Chapter Text
Such a wonderful night tonight. Here by the fire, the stars seem so close, so bright.
Shall I tell you a story?
Once upon a time there lived a soldier. Born into a breaking home, he learned too soon how to take blows. When he learned how to give them in return, he left home to find the world that every happy child had been promised.
But he was born a soldier. And as any soldier would, he found himself in battle, sleeping with a weapon at the ready. That was sad, if normal. But that isn’t what this story is for. What matters now is this: Night after night, on the battlefield, he dreamed of voices. As troubling as this was, he could never remember what they said or who they were, for they faded by sunrise, as if banished by the glow of welcome light. So he chose not to worry.
He would’ve ignored them entirely, except his fellowmen worried about him, telling him about how tormented he seemed in slumber. Curious, as the intelligent healer he was, the soldier took to carrying a notebook by his side, ready to record what these strange voices told him. But when he ventured back from beyond the veil, the bizarre inspiration never struck him.
And so it went for almost a fortnight, until the day he took another’s life.
It is peacetime now, but you may ask any man what it feels like to kill. Whether they will answer is another matter, but should they be kind enough or whole enough to say instead of demonstrate, then you would know why the soldier lay wide awake that night.
You would know how he learned to hear the voices.
When he woke the next morning, he saw a passage, scrawled onto his notebook.
Sleeping in naive delusion,
better than the mass confusion.
Thing of Void and skin and bone,
cursed are we to die alone.
He was discharged soon after for gunshot wounds. Of those who asked him how, few believed him when he answered.
He went home, do not worry. Soldiers aren’t always left behind. But the thing is, neither is the battlefield. Corpses and death, they linger on you.
Of course I’d know. Now quiet, please. The story is about our soldier, not me.
Don’t ask me what he fought for after, in the trenches in his head. I doubt even he knew at times. What he did know was how it would end. He dreamed it almost every night. It’s how every war ends, anyway.
But then he found someone. Someone who took the battlefield out of his head.
I wouldn’t say he was pulled from perdition. You’re thinking of a different tale. For the man who saved him wasn’t the kind who used such words. But he saved the soldier, nonetheless. And the soldier saved him in return.
Oh? Well, I suppose you’ve heard of them by now. The tales of their exploits are many, I know. But this tale is different.
————
This was madness. John stood amongst the flashing sirens, red emergency lights playing over his face. He was calmly standing there, but only out of necessity. Behind his neutral mask was a whirlwind of thought.
What had he done? If he weren’t such a restrained professional, he’d likely be staring at his hands right now, convincing himself that they were covered in blood. Mere minutes ago, he’d been standing in the school, firing a bullet through a man’s head. He’d killed a man on public property. That just wasn’t done, soldier or not. This was London, not Kabul. He was supposed to be a civilian. And yet he’d taken up arms. Why?
John’s eyes focused on the nearby ambulance. Across from him, sitting on a gurney, was Sherlock, his coat covered by a garish orange shock blanket. The DI stood beside him, interrogating. He didn’t see to be getting much success; it was more of a semi-antagonistic banter. A tiny smirk worked its way onto John’s face.
A part of him knew he shouldn’t be acting this way. In the eyes of the law, he was a murderer. Lestrade would surely imprison him, and being locked up…John saw the walls again, watching them slowly get covered in spidery handwriting. Thing of Void and blood and stone. Cursed are we to die alone.
He shook his head. Not now. Surely, Sherlock would know who’d pulled the trigger. And he was discussing the case with a DI. If John worried about his health and state of being at all, he should’ve walked away. Just down the street, back to the flat. That’s what he should’ve been doing.
Instead, he stood there, noticing where the policemen were walking, the looks of interested passerbies.
Sherlock abruptly cut off his talking, looking straight up at him. Exactly as he had before taking the pill. Again, John merely stood there, knowing exactly what would happen. It would be better to just come quietly, really.
But that didn’t happen. Lestrade didn’t follow him. And John watched Sherlock walk steadily up to him, tall and imposing and grand.
"Nice shot," he said, quietly. As they made banter of their own, John felt this strange warmth. This was a secret shared between them. John knew and Sherlock knew, and no one else.
When he asked how well John would sleep, Sherlock tilted his head a fraction of an angle, and John saw the implicit question. Why?
I do not know. What he said was, “He must not have been a very nice man.”
Sherlock smiled. And John followed him down the rabbit hole.
Some holes are too deep to climb out of. He would know.