the one person he needs to help him cope is no longer with him. He may be strong, but he isn't indestructible.
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You know I've never been good at things like this. Emotions. Letting on to when I'm hurting. Except when I was with you. But that's not going to happen now. It's never going to happen again and I just don't know what to do now. What can I do? I have nothing anymore. Absolutely nothing because that fucking bastard took you away from me. He took you away from me and then he killed himself. Why? Because he was too scared of his own selfish consequences? Because he was afraid of what would happen to him?
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It's ridiculous, he thinks now as he continues to follow the patterns of smoke, how someone can affect your life so drastically. Sherlock turns his attention back to the sky, notices a blackbird flying above him. Freedom.
The pinks and reds and yellows are beginning to fade, now turning into deep shades of blue. Checking his watch he sees that the time is nearing 8:30pm, the stars are beginning to show themselves. Sherlock takes the cigarette between his fingers, exhaling one last time before destroying the fire, rubbing the tip of the cigarette into the grass beside him. So easy to obliterate.
John never did like him smoking but, he supposes, that doesn't matter now. He's not here anymore. Why does it even matter?
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"Sherlock!" No reply.
John screamed as another jolt of agony ripped through his body, sending his limbs into paroxysms of pain. Jesus fucking Christ.
What had happened? The doctor inhaled, pressing his eyes together in an attempt to block out the yells and whimpers from the people surrounding him. There was just too much noise for him to concentrate properly. Should that have been a problem? John shook his head slightly. Sherlock would be here soon...surely.
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It's not the first time that John's woken up in the middle of the night in agony. It won't be the last. It's 03:21am and this is the third time already, just tonight.
John's life is turned upside down and Sherlock is the one who needs to be there to support him. This is their story.
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John did not have the chance to drive. But the person who murdered him did and he took advantage of that, thinking it was a fantastic idea to drive whilst under the influence. He was walking to my house and out of nowhere, the vehicle had veered onto the pavement, colliding with him and sending him flying. The impact had shattered various vertebrae in his spine, caused major internal bleeding and extremely severe head damage. It was unlikely that he was going to wake from the coma that he had succumbed to, but we hoped that he would.
It was ridiculous to hold out hope for him because how could someone survive something like that? His body was crushed by that car, he should have died on impact. Yet he didn't and he managed to live for another three days.
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It was difficult moving back to London by myself with a fucked shoulder and a psychosomatic limp. The PTSD was just the cherry on top. How I managed to keep my gun, I don't know. I was going to use it on that day, that day that I met him. And it wasn't even a matter of maybes. My mind was set because how could it get better? I had absolutely nothing to live for. Even my dad and sister didn't want anything to do with me. I didn't want anything to do with them. It's not as if I had anyone else to be with.
But then I was taken into that bloody hospital and met that bloody man and I just knew, I knew what would happen next.
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"They think everything's going to be fucking okay." John slurred, a glass bottle of alcohol between his fingers. He was slumped against his bedroom wall, head lolling to the side as he muttered through his words. I kneeled in front of him, one hand resting on his kneecap, the other enclosed around the bloody knuckles that he had just slammed into the mirror.
"They're acting like nothing's fucking happened. How could they do that?"
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Before I even register the excruciating pain in my lower back, I am looking towards him, trying to see if he is okay. And it doesn't even take me a second before I realise that he is not.
John is a man who never lets on to when he is experiencing pain but I can tell immediately that he is in agony. His eyes are scrunched together, an attempt to block out absolutely everything that has happened in the past twenty seconds.
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It wasn't supposed to happen. Something like that isn't supposed to happen to anyone, but it did. It was an accident but the amount of hatred I feel towards the person who caused this incident is overwhelming. I want to hurt them. Make them feel guilty for it. Let them know exactly how horrendous this incident is. Inflict the same agonising torture on them as what they've caused to us.
But I can't. John doesn't want me to and the rational part of my mind is telling me that no good would have come of it. They're not a criminal who is specifically going out of their way to harm someone. They are just people who happened to be at the wrong place, at the wrong time.
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It is as if we are both scared of what could happen tomorrow. I am. I've no idea about him. Even the mere thought of the coming months makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs.
But I cannot. I will not.
In which John leaves for his first tour in Afghanistan tomorrow and Sherlock wants to savour their last night together.
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He had been depressed. Not eating, barely sleeping, isolating himself away in his room for hours upon hours. The nightmares had been getting worse. The times he had managed to steal a few hours sleep had been interrupted by the horrors of the war that were haunting him once again
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I'm getting tired now. Lethargy is carefully dancing around me, occasionally holding onto my skin and tugging at it. Come on, John.
I try to avoid it, but my attempts are becoming futile. Instead, I try and focus on Sherlock.
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Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. It's them. Always just them. It had been months since they had been together. Stolen kisses. Subtle glances. Trying to hide their relationship from John's abusive, homophobic father. It was never that easy though, was it? There was always going to be something pulling them apart, separating them, tearing their world apart. Why did it have to happen so soon?