SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

still breathing

Sherlock’s eyes opened and then closed. His chest moved just enough to let a little air in his lungs, any deeper of a breath would send an excruciating pain between each rib, around both lungs, and then up the spine like a squeezing serpent. Every nerve and vein in the detective’s body raged with pain and screamed for relief, but none could be found, not when a 2,000 ton of metal pressed firmly against his torso and chest. His legs had lost circulation, and Sherlock had to force his foot to shake to keep from losing his legs completely. The mobile phone still blinked red, indicating the amount of life it had left. Sherlock could relate.

“You thought you were clever,” came the ghostly voice of Sherlock’s own voice in his head. “Thought you had Andrew Brooklyn sorted. Who’s behind a wrecked car now? John’s in the hospital; he doesn’t even have cancer. Simon and Charlie are probably dead. Lestrade, Elise, and Mrs. Hudson are probably the only ones safe…as far as I know. You done it, Sherlock Holmes, you’re losing your ability. You’re getting older. Where in your life did you lose ‘wisdom?’ John’s got it, but I don’t.”

“Shut up!” Sherlock shouted to himself before being attacked by a surging pain in his gut. His good arm clutched his chest and groaned deep in his throat like an angered dog. Seething though his teeth, he tried to regain his breath and tell himself that it wasn’t as bad as it felt. But, it did little good when the agony started up again. Sherlock looked down at the phone again, wondering if John was still alive on the other end. He was hoping Andrew released him since they didn’t go over a minute on the phone, that is, if John hung up on time. Pressing the back of his head against the wall, he sighed slowly, wishing he knew a way out of his trap. To move would cause something to be shifted out of place, but he was willing to take the risk if moving was his only option. He had tried to tip the car over, but it served no purpose except wearing himself out.

Reserving his energy, Sherlock closed his eyes and fell asleep. In his dream, he remembered a fond memory that summed up his friendship with John:

On a blazing hot day in Miami, Florida, the door to Room 32 flung open and a soaking wet detective stumbled in. John, who had propped himself on a very large, king-size bed, looked up from the tellie and stared at Sherlock with no surprise in his face.

“Did you go fishing with just your mouth?” John asked, imperturbable to whatever his friend had gotten himself into.

Panting and throwing his shoes off, Sherlock replied, “No! I just came back from interviewing for a temporary job at a steak house. Apparently, you can’t say, ‘see you in a little bit’ to leaving customers, and I was told that I sound awkward on the phone. Tedious!” Sherlock dragged himself over to a bare spot on the hotel room’s floor and descended to his haunches.

Tossing the TV remote aside, John said, “That still doesn’t explain why you’re all wet.”

“Oh, I got hot and stood under one of those water-sprinkle-things.” Tugging at his collar, Sherlock remarked, “The sun is so favorable in July, isn’t it?” He then placed his hands in the prayer position and rested them against his chin. Knitting his brows, he eyed an empty spot on the large bed. “Where’s Alana?”

“Work,” John replied, scooting off the bed and into his slippers.

“You should probably get to where you need to go, as well. I’ll stay here and wait for that Rawlings to return my texts! Such an American!” Sherlock jumped up to his feet and wandered into the bathroom to wring out his clothes in the sink.

Laughing, John called out to him, “You know, you don’t have to blame his nationality for not returning a text. I don’t even return your texts sometimes.”