sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXII

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Prompting Part XXXII

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Sherlock is a cloud herder, John is a star and they can only talk at night. It’s tragic but beautiful.

Then John falls. Sherlock tears up the sky looking for him.

(posting for a friend, unanon to track)

Sherlock looks after his group of clouds, herds them like sheep, and it’s hard. It’s hard because they do nothing but float endlessly on the currents of air he blows their way, it’s hard because all the useless beings on the ground are helpless and mean nothing to him, and it’s hard because the stars only come out at night and they are the only amazing things that ever happen to him.

The sun is large and bright during the day, yes, and of course the sun and moon are closer than any of the stars, but all the two ever talk about is each other. They only talk of being together, but a few of the other cloud herders gossip about their magnificent tearing apart; how a witch saw their boundless love and tore them from each other’s arm and put them on opposite sides of the earth so she wouldn’t have to see them together. Sometimes, that’s what Sherlock feels like happened to him and his star, and other times he thanks the heavens that it is not.

John may be far away, but they are by no means separated as the sun and moon are. John can only come out at night, his fearsome light drowned out by that of the sun (and sometimes Sherlock hates the sun for it, but he can’t hate him for long. Because, though John isn’t able to be seen or heard during the day, he feels as though John is his sun and he is the moon. John will always have his inner light, but all Sherlock can do is yearn and fight to reflect that light back), but they meet up at midnight and talk until the rays of morning make John fade away.

John tells him he is amazing, but really it is John who is amazing. John, who sits far off with his brothers and sisters, and watches Sherlock during the day, but cannot be seen or heard himself. Sherlock almost wishes it were the other way around, but then John would be lonely (even amongst his kin), and he will not even contemplate John’s loneliness.

So they exchange their messages across the sky with little complaint, though sometimes they wish they could be sitting side-by-side, and enjoy each other’s company, blocking out the babble of the rest of the universe.

~*~*~*~*~

It does not happen suddenly out of nowhere, but it feels abrupt when Sherlock realizes that John is getting bigger. However, when the observation escapes his lips, the star’s face goes blank and says, “It’s nothing, Sherlock, why don’t you tell me about that storm you caused on the edge of one of those continent-things you were telling me about?”

Sherlock didn’t bring it up again, even as he continually noted John swelling and turning red with the gasses in his system. He tried not to think of the lifecycle of stars, and how it seemed like John was dying. He tried not to think at all.

~*~*~*~*~

Up in the sky, one hears many pieces of information by listening to the humans down below. They talk about ex-BFFs and satellites and love. However, as Sherlock pushes his group of clouds into a town and guides them through the high mountaintops, he hears a whispered piece of conversation about a falling star.

He tries not to dwell on it the rest of the day, keeps herding along his clouds, but he can’t stop thinking about John’s swollen red body.

When night comes, it is with the worst pain imaginable and a mystery.

Edited 2012-11-04 04:11 (UTC)

~*~*~*~*~

John is gone from his perch in the sky, he knew John would be, but that doesn’t keep him from the edge of panic. He could imagine John, just this very morning, finally growing out as far as was possible before crushing in on himself, the sun blocking his body and screams from those in the sky. He could imagine John yelling his name, being about to see him herding clouds without a though for the star he loved so much. The clouds under his care began to rain and rage with his emotional turmoil. He had to look for John.

Starting with his current position over the sea and fighting his way back to the place where the men were talking about John’s falling, he wailed and cried and pushed other clouds and cloud herders out of his way. He knew John had to be close to those mountains, or else there would not have been quite so many people talking about a falling star. Humans were selfish and stupid creatures, and they only paid attention to the universe when it could possibly directly affect them.

Upon reaching the mountains, Sherlock let his cries echo off the rocks and make them rumble. Ever obedient, his clouds brightened the ground with lightning so that he may see and search.

Really, it took almost not time at all to find John’s weakening glow hidden between three of the tallest mounds. He chased to the ground and observed John’s infinitely smaller body. He was afraid that the star had not survived the fall until a choked gasp escaped John’s throat.

He was okay. They would be okay.

~*~*~*~*~

Many changes came with John’s arrival on earth, they have to learn to adapt. They are no longer far away, but being so newly close in proximity to the sun and moon, John seems quite taken with them. Sherlock didn’t realize he was jealous until John proposed to him (by shouting his professions off the tallest mountain in the range where he fell, and daring any witch to even try to keep them from each other’s arms) and removed all doubt of his moving on.

They could talk during the day, and other cloud herders quickly learned to not get within a few miles of the unpopulated mountains.

Thousands of years down the line, the two of them lay together in the valley between the three largest mounds and looked out into the night sky. Their arms were tight around each other when Sherlock spoke.

“John, do you ever miss being up there, shining with your family?”

A little huffing laugh from John disturbed Sherlock’s hair. “Sometimes I think back on the days when we were both in the sky, and I miss them. We were both so happy, and I never had to worry about you worrying about me, like I do down here. But, my cloud herder,” John began to kiss his way up Sherlock’s neck, “I don’t think I could ever be happy again to see so little of you. So, why don’t you fall with me?”

Sherlock did. They fell together and it was bright, and dangerous, and it was love.

Ah, so cute! :D

Beautiful!

Lovely fill pockeyghost! Augustbird, would you mind multiple fills? I have a very different idea and was wondering if you'd let me indulge it!

Not OP, but I'd like multiple fills please! Would you could you?

A/N: A first time attempt at world-building at 2am in the morning- hmm. Do let me know what you think, I kind of want to experiment more with this concept. And idk, i tried to follow the prompt but it went all sorts of dark and angsty on me!

............
It’s raining. Shards of crystalline tears ripping blood from the streets of London, controlled by the whipped frenzy of a violin. They absorb into the skin of nearly every person they touch and a poison seeps out in their stead, invisible and noxious.

Sometimes though, there is nothing to be done.

Sometimes, somebody has to die.

…...............

“You shouldn’t do that, you know.”

“Necessary. Part of my work.”

“But you enjoy it.”

Not a question. John’s voice is flat, emotion carefully kept in check. Sherlock knows that tone by now, knows the controlled anger, the trace of disappointment.

He lifts his violin to his chin and gathers warm air for the bow.

“Yes,” he admits, a carnal delight edging his words like gilt.

“Yes I do.”
…..............

Sometimes, John glows.

He hates it.

He thinks it’s silly, but Sherlock thinks it’s fascinating, the trickling gold threads that trail obnoxiously from the tips of his fingers and tangle into everything as he tries to read, to make tea, to pretend that he’s not shining like some fucking fairy. Sherlock follows him, cataloguing his every flicker until John finally snaps and then Sherlock sulks and there’s thunder and chaos and Mrs. Hudson sighs over the scorch burns on her carpet the next day, but she leaves them to it.
….

It’s a pool of blood of Sherlock’s own making, but he’s not the danger, there’s something else, something far more ancient and evil that’s been slowly awakening-- he stands in the center of the ruby sea and tilts his face to the infuriatingly clear sky, willing for a dash of grey, a few tendrils he can send chasing through the night. A suffocating press of darkness greets him instead and he shakes uncontrollably, eyes wide with terror, a name he barely remembers rising to his lips.

A sudden warmth against his hand. Light streams from between joined palms and Sherlock looks on, enthralled, as the beams twist intricately at his unspoken command. They’re more flexible than his rain, easier to command and yet somehow stronger, faster, for all that and his mouth opens as they wrap themselves into the night air, weaving through it’s very fabric in a way even his clouds cannot.

John clears his throat and squeezes his hand lightly. “They’re not just for show, you know.”

“ But I didn’t think /I/could--”

“Yes. Well. Neither did I.”

….........

John tugs lightly at the midnight curls while Sherlock sleeps, wrapping the cool and silky threads around his fingers. He weaves light into them and when Sherlock wakes, he scowls at the glimmering halo he can barely see.

“I’m not an angel,” he spits, as if the very word is an insult. But John just laughs.

“No,” he agrees. “Angels don’t leave bloody body parts in the fridge.”

….......

Despite their newfound joining, the poison gets worse. More and more have to die, cut through by Sherlock’s shards, their blood seeping into the cold pavement.

Sherlock watches from his window and knows it’s not enough. He draws the delicate bow across the paper-thin tissue of his wrist and little droplets snake down his arm, soak into the silk of his dressing gown.

Outside, the rain turns the slightest bit pink.

.........

a/N: Dammit, warnings for self-harm, etc. Should have done that earlier, but anon and can't fix it---

................

“Sherlock, come to bed.”

“I can’t.”

“You haven’t slept in days.”

“You never sleep anyways, John.”

“I watch over you.”

“Confoundingly endearing as that is, I believe it is generally considered ‘creepy’.”

The forced humor echos mockingly in the small flat.

John draws an arm around the elegant bones of Sherlock’s waist and presses dry lips to the back of his neck. The thin figure in his arms slumps, eyes closing, head resting wearily back against his shoulder and of course, John knew all along.

“Almost time, isn’t it?” he asks quietly. Sherlock doesn’t respond.

John runs his hands down Sherlock arm, one hand still tightly supporting him across his thin chest. Deep, ragged breaths and then John clenches his fingers around a delicate wrist and slowly, painfully, the tortured flesh begins to knit itself together.
…...........

Fairytales and legends and forgotten nightmares.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget it wasn’t always like this.

But it wasn’t and the dread only grows stronger, because Sherlock remembers, suddenly, how this story ends.
…...................

“I’m not going to let you do this.”

“You don’t have a choice. This is my purpose.”

“I’ll always heal you.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s not worth it Sherlock, you hear me? I don’t--”

“I’m sorry.”
…........

“I’m the demon.’

“No. You’re just a man. A man in a pressed suit with poison dripping black from your fingers.”

“Same fucking thing, darling.”
….........

Cruel laughter mocks the dry streets of London, which haven’t seen rain for weeks.

It’s almost time.

Sherlock lifts his violin and begins to play.
….........

“No, stop this--” The plea picks up and howls around him, lashing his face with it’s raw brutality and from the pavement, tendrils reach towards him, frantically twining around each other.

A protection, a prayer, a healing for what has not yet been hurt. But it’s far too late anyways. Sherlock draws in a cold breath, icy with promise and shuts his eyes, forming his next words carefully. He sees them in the mist of his breath before they fade into the wind and for a second, he’s afraid they’ve been lost--

But no.

He knows when they’ve reached his soldier, because of the horror that creases his face, the utter devastation that causes the silken cords of starlight to crumple in on themselves.

Two last words.

“Goodbye, John.”
….........

(writer anon for Fill 2 here): so please let me know if this is terrible, in all honesty. I've never done magical realism/anything like this before. Also, you're anon and I'm anon, so think of it as a favor to me so I know where to improve. That's all.

i don't think its terrible - nope
i actually liked it a lot but in all honesty i am a bit confused - i know it is kind of the point to not give too much detail or the charm of the world will be lost but maybe a bit more wouldn't go amiss?
i mean
i am not quite sure why is it his purpose and how does it relate to him being a cloud herder? - and if i am not supposed to question it then, what is his purpose exactly? or not exactly - vaguely would do too - just a bit more information so we can at least start to form some theories and discard others - hints are enough... also why is he fading away and is it inevitable?
i don't understand the blood too - but that might be just me being dumb
i am also not quite sure whether the ending is supposed to be that definite or is it just my imagination?

however, i liked the touch with his violin, the hints of character growth you managed to include in such a short story and the line about demons and men was perfect :) there are good bits and confusing bits but

a i said
the magic of magical realism is balance of the real and the given - the things you are not supposed to question and the things you try to decipher to form at least an inkling of a possible message (oh yes i do love the vagueness of it all, multiple interpretations, subtext... *dreamy eyes*)
-well, at least for me it is, but hey - i think what i see under the the term might be quite different from what this fandom perceives it to be, my basis for comparison is mainly Marquez, some Wilson Harris and authors of Slovak literature nobody here ever heard about (i am not trying to be hipster, i am just Slovak so i learned about them in school and its impossible to unread something) - the thing i am trying to say is - you are on a good path but your balance could do with some work
it is not bad to leave the reader wondering but some questions are crucial to answer, to achieve the feeling of a closed story.
but don't feel bad please, magical realism is bloody hard to write, i don't think i have seen many done right around here :) i still liked yours and since you asked for a rev i though i would give it - albeit so late
hope it helped a bit
cheers

Hi OP, hope it's okay for another fill :)

----

Sherlock emerges from the clouds he had gathered earlier that day. It had been humid, naturally, for a season that’s changing from summer to fall and the clouds had been plentiful, bountiful. He had somewhat a hard time gathering this lot - cumulus clouds tend to be unruly with their puffy selves.

The stars are just starting to emerge from the night sky, the moon not far behind the horizon. Sherlock always prefers the night. The sun had always been very petulant and all knowing - a trait that always reminds him of his brother. That, and they have the same puffy, round and red angry faces.

“Sherlock!” A voice called from up above him. He looks up, and John’s glowing face startles him a bit from their proximity.

“John,” Sherlock says worriedly. He shook his staff a bit, ridding it of the cottony like clouds that stuck on the bottom. “You shouldn’t be this close to the ground. You’ll fall.” He then swirled the cumulus clouds gathering them together, making them bigger and lifting him and John both higher up in the sky.

He always tell John not to go close to the stratosphere, gravity is very treacherous and a lot of stars had fallen because they were too close. Even Sherlock’s clouds couldn’t save him once gravity latches itself on John’s.

But John always smiles at him and brushes of his warnings. “Come of it, I won’t fall. You won’t let me.” And he’ll laugh and soar a bit higher to the night sky, leaving Sherlock to tend to his growing storm clouds as he mingles with the other stars who doesn’t quite look at Sherlock as he does. They always sneered at him and call him freak behind his back. He would know- the clouds carry the whispers to him.

It’s not like he minds, he doesn’t care about the stars or the moon or the sun. He had his clouds that he gathers and herds - he likes to clump them together, likes seeing what happens when they come together or held tightly, the friction that gives thunder and lightning and the colorful show of lights it tries to hide inside it. He especially likes how the living below clamor and run in fright when one of the lightning escapes from the clouds and strikes to the ground. Sometimes, if he’s lucky a human would be struck and he’ll go down as far as he could to look at the effects.

The point is, he doesn’t mind being alone. Much prefers it. There were other cloud herders around him - most of them work in couples or teams. But he’s rather capable of doing this job alone and he rather like it that way. Once in a while his brother, Mycroft, would send someone to check up on him but his clouds would whisper to him and he’ll gather them and move before they could ever caught sight of him.

“You shouldn’t frighten them with your anger then,” Someone from behind him says. Sherlock’s back goes rigid. Had Mycroft’s minions somehow followed him without him noticing. Blasted. He was too angry to care of tails and shadows. “It’s rude to not acknowledge someone when they’re trying to talk to you too.” It said again and Sherlock is forced to look for the voice that in fact wasn’t behind him but above him.

Sherlock squints his eyes from the light, a star? He’d never had a star talk to him before. “Your light is too bright.” was the only thing he could say as he stares at the star above him. He heard a soft ‘Oh!’ before the brightness had dwindled and he can see the full feature of the star before him.

He was a yellow star. His hair’s bright and blonde like the light that shines within his chest. His brightness still within the range of youthfulness but Sherlock can see that this star has been living for a long time, longer than he had been. His light was dim but still bright enough to illuminate him. Stars had their light shine from their heart. This particular star had a fierce but wary light around him. And, oh! Stars should have the equal amount of light radiating from their heart, but this one… His has a dimmer part on his right than the rest. Sherlock brows furrowed, his mind seeking answers to his own question.

“Gravity or comet?” He asks as he stands up and calls one cloud with his staff.

The star looks at him in confusion, “I’m sorry?”

Sherlock steps into the cloud and orders it to go higher, closer to the star. “Which was it, Gravity or comet?” Sherlock raised a brow, unperturbed at the shifting of the star in distress.

“I don’t -“ The star stops and followed Sherlock’s unfaltering gaze. He purses his lips and looks around. “It was gravity.” He answers before soaring a bit higher to get more distance between them. “I’m sorry, but how did you…”

Sherlock points his staff on the star’s chest. “Your light is dimmer on the right than the other. It’s not a disease or because of age since you’ve not changed colour since you’ve been born and although you have been born quite sometime ago, Stars do not show fatigue until they’re about to die.” He gestures to the Star’s blonde hair and his chest, proving his point.

“So that leaves a fight with another star, although rare but uncommon but that would leave you in a more unsightly state. A comet would graze through you not fatally but you would lose part of your light to it and gravity would eat you and let you fall but you’re only lost some of your light so that means that you somehow been able to fight back and that (Sherlock points to his chest again) is the result of it.”

The star blinks at him, once, twice, a third time. “That is brilliant!” he exclaims, “I didn’t know cloud herders would be such.”

“Not many cloud herders are, I’m the only one.” Sherlock says.

The star flies closer, “But how did you know all that?”

“I observe.” He answers looking to the star and gazing back to the night sky. In the distance he can hear his clouds’ thunders starting to calm and the rain’s hissing on the ground starting to dwindle. In about an hour or so, his clouds would be ready to move again, perhaps back to the meadows of western France before returning back to the sinewy, smoggy skies of outer London.

“You’re brilliant, amazing! Although you have been wrong in one thing,”

Sherlock’s attention comes back to the star. He had something wrong? There’s always, always something, a minute detail that he somehow forgets to grasp.

“I wasn’t pulled by gravity, a friend was. I tried to stop him from falling but I failed. The backlash was the dimming.” The star explains and it seems like a click in Sherlock’s mind had made it clear.

“Tch. I didn’t see that. Clearly, a direct altercation with gravity would give you a greater effect, getting a milder backlash from the intended force would give you that diminished effect.” Sherlock grits his teeth, “Backslash,” He hissed to himself as if berating his mind on not being able to come to that conclusion in itself.

“You seem to have me all figured out, but I don’t even know who you are cloud herder.” The star says, and Sherlock stops from muttering expletives to himself and looks up to the star.

(oops sorry for the awkward cut)

“It’s Sherlock, and I have not figured you out entirely. Not yet anyway.”

This results to the star’s laughter. “It’s an odd name, Sherlock. I’m John and I’m looking forward to you having me figured out entirely in the future.”

That was John’s last words to him that night, and the star flew higher to the night sky than Sherlock can ever go to. He seems to shine brighter than he had the first time Sherlock had seen him earlier that night.

After that, almost every night John would find him and chat with him about anything. He’ll stay most of the night, always going up the sky to be with the other stars that will call him up although he’d do so reluctantly.

“I always like London.” John says as he floats beside Sherlock who was riding a wispy cirrus cloud. Sherlock has been hanging around London for quite a while now. It’s fall and the clouds like the windy chilly weather that London fall has. “But the winter will be too cold and I won’t be as close as I can be, unlike before.”

Sherlock knows that. Stars are like migratory birds, they draw father to the earth during winter but they always come back and welcome summer with you with their lights brighter than before. It didn’t matter to Sherlock, he’d be alone like always, even if John’s presence had been welcomed. “Don’t be ridiculous John, you can still see London from up there and it would be waiting for you when you come back.”

John didn’t know if Sherlock was still pertaining to London or to himself. But he knew that Sherlock, always factual and straight to the point didn’t mean anything else other than what he had said. But John would sometimes wish he would.

Before winter came, they had busied themselves with Sherlock whisking away John to places. He’d tell John about what it looks like when it’s day and sometimes John would force himself awake until the first rays of the sun to look at the earth lit by the most majestic stars of all. Sherlock would drag him as far as he can to the ground when his clouds had gathered too much vapour in them and watch with him as they pour down to the ground. He’d show John how he forms his clouds, sometimes in fanciful shapes and humongous sizes. John would help Sherlock locate his lost clouds from time to time and John would laugh at Sherlock who’d be soaked by his rain clouds when he pushed them too much.

Sherlock realizes that he’d be lazy and petulant during day and bustling at night. He’d have his most brilliant plan with John during their night travels than he would have before during the afternoon sun. He’s starting to be more and more anxious during the day, restless in anticipation for the sun to go down and the moon to rise up the other end. Night was never as lonely as it used to be.

When winter did come, all he did was anticipate the time that spring would emerge from the ground. He went near the earth’s equator but it didn’t help, John was too far away then. So days and nights passed with uneager sighs and complains and short tempers and madness. Sherlock have little or no patience with his clouds and he cares less for those lost and left behind.

Three months pass by and he’s all but alive. His clouds - what’s left of them, whispers of his brother and his brother’s shadows but he cared less. He just wanted winter to end, to spring to come so he can get a glimpse of John’s bright imperfect but perfect brightness.

The first life of spring had emerged but Sherlock knows that spring wouldn’t be at it’s fullest until a few more days. John wouldn’t be here until then, but knowing that it would be soon makes Sherlock’s heart flutter alive again.

A couple of nights after he saw the first greens sprout from the ground, Sherlock’s clouds catches whispers from the wind about a comet whose tail has been severing stars that come to it’s wake. Sherlock looks up from his perch and saw the night sky glowing as hundreds and hundreds of stars falls down from the sky, giving their last bang of light before dying. His blood runs cold as his clouds’ gathered whispers grow loud to his ears. ‘Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn’ they chant and Sherlock bolts to his feet gathers his cumulus clouds together and soars into the sky as high as he could.

He sees the comet in the distance, burning and angry and mad cackling in laughter as he hears the stars shriek and wail as he passes them. The comet drains the stars of their light, eating them and letting them fall to the ground and letting gravity swallow what remains of them.

“John!” He yells as he saw the comet extinguishes a bright yellow star, flies towards it in full speed catching its hand before it falls completely to the earth. “John,” he helps the star up to sit on his cloud. Sherlock’s brows furrows. This isn’t John, this wasn’t his John. “John, where is John?” He asks in desperation, shaking the almost unconscious star. “Where is he?”

The star blinks in a haze, “I don’t-” she starts but stops short when her heart flutters out some last remaining light.

“Where is John?” Sherlock asks again. But he gets no answer as the star shrieks in agony as her heart pour out the last bright light it could before dimming into darkness. Sherlock gritted his teeth, he leaves the star lying on his cloud and summons another one to bring him up to the sky.

The night sky was almost like day as the stars fall one after another, their cries carried through the sky by the wind. Everything in the sky grew restless. The clouds gather frightened their thunders contributing in the noise that surrounds Sherlock. The wind howling in sadness as the stars fall through, echoing their last breath.

Sherlock weaves through the stars that fall like drops of rain to the ground. Every time he sees a yellow star projectile its way to the ground, he runs to it, hoping against hope that it wasn’t John.

“John, where’s John?” He asks. He’s exhausted. He’s been flying around every corner of the sky looking for John, but he can’t find him. All the stars are unable to give him an answer. “Please, do you know where he is?” He pleads, his voice breaking. He can feel the beginning of tears mixing with his sweat as he cradles the dying star. “Please…” He whispers.

The star looks at him before stretching his arm out with his last strength and pointing towards the gloomy cloud riddled mountains of the Everest. “John,” the star whispers before he goes limp in Sherlock’s arms.

He gathers his clouds sparing no time and flies to the treacherous mountain and the angry clouds that rest on its peak.

He passes through the ocean, gathering vapours to replenish his clouds and give him strength. He feels the storm clouds on the mountain stirring, more and more aware of his coming presence.

They rumbled, thundered and growled as Sherlock approach in a safe distance. “What do you want, herder?” One of the storm cloud thunders. Growing another ten feet in its grey monstrous shape. No disturbance. Cloud herders were not allowed this territory. The clouds here do not want to be pushed and rolled and shaped like domesticated animals from the ground. They wanted to stay feral, wild as they thought nature had made them to be.

But Sherlock could care less about the arguments of their kinds to Sherlock’s. “A star had fallen here, on the mountain. I just want that star, nothing more.” Sherlock explained. “I am not here to disturb you nor herd you. Please.”

“There is no star that has fallen here.” One of the clouds rumbled. As they gather closer together, Sherlock saw a small ray of yellow light pass through their haze.

“John!” Sherlock calls, ignoring the storm clouds. He draws closer to where he saw the flash of light form. “John!”

“There is no John here, herder!” The biggest storm cloud thunders and moves to face Sherlock.

Sherlock bristles, grits his teeth in anger. “You have no use of a fallen star, give him to me. I’m not here to herd any of you. Just give me the star!” Sherlock snarled, the veins in his temples throbbed in his anger.

The storm clouds shifted against each other when Sherlock mentions a fallen star. They gathered among themselves. “Alright, herder. You are right, the fallen star is of no use to us. It has fallen into the highest peak of the mountain. You may have it,” The biggest storm cloud cackled, “But you have to get it without your staff or your clouds.”

“That is unfair! I am powerless without my staff and I will be unable to climb the mountain without my clouds!” Sherlock cried, his time is running out. Gravity, although weaker up here, will consume John slowly. He had to get him out of here as soon as he can.

“It is not our problem. That is our condition, herder.”

Sherlock grips his staff tighter and looks at his clouds. He’d have to go by foot from the forest at the mountain’s foot to the snowy peaks. He wouldn’t be able to get to John, not until days. He might as well be human without his staff. He shrinks in a distance as he finds another way to get to John. He cannot bribe the clouds, he’d have to play their game. He decides to try his luck on foot, he can’t think of any other choice.

‘Windwindwindwindwind’ His clouds whispered. ‘comingcomingwindwindwindwind’ they chanted to his ears. Sherlock looks around, feeling the soft touches of the breeze.

“I could help,” It whispers as it dances around him and his clouds. Sherlock looks around, searching for the direction of where the blast of the wind will come.

“You would help me,” Sherlock says cautiously, “And what will you get in return?” Winds were tricksters, they always wants something in return.

The soft breeze brushes through his fingers, through the tail of his coat and between the curls of his hair. “I want to play with the clouds is all. You will let me play with them in return.” It whispered to his ear before picking up speed to circle through his clouds.

“And that is all?” he asks as he narrows his eyes to the direction of the wind. His clouds were being shifted and shaped by the wind and he could hear his clouds soft delight echo through the breeze.

“Perhaps,” the wind returns to his ear, “But do you have time to think otherwise? Your star is falling further and further.”

Perhaps. Perhaps indeed. He had no choice at the moment. He’d have to trust this trickster- he’d have a higher chance of saving John. If he fails, then both of them dies, at least they would die together.

Sherlock flies back to the storm clouds. “Alright, I agree with your condition.” He puts his staff on his cloud.

“Anytime you want, herder.” The storm clouds cackled together.

Sherlock smirked, “Anytime you want, trickster” he mimics. And he hears the almost mad laughter of the wind buzzing through his ears as he’s swept up to his feet, the wind carrying him up into the sky towards the mountain peak. The clouds never saw it coming as the blur of a tornado tear through them. The wind carries him around the peak and he sees the faint light of John on one of it’s snowy ledge. The wind draws him down enough for him to grab John and whisk them away to a safe distance from the baffled but angry storm clouds.

“You deceiver! You trickster!” boomed the feral clouds. “They tried to chase after them but the wind’s tail lashes out on them and blows them away into wispy tendrils of stratus clouds.

Sherlock laughs madly in relief and excitement. He never flew with the wind before and it was mad. Majestic. It felt like his mind floated in ecstasy. His excitement stops short when he feels John stir on his arms. “John,” he whispers urging him to consciousness. John’s heart glows significantly as he shifts on Sherlock’s arms in discomfort. “John?” Frightfulness comes back to Sherlock as he sees the obvious signs of a star’s last seconds.

“No…” he cries. He grips John tighter and urges his clouds higher, faster and faster into the atmosphere. “John, no…” He wills his power to lift them higher, higher than any clouds could reach, into the night sky. He calls out for help to the nearby stars, but they lay still in shock at the aftermath of the comet. ‘Please let him float up into the sky,’ Sherlock pleads as he gathers the last of his power to propel John higher to the sky.

The last of his consciousness left him as he sees John’s heart burst into it’s last light. “John,” Sherlock whispers before he fell from the sky.

This was so sad... It was so lovely and sad.

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