The Shadow of Our Doubt

[mirabilelectu]

BOOM

The crack of an exploding firework echoes through the stillness of the black night that is shattered with blinding light. Shadows of towering trees are thrown in sharp relief against the surrounding fields, colors dance across the dark sky, peaceful quiet is broken by the whistles and sizzles of the descending sparks. For one brief, brilliant moment, the sky is alive. And then it all goes still once more.

Down below, far underneath the explosion, two men huddle together in the darkness. Where before they had been intent on their mission, searching out clues and evidence with fierce determination, they are now bent over on the ground in startled stillness, frozen by the sound of the explosion overhead. They had forgotten of course that there would be fireworks set off by the small village they were staying in while they worked on a missing person’s case, or perhaps more accurately they had simply never bothered to learn, focusing instead on the string of clues that had lead them here and then out into a field as darkness fell around them. When Sherlock Holmes is hot on a trail such as this one, there is no distracting him. Especially not for something so trivial as a local festival and fireworks display. 

BOOM

But for the man who is still crouched on the ground with his arms thrown defensively over his head, this is no trivial matter. For John, the explosions pealing out into the night are not a simple outpouring of celebration and joy. For John, out in the pitch-black wilderness with no warning of what was to come, the sudden boom and following hiss of sparks and flame is an echo of a time long past, a time of death and blood and misery in the desert sun. The crack of an exploding firework shell, so similar to the rupture of the mortars that had taken so many lives, send him to his knees as the memories wash over him in unstoppable waves.

BOOM

A friend gunned down in front of him.

BOOM

A young man, gasping and bleeding and dying under his useless hands.

BOOM

Four men, blown to pieces before his eyes. Four men torn apart by an explosion. Four men that he cannot save.

“John?”

A voice breaks through the onslaught of memory and sensation, concerned and confused and far closer than it has any right to be. The voice is familiar, comforting even, but this is all strange, too strange. That voice has no place here in the desert, here surrounded by death and destruction. That voice belongs to London streets in the twilight, to quiet murmurs in the warmth of a flat, to the happiness of home. It is not a voice that should sound this worried about anything, and it is not a voice that should be worried about him of all people. This makes no sense. The world no longer makes any sense.

BOOM

John groans against the wave of memory that washes over him, pressing himself further into the ground so that the enemy will not find him here, defenseless. He nearly jumps out of his skin in fear and surprise when a hand is laid on his shoulder, hesitant and unsure and yet so steady that it does not pull away even in the face of his reaction. The hand remains, the only solid thing in a world overcome by phantoms of the past, the only anchor to hold him in a present that will not hurt him.

“Breathe, John. It’s alright, you’re fine, just breathe.”

He does. Slowly, painfully, and with agonizing effort, he breathes. One breath, then two. Through the memories, through the past, through the shadow of death, he breathes in and out and finally, his vision clears. He is not in the desert, he is not surrounded by the dead and dying, he is in a pitch-black field crouched on the ground in the dirt as fireworks explode overhead. He is safe. And he is with Sherlock, who is kneeling down with him, hand resting gently on his shoulder and face contorted by more concern and worry than it has ever worn before. Lights flicker quickly across his face in dancing blue-red-green, illuminating impossible eyes and shining on pale skin as they flame into life and die just as brilliantly. Sherlock, safe and whole and here for him. Sherlock, worried about him.

John looks at Sherlock, eyes wide and pleading with wordless questions locking in the darkness. He needs more than just a hand of comfort now, and he needs more than simple words of reassurance and the presence of a friend. No matter how it galls him to be this weak, he must ask for a help that he does not want and yet needs more than he could ever admit. He needs Sherlock.

Thankfully, even in the darkness, the message somehow gets across. Sherlock’s eyes widen in shock as he understands, clearly taken aback for a brief moment before he schools his face back into stillness. Silently, without the words of judgment or biting cynicism that John had so feared, he settles himself gently onto the ground and reaches over to pull John over to him. John goes willingly, collapsing bonelessly into the embrace that is waiting for him. Sherlock folds his arms around him as he pulls John into this chest, wrapping him in a hug warmer and more tender than anything John could have ever imagined of him. They sit there in silence for many long minutes as John’s breathing returns to normal, his heartbeat calming, his brain breaking free of the panicked spiral it had been reduced to. The fireworks continue to burst above them, showering them in brilliant blue-red-green, bathing them in light that flickers over the discoveries that wash away all traces of fear.

Closeness and warmth like they have never known, shared in the evening gloom.

Breath, washing over sensitive skin.

A kiss, gentle and tender.

Pain, forgotten.