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DarkraiSaxophone — Chokehold
Published: 2012-03-01 02:43:49 +0000 UTC; Views: 217; Favourites: 2; Downloads: 2
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John hated the world around him.How could people smile at him as he passed?
How could he still hear laughter echoing around him?
How could--and this was the worst--people allow their children to run about in little plaid hats, playing detective and--for some non-believing kids--proclaiming themselves fakes before flinging themselves melodramatically from a bench?
It hurt. It hurt like hell.
John felt the familiar tightening of his chest that always came before a grief attack. That's what Lestrade called it at least. Grief would rise up and strangle him, and he wouldn't be able to breathe. Sometimes he'd pass out. The first time it had happened, Mrs. Hudson had come home to a still body lying on the carpet. She'd thought he'd died too. Poor old lady.
He had to get home before he collapsed. He began walking as fast as he could towards the street, intending to hail a taxi. He'd refused medical treatment for his...condition. He didn't want to be delivered to it in the back of an ambulance. He didn't know how it had gotten so serious, though. Maybe the world was conspiring to kill him or something. If it was, the plan was working. The previous time, he'd nearly died because Mrs. Hudson hadn't been home and he hadn't been able to reach the inhaler on the counter. He'd lay on the floor, one arm reaching desperately up at the counter. If Lestrade hadn't just arrived, he would have died. After that, the detective inspector and the landlady had agreed that at least one of them should be home at all times, just in case. John had very firmly drawn the line when they decided to accompany him everywhere. Bodyguards, not babysitters. Who were they trying to fool with that?
When he got into the taxi, John felt his throat beginning to close up. He managed to choke out the address, and then doubled over, struggling to breathe past the blocked throat. Black spots swam around the corners of his vision. The spots made it look like Sherlock was right beside him, out of the corner of his eye he could see him...
The cab stopped. John fumbled for the door handle and staggered out, almost immediately slumping towards the street. A strong arm caught him under his right arm, hauling him up.
"Easy, guv'nor," the cabbie said in a low, gruff voice. "'Ere, I'll 'elp you in."
John looked up at the man. His face looked a bit like Sherlock's with that hawkish nose and the high cheekbones, and the curly dark hair peeking out from under his cap.
"Y'look like him," he said thickly. The cabbie looked askance at him.
"Wot?"
"Y'look like m'friend Sherlock 'olmes," John said, slurring a little bit. The man looked at him with concern.
"'Ere now, sir, you's not lookin' too well now. Let's get you inside then, eh?"
John was vaguely aware of a sharp rap on the door of Baker St., and of Mrs. Hudson's faint shriek as she saw them.
"Evenin', missus. 'E called up my cab and gave me this address. 'E don't look right, an' 'e collapsed when 'e wos gettin' out," the cabbie said.
John felt Mrs. Hudson grab his other arm, and felt himself be dragged inside and laid onto the couch. The black spots were growing, and air escaped his lungs. He felt himself choking.
He hazily saw Mrs. Hudson come over with the inhaler and press it between his lips. "Come on, dear, try to breathe."
John tried to suck in oxygen, but failed. He tried again, and this time he managed to get a little bit of air. "That's right, one more time," Mrs. Hudson coaxed. John breathed in again. This time his throat opened up with a great groaning burst, and he sucked in the air gratefully. Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder and checked his forehead for a fever. Then as she returned to the kitchen, John heard dimly, "Oh, Greg, it's no use any longer. We must get him medical help!"
Then he heard Lestrade's voice. "No, we can't. He'll say no. You know he hates having to depend on people."
"Well, we'll ignore his protests!" argued Mrs. Hudson. "He needs help, Greg! We can't pander to his paranoia anymore. He needs help, and he will get it, whether he likes it or not."
Lestrade's voice sounded tired now. "I know. But you know John. He'll fight tooth and nail over it, and then fight dirty. He'll run off to a relative's house or leave the continent all together."
Mrs. Hudson started to protest, but Lestrade said in an urgent, hushed voice that John was only barely able to hear: "Mrs. Hudson, he doesn't trust doctors anymore because they couldn't save Sherlock. He knows it's irrational, because he felt Sherlock's pulse and he was dead at the scene, but he can't help it. It's helped in part by the fact that he, as a doctor as well as a friend, feels like he let Sherlock down, because he couldn't save him. He will go to such desperate measures because he can't trust himself anymore."
There was a long silence. Then Mrs. Hudson whispered, sounding close to tears, "Yes. I-I know. I've known for some time now, I think. Poor John..."
Despite himself, John felt his eyes close, and he sank into unconsciousness.
~
The cabbie lounged by the cab outside Baker St. The door opened, and the plump old landlady hurried out. "Here, dear," she said, dropping two sovereigns into his hand. "Take this for your troubles." She went back in, and the cabbie slowly returned to his cab.
As he drove, the cabbie felt a strange feeling--both fulfilled and longing. Seeing that door again...He'd wanted to rush in, find John, tell him he was home...
But he couldn't. Not now. His supposed-to-be-dead-but-not-dead arch-nemesis was keeping John under close surveillance. He'd know...and exact revenge just as he had already...on poor sweet Molly...
He sighed and began the drive to his brother Mycroft's flat.
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Comments: 3
I love the mention of children throwing themselves off benches after proclaiming themselves fakes. That's just the sort of thing that children would do. However, I would write some reaction in from the parents. I don't think they would all have a blanket reaction of not caring at all. Some of them would hush the children up and tell them to stop. Whether from a sense of "Don't speak ill of the dead" or from a simple distaste for remembering it at all (Sherlock ended up with a huge following, a lot of people were taken in by Sherlock's "lies". There would be a good chunk of people out there who would prefer to forget the entire event at all then remember they were stupid enough to fall for it.)
You need to work on varying your sentence structure a bit, however. You have a lot of "He did this. She did that. Then this happened." sort of thing. For instance:
Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder and checked his forehead for a fever. Then as she returned to the kitchen, John heard dimly, "Oh, Greg, it's no use any longer. We must get him medical help!"
Then he heard Lestrade's voice. "No, we can't. He'll say no. You know he hates having to depend on people."
Do you see what I mean? It probably wouldn't hurt to add a view adjectives and adverbs in.
Instead of:Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder and checked his forehead for a fever.
You could say: Mrs. Hudson patted his shoulder gently with one hand while her other brushed cool fingers against his forehead checking for a fever.
This could have been a possible place to switch over to Mrs. Hudson's perspective as well. By this time, you've made your point with John and the conversation in the kitchen might be better expressed from someone actually involved in it. Especially since you don't really give much (if any) reaction from John to what they're saying from that point on anyway.
Which is understandable, he's rather focused on other things (like breathing) at that point. Even for several minutes after something like that you tend to keep a bit of tunnel vision. Things that don't directly affect you can seem a bit muffled or distant (in the past I've had issues with hyperventilating as opposed to not being able to breath at all but I'm assuming it's probably fairly similar. Also, it might not be the same for everyone).
I liked the fact that you divided Sherlock's section entirely from the rest of it and that you never actually say that it's him. You've kept it short, sweet, and to the point. Enough to confirm what probably everyone suspected (that the cabbie was Sherlock) and to show that he, too, is hurting from the separation.
I do have a hard time imagining Sherlock calling her "poor, sweet Molly". Even the more emotional Sherlock we see in series 2 would shy away from such a sentimental word as sweet. But you're obviously setting yourself up for a prequel (which is good, it means you have a plan) presumably using that as a title (which is interesting).
Overall, I think it was fairly well written. Something to focus on would be to sound more like your telling me a story and a bit less like you're reading off a timeline of events (something that you started well with but gradually did less and less). Some of your ideas were very unique though. The children, for instance; I haven't really read anything like that in anyone else's stories.
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