A Study in Grey (Sherlock)
Jan. 9th, 2011 12:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morganstuartTitle: A Study in Grey
Author: Morgan Stuart
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: This universe does not belong to me; I'm just an appreciative visitor. I make no profit from this fan work.
Description: Sherlock learns that Moriarty keeps his promises.
Historian's Note: This takes place after (and refers to) the Sherlock episode "The Great Game."
Warning: Character Death
Chinese Translation: available here by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stellary
The text read, "Hello, Sexy. You must learn that I keep my promises. Watch live in 15 minutes."
Sherlock set aside his latest experiment-in-progress and turned his full attention to the summons. He forwarded the attached URL to Lestrade and, after only a second's hesitation, Mycroft, as well. He sent yet another text to John, the third since his flatmate had left for Tesco's. And then he settled himself before his laptop, fingers steepled beneath his chin, nicotine patches on his arm. Suppressing the flare of annoyance when only Mycroft responded to his message. Refreshing the page every few seconds. Waiting.
Exactly on the hour, a video box appeared inviting him to stream live footage. Sherlock clicked on the option and braced himself.
The room was the soulless grey of old concrete. A thickset man in a tailored suit and a dark balaclava stood before the camera. He held a sign lettered in ornate calligraphy that proclaimed "Time to Say Goodbye."
After several moments the man retreated from the frame, leaving Sherlock an unobstructed view of a bruised and disheveled Gregory Lestrade.
The detective inspector sat on the bare floor, legs straightened before him and bound at the knees and ankles. Ropes held him fast at the waist and chest to a wooden support beam. His left arm was tied behind him; his right arm was stretched above his head, secured to the post at the wrist.
The muscles at Lestrade's jaw worked and his brow furrowed as he followed the movements of his captor. Then, as the threatening figure walked forward into Sherlock's field of vision once again, Lestrade looked directly into the camera.
He licked his lips and spoke in a rush, his husky voice low with strain. "Sherlock. This is Moriarty's doing. His fault. Not yours. Remember that."
The unknown man knelt beside him with a blade in his hand. Lestrade rocked against the ropes futilely, outrage flashing in his dark eyes. From somewhere off-screen came muffled exclamations, desperate and panicked.
Sherlock's fingers curled into fists. He did not breathe. He did not blink.
Lestrade gave a shout as the point of the knife burrowed beneath the rope and stabbed deeply into his wrist. As his captor traced a line from wrist to elbow, parting cloth and flesh, muscle and artery down to the white bone, the detective inspector gritted his teeth and growled out his agony and protest.
When the masked figure was done with his gory work, he rose and disappeared without ceremony, leaving his victim alone in the frame. Bright red blood soaked Lestrade's sleeve from his wrist to his shoulder, seeping down to stain his side as Sherlock watched.
The consulting detective hunched toward his monitor and anchored his hands in his hair.
"I don't... I don't know how long..." Lestrade's chest rose and fell rapidly with his gulping breaths. "Listen, Sherlock. John's here." He jerked his chin toward the left, off-screen. "He's bound and gagged but unhurt so far... You've got to find him and get him away... Then stop Moriarty."
Letting his head rock back against the pillar, Lestrade swallowed hard as he scanned his surroundings. After several seconds he cleared his throat and then forced out his words with grim-faced urgency, scarcely louder than rough whispers. "I don't know how far we travelled to get to this place. They drugged us for the drive... It seems to be underground. An unfinished basement. No windows. No outside access... Poured concrete, wood support beams..."
It was obvious to Sherlock that Lestrade understood his situation. Moriarty's henchman had elevated Lestrade's arm to make the ordeal last longer, to prolong this grotesque farewell, but it likely had bought the detective inspector only minutes at most. The stubborn man clearly intended to spend his dying moments assisting Sherlock as best he could.
Hissing through his teeth, Sherlock arranged a split screen view on his laptop, keeping the video feed open while generating search parameters based on the detective inspector's observations. The dimensions of the room. The dampness of the walls. The style of the doorknob on the lone door.
"I counted six men," Lestrade continued. "Thick accents – Czech, I think. Seem like organized crime types... Clear pecking order. Possible family ties."
Sherlock stabbed the keys furiously as he typed.
"Never saw Moriarty. They communicated via mobile... Must not be too far below ground, then. They could get a signal."
A new text alerted Sherlock to the fact Mycroft's people were monitoring the transmission and synching their search with his. A second confirmed that they were handling the coordination with Scotland Yard. No, no, of course they couldn't trace the URL. Sherlock spared each message a brief glance before returning his attention to the live footage.
"I know you'd see more... what am I missing?"
Sherlock called up a variety of maps, calculating how far Moriarty's men might have taken their hostages in the length of time since John had left the flat. He superimposed lines marking a series of zones over the satellite images.
Shaking his head weakly, Lestrade frowned and gasped for breath. "Look, Sherlock... I realize you and Sally... you're not exactly best mates... But you want the same thing... Cut her some slack, yeah?"
"Shut up, you stupid man," Sherlock breathed. "Conserve yourself. I understand."
"I've left instructions... top drawer of my desk... Asked her the same... She'll work with you... Please help her, the team... Stop this bastard."
Lestrade's face was all but colourless save for the bruises. Blood ran freely down his side and pooled on the floor at his hip.
Sherlock scrutinized the man's surroundings: the texture of the wall, the grain of the wood. More data. More.
"You knowit, o'course, but you're a marvel, Sherlock... An'John... such a rare one... Togetheryou... youtwo... bloodybrilliant..." Lestrade gathered himself with a visible effort. Pronouncing each word with painstaking care, he said, "It's been a privilege."
"Don't," Sherlock choked. "Don't you dare."
A muffled voice made unintelligible sounds, and Lestrade's head lolled back against the supporting beam. "SaveyourstrengthDoctor," he slurred. "'Sokay."
As precious minutes passed, Lestrade sagged in his bonds, fighting for air. Sherlock received a list of structures to be considered of interest in the geographic zones he had defined, and another of those to be disqualified. He repeated a constant refrain of "No, you cretins, no!" as he edited the descriptions and returned them to the teams.
"'Scold," Lestrade muttered. Sherlock could see that he was shivering.
After several heartbeats, however, the detective inspector roused, turning an unfocused and glassy gaze back toward the camera. "Lights...downhere... oldstylefluorescent... speciallikeforlabs... loudhum... mightbeuse... useful... findJohn."
The effort cost Lestrade. His head fell forward and stayed there, despite several dogged attempts to lift it. "Gottomust... think..."
Sherlock made new notes and revised earlier ones. More clues. Useful indeed. Concentrate. Cross-reference. Mine this data, so dearly bought.
"Ah... Jenny..." Lestrade's breath stuttered, and an impossibly small sound escaped from the back of his throat.
Sherlock bit through his lip and tasted blood. He fired texts like bullets.
Soon Lestrade's mumbled syllables became more infrequent, his shallow panting more uneven. The shivering eased.
The rasp of harsh breathing seemed louder, irregular and laboured and almost broken, even as Lestrade weakened and quieted. Sherlock pressed his fingertips to the monitor. With sudden insight, he realized that he was listening to John, gagged and tied and grieving helplessly as Lestrade bled out in front of him.
The feed at last went dead. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, trapping the final image behind his eyelids until it faded to blackness.
"I will burn the heart out of you," Moriarty had said.
But there was no fire in Sherlock. Only the grey of the concrete, the grey of Lestrade's bowed head, the grey of midwinter frost chilling his veins. His heart was ice, an unforgiving weight in his chest, heavy and sharp-edged as a weapon. Frozen.
THE END
Note: Read a sequel story written byjane_doe221 and translated into English by stellary here: "And He Lives."
Vital Stats: Originally written in January 2011.
Author: Morgan Stuart
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: This universe does not belong to me; I'm just an appreciative visitor. I make no profit from this fan work.
Description: Sherlock learns that Moriarty keeps his promises.
Historian's Note: This takes place after (and refers to) the Sherlock episode "The Great Game."
Warning: Character Death
Chinese Translation: available here by
stellary The text read, "Hello, Sexy. You must learn that I keep my promises. Watch live in 15 minutes."
Sherlock set aside his latest experiment-in-progress and turned his full attention to the summons. He forwarded the attached URL to Lestrade and, after only a second's hesitation, Mycroft, as well. He sent yet another text to John, the third since his flatmate had left for Tesco's. And then he settled himself before his laptop, fingers steepled beneath his chin, nicotine patches on his arm. Suppressing the flare of annoyance when only Mycroft responded to his message. Refreshing the page every few seconds. Waiting.
Exactly on the hour, a video box appeared inviting him to stream live footage. Sherlock clicked on the option and braced himself.
The room was the soulless grey of old concrete. A thickset man in a tailored suit and a dark balaclava stood before the camera. He held a sign lettered in ornate calligraphy that proclaimed "Time to Say Goodbye."
After several moments the man retreated from the frame, leaving Sherlock an unobstructed view of a bruised and disheveled Gregory Lestrade.
The detective inspector sat on the bare floor, legs straightened before him and bound at the knees and ankles. Ropes held him fast at the waist and chest to a wooden support beam. His left arm was tied behind him; his right arm was stretched above his head, secured to the post at the wrist.
The muscles at Lestrade's jaw worked and his brow furrowed as he followed the movements of his captor. Then, as the threatening figure walked forward into Sherlock's field of vision once again, Lestrade looked directly into the camera.
He licked his lips and spoke in a rush, his husky voice low with strain. "Sherlock. This is Moriarty's doing. His fault. Not yours. Remember that."
The unknown man knelt beside him with a blade in his hand. Lestrade rocked against the ropes futilely, outrage flashing in his dark eyes. From somewhere off-screen came muffled exclamations, desperate and panicked.
Sherlock's fingers curled into fists. He did not breathe. He did not blink.
Lestrade gave a shout as the point of the knife burrowed beneath the rope and stabbed deeply into his wrist. As his captor traced a line from wrist to elbow, parting cloth and flesh, muscle and artery down to the white bone, the detective inspector gritted his teeth and growled out his agony and protest.
When the masked figure was done with his gory work, he rose and disappeared without ceremony, leaving his victim alone in the frame. Bright red blood soaked Lestrade's sleeve from his wrist to his shoulder, seeping down to stain his side as Sherlock watched.
The consulting detective hunched toward his monitor and anchored his hands in his hair.
"I don't... I don't know how long..." Lestrade's chest rose and fell rapidly with his gulping breaths. "Listen, Sherlock. John's here." He jerked his chin toward the left, off-screen. "He's bound and gagged but unhurt so far... You've got to find him and get him away... Then stop Moriarty."
Letting his head rock back against the pillar, Lestrade swallowed hard as he scanned his surroundings. After several seconds he cleared his throat and then forced out his words with grim-faced urgency, scarcely louder than rough whispers. "I don't know how far we travelled to get to this place. They drugged us for the drive... It seems to be underground. An unfinished basement. No windows. No outside access... Poured concrete, wood support beams..."
It was obvious to Sherlock that Lestrade understood his situation. Moriarty's henchman had elevated Lestrade's arm to make the ordeal last longer, to prolong this grotesque farewell, but it likely had bought the detective inspector only minutes at most. The stubborn man clearly intended to spend his dying moments assisting Sherlock as best he could.
Hissing through his teeth, Sherlock arranged a split screen view on his laptop, keeping the video feed open while generating search parameters based on the detective inspector's observations. The dimensions of the room. The dampness of the walls. The style of the doorknob on the lone door.
"I counted six men," Lestrade continued. "Thick accents – Czech, I think. Seem like organized crime types... Clear pecking order. Possible family ties."
Sherlock stabbed the keys furiously as he typed.
"Never saw Moriarty. They communicated via mobile... Must not be too far below ground, then. They could get a signal."
A new text alerted Sherlock to the fact Mycroft's people were monitoring the transmission and synching their search with his. A second confirmed that they were handling the coordination with Scotland Yard. No, no, of course they couldn't trace the URL. Sherlock spared each message a brief glance before returning his attention to the live footage.
"I know you'd see more... what am I missing?"
Sherlock called up a variety of maps, calculating how far Moriarty's men might have taken their hostages in the length of time since John had left the flat. He superimposed lines marking a series of zones over the satellite images.
Shaking his head weakly, Lestrade frowned and gasped for breath. "Look, Sherlock... I realize you and Sally... you're not exactly best mates... But you want the same thing... Cut her some slack, yeah?"
"Shut up, you stupid man," Sherlock breathed. "Conserve yourself. I understand."
"I've left instructions... top drawer of my desk... Asked her the same... She'll work with you... Please help her, the team... Stop this bastard."
Lestrade's face was all but colourless save for the bruises. Blood ran freely down his side and pooled on the floor at his hip.
Sherlock scrutinized the man's surroundings: the texture of the wall, the grain of the wood. More data. More.
"You knowit, o'course, but you're a marvel, Sherlock... An'John... such a rare one... Togetheryou... youtwo... bloodybrilliant..." Lestrade gathered himself with a visible effort. Pronouncing each word with painstaking care, he said, "It's been a privilege."
"Don't," Sherlock choked. "Don't you dare."
A muffled voice made unintelligible sounds, and Lestrade's head lolled back against the supporting beam. "SaveyourstrengthDoctor," he slurred. "'Sokay."
As precious minutes passed, Lestrade sagged in his bonds, fighting for air. Sherlock received a list of structures to be considered of interest in the geographic zones he had defined, and another of those to be disqualified. He repeated a constant refrain of "No, you cretins, no!" as he edited the descriptions and returned them to the teams.
"'Scold," Lestrade muttered. Sherlock could see that he was shivering.
After several heartbeats, however, the detective inspector roused, turning an unfocused and glassy gaze back toward the camera. "Lights...downhere... oldstylefluorescent... speciallikeforlabs... loudhum... mightbeuse... useful... findJohn."
The effort cost Lestrade. His head fell forward and stayed there, despite several dogged attempts to lift it. "Gottomust... think..."
Sherlock made new notes and revised earlier ones. More clues. Useful indeed. Concentrate. Cross-reference. Mine this data, so dearly bought.
"Ah... Jenny..." Lestrade's breath stuttered, and an impossibly small sound escaped from the back of his throat.
Sherlock bit through his lip and tasted blood. He fired texts like bullets.
Soon Lestrade's mumbled syllables became more infrequent, his shallow panting more uneven. The shivering eased.
The rasp of harsh breathing seemed louder, irregular and laboured and almost broken, even as Lestrade weakened and quieted. Sherlock pressed his fingertips to the monitor. With sudden insight, he realized that he was listening to John, gagged and tied and grieving helplessly as Lestrade bled out in front of him.
The feed at last went dead. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, trapping the final image behind his eyelids until it faded to blackness.
"I will burn the heart out of you," Moriarty had said.
But there was no fire in Sherlock. Only the grey of the concrete, the grey of Lestrade's bowed head, the grey of midwinter frost chilling his veins. His heart was ice, an unforgiving weight in his chest, heavy and sharp-edged as a weapon. Frozen.
THE END
Note: Read a sequel story written by
jane_doe221 and translated into English by stellary here: "And He Lives."Vital Stats: Originally written in January 2011.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-12 07:58 am (UTC)But I love the way he try to help Sherlock. Brilliant.
*hugs*
San
no subject
Date: 2011-01-12 01:32 pm (UTC)I'm sorry for the tears. *hugs* I just adore the writers' (and, of course, Rupert Graves') take on Lestrade, and I wanted to try to do justice to what I felt would be his admirable courage in such horrific circumstances. And I also liked the idea of Lestrade and Sherlock, who have years of history together, being unable to say a proper goodbye: the most Lestrade could do is try to help in the search for John, and the most Sherlock could do is make sure Lestrade's efforts weren't wasted. (I figured Sherlock's "Shut up, you stupid man" was the closest he could come to "Goodbye, my friend" - even though he knew Lestrade couldn't hear it.) I'm so glad that the way Lestrade helped Sherlock seemed right to you.
If you like, we can agree that this was all Sherlock's nightmare, and he'll wake up and find Lestrade and John both safe and well. :)
Thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 01:27 am (UTC)(fluffy post-nightmare cuddling from John? Slash or gen could work there...)
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 01:52 am (UTC)***
"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up."
"Hmmm?"
"Looks like you nodded off on the sofa and had yourself a nightmare."
"Mmmm."
"Lestrade rang. He's coming by with that file you wanted. Said he'd bring takeaway."
"You're here. And Lestrade, he's coming."
"Yeah. You okay then?"
"Yes. Fine. Everything's... good. Very good."
***
Add cuddling to taste, serve warm. :) LOL! (Thanks for reading and commenting, by the way.)
no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 09:49 pm (UTC)(Meant to respond ages ago, been a bit busy.)
...mind if I tack a bit more onto the end of that? 0.0
no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 10:04 pm (UTC)Please, be my guest! (Or feel free to discard it altogether in favor of something else, if you prefer. Whatever works for you.) Thanks for asking. I'm excited now. :)
no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 06:12 am (UTC)Tiny extra sequelish stuff, super late
Date: 2011-03-20 06:10 am (UTC)Suddenly he'd been pulled to his knees and enveloped by a slightly shaking Sherlock. "Whoa, what all this then?" John asked softly, carefully lowering his arms around his quivering flatmate. "This doesn't look like good. What were you dreaming, Sherlock?"
"Nothing of relevance," muffled words came out of his shoulder, but the long arms did not loosen, and John tentatively petted the black curls next to his head. Sherlock had never hugged him before, and he was completely at a loss. Just as suddenly, the embrace relaxed, and the suspiciously reddened eyes flicked to his and then away, as Sherlock rolled up to sitting, leaving John kneeling next to the sofa and wondering what in the world had been going through the great man's sleeping mind.
The door swung open, and Lestrade walked in, looking mildly pleased and swinging a couple of white bags in his right hand and a file in his off hand. Clearly he was equally surprised as John when Sherlock sprung up and roughly embraced him, clapping the man on the shoulders as he said, "Ah! The file, excellent, this should be exactly what I need."
Lestrade's jaw dropped a moment. "Bloody hell, are you feeling all right?"
"Clearly," Sherlock sniffed haughtily over his shoulder, already poring over the contents of the folder Lestrade had handed him. John, still kneeling, exchanged a look of utter surprise with Lestrade, then shrugged and climbed awkwardly to his feet.
"Must really be dying for takeaway," John muttered to Lestrade, looking after his mad flatmate. "Suppose so," Lestrade agreed, shaking his head and following after Sherlock. Privately, John decided never to give Sherlock that particular tea after a bad case again...just in case.
Re: Tiny extra sequelish stuff, super late
Date: 2011-03-20 12:25 pm (UTC)Oh, this is fantastic. I love Sherlock hugging them and clapping Lestrade on his shoulders. And the suspiciously reddened eyes. And the haughty sniff.
And, of course, the utter bewilderment of John and Lestrade.
"Must really be dying for takeaway," John muttered to Lestrade
LOL! Priceless.
You've put a huge smile on my face, and a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart! Thank you for this beautiful sequel.
Re: Tiny extra sequelish stuff, super late
Date: 2011-03-31 06:59 am (UTC)I HAVE ENOUGH BAD IN MY LIFE I MUST FIX EVERYONE ELSE'S
< _ < > _ > uh...yea. You're welcome! ^_^
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 09:06 am (UTC)My feelings about this fic has decidedly taken several unexpected turns. First I was like NO! Why would some one want to write that?! and I ran away. But it hovered in the dark recess of my brain. Then my mood dipped due to RL, causing me to crave some major angst. I thought - I know! I'll translate that fic where Lestrade dies so everybody gets a piece of blue. XD
In all seriousness, I now feel glad that you wrote this. Death!fics are tricky to handle to say the least, but you did it well. Not to mention the amount of nobility with which you infused Lestrade. So kudos to you.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-08 06:52 pm (UTC)I'm so glad that worked for you! It seemed the only way to be in character, and I hoped it conveyed that he was quite emotional (in his own Sherlockian way).
I was like NO! Why would some one want to write that?! and I ran away.
I'm so sorry! I don't know why I'm wired this way, but for some reason, "I think you'd die beautifully" is one of the highest compliments my brain can give a fictional character. (Pretty scary, I know.) I seem to kill off the ones I love best in my stories. But I think there's something intensely intimate about one's final moments, and at that point - just as in a good torture scene - a lot of extraneous things get stripped away, so the real core of the character shines through. You can see what makes a character tick, what he/she values the most.
In this case, I wanted to suggest that Lestrade has his own core of steel, and he'd consider it his duty to serve up until the final moment; everything he does is to make certain things will carry on in his absence (that Sherlock won't blame himself, that John will be rescued, that Sherlock and Sally will work together, etc.). I admire that tremendously. And I wanted everyone - Sherlock, John, Mycroft & company, Scotland Yard - to be witness to that nobility of his.
(Oh, and I also wanted Moriarty's threat to have teeth. He means it. Moriarty is a bad, bad man.)
If this had been in an episode, I would've been devastated, but I knew that, because it was fic, he could be resurrected and on the job again the next day. ;)
Then my mood dipped due to RL, causing me to crave some major angst. I thought - I know! I'll translate that fic where Lestrade dies so everybody gets a piece of blue. XD
Awwww! *hugs you* LOL! I can't thank you enough for doing that translation, by the way. It was a lovely thing to do.
In all seriousness, I now feel glad that you wrote this.
Thank you so much. I'm really glad, and I appreciate your kind words. I'll have to find another (non-lethal! ha!) way of showing my appreciation for his character. But I'm pleased that it came across that I think he's heroic and praiseworthy, because I really do.
I really appreciate your feedback and your insights! Thanks for the comments.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 06:15 am (UTC)Hello, Shan Yu. Adelai Niska from "Firefly" says hello.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-20 12:22 pm (UTC)