kittykiernan

WARNING: Reichenbach Spoilers


Written for this prompt over at the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme.

Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock has returned and is taking John to the opera to celebrate the successful conclusion of a case. Only problem is, they're seeing Tosca, an opera which ends with one of the romantic leads getting killed whilst attempting to fake his own death, and the other committing suicide by flinging herself from the roof of a tower. Shockingly, John finds this a bit triggering. Angst, h/c, and possibly a little slash ensue.



Cadere, Ch. 1

“Well,” John said, “Three cases this week, I'd say we are officially on a roll.” He sank down onto the sofa and closed his eyes.

It had been nearly three months since Sherlock's miraculous and yet, somehow, ultimately unsurprising return from the dead, and life at 221B Baker Street was finally settling back down into something resembling normalcy. Calling life with Sherlock “normal” was a bit of a stretch at the best of times, of course, but then everything was relative.

The first several weeks had been rough on them both. John had been edgy and tense and angry and hurt, reminding himself of the state he'd been in after returning from Afghanistan, before he and Sherlock had met. And Sherlock...well. This time Sherlock had been the problem, a state of affairs neither of them quite knew how to cope with. They'd tiptoed around each other, walking on eggshells until something had broken and they'd fought, and John had shouted and Sherlock had thrown things and walked out, and then they'd talked and made up and tiptoed about some more and fought again.

John had punched Sherlock, but he'd avoided nose and teeth the way he had the last time, and Sherlock had given John that maddening, 'We both know what's really going on here' look, which was possibly even more maddening due to its being true, and they'd fought some more. John had shoved Sherlock up against the wall, and there had been a moment, a tense moment of the sort John would rather not examine too closely, but then again maybe that was just John being terribly pedestrian.

But then Sherlock had apologized, or something close to it at any rate, and John had had to do a lot of blinking and had pretended to have something in his eye, and Sherlock had made the tea for once and they'd gone out for a Chinese and things had started to get better. Sherlock had moved back in – moved home, John thought privately – and Lestrade, bless him, had eventually started to come through with cases again, and things had gotten better yet still. (John wasn't certain how Lestrade had ever managed to work Sherlock back into the Yard's tentative good graces, but John would be eternally grateful that he had. Sherlock was, as ever, positively unbearable when bored. Some things did not change.)

And now, it was mid November and closing in on three months – 10 weeks, 5 days, not that John was counting – and life was, well...good. Sherlock hadn't exactly been idle during his stint in the afterlife, but John suspected that clearing out Moriarty's tangled web of deception and subterfuge had been decidedly less satisfying without anyone around to appreciate it. Whatever the reason, Sherlock seemed thoroughly overjoyed to be working cases again, faithful blogger and sidekick in tow, and the last couple of weeks had seen John dragged up and down the countryside from Aberdeen to Cardiff (Cardiff!) in pursuit of murderers, thieves, philandering husbands, and Sherlock's entertainment.

John had been loving every minute of it.

It did get fairly exhausting though, going full tilt like that for days at a time. When he and Sherlock trudged into their flat that cold, grey Friday afternoon, third case of the week neatly wrapped up and under their belts, John had to admit that he was rather looking forward to a quiet evening of tea and telly.

Sherlock, on the other hand, not even having bothered to shut the door behind him, was rummaging busily through desk drawers, already off on some new mission or other. John sighed.

“I said,” he repeated, trying and failing to catch Sherlock's eye, “We're on a bit of a roll, wouldn't you say? Three cases this week?”

“Yes yes,” Sherlock muttered distractedly, apparently giving the current drawer up as a bad job as he emptied its entire contents out onto the floor. “Lestrade should be pleased.”

“What?” John frowned. “The last case didn't even come from Lestrade. It came from Molly's friend, do you remember? From St. Mary's. Sherlock, are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I am, John,” Sherlock said without looking up. “Have you got a suit?”

“I- What?” John narrowed his eyes, shooting Sherlock a deeply suspicious look over the back of the sofa. “Why?”

With a small, pleased exclamation, Sherlock straightened. He was holding what appeared to be a small pair of brass binoculars and smiling. “The opera! I've got us tickets to the opera this evening to celebrate our recent successes.”

John blinked. “What? But how? We've just got in. How could you possibly have known we'd be finished in time to go to the opera?”

Sherlock looked vaguely irritated. “Isn't it obvious, John? The teakettle!”

It wasn't obvious to John, not even a little bit. But Sherlock was giving him a 'Whatever is it like in that strange little brain of yours' look, and so John let it go.

“Yes Sherlock,” he said, pushing himself up off the sofa with a sigh of resignation. “I've got a suit.”

First rewatch, and the beginning of A Study in Pink makes me so excited that I have to pee. No joke. I also have to stop the video like every five minutes to bounce up and down excitedly and rewind to watch the best bits over again and catch every little facial nuance.

I'm playing Kink Bingo, over at http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org! Here's my card:

Sometimes a Great Notion
Chapter 1: Homecoming

It is the old Katniss's favorite kind of day. Early spring. The woods awakening after the long winter. But the spurt of energy that began with the primroses fades away. By the time I make it back to the fence, I'm so sick and dizzy, Thom has to give me a ride home in the dead people's cart. Help me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust motes spin in the thin shafts of the afternoon light.

My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he's real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. He's come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn't stand it there without her, so he came looking.

“It was the waste of a trip. She's not here,” I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. “She's not here. You can hiss all you like. You won't find Prim.” At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully. “Get out!” He dodges the pillow I throw at him. “Go away! There's nothing left for you here!” I start to shake, furious with him. “She's not coming back! She's never ever coming back here again!” I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. “She's dead.” I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. “She dead, you stupid cat. She's dead.” A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair.

Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won't go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he's there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night.

*********

It takes me a minute to realize that Buttercup isn't the only visitor in my bedroom. Someone else is there too. A large form slouched in the easy chair by the window. I scream, groping blindly for a weapon, certain that one of Coin's flunkies has shown up to finish me off, when suddenly the form bolts to its feet and I realize it's Peeta.

He knocks the chair over, stumbles, and careens into my desk, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. “Katniss! What's happening? Where are you? Katniss!” I've got my mouth open, about to lay into into him for scaring me so badly, when I realize how truly panicked he is. I must have woken him with my scream. The whole scene might be downright comic if you didn't know why we were both so high-strung.

“Peeta, it's ok,” I tell him, keeping my voice as steady and soothing as possible, considering that my own heart is still racing. “It's ok, we're safe. We're in 12. I'm here.”

He turns toward me, relaxing a little at the sound of my voice but still disoriented in the gloom. “Katniss?”

I reach a hand out for his and he grasps it like a lifeline. “Here, Peeta. I'm right here.” I lead him to the bed, swinging my own legs over the edge to sit beside him as his breathing slows and his eyes adjust to the dark.

“Why are you in my bedroom?” I ask, when he finally seems to know where he is again.

“I came over after dinner to bring you some cookies and see what you thought of the flowers. But you were asleep on the floor in the living room, so I carried you upstairs. You were thrashing around a lot, and I thought I'd sit with you awhile. Make sure you were all right. I guess I fell asleep. I'm sorry I scared you.” He doesn't look at me while he speaks.

My stomach twists. There was a time when Peeta wouldn't have thought twice about climbing in beside me to quiet my nightmares. Still, he carried me to bed. It's something. “It's ok.,” I tell him. “I just didn't know who you were, at first.”

He chuckles softly, without much humor. “I knew exactly who you were. I'd know that scream anywhere. I just didn't know where. I thought...” He trails off, but he knows he doesn't need to say what comes next. We both know what he thought. He thought we were back in the arena.

I don't have anything to say to that, so we just sit quietly for a while. Side by side in the dark. Finally, when the silence stretches on too long, I say, “Buttercup came home today.” I glance around, but the cat has disappeared. Probably hightailed it when the screaming started, the chicken.

“I saw him,” Peeta says. “He was laying at your feet when I found you on the floor. Took a swipe at me when I picked you up.”

I don't know if it's the idea that this crotchety cat and I are all each other have left in the world, or if it's the suspicion that Buttercup is looking out for me now because he knows it's what Prim would have wanted, or what, but this does me in. I break down into helpless, keening sobs. “She's gone, Peeta. She's gone. It was all for nothing. I volunteered to keep her safe, and she's gone. They're all gone.”

Because it's not just Prim. No, having only one death on my head would be too easy. There is also funny, smiling Darius, who stepped in to save Gale. Sweet old Mags, who volunteered for Annie and then gave her life for me and Peeta. Wonderful Cinna, whose faith in me gave the strength I needed to go on. Brave, beautiful Finnick, who suffered so much, and who was a true friend when I needed one most. Boggs, who used his dying breath to help me. Jackson, Homes, Messalla, Castor, and the Leegs, who followed me into hell. Peeta's own family. And more. So many more. The evidence lies all around us in the decimated remains of our district. Yes, Snow is dead. The Capitol overthrown. The Hunger Games no more. But at what price?

Peeta turns and wraps me in his arms, but I thrash against him, beating my fists against his chest so hard I know it must hurt. “Why did you stop me? Why didn't you let me die? There's nothing left for me now. They've taken everything. You should have just let me die.” I know it's probably cruel, saying I have nothing left when he's here with his arms around me. Reminding him of everything he's lost.. Of everything he's suffered on my account. But I'm in too much pain to care.

He just pulls me closer and leans down to rest his head against mine, allowing me to work my anger and grief out against his broad chest. Slowly, this burst of hysterical energy starts to fade, and I feel myself beginning to slump in his arms. As my eyelids begin to close, he lays me gently back down on the bed and pulls a blanket over me.

I am drifting back into blessed oblivion when he leans over and places a gentle kiss near my temple. “I'm sorry,” he whispers into my hair. It's so soft I'm not sure he even means me to hear it. “I'm sorry, Katniss. I couldn't. If you died, I wouldn't have anything left either.” Then I feel his weight leave the bed. His footsteps cross the floor, and he's gone.

When he opens his eyes, everything has changed. His world is gone, and he's standing on the deck of a boat. It's day now. The sky is blue and nearly cloudless, and he can feel the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck. He reaches out to rest a hand on the rail and feels an effortless strength course through the limb. He smiles then, knowing without looking that his skin is lightly freckled, not spotted by age the way it was mere moments ago, his body muscled and tight the way it has not been for many years. (Years which already begin to fade, almost as though he has been dreaming and is now awake.)

The water laps softly at the sides of his ship, and he closes his eyes, thinking back for a moment – only a moment - on his life of dreams. When he opens them again, there is a shoreline in view. He walks to the prow, leaning out over the rail. Soon, he can make out a field, patches of yellow and white flowers dotting the grass, a grove of trees behind. And sloping down to meet the water, a sandy beach, with a woman on it, her blonde hair tousled by the breeze. She raises a hand in greeting, and he thinks he can see her grin, even from this distance.

A part of him, the part to which the concept of time still holds meaning, is brought to its knees by the sight of her. But the intervening years feel so meaningless and this reunion so inevitable now that he simply raises a hand and grins in return.

Finally his ship nears the shore, and he swings down from its rail into the shallow water, splashing up the beach to where she stands. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment before she punches him – gently, for her - in the shoulder.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

He smiles, then glances toward the empty field.
“Is it just you?” he asks, but if there is disappointment in his voice she cannot hear it.

“Only because I was the only one willing to stand around all day waiting for your slow ass.” She grins again. “Come on, everybody's waiting.”

She slips her hand into his, and together, they turn and walk slowly up the beach, the waves washing their footprints away behind them.

~~~

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
-- Alfred Lord Tennyson