bakerstreet | two ravens in an old oak tree

two ravens in an old oak tree

The Train to the Afterlife Meme

Congratulations: You are dead.

Maybe you know how, maybe you don't. Perhaps the memory is fuzzy, or perhaps it's crystal clear down to the look in your comrades' eyes. Maybe it was your time; you've done all you wanted to. Or maybe you weren't at all ready to go, maybe you went out kicking and screaming - but none of it matters. You know you're dead, and the train is taking you to an afterlife. Perhaps an afterlife of your choice; you might've earned that heaven. Or perhaps you've earned something else entirely.

It'll be a bit of a journey, though, so you might as well take your time and talk to the other people in your coach. Death knows no place: most of them are strangers, even from faraway worlds. But death knows no time either, so who knows, some of them may be people you know, even if last you knew, they were alive - or long gone.

Oh look, here comes the snack cart.

Post your character (bonus points for a brief description of their death and/or appearance from it), and let others reply to you. You are both dead! How is up to you, whether it's AU or canon. Characters don't know where they're headed, they just have a vague awareness of going to some sort of afterlife.

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[Once John's agreed to it, Sherlock stands up and looks down at the other man until he stands too. There's no bullet hole as far as he can see. No blood. It's just like he's standing there talking to John before any of this had happened. He's even wearing the same outfit he'd been wearing. Probably down to the socks.]

There should be an emergency escape in every carriage. We can start there, and if it's bolted shut, we can pick a direction and keep moving.

[Sherlock doesn't care who's driving this train, so he doesn't think about checking on it. He just wants off.

There's a voice in the back of his head asking:
'Do you suppose this is how ghosts are made?'
'Oh, Sherlock. You know there's no such thing as ghosts.'
'But Uncle Rudy said...'
'Don't be stupid.']

Or find some way to unbolt it.

[John confirms, all determination and purpose. The trouble is, even with a direction chosen, the corridors seem to be a lot longer than previously anticipated. Forsaking proper social conventions in the interest of discovery, he pushes the occasional cabin door open, to check for any other possible inhabitants aboard. He can apologize later, this is more important.]

Hmm, could have sworn there was at least the trolley about..

[Another flash of something overtakes his vision; so fast, at first it seems as though the overhead light is merely flickering out; but then with each step the duration seems a lot longer; a lot brighter, until John swears for just a second he sees the rounded off metal walls replaced with a building's sterile, white ones. He stops mid stride, just as quickly it is gone.]

Sherlock...?

[Sherlock hums at that, putting the thought of looking for tools on the way out in the semi-back part of his mind. They may as well anticipate finding locked doors and having to fight their way out, since it beats walking around in circles.]

A trolley?

[John handles checking the other cabin doors while Sherlock has a look around at everything else. The inside portions of the cabins just seem identical to the one they'd been sharing shortly before. Right down to the same toolmarks on the panelling, which for someone like Sherlock is more than a little troubling. It makes no sense. It's physically impossible. But this isn't exactly physical.]

I didn't see it. Actually, I haven't been out of the cabin at all until now.

[He looks up at the light fixtures when they flash. He's more curious than disturbed by it, since this place seems to rely on the same distorted physics as his Mind Palace. Are they related? Or is it just something to designed to unnerve them?

But what about that wall?]

I saw it too.

[He breaks away from John's side to run his hand over the metal panelling. It feels like he'd expect it to.]

Maybe they don't like us getting out of our seats.

[He turns his head to glance back the way they'd come, but the lights have all gone out in that direction. The darkness is thick enough to consume any light shining in its direction. Even with his above-average night-vision, he's unable to see anything more than two feet down. An abyss.]

[As much as the doctor is relieved to know Sherlock witnessed the same bizarre imagery, the feeling is short lived when he takes in how complete and utterly void of light the hallways they recently passed through have become.

Captain Watson does not do well with battles he can't tangibly establish. He needs an enemy to fight, a person to save, a threat to run from, but here he is contemplating a fight or flight response and it's all in reaction to a bit of dark.

Reflexively John takes a step closer to the detective, before turning to fixate his gaze on the light fixture directly overhead. If it also goes out...]

I think we had better get to that door.

[Sherlock reaches toward the darkened area, watching in fascination as his hand disappears at the wrist into it. There's enough light - if it were a real sort of light - to see his hand from this distance and further. The air feels the same, but he's getting goose flesh regardless.

When John speaks again, he glances at the smaller man, then follows his head up to the flickering fixture above them.]

Right...

[If they get trapped in that complete darkness, they'll have to feel their way back out of it. He puts his palm against John's back and starts to hurry along toward the next lighted section. The exit should be somewhere around here.]

Go toward the light... I feel like I've heard that before. Near death experiences. Always assumed they were hallucinations.

[It's not going toward the light for them, though. It's running from the dark.]

There's usually a good degree more dying at the time-- And while they usually mention a tunnel-- I don't think a train is generally involved!!

[John breaks into an all out run, grateful for the boost in momentum Sherlock's hand against his back brings; if he starts to lag behind his hand will instinctively reach out for the detective's own; fuck it. Let people talk!]

We're really running from nothing right now. We died, we're aboard a train, and we're running from nothing!

[He complains, hoping it doesn;t sound as ridiculous out loud. Because that's what it is, it isn't dark, Sherlock's hand cleanly vanished before their eyes.]

There!!

[Up ahead; two choices; rip open the door to one more connected cable car-- they can shut the door, maybe the nothing won't be in the next one-- or they can try the escape hatch on the far right...]

[Sherlock's got longer legs and more agility to use them, so it's only natural that he's able to outrun John. There's enough room for them to remain side-by-side as they travel, so he's able to use that as a gauge to see how well John's keeping up with him. And when John starts to fall too far behind, he'll reach back without having to look, knowing John will take his hand.

If one of them is going to plummet into the darkness, then both of them will.]

And what do you always say when people ask what you're afraid of?

[His breath is coming out in puffs already. It looks like they've only travelled a short distance, but it feels like they've been running for an hour. Does this 'nothing' behind them have some sort of gravitational pull?]

Go right!

[Because he doesn't trust the nothing to be stopped just because there's something in the way. It's engulfed a lot of somethings by now.

He lets go of John's hand when they reach the hatch. It's got a red and white painted lever with some amorphous script over it that should say something about an emergency escape. The letters look like they've been smeared into illegible streaks, but he ignores it as he pulls with all of his might.]

Come on!

[Frustrated, he grunts and then gives John a look. 'Help me.']

There's nothing I'm af--

[..Touche.'
John doesn't need telling twice; he gives the door a good kick before grabbing the lever as well; yanking at the grafted metal with all his might. There is no time to stop and look at how close the dark is descending on them, all they can do is concentrate at the task at hand.]

PULL!

[It seems the visions are coming back; possibly to distract them. John squints his eyes shut so as not to pay them any heed. Don't look; don't think, just pull, just focus!!

White walls

White walls where?

Erratic beeping

Beeping? Computer? Heart monitor?

Sterile smell.

Sterile; Lab? Hospital??

Ignore it, keep pulling. At last, some give; the adjacent metal wall shudders.]

I think it's--!!

[Light. It's only open a crack thus far, but unmistakably a bright beam of light is filtering through the crack; cutting through the dark.]

[For several wasted tries, John and Sherlock aren't working effectively together. There's too much panicking. He needs to stop panicking. Focus on John, find his rhythm and work with it. John might notice and question why Sherlock stops pulling altogether for a moment.

One, two...

And then he gives a strong tug, pressing his shoulder against the door while he works.

The light is blinding even though his eyes are squeezing shut in his effort. When they crack open, he sees the same odd hallucination as John does. It's not just light. There's shadow there, too. Five shadows to be exact. Blue and silver. Some voices.

Oh.

Oh!]

Hurry!

[Sherlock lets go of the lever and uses the rest of his might to press his back against the door. His shoes don't have good traction, so there's a lot of slipping. But it works out... there's just barely enough space to squeeze through.]

John.

[He tilts his head pointedly toward the crack in the door.]

Go first, I'll be just behind you.

[No time to argue or they'll both be gobbled up into the nothing.]

Sherlock--

[John is already mouthing out his protest, but Sherlock is right; they are out of time. He has no reason to doubt the Detective; he does as instructed, and makes his way to the door. It's snug, but he fits into it fine enough; so the lanky taller man definitely will-- death really ought to have let him shed a stone or two. As he grips the metal, he can't help but note that the weight of the door feels considerably more real than anything else on this train had. Whatever is on the other side... it's certainly not nothing.

He'll go first, but he'll be damned if he is letting Sherlock out of his sight. He grabs a fistful of his friend's coat, before taking his final steps in.]

Right behind me; you'd better be--

[Sherlock's not very patient so as soon as John starts to squeeze himself through the door, he pushes from the inside. If only one of them survives this, then it's got to be John. There's no point in any of this otherwise.

Once John's through, he looks back at the nothing already nipping at him. It's such a strange feeling. Numb. Like the sensation of just before fainting.

There's no time. He's not going to make it.]

Open your eyes. Wake up...

[His voice probably sounds doubly distant through the crack in the door and the nothing.]

For me, John.

[But there's John's fingers in his coat tugging at him. He's starting to black out. He's only vaguely aware of reaching up to grab at his friend's wrists. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to...]

[No, no, no!! That brilliant sod, that utter cock! That--!]

I am awake!!

[John roars, as if winning the pointless argument would stop what he can already see and feel- no not feel, taking hold before his eyes. John knows he hasn't released his grip, but Sherlock's coat, the fingers on his wrist, they barely register to his senses, not like the rest of this realm outside the hull is; so overwhelmingly the opposite-- everything is too bright, too heavy, too loud, it hurts!]

Sherlock!!

[And even if things are starting to make sense in some horrible fashion, John refuses to accept it; as if denying his brain recognition will stop it from happening.
The world doesn't need another invalided army vet, past his prime who can't even operate a goddamn chip-and-pin machine. It needs it's brilliant consulting detective; the clever man in the funny hat, the genius madman who made everyone else look dull in comparison-- it needs-- it needs, he, needs--!!]

No!! No!!! Please! He's my friend--!!

[John wakes with a start, his voice breaking in a spectacularly unmanly way.
Hospital. Alone. No, no, that's not fair, he never let go. He never...
Let go of... what?

There's another body in the room, and before John even allows his eyes to adjust, he all but throws himself off the bed towards it, crawling determinedly for one goal.

He never let go, it's not fair, he can't have lost when he never gave in.

His hand reaches for the other person's wrist, determined to resume that grip.]

[John's out. He's gone. And Sherlock is stuck somewhere between, halfway trapped in the nothing and halfway in a world too bright for him to see. And he's tired. So very, very tired. And the lure of the nothing is starting to call to him.

Shattered career. Reputation dragged through the mud - drawn and quartered.

He can end it now. All he has to do it lean toward the nothing and succumb to it. Sleep. Letting a dead man win and a living man mourn.

John.

He's letting John down. He'd pushed him out into that other world. The real one outside of the realm of the subconscious and for what? So he can go on broken and bored? He'd seen what state John had been when they'd first met and he was content with thrusting him back into it with one little shove. An act. Suicide. Exit stage left. No bows, not applause, just an end.

But this isn't that. It's not an act. It's real and he's starting to fade. And the voices in his mind are starting to quiet down.

'But I don't want to die. I want to live.'

So he pushes away from the comfortable embrace of the nothing to the harsh pain of the light. It burns on the other side of the door, but he grasps and reaches and tries to find something to hold onto. Something that's just out of reach until the last second.

'John.']

[The EKG has a slow and steady beat. Adagio - 54 beats per minute. The respirator hisses as it controls his breathing. Comatose. His medical chart's got activity for four days.]

[It didn't take the nurses long to drag the disheveled doctor back to his bed. Having ignored the pain in his one singular goal, John barely registered the sheer amount of alarms he set off by haphazardly yanking out his IV and flopping to the floor. Later he might have the decency to feel a little embarrassed-- they always did say doctors made the worst patients-- but at that moment all that mattered was getting to Sherlock, needing that physical contact, and he could scarcely comprehend why.

A new drip of morphine, a black out struggle, and a fair amount of 'Please Mr. Watson you've been shot, you need to relax' later, and the soldier finds himself somewhat more lucid; albeit lapsing between bouts of unconsciousness. In a morbid way, he is almost grateful to be nursing a- christ; he can't believe he has yet another- bloody chest wound; it means despite all his fussing that he can stay; they can't escort him out the room like some hysterical relative.

He no longer has the strength to pull another stunt, but to appease his needs in the only way they could comprehend from his earlier actions, the staff roll his bed closer to the detective's, so he can remain just within reach. Maybe if he could hold his eyes open for more than two damn seconds, he could muster the strength to look at Sherlock's chart. As it is now however, all he can do is slip in and out of consciousness, watching the EKG and babbling on a one-sided conversation.]

Figures now of all times you'll actually take a bloody kip.

'Come on Sherlock, for me...'

..Well, the nurses will be well prepared for your whinging after all I've put them through. You'd think I'd be better at this by now. Funny, that.

[Comas are funny things. It's remarkably like falling asleep. Sherlock's got the memory of a few dreams somewhere in the back of his head, but there's a great deal of confusion when he starts to come to. He hears a voice - John's voice - from somewhere to his right side. It's muffled and stretched out like he's listening from underwater, but it's the sleep and his brain doing its best to catch up with the rest of the world.

The beeping of his EKG is what gives him away. The steady 55-60 beats per minute that it's been for hours now is starting to peak toward 70.

They've got him on a morphine drip, which is good for now. In a few months, things will be more difficult in light of it. Something else. He's got a bitter taste in his mouth. Antibiotics of some sort. And he tries to move, but he feels too heavy. Sharp pain in his chest - the EKG spikes up near 80 in response to it.

That's when his eyes start to flutter open.

Hospital. He's been shot. It was after he jumped. Legs both in a cast. Must have fallen feet first like he'd planned, but he landed wrong. Shot. How is he alive? Where's John?

Panicked, he tries a second time to sit up. This time he manages and locks his eyes on John in the bed next to him. He can't say anything, not with this plastic tube down his throat. He grabs at it and pulls it out with a too-quick motion. Monitors are starting to go off.]

John... What's?

[He's confused. Disoriented. Too much activity and not enough oxygen to his brain just yet.]

[John doesn't know when he dozed back off, but evidently he must have, because one moment he remembers clearly looking at the comatose detective and the next seeing the intubation already halfway ripped out of his friend's throat.

Alarmed, he makes some form of incoherent whine somewhere between NO! STOP! Patients don't take those out themselves! and JESUS; YOU'RE AWAKE! Before remembering; yes, he can speak words.]

H-hospital. Shot. You and me both.

[He croaks; the gravely edge to his voice likely having to do with some former tubing of his own throat. For a moment he just stares wanting to praise and chastise all at once.]

You do realize they put that in for a reason..

[Sherlock's lucky his gag reflex hadn't gone off. There's a little blood around the edge that had been in his mouth, but that's because his tongue had been too dry and raw. And that hurts, but not as much as the wound in his chest.]

I don't...

[He doesn't need it. That's what he wants to say, but his brain's not really working well enough yet.

The nurses file in before they can talk more. They fuss over him and he fusses back, but they decide to not put the tube back in his throat since he'd only take it back out. As long as his blood oxygen doesn't dip below 70%, they'll let him call the shots. Right now it's at 78%. The bullet must have pierced one of his lungs. It explains the shortness of breath.

Once the nurses are out of the room, Sherlock reaches for the control for his morphine drip. He moves the dial a little bit lower. He needs his mind more than his comfort. At least for the moment.]

John... still awake?

Mmmmyeah 'mawake.

[His eyes don't open but John's hand flinches as he wills himself into waking; it has been at Sherlock's side the entire time, even though there is more than enough room on his own bed. In fact, at one point the nurses decide to fit the IV into the army doctor's other hand, in order to lessen the distance it was stretched.]

'm here.

[Sherlock turns his head to look at John. His colour's not terribly bad, but he's a little on the pale side. A bit thinner. Sedated by the morphine. Without asking, Sherlock pushes himself up and leans over his friend to poke at John's morphine dial. He nudges it lower, then grunts as he lays himself back down on his back.]

How long have we been here?

[He'd check his medical records, but he doesn't want to move anymore than he's already done.]

Mm not sure.

[Apologetically he shakes his head, his arm blindly reaching about in a futile attempt to help. He blinks a couple times, finally adjusting.]

I.. think I heard the nurses say something about ah- four days? They've already took out the... well, the remnants. Might have taken over 24 hours to do us both; depending how good they are...

[For the first time John attempts to take in the details of their actual room, and not just the other man in it. All in all, it seemed to be a rather high-end facility.]

You know, I don't know where we actually are.

[The way Sherlock hums in response to John's first words can easily be translated to 'not surprised'. He's still not half as alert as he'd like to be. His head feels like it's in a two-ton compress. Not enough oxygen, he's guessing. It should be reversible, shouldn't it? He might consider a true suicide if he comes out of this without all of his mental faculties.]

Took me four days to wake up? What about you?

[With John's lack of knowledge, Sherlock takes a look around the room.

It's not Bart's. He knows the hospital inside and out. He's never been in this particular hospital before, so he knows it's not the rehab facility Mycroft put him in years ago. Not the Irish one or the one in Florida. Architecture... he can't pinpoint it for the moment.

With a sigh, he sits up and reaches around overhead until he finds his chart and pulls it off the IV rack above his bed. They've got to keep their records separated somehow.]

Spire Cardiff Hospital. We're in Wales?

[Mycroft's doing, he's sure. Keep them out of the media's path while they recover.]

Cardiff?

[John chokes with equal amounts of surprise and disdain. Since when were they even close to Wales.]

Think it's something to do with MycroaaAH--!

[John sits straight up and immediately regrets it. SHITE how did he forget how much getting shot hurts?! Gingerly he lays back with a groan. No, no, definitely not doing that again.]

Okay, maybe more than four days. Can't have been awake much longer than you though; half a day at most, assuming I jumped out of the bed only the once. I've, erm, not been the best patient.

[Sherlock reaches over to stop John from sitting, but it's too late.]

Might not want to do that again.

[He waits for John to lie back down and then he listens to the story. He can't help but smirk a little bit when John admits that he jumped out of the bed. The only reason he'd do that would be to check on him. No wonder they'd moved the beds this close together.]

If you've been a bad patient, then I'll have to try harder to be worse.

[He drops his hand next to John's and then he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. Maybe it's the morphine at fault, but he's feeling oddly sentimental.]

All of that... I suppose you expect an apology?

[Definitely the morphine.]

[John nearly giggles at Sherlock's suggestion of being a worse patient. No different than their typical morbid banter at crime scenes; couple of madmen, they were. If his hand slightly makes it's way to Sherlock's, it's only because it's too difficult to lean properly to see Sherlock now. That and the morphine, oh yes, definitely must be the morphine.]

I can barely get you to go to the shops, what makes you think I'd ever expect an apology?

['An apology. It’s all true.'
'Wh-what?'
'Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. I’m a fake. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.'
'No. All right, stop it now.'

John could do without ever getting an apology again. He stiffens.]

...Didn't believe it anyway, whatever you were going on about...

[Sherlock relaxes at John's words. Well, as much as he can relax when he's turned the rate of his morphine drip just a couple notches above its lowest setting. And really, he finds John's hand inoffensive. His fingers twitch towards John's for all that weight and depth from such a minuscule movement.]

You're right, of course. Guess... guess there's no use denying it now.

[He's going to need to figure something out, though. He'd been meaning to go abroad to smoke out the rest of Moriarty's network. He hadn't wanted John involved, part of the reason he'd subjected the other man to such an elaborate suicide story. It will be dangerous. Not running through London after an armed serial killer dangerous, but being surrounded by the lowest scum of the Earth that will kill you on sight if they know who you are dangerous. There's no guarantee he'd make it out solo and the chances of John being killed in the process...

Well, he doesn't want to think about it.]

You're a doctor. About how long will it take us to recover from these injuries?

two ravens in an old oak tree

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