My fanfiction and other random ramblings

Srebrna, Skald Arkadii (and thoughts on writing)

A very fine day

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A very much unfinished and self-indulgent story, canon left far behind and we’re steering towards the land of nonsensical Irondad, Spiderson and… well.


It had been a fine day.
No alerts.
No emergencies.
No sudden explosions.
Not even the slightest mishap in the kitchen. Read the rest of this entry »

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Written by Srebrna

2019/06/08 at 21:42

Posted in Marvel

Protected: Ghost story – 01 (private)

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Written by Srebrna

2019/05/23 at 23:43

Posted in Uncategorized

Cover for Tattered

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Cover for my “Tattered” story.

Tattered

Written by Srebrna

2019/04/16 at 09:39

Posted in Uncategorized

Dragon’s prisoner

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His armour shone in the sun, his horse was stomping his fore leg in a very military fashion and the whole picture looked like something taken straight from a tournament at her father’s castle. She sighed at the way he moved across the green at the foot of her tower and opened the window.

“FAIR MAIDEN!” he cried, his lungs obviously well-trained in voicing his orders in battle. “FEAR NOT! FOR I AM ARRIVED TO SAVE YOU FROM THE FOUL BEAST THAT HAS IMPRISONED YOU HERE!”

Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Srebrna

2019/04/13 at 17:27

Posted in Originals, Others

Strictly Professional

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“This jury now calls Glenda McTavish, also known under her professional pseudonym of ‘The Fairy Godmother’. Ms McTavish stands before us accused of multiple cases of impersonation, manipulation of public plebiscite, kidnapping, mobbing, theft and, finally, witchery. We will be hearing witnesses to these deeds over the duration of this day and the following ones until such time as either the accused one admits she had been in the wrong and recompenses her victims accordingly or it is proved beyond all doubt that the accused had nothing whatsoever to do with the crimes listed.”

The guardian of the court chamber smashed the bottom of his staff three times against the stone tiles of the floor.

“Glenda McTavish!” he announced, as a plump, jolly-looking woman in an orange jumpsuit was walked to stand in front of the judge, guarded by two well-built young men in uniform.

“Please state your name for the protocol.”

“Glenda Alberta Augusta McTavish.”

“Please confirm, in your own words, what is your understanding of the topic of today’s proceedings.”

“I am accused of multiple crimes that had been perpetrated on various people of this kingdom.”

“And how do you plead?”

“Not guilty, your honour.”

“You do understand the seriousness of the charges laid against you?”

“Well, your honour,” she smiled serenely from under her lacy, frilly cap. “If I tell you I understand, and I do not know what I should know, what will it change? I will still be honest and you will still get the wrong answer.”

The man behind the large table squinted.

“Very well. One case of being an accessory to impersonation. One case of interference with royal succession. One case of distributing potentially poisonous plants to minor children. Nine confirmed cases of impersonating a prophet or claiming to have prophetic abilities. Seventeen cases of interfering with already promised engagements. Two confirmed cases of affecting a child’s appearance for no obvious reason. Two confirmed cases of gifting children with actual, openly-stated misfortune. There is at least a score of lesser charges laid at your door, each amounting to at least a year in gaol. However of the major charges, they can cost you a lot, Ms McTavish.”

“I see, your honour. Am I allowed to say anything to my defence? I would not like to be judged in contempt of the court.”

“You may, Ms McTavish, but be brief about it.”

He sat back, looking down at the wrinkled face that twisted up in concentration.

“I admit to having perpetrated these actions,” she said, and the room behind her started booing her. “I admit. But I do not agree that any of them had been an actual crime. All that you have listed has been done in order to deliver alms to the ones who needed them and correcting wrongs that had been done to the suffering ones.”

She looked up and the judge found himself smoothing out the frown that usually marred his forehead.

“Very well. Let’s go through the list and you can explain everything to us step by step. If that will be fine with you?

The woman nodded slowly.

“For the record, please state your acceptance aloud.”

“Yes, that will be fine with me,” she sighed.

“You may sit, Ms McTavish. It is not the task of this court to torture the people giving statements, even if they are the suspects. Very well. Comfortable?”

“Yes, your honour,” she said simply, sighing again.

For a person her age she certainly looked well.

“First case we have on the list is the fact that you had aided in an impersonation of a noble-born woman, aiding a… scullery maid to gain social advancement through the means of unscrupulous deception, forgery and plain trickery, perpetrated upon the highest born of that land. Now, what say you?”

“I say, if what you are alluding to is the case of Ella, the cleaning girl, named by her family for the task she did the best, ‘Cinderella’, that this was a case of a specific contract that I had been sent to fulfil and I can only claim that I did the best that I could for my client. He wanted a wife that would have no links to the local nobility or even gentry, no hangers-on in the family to feed off her and have mind open to the opportunities granted by her elevated station.”

There was a sound of unrest in the chamber, so he signalled for order and turned back to the kindly-smiling woman in the witness chair.

“Are you claiming that this had been a business arrangement?”

She sighed yet again, as if impatient.

“Of course it was! There is a contract that the side who seeks my services signs and it delineates in detail what they wish to achieve and what conditions they put as to the completion of the deal. How else could I work? I’m not in the business of straightening everyone’s messes.”

“But that would mean that the prince… I mean, His Royal Highness…”

“Knew perfectly well who he was marrying. The whole glass slipper trick was part of the agreed communication. He knew perfectly well which house to go to and where to demand to be shown all young ladies living there. After all, how many girls are there in the capital itself with this shoe size? It would be absurd as an actual means of identification.”

“Are you claiming then that… the heir of the kingdom…”

“Had availed himself of my services as a matchmaker. Indeed. I even have the letter of thanks he had sent me on their first anniversary.”

He frowned and looked at the long list of similar accusations that had been collected by the officers of the court and a variety of more and less shady personages from the local constabulary.

It was going to be a long day.

#

It was. As the interrogation of the suspect – or rather, an interview with the shrewd local businesswoman – progressed, people kept changing in the chambers. To nobody’s surprise at all, most of the people slotted to be witnesses against her quietly slunk away before their turn could even come, and journalists of varied kind appeared, taking down her words, keenly attentive to the details pertaining to the high and mighty of local society, eyes open for the tiniest suggestion of a scandal.

There was a slight frisson of excitement when the discussion turned to the two specific royal children that the woman had, as she had claimed, gifted with misfortune, but her answers were so dispassionate and calmly stated that nobody could fault her in her reasoning.

“I went with the newest trends in child-rearing,” she smiled tiredly. “Children should not be isolated from the realities of the wold surrounding them and should know from their first steps that the world is out there, waiting to hurt them. I didn’t actually give them anything specific, but simply told so in front of their families. This way they would blame at least the minor accidents on me and yet would not pack the children away in cotton wool and wrap them in soft covers – they’d know that some pain and some unhappiness is a crucial part of the growing process.”

“You read the new publications on child minding then?” he asked idly. “I would assume, at your age…”

“Young man, at my age and with my profession, I am practically required to be up to date with the theories put forward by the modern scientists. Your honour.”

He dearly wished he could ask her for her favourite lemon biscuit recipe. He was quite sure she was one of these grandmas who baked for their favourite grandchildren.

But he remained professional, as one does in such cases, and continued with the list.

“Item the thirty-eighth, the…” he frowned at the paper and looked up to check with the court secretary. “The singular case of teaching young children how to operate heavy… Excuse me, who had put it on the list?”

“Ah, I did, sir,” a young officer from the local municipal force rose from his place. “I had been on the team that responded to the initial call for support in the case that resulted from this… inopportune knowledge sharing on the side of the accused.”

“And what did the accused have to do with the case you mention?”

The young man stood there, cringing in his spot like a victim of an overly long queue to the privy.

“It was a case of the late widow of the baker Thomas, the one who used to live in the woods a few leagues from our town. It seemed that she had been keeping some servant children who had been given instruction by the accused as to how the heavy oven door is operated and thus, in the process of practising these skills, had pushed the late widow Thomas inside and closed the door upon her. As the job training should be, by law, provided solely by the members of relevant guild, society or worker’s union, the accused Ms McTavish had broken the regulations pertaining to these and so should be prosecuted for that infarction, being as she is unlicensed in the profession of baking.”

The constable certainly looked triumphant at his pronouncement. It was obvious to the judge that the young man’s grandmothers had been stingy with sweets when he was a child.

“Very well. This is a complicated matter and so would need to be heard in front of the guildmasters of the town, too, but I’d like to first give Ms McTavish the chance to explain herself, for the record.”

She was already shaking her head.

“These poor, poor children,” she heaved another sigh. “She left them with no instruction at all. She might have been the widow of the Guildmaster and so accepted as a member of the Bakers’ Guild, and I am all for the emancipation of women and acceptance in the craft community, but there are some who abuse that rule and so did widow Thomas. To put it frankly, she knew only how to bake one thing – and that was her world-famous, construction-grade gingerbread. She always overheated the oven and so anything else came out of it less than edible… or, to be frank, more on the ‘scorched’ side of the ‘well-done’ scale. And she never taught the children any kind of work safety rules! She even caged one of them – for his own good, she claimed – but what kind of a solution is that? I thought we were moving towards more modern ways of managing unruly children than chaining them to the wall or locking them in a broom closet.”

“Well,” he frowned and tongued the spot where one of his incisors used to be – the one he had lost in an uneven battle with a piece of widow Thomas’ world-famous gingerbread. “I think we can put this one under ‘household instruction of minors’ which is an acceptable action for any adult to take when faced with a child exposed to dangerous conditions, I hope we can agree to that,” he looked from over his glasses at the court secretaries and the young constable. “Is there anything else?”

Nobody made a sound.

“Very well then, Ms McTavish is free to go – I only ask you not to leave the town boundaries, in case there are any points raised by the officers of the court based on the testimony you have provided.”

She rose slowly, stiffly and a bit shakily even.

“Thank you, your honour,” she smiled at him kindly. “I will have my lemon tart recipe sent to your wife tomorrow morning.”

Written by Srebrna

2019/04/10 at 23:19

Posted in Originals

Fading Interest

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In someone’s post (sorry, don’t remember who posted them, I just saved the file and my laptop rebooted, killing the opened tumblr tabs) I saw this little gif, with John disappearing slowly in his room.

fading john

This reminded me of a story of Tove Jansson about a girl who disappeared… And so, this.

Fading Interest

The lab was quiet, cool and, what was probably the most important part, isolated from the areas of the “teaching hospital” that contained the objects of said teaching, medical students. His access to the rooms and the tools was hard-won, by a combination of bribery (on the side of his brother), intimidation and effrontery (on his) and wilfull blindness (on Molly’s). He relished the relative peace as he put yet another slide under the microscope and adjusted the lenses.

The door opened and he felt compelled to glance up, just in case it was some benighted soul in search of doctor something-or-other, desperate enough to try the mortuary lab. He liked to send them on a wild goose chase across the hospital. Most never came back. Either something ate them or they grew smart enough not to try this room again.

This time, however, it was no student – the person who crossed the threshold could, by conservative estimate, contain three… no, four, underfed medical students. Mike Stamford was a man whose presence Sherlock neither sought out nor avoided – professional, kind, knowledgeable, willing to answer the most outlandish questions and, what Sherlock valued the most, silent at his work. When one worked with Molly, one was always bombarded by her exclamations, grousing, small snuffling noises she made as she thought and, if the mood struck her, gossip. As if Sherlock knew who “Kate and William” were. Probably worked in some other part of the hospital.

Mike was behaving rather unusually though. He entered the lab, but then held the door open for a few more heartbeats, as if letting someone in. Yet, there was nobody.

Does Mike have a little dog?

“Here we are. A bit different from our times, isn’t it?” he said into thin air and waited, before shrugging. “This is the main mortuary lab.”

Ah-ha. Green paint. Finally.

Would he be showing the dog around?

Did the only reasonable person here go mad?

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?”

The rotund medic patted his pockets and shrugged.

“In my coat, I suppose. What’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text,” he scrunched his nose. He would have to go and fetch his mobile and…

Someone patted his elbow and a large, fairly new smartphone hovered in front of his face, screen already unlocked. As he hesitated, the mobile was pushed into his hand, which he found… patted?

Male hand. Short, thick fingers. Soft. No manual work.

But, what was the most important characteristics, the hand was invisible.

There were ways to stop oneself from screaming in fear like a toddler at the sight of broccoli and Sherlock quickly and successfully deployed three of them – rapid swallowing, deep breath and singing a random song in his brain. Anything that would require less focus would, in turn, allow the panic to set in. No losing focus.

“Thank you,” he hoped that wherever the person was, in relation to him, he still managed to address him effectively.

It was definitely a man.

Also, a man of certain education.

The surgical instruments on the tray were getting quietly and creepily rearranged into some other – maybe more efficient? – order. It was not a mindless reflex that some non-professionals would express – pick up, look at the scary blade, put it away quickly. It was methodical and pointed and…

Bart’s. Mike. Mike smiling at him from the other side of the room, one eyebrow raised slightly in challenge.

Oh.

He turned to look at the spot where the man should have been standing and thought, letting his fingers dance on the phone, sending a suggestion to Lestrade who to look for.

“Thank you,” he held out the phone on his open palm, waiting for it to be picked up.

Yes, definite contact with another hand, dry and warm. Short, blunt nails.

The phone floated to the side and Sherlock tried to map the way it was moving to a normal gait of a grown-up person…

Ah. Correction.

There was an additional sound that coincided with every other step.

“You could sit down, you know,” he said and waited for a moment for reaction.

Here it was. The phone froze mid-air and then slowly, slowly turned halfway to him and down.

So the man was now facing him, his free hand down – he was probably squeezing the handle of the cane in the other – and looking at him.

“I’m just saying, there are plenty of chairs here.”

The phone turned towards Mike.

And…

Ah-ha. There is something there.

A shimmer. Maybe. Something so non-solid that his eyes burned just from looking at it.

“This is my uni mate, Doctor Watson,” Mike provided finally, confirming his guess about the profession.

“And he is looking for a flatmate,” Sherlock interrupted him, not taking his eyes off from the spot where he had noticed the slight blurring of reality. “He is… ah, accident? No… an injury, but not accident, or he would be receiving payments from his insurance.”

The hand with the phone, stiffly held at his side.

At attention.

Ah.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Written by Srebrna

2019/04/06 at 08:28

“A Desk” – Antique Shop AU

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I posted a snippet of a story on tumblr, and it will hopefully become a bigger thing (see comments on the post on tumblr). In order to manage the contents, I have a Scrivener project, a spreadsheet with dates and a family tree, to keep the ancestors in order.

The snippet then:

The little bell over the shop door tinkled annoyingly, but he had to admit, it was just the right kind of sound to pull him out of his Mind Palace, even in the deepest stage of cataloguing. Unfortunately for the customers, it never put him in the best frame of mind.

The man standing in the entrance was… short.

Or rather, he looked shrunken. Diminished. Reduced.

Not that he could have been much taller, but the cane he carried definitely didn’t help. He was unsymmetrical and that made Sherlock’s skin crawl with discomfort.

“How can I help you?” he asked briskly, walking up to the man in long strides. “Are you looking for something specific? A gift? An intriguing memento, a…” he trailed off, taking in the whole posture – now leaning away from him.

“I’m looking for something for myself, actually. You could call it a gift, but it would be more of a tool,” the man said softly.

“A typewriter,” Sherlock hazarded a guess, because the customer was annoyingly blandBeige jumper, who wears beige jumpers, what would you need a jumper like that for?!

“Actually,” the man ran his finger over all the inlay on one of the cabinets, “I need a writing desk. Something with a bit of substance, but not too big… Has to fit in my not that big a flat.”

Sherlock frowned, taking in the whole sight. Straight as if he had swallowed a stick. Neat. Very neat. Obsessively so. A cane. Very short shave – not cut – of the hair. Precise movements. Economical. Leaning away from that leg when walking, but seems fine when standing. Tanned hands and face, Acceptable, if not very expensive cologne. Obvious signs of lack of sleep. Neat if very bland clothes. Squinting lines in the corners of his eyes, will need glasses soon…

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked finally, unable to work this part out, and the man’s eyes snapped up to his in surprise.

“How did you…” he shook his head and shrugged. “Afghanistan. Back three months ago and… Looking for something to do.”

“So you picked up writing?” Sherlock turned towards the back of the showroom, working his way to the few less expensive pieces that he could maybe offer. “Why on earth would you do that, if you’re so uncomfortable with the idea?”

He heard the man stop behind him and inhale harshly.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your left hand tensed when you spoke about writing. You’re looking for the right kind of desk, a plain signal of procrastination. You’re not in a very good financial situation, but willing to splurge on unnecessary piece of furniture that will take up a significant portion of your living space. You don’t want to write, but feel compelled to. I can guess your therapist would think it a great idea to have you write – maybe about your war experience, maybe about your everyday life – but you can’t, you are very uneasy about it. Something wrong about writing? Someone in your family…?”

“How did you know?”

The question was slightly broken. Just like the man, now standing by a case of assorted beaded jewellery, looked just a tiny bit not alright.

“I can see it. In you,” he explained impatiently. “Now, maybe one of these? Not too big, not too heavy – if you move out of that ridiculous bedsit one day, you will wish for less heavy lifting.”

Blue eyes blinked at him.

“They are… nice,” the man admitted, pulling one of the drawers open. “Rather modern for an antique store?”

“Well, they are more in the ‘classic design’ area than actual antiques, but Mrs Hudson decided to keep them. People like them. They look old enough, they say, but they have comfortable drawers and a lock that actually locks something.”

“Oh,” the man nodded slowly. “That makes sense… I just…” he trailed off, looking up the aisle, to where the actual old pieces were. “Oh.”

The “Oh” turned out to be an elegant little Davenport desk in dark walnut. Sherlock had set it in the back of the set, intending to come back to it and repair the drawer, but he never got around to doing it… Yet even with the little defect, it was most definitely out of the short soldier’s range.

“This one may be pricey,” he warned as the man caressed the wood in awe.

“Doesn’t matter,” came a breathless reply. “Just tell me how much and I’ll make sure I can get the money. I…”

“You weren’t looking for just a desk. You were looking for this desk,” Sherlock could relax finally. “For whatever reason, this is the exact desk you wanted.”

A slow, dreamy nod.

“I never expected to– just find it,” the man answered softly. “This was supposed to be mine, you see. But they sold it. Without ever telling me. They just got rid of everything that belonged…”

“Ah,” Sherlock slowly slid down to sit on one of the less antique chairs that peppered the room. “Your family got rid of some mementoes… Your great-grandfather’s then?”

“After a fashion,” the customer looked away. “He adopted my grandfather when my actual great-grandparents died in a train accident. Brought the lad up by himself, he was, ah, a confirmed bachelor, I think they called it at the time. Well, he and his friends. My father… He hated the very idea. I adored listening to the stories about “Uncle John” and his adventures, but ever since grandpa died, father forced us to just stop bringing the topic up…” he frowned, fiddling with the lid clasp. “The drawers are in the wrong order.”

W-what?”

The blue eyes smiled at him and suddenly there was a round drawer knob presented to him.

“The one with one knob should be at the bottom. I know, I was the one who broke it. Check if it matches.”

He picked up the piece of walnut and inspected it slowly.

“So,” he said, trying to make some time. “Your great-uncle was a writer?”

“Well, partially. After a fashion. He was a doctor, you see, and used to be a soldier… But then he wrote stories about his adventures with his friend, a detective. Published them in the Strand,” there it was again, that fleeting smile. “I used to read them in secret every night. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, logicking their way through the unusual and complicated crimes of London.”

He straightened up, feeling somewhat lightheaded at the pronouncement.

“John Watson, MD,” the man extended his hand.

“Ah,” he smiled, maybe shakily. “Sherlock Holmes,” he swallowed roughly. “I think, doctor Watson, we may have something to discuss…”

Sherlock…?” the man frowned. “But, how on Earth…”

“There were three Holmes brothers,” he blurted out. “The first Sherlock was the youngest, but my great-grandfather, Sherringford, was the eldest.“

And the tree I’ve written for the purpose, using Family Echo and GIMP:
drzewo genealogiczne J+S

Written by Srebrna

2019/03/23 at 15:07

Wordcloud – Double Pride Double Trouble

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Written by Srebrna

2019/03/01 at 17:34

Be patient with your patient

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“Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago.”

John was still fuming inside, so he clenched his teeth and tried not to react too explosively.

“Somebody?”

“Soo Lin Yao,” Sherlock gasped, his voice breaking. “We have to find her.”

The vowels sounded as if he was getting a nasty throat infection, but John ignored the painful sound for the moment.

“How, exactly?”

Of course, for some people the clues would just lie on the street. Like an envelope marked with the name of the museum – and used as a letter, apparently.

“We could start with dis,” Sherlock suggested, choking.

“OK, now I’m worried,” John stopped the detective before he could walk away. “Come here, let me check your throat. You sound very weird.”

“No way you’re chec…” Sherlock coughed, “anything, in the middle of the street! We have a case!”

“And you have…” John pulled on the blue scarf, uncovering a ring of quickly darkening bruises around Sherlock’s neck. “Dear God! What happened in there? Was there…” he glanced up and then back at the flat. “Someone was inside, am I right?”

“None of your…”

“Am I right?”

“You don’t…”

He reached up, placing one hand on the side of Sherlock’s jaw and the taller man shuddered at the touch. John willed himself to speak slowly and cautiously.

“Sherlock, was there someone in the flat with you? Did they attack you?”

The detective squeezed his eyes shut and squirmed. It wasn’t a confirmation, but it was… close enough.

“Fuck. All that time I was standing here like an ass and someone inside was trying to…”

“Strangle me,” Sherlock coughed. “With a shirt – or a sheet, not sure. Wasn’t paying attention.”

John pulled the collar of the Belstaff aside and slowly checked the bruised area with his fingertips. The ugly contrast between the broken capillaries and the milky white alabaster of the skin around them was… rather jarring.

“Swallow,” he ordered harshly. “Any blockages?”

“No,” came a croaky response.

“Normally…” John sighed. “Normally the treatment of strangulation injuries would begin with a visit to psychiatric ward,” he paused, “as most cases are the outcome of suicide attempts. We can safely eliminate this aspect. You will have very vivid bruising – the scarf will have to stay on for several weeks – and then there are the internal injuries…”

He frowned and tried to recall the specifics. No. He needed a reference for this.

“Home,” he said decisively. “Now.”

He stepped towards the street and looked around, keeping a tight hold on the black wool sleeve.

“But, John…”

“Shut up before you do yourself more damage.”

And a miracle happened.

A cab stopped. Right in front of them.

“Where to, friends?”

The ride was quiet – Sherlock was obviously tired of trying to argue with John and John trying to remember as much as he could of potential damage.

“First, a cold pack. Good thing I always keep a few in the freezer… Naproxen will be the best here… And we’ll have to check your reflexes.”

He saw Sherlock’s widened eyes alighting on him, but shook his head. There was no reason to frighten his friend more.

 

#

 

In the living room, he busied himself with finding the painkiller and the cold compresses which, wrapped in a kitchen towel, went around the neck.

“The cold will help to manage the bruising, too,” he added as he handed Sherlock a pill and a glass of water. “Now take this and sit with your lovely ice collar, just like that. Tell me if you feel faint or have trouble swallowing. I need to check something.”

He took a few breaths and watched as Sherlock took the painkiller and managed to wash it down without visible signs of distress while John dug for the relevant textbook.

“Now… I’m just repeating this out loud for my own sake, so let me just go through the checklist. You don’t have any cuts around your neck, one thing I don’t have to worry about. The surface bruising we’ll manage with arnica gel,” he pulled out a small tube. “Voice box and windpipe – you can talk and you can swallow, so this should be fine. Main arteries in the neck…”

His hands shook as he carefully touched his friend’s bruised skin.

“Didn’t have time,” Sherlock croaked. “Didn’t press enough.”

“And you aren’t feeling faint? Woozy? Nauseous?”

“None,” Sherlock sighed. “Can we go to the museum now? Because, seriously…”

“Close your eyes, put your hands to the sides,” John ordered calmly, overriding the pained rasping. “Now. And touch your nose with your left index finger.”

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock almost poked out his eye as a result of that little test and the detective looked in surprise at his own digit.

“I can’t go to the hospital,” he said slowly, trying to straighten himself. “I gave to…”

“Sherlock,” John picked up his friend’s hands from where he was picking at the cold compress with shaky movements. “This is not something you can ignore. You were being strangled. We don’t know what kind of effects that had. We could be…” he swallowed. “We could be looking at brain injury.”

Pale eyes widened as Sherlock’s hands tightened on John’s fingers.

“I feel fine,” the raspy baritone wavered for a moment. “I’m not… I’m OK, I’m not… Brain damaged!”

“I will be with you every step of the way,” John assured him. “But you must have this looked at. Ultrasonogram is the least… Sherlock, there are studies, death can happen up to two days after initial injury. You have to get this diagnosed.”

“You do it,” the pale detective demanded. “Diagnose.”

“How?! I don’t even have the needed machinery! Now, please. I’m not going to call for an ambulance, but I need you to leave this coldpack in place and come with me to the cab. Then we’re going to Barts and you will get this seen to. I will stay with you, but I can’t treat you, and definitely not here.”

Sherlock was breathing shallowly but rapidly, watching him in silence from his place on the couch.

“I promise, I will be there for you, all the way. Now, let’s go. The cab is waiting.”

“John…”

“Come on, we need to…”

“John, call Mycroft.”

He saw the grimace on his friend’s face that had nothing to do with his bruised throat.

“What for? I mean, I suppose I should, he is your brother…”

“They won’t let you stay,” he whispered. “Mycroft can make them.”

“Well, that is a risk…” he frowned and picked up Sherlock’s mobile. “Very well.”

He felt his free hand being grasped in the detective’s long, cold fingers. Trembling, long, cold fingers.

His gaze met the green eyes of the man looking at him in fear.

“Don’t worry,” he said, hearing the signal and waiting for Mycroft Holmes to pick up. “I won’t leave you alone there. Mycroft? This is John. We need your assistance. Yes, I’m afraid it’s a rather pressing problem…”

Written by Srebrna

2019/02/18 at 17:00

Posted in Monday Fix-Its

Tagged with ,

Urban Legends – Under the Bridge

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“Third point on the agenda”, Pebble rasped. “Stoney.”

“What about Stoney?”

Read the rest of this entry »

Written by Srebrna

2019/02/18 at 00:11

Posted in Uncategorized