Sherlock fandom. TW: canonical suicide, blood, depression.
It Was My Fault
Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that I was to blame for Sherlock’s suicide. I should have observed more carefully. When I think about our last encounter – before the roof incident – God, I was so angry with him! But now, I’m able to peel away his obnoxious behaviour and to see how anxious he was. He already knew what he was about to do next - once he got me to leave - and it must have terrified him. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn’t have been indifferent to jumping from a building to his inevitable death.
“You have blood on your hands, Watson. His blood.”
This is a mantra I tend to torment myself with when I wake from a nightmare; a horrible dream where I see him fall in slow motion to prolong my agony. When I finally reach him - no one stops me this time - I place my palms on his beautiful face, wipes away the blood, closes his eyes, and pecks his lips.
“Sleep tight, Sherlock. I love you. I’m sorry.” I whisper in his ear.
The dream always ends with people appearing to take him away. I fight them like a tiger, but to no avail.
I wake with his name on my lips, tears streaming down my cheeks, and my heart shatters once more.
***
He looked like twelve that day – his last day on Earth. Just like he did the first time I met him. Seen in hindsight, something was different, though.
There was a bone deep sadness in his features when he played with the stress ball as if he’d realised how I and his other friends would react once they realised that he was dead. And yes, he did have more than one friend; I was just one of many.
Mrs Hudson, for starters. In fact, she was more like a mother to him. She grieves as if she were, for sure.
Then there’s Greg, Molly, Angelo, Wiggins, Mike; his entire homeless network, for goodness’ sake! Not to mention everyone who owed him a favour; there must be dozens, if not hundreds.
And still, he was dead (pardon the pun) serious when he declared that I was his only friend after we’d solved the Baskerville case. I could tell that he wasn’t shamming; trying to get into my good grazes again. It was pure honesty. By then, I had learned to discern the difference.
I can’t spend too much time thinking about that, or I’ll break down.
Why did he feel the need to take his own life when…
***
I’ve stopped bringing Mrs Hudson when I visit his grave. She’s so fragile. It’s as if her sassy personality died that day too.
In the beginning, I always stood in front of his elegant gravestone like a soldier keeping watch, but now – if the weather allows it – I sit cross-legged on the grass instead. It’s oddly comforting to talk to the black stone as if it is actually him.
“Hi, Sherlock. I miss you. The flat is so quiet. Even when you were lying supine on the sofa, lost in your head, you filled the room with life. You were the most animated person I’ve ever known, even when you barely moved a muscle. I’m considering moving out, finding my own place. Too many memories and ghosts in 221B nowadays.
“There’s a new nurse at work. Mary. She tries to flirt with me. It doesn’t work, but she’s quite persistent, I’ll give her that. Soon enough, she’ll realise that it’s a futile endeavour. I’ve even said so, but she just shrugged and winked at me. It was unsettling. Nobody has winked at me since you did it before you walked out of the lab that January day in 2010. I guess I should be flattered. Once, I would have been. Not after meeting you, though.”
***
My nightmares are always worse after I’ve visited his grave. In this particular dream, I have blood smeared on my palms. I realise this too late.
Like I usually do, I place my hands on his cheeks, but instead of wiping bloody off his face, I add more. In desperation, I try do clean my hands by rubbing them on my jeans, but it keeps pouring out of my palms like small fountains. We both drown in it.
When I finally wake, the bed is damp. My t-shirt and pants are soaked. For one horrible moment, I thought I’d peed myself, but it is only malodorous sweat.
***
“It was my fault,” I tell Mrs Hudson when we have tea together the day after I thought I’d drowned in my own and Sherlock’s blood.
“Nonsense, dear. You know there was no stopping him when he had made up his mind. Silly boy.”
She cries a little and I hold her gently until she manages to gather herself.
We watch the last Bond film, which she takes great delight in. Strangely enough, this makes me miss Sherlock even more.
Despite that I chided him for ridiculing the plot and the insane stunts, I secretly loved it. I guess he knew that, because he never stopped commenting, and he had this smug expression on his face while doing it.
If I concentrate, I can hear his voiceover.
“That stunt is impossible to survive, John. He doesn’t even have a scratch, for God’s sake! This inanity kills your brain cells, you know.”
I smile when Daniel Craig – against all odds - survives yet again, regardless of Sherlock predictions.
***
To my surprise, I sleep well that night, and I wake more rested than I have in a long time. Perhaps this is a sign that things are about to change for the better.
Summary: I tell your truth, Odysseus. What is it you seek?
Read on ao3.
You have blood on your hands.
Red washes into the sea, a bloom of color that enraptures like the swathes of paint that bring the great likenesses of the gods to life in their temples. The salt and brine are cloying, but as barnacles encrust the slats between the wooden beams of the ships, it becomes clearer that years have passed by without anyone noticing.
The great Agamemnon is a specter upon the dark horizon. He bids the crew to follow into the trade routes beyond.
Yet there is the taste of ash in the air from the burned remnants of Troy’s crumbled city, of the iron taste of the lifeblood of its people, of the bleached bones of Achilles now ensconced in a golden amphora, and the charred remnants of the trick, the lie, the gift, the horse—
“I’ve followed Agamemnon long enough.” The words leave your lips less spiteful than the air believes.
Zeus listens, and the crackle of lightning surges at the god king’s fingertips.
But he bides his time as he always has. He waits for you to slip.
But you already have, haven’t you?
“We could restock,” says Eurylochus, “take supplies from Troy.”
“We have taken enough from Troy.”
The ships set sail upon Poseidon’s sea, under Zeus’s sky. Black shadows smeared against the orange light of the escaping sun. The sails of Agamemnon’s fleet sink away, away, away. What more can be done?
The golden figurine your wife had given you sits in your hands with its carved, twisting vines, stares blankly ahead, and you hold it close to your chest as you have had for months, then ten years, then—
Hubris begets sacrifice.
What is it you seek, Hero of Troy?
In the cave of the cyclops, it is easy to bask in your own insignificance.
“Zeus’s law.”
Such confidence, such grace, in which you insist upon this. Because you know, do you not, what this must mean?
“Show hospitality to travelers. Any traveler could be a god in disguise.”
A soldier nods, another taps the damp bags of delicious cheese nailed to the stone walls, dripping with sweat and hefty with rich food none of you have had on that beach. That wretched beach. Black sand, black tides, black hearts.
You do not know what I know.
For when the cyclops Polyphemus arrives, it is not with the welcome of a hospitable host, but with the coup de grâce of a creature whose role is to be the ultimate predator. It is a mercy that so many die here in his jaws, crunched in between the incisors of this giant, because there must be some part of you that realizes what is to come next.
“Poseidon,” it groans. Its grotesque face twists like a mass upon mottled, graying, decayed earth. One eye, a lopsided nose, skin like that of a rotting corpse. The smell of mold.
It prays.
The stick that you and your men have used to skewer its eye is beautiful because it means freedom. The sticky flesh around its wood burns.
Yet you let your arrow fly loose.
You can leave. For now.
Into the maw of the ocean’s unforgiving wrath.
“That was Poseidon’s son,” a soldier trembles. “You have angered the gods.”
Yet you let your arrow fly loose.
The journey does not end for you. It takes longer, and who knows how long it has been? Who do you remember, who do you not?
The lotus flowers are on your lips, thrash about your tongue. Like sweet poison. You take it willingly.
You are human after all.
Such pathetic lies you tell yourself as the immortal Calypso watches. Each flower she feeds is honey, each supple taste of their nectar a tender balm.
Numbing, wasteful.
“What did you hear when you listened to the sirens?” Eurylochus asks, untying you from the post you had begged from.
Terror in the men’s eyes.
Nothing in the eyes of the man who had pulled the wax from his ears and swam to the sirens waiting on the rocks amongst the crashing waves, waiting to welcome him into their bosom.
Circe’s stricken face lingers. This sorcerer’s magic has bonded the rest of the crew together in haste, in spite.
I can see it on their faces.
“Go to Hades,” Circe had said.
You are making your way to Hades, through death—who knows? It would be a shorter route than the one you plan to take.
I’ve told you no.
You haven’t listened.
“All the things you want it to be,” you breathe out. “Then, all the things you wish you'd never wish for. It was the delicious itch you go to scratch, but find it’s under the skin; you can't reach it. So the delicious itch becomes unbearable. Told you what you most want is what you most can't have. And what you most can’t have is what you already had.”
I hear you, too. I hear you the loudest of them all. You do not speak your final thought aloud. Not when you have manipulated men to avoid the crushing jaws of Charybdis, not when Scylla plucks six of your men with the snap of her monstrous jaws.
In your mind, I hear it. The truth:
And it told me I don't really want to go home.
Now the lotus flowers, my champion.
Now, forget.
For the gods you have ignored do not forget, nor will they ignore you. You have defied them in your search for oblivion. Only you know the truth, for when you had sought it, even Agamemnon’s hulking figure met you on the black sand beach of Hades’s realm. Upon the intersection of rivers of fire and ice, he spoke:
“My mistake was in returning home.”
And perhaps the gods you fear are the same gods you have created. In the fresh air, in the salt of the sea. In the tales spun by the bard who seeks your story through fleeting snatches of those who have returned to your beloved Ithaca.
Where your wife Penelope waits, alone on a throne for near twenty years, a throne she cannot have because she is not the man the land requires her to be.
Fearing for your son, Telemachus, and fearing the people who will come from the sea.
Be prepared, hero. For you are lost.
I am she who begged for her life, the priestess whose blood you watched being spilled. Whose head you let roll.
Which now meant another promise of sorts had to be kept, and someone was about to learn that.
He walked into the dark room and sat.
“I needed a reason.” Greg sighed, “And now you’ve given me one.”
He looked into familiar seafoam eyes; the dark hair, too long to curl, fell in waves across the cheekbones.
Only these eyes held a madness, not held in the other gaze he knew well.
“You would not dare!”
“Wouldn’t I?” Greg just looked at her. “When I last saw you, I said all you had to do was be a good girl and shut the fuck up, but no. You had to be a Scorpion, break out, cause all manner of trouble, and escape England. It’s been, what, nine days? There are at least thirty deaths -that we know of- as you threatened what’s mine and picked the wrong person to manipulate, namely me…” he casually spread his hands, indicating their surroundings, “… so here we are…”
“You’d have my blood on your hands. And what about them‽”
Again, she tried to use her voice, but whatever gift from the Universe that made Greg immune to the Iceman’s glare also works against her.
Greg smiled at his wedding band and shrugged.
“What about them? You left me no choice.” Greg gave a dark smile, “And I told you: they'll understand. Christmas dinner will be somewhat uncomfortable – especially for you, but they will understand.”
“My brother will hate you for the rest of your life! Do you want that?”
Greg could not help the little snigger that escaped as he reached out behind him and a tablet was handed to him by a seemingly disembodied hand. A tablet that had been livestreaming the entire time.
Greg turned it to face her as he spoke. “Will you, my love?”
“No, little sister, I will not. And neither will Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice and face appeared on the screen. “You, on the other hand, we will abhor you and what you tried to do to us again, for the remainder of yours.”
“Oh, and do say hello to James Moriarty when you meet him in Hell, if it exists.” Sherlock, standing beside his brother, added. “And give him our thanks.”
Eurus Holmes’ brow rose at the sight of her brothers’ faces.
“James Moriarty? Your thanks for what?” The first hint of worry flared in her luminous eyes.
“For me, of course.” A tall, striking silver-haired man in an elegant waistcoat suit, sans the jacket, stepped from the shadows. “I admit I was surprised to get the call from Greg. I never thought it would happen, but I would never reject such a gift, even with the caveat.”
“On the day of your Christmas present, little sister, I was informed that James made a comment on those who appreciate a certain culinary indulgence.” Mycroft explained, “Granted, I also was quite surprised Greg personally knew such a person; then again, we all have strange bedfellows in our lives, no? But you won’t have to worry about that…”
Understanding the reference, Eurus’ usually stoic face finally went momentarily expressive with disbelief that morphed into worry.
Greg looked at his watch, then stood, turning the tablet towards himself. “I’m leaving now. I should be at the airport in an hour.”
“Understood.” Mycroft nodded and signed out.
Greg took a deep breath and faced the other man in the room.
“I’ll ask again, Greg. Are you sure about this?” The man asked. “It’s hardly merciful. There’s no coming back from it.”
“I understand.” Greg shrugged. “One part at a time… She brought it on herself.”
“I’ll let you know when...what remains...returns to London and can be picked up.” The man clasped Greg on the shoulder. “Do remind me not to ever get on your bad side.”
“That would be appreciated, both meanings, thank you.”
Greg looked over his shoulder at Eurus one last time. “I understand; you don’t know which one is pain, but you do understand death.”
Her screams followed them as they left until she realized that they wouldn’t work.
Greg knew he should feel, well… something about being here.
~Disclaimer for all drabbles- none are considered 100% canon; the more recently made, the closer they are to canon, but these are mostly for fun for me to figure out the characters+plot!~
TW/CW for blood and injury
Author's note: now, I know the undertext of the prompt said things like murder and death, but I took a bit of a (literal) detour, if that's okay; this is put directly following Strike- Lilith
Lilith
Her hands shook as she tended to the gashes on Anna's back. She had to take multiple deep breaths to steady them in between cleaning each cut. The porcelain of the sink was pink and her own hands seemed stained with Anna's blood. Maybe they were.
She didn't even realize she'd stopped breathing entirely until a quiet croak startled her back out of her thoughts, making her suck in a breath, which made her cough as she looked up.
"Lilith."
Anna had turned to look at her. Her eyes were full of pain. Tired. Resigned. But she still reached around to take one of Lilith's hands. Her own blood smeared on her skin, but she didn't seem to care as she met Lilith's eyes.
"Breathe." she said, soft and firm.
Lilith wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. Something to get this feeling out of her lungs. But she did none of that. Just dared to rest her forehead against Anna's for a brief moment before she stepped back again, sharply pulling away her hand out of Anna's warm one.
"Turn around. We need to finish and then we can go to bed." she said, her voice carefully neutral as she tried to remain stern.
Her friend's face had become expressionless again, any feeling dying out of her eyes as she turned back around at Lilith's order.
Lilith went back to her work, her hands no longer trembling as she cleaned and bandaged the wounds she'd made.
'Anna's blood is on your hands.' she reminded herself harshly, making sure to cut that into her memory. 'Now and forever. You can't wash those stains away.'
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt FFF365 ~ blood on your hands and @fluffbruary July 14 : twig | annual | plant. No spoilers herein. Exploring Freud a little bit.
—
Fandom: Medalist
Characters : Tsukasa Akeuraji and Jun Yodaka
Word count : 421
Rating : T and up (implied suicide)
—
“All objects that represent the length, sticks, tree trunks, umbrellas (the one comparable to the erection!), all elongated and sharp weapons: knives, daggers, pikes, represent the male organ. A common, not quite understandable symbol of the same is the nail file (because of rubbing and scraping?). Cans, boxes, boxes, cabinets, ovens correspond to the woman's body, but also caves, ships and all kinds of vessels.”
—Sigmund Freud, “The Interpretation of Dreams”
Tsukasa wants to touch Jun, but first things first are the eyes.
Intense. Glimmering. Brown eyes that turned golden yellow-green in the dark. Tsukasa loves those eyes. Like an automaton his left hand reaches for Jun’s face. The gold medalist stands on his pedestal like a plant.
Tsukasa pleads for his attention, who’s looking down at him. Jun is silent. Neither he is interested nor he wants to do anything with him. He’s even looking at Tsukasa with disdain.
He’s holding his black skates close to his chest. A white toga covers his naked body. His hair styled backwards highlighting a tuft of his white silver fringe.
Tsukasa’s eyes waters, sniffs. He bends his head down, clutches his own chest, crumpling his white kimono, grabs for the dagger next to him.
“You are the source of my trouble, my pain, and my heartache. I have to free myself from you,” Tsukasa laments.
Jun doesn’t ask why. He accepts the weapon drawn by Tsukasa to his flesh, again and again. Finally, he touches the young man, gripping at Tsukasa’s kimono until he falls over.
“You are crying …” Tsukasa says.
“I am, but so are you, Akeuraji,” Jun answers.
“Why didn’t you fight me?” He whispers to himself. Jun opens his mouth, attempts to say something, but Tsukasa can’t understand him.
Blood on his hands, he drives the knife to his own stomach. As he closes his eyes, he hears someone calling his name.
“Akeuraji, wake up!”
“Hahhhhh…”
“You are crying in your sleep. You were calling my name. Are you all right?” Jun looks at him concerned.
“Yodaka-san!” Tsukasa stares at the man above him. They are lying on the same bed. Outside is still pitch black.
“Yes…” Jun strokes his blonde hair. He’s been wanting to do that ever since he’s seen him at the all Japans competition. “It is all right. Whatever was your dream. It is over.” He assures Tsukasa.
“Y-yeah…” He rubs his eyes while hands reach for him, holding him close.
TW Blood (mentioned, a tiny little bit 'on screen')
“How could you?!”
Aang allowed the flush of reaction to spill over him. Bumi’s anger was clear from his tone, wording, and sheer volume.
It was not the reunion he had hoped to have, when packing Bumi off with Zuko, Mai, and Izumi for a summer’s visit. Watching his Baby Boomerang (no longer baby anything, true) fly away, so full of excitement to be going away for an entire month, he had wanted nothing more than to vault into the air and haul himself into the airship. To be separated from Bumi had hurt all of them. Kya had moved into the women’s dormitories. Tenzin had moved into Bumi’s room, refusing to return to his own room the entire month.
He and Katara had spent several nights outside, staring into the west, wondering what their oldest child was doing.
Of course, Zuko had been making regular reports. His twice-weekly letters had included updates from both the fighting and music masters. Bumi’s time in the Royal Guard Preparatory Academy was proving to be a unique experience. It seemed he was thoroughly intrigued by the Guard’s post-war analytical treatises. He spent many hours learning about supply chains and material management. He attended lectures on strategic choices throughout the war.
And then came the afternoon when a nearly panicked acolyte came running to find him. The Fire Lord was calling over the wireless, and it sounded important.
Aang had been waiting ever since.
Bumi had already left the palace. Orders had been relayed not to impede the young man on his return home. Every obstacle other than distance itself had been removed. No tickets or permissions or papers had been required. The very same airship was returned to service on short notice, ready to carry home one very angry son.
And even after two days of travel, Bumi was still very angry.
“How could you?!” he repeated. “All those people died! You told us never to even step on an ant because all life is sacred! You made us listen to lecture after lecture when we fought each other! You said you couldn’t bear to have me join the Forces because sometimes people die!”
Aang allowed his arms to lower into his lap, but he did not turn around. Not yet.
“Uncle Zuko radioed ahead, didn’t he? You know what I’m talking about because he warned you. Said I didn’t understand.”
He heard several harsh breaths followed by a stomp Lin would be proud of.
“Why won’t you even look at me?”
Aang invited the air to fill his lungs, and thanked it for removing the “toxins” (as Katara had described them) from his body. He pushed against the earth, his joints straightening. Once at his full height, he turned.
He had the sense that Bumi had grown in just the few weeks he had been gone. They were nearly eye-to-eye.
But the storm in those eyes was so out of place. Aang was used to seeing it in Katara’s expression, when he had made a mistake, when someone else dismissed her as his consort, or questioned why she had only borne him one airbending child.
“You spend all this time going on and on about peaceful solutions. We can’t eat meat unless we go to Uncle Sokka’s or Lin is watching Su. You act like just because you’re the last airbender, everyone is supposed to listen to you! Like you know more than all the rest of the world you left behind!”
Umbrage boiled from his son’s lungs.
He stood still, allowing Bumi to glower and glare as much as he wanted.
His beautiful son growled in frustration and threw up his hands.
“Do you even know how many you killed, that day, alone?”
Gently, Aang took a breath.
“Twelve thousand, two hundred and fifty-six people, primarily Fire Nation soldiers, though others were affected.”
As much as he had known for two days that there was no ‘good’ way to have this conversation, Aang had no way to prepare himself for the agony of watching his son’s faith in him evaporate like a cloud over a volcano.
“Yes, Bumi. I have known since those reports were presented to Zuko. I have read them from beginning to end.”
He closed his eyes to let his emotion flow.
“I have read every single name. I have observed funeral rites at Agna Qel’a and in the Caldera.” He breathed. “And I carry that number on my heart.”
When he opened his eyes, Bumi wasn’t looking at him. He was turned to one side, staring a hole in the ground. His fists were pulsing to the rhythm of his heart.
Bumi’s voice was low and tight, almost as if he were speaking through clenched teeth.
“You can’t take away the only thing I can do, Dad. You forgot to make me an airbender, not even a waterbender. I’m useless like I am.”
A hundred conversations were gone like so much smoke. Every time they had tried to reassure their son that they loved him, bending or no bending. No matter how much time he spent with Sokka, Suki, Mai, or Ty Lee, or the various acolytes who had dedicated themselves to the ways of the Nomads. None of it rested in Bumi’s heart. The poison that had rooted there was beyond anyone else’s power to treat.
He would have to find his own way.
“Bumi, my hands were the first to touch you when you were born. The blood that you and your mother shared stained my hands. I resented it when they made me clean my hands. If I would have blood on my hands, I wanted it to be the blood of life, not death.”
He pulled his hands out into the open. To his eyes, they were clean and dry.
And yet, they dripped.
“Since that moment, I have only wanted for you to live without blood on your hands. To see all the good this world has to offer. To live without this burden.”
Bumi scoffed.
“You don’t think I can handle it. You think I’m not good enough.”
Bumi clenched a fist in front of himself, and his arm trembled with the strain.
“I’ll show you.”
Years later…
Aang rolled to his side and coughed. Two rough hands caught the bloody spittle before it could hit the floor.
He looked up to see his beloved son, his own blood on Bumi’s hands.
Fandom: Batman
Word Count: 100
Content Warning: blood mention
@flashfictionfridayofficial
The ritual is familiar.
Bruce stands hunched over his bathroom’s sink, steam billowing up past his shoulders in thin, curling clouds. He presses his lips into a thin line, working soap into his skin under a cascade of scalding water. His nails press and dig, scouring his from his wrists to his palms to every crack and crevice he can find down to the tips of his fingers.
He scrubs until the the water runs pink against the sink’s white porcelain, then he scrubs again. And again. And again.
His son’s blood lingers — bright, glossy red under the running tap.
Prompt | Blood on your hands - @flashfictionfridayofficial
Content | Suicidal ideation, death mention
More of a vignette. Athanasios is sad and haunted
Athanasios sat upon the rooftop and held his hands out into the torrential rain.
It made no difference, of course.
A flash of lightning painted the city in stark black and white, immediately followed by a roll of thunder that vibrated in his chest. Without thinking, he raised his hands up to the sky. The water ran down his arms.
But the lightning didn’t strike him. It probably would have made no difference, either.
Alois wouldn’t want this. But Alois and his wants were no more.
If he had made different choices…
The roof was so slippery. It would have been so easy. He imagined it, briefly, the poor soul finding his shattered body in the morning. They’d probably still give him a state funeral, just to keep up pretenses he hadn’t willingly turned his back on them.
It made no difference.
But he stayed, stayed until the rain let up, and light filtered through the clouds again. The water ran off the roof and off of him and no-one would have been able to tell he was crying.
He was alive and Alois was not and it was time to make a difference.
