PARA/DOX

The Humming of Human Failure

Sherlock was arranged by Victor, led by his shoulder towards a chair in the middle of the room. This observation room must have been much bigger, for the voices seemed to stretch from many distant corners. As he sat Sherlock settled his headband upon his head, removing his sunglasses and allowing the filters to show him the very distant past. To his left he could see Victor, the man craning his neck and searching around the room for faces of recognized colleagues. To his right there were two empty seats, the pattern interrupted by an unrecognizable scientist. Sherlock leaned closer to Victor, wary of new faces. The room was just as big as he had assumed, about the size of a small auditorium and filled almost to capacity. The scientists who could not find a seat had taken to standing in the back, their arms crossed across their lab coats with looks of concentration upon their faces. In the front, where all gazes were now fixed, was a large sheet of thick glass separating them from the time machine. As it stood it did not look much different than Jon's last machine. It would seem as though all futuristic devices came in large metallic boxes. This one blinked all the same colors, though it was a bit smaller than the last. Perhaps John had taken to perfecting time science, and therefore was able to do it on a much smaller scale. Sherlock was the last to react when Professor Moriarty appeared within the room, perhaps because he only saw the man thirty seconds after his grand entrance. After Sherlock's reaction was poorly timed Victor took to narrating, figuring this was too important a moment to be lived thirty seconds too late.
"Moriarty has a key pad. He just sent for the volunteers. John's leading, with two others. They're wearing suits, old ones. Fifties style, I suppose."
"How does he look?" Sherlock wondered.
"Oh shut up." Victor snarled, slapping Sherlock's hand off of his own and sitting back deeper into his chair. "They're lining up against the wall."
"Like an execution." Sherlock whispered. Only now was he able to see John leading the parade, looking sharp and handsome in an orange suit trimmed with red. It was an obnoxious style, though the idea was supposedly to fit in wherever they appeared. Sherlock held his breath, hating to watch that beautiful face look towards the machine it had created. The glass must have been one way, for if Sherlock had been able to catch John's eyes he may have forced the man to make some sort of sappy goodbye speech. For now Sherlock knotted his ankles underneath his chair, taking a deep inhale of breath and fighting with the curls that were sticking out at awkward angles from beneath his headband. He was looking upon his lover for the last time; at least he tried to convince himself of the fact. He tried to prepare for the worst.
"They're speaking." Victor added, as if he figured his reports had not been consistent enough.
"They're going to die." Sherlock promised. "I'm never going to see him again."
"That's no way to talk." Victor scolded. "Now...now Moriarty is pressing a button. He just gave the remote to John. He's stepping aside, he went back out the door."
"Perhaps the whole room is going?" Sherlock suggested. "Desk chairs and everything."
"John's pressing a button. I can see him talking. The other two scientists have closed their eyes. They're holding hands. John looks confident."
"I can't watch." Sherlock admitted, closing his eyes to block out a scene he most wanted to avoid. It was a terrible choice, having to pick whether or not he wanted to witness John's disappearance thirty seconds after the rest of the room. If they all began to scream would it be possible to keep his eyes open? Or should he flip to the other visor now, and avoid seeing John's face one last time? Sherlock opened his eyes just long enough to watch John get handed the remote. He took in his face, perhaps for the last time. He observed the most beautiful eyes, that confidence that looked so brave in comparison to his cowering companions. That short frame, that impressive brain. Those lips which were now pursed, once so familiar. Sherlock remembered every detail of his Doctor. Then he shut his eyes, and switched screens.
"John pressed a button." Victor announced, his commentary only just preceding a loud humming coming from the other side of the glass. Sherlock was watching the fifties, watching an empty field. The agency had not been built in this time, and so besides the occasional crow he saw no movement. The machine, which was loud on the other side of the thick glass, must have been deafening for the scientists inside.
"John's saying something. He's...ah! A bright flash!" Victor's last words were caught within a gasp from the audience. Sherlock could hear their feet supporting weight; he could hear the floor creaking with the sudden impact. "They're gone, they're gone! No blood, no mess!" Victor added, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and yanking the boy involuntarily to his feet.
"Sherlock, can you see them?" Victor asked anxiously, wiggling Sherlock until he cooperated.
"No, nothing." Sherlock said truthfully. "John said this was the time zone he was going to, but he's not here."
"Are they lost?" another voice asked from behind, suddenly catching onto the fact that Sherlock was their only live commentator.
"I don't know." Sherlock admitted. "I don't know if they have to travel through any more time to get to the fifties. I don't know anything about this!"
"Look closer." Another begged.
"I'm looking as hard as I can!" Sherlock growled in defense, trying to swat off the consistent pestering from where h could hear it most.
"Moriarty is back!" Victor interrupted, drawing everyone's attention back to the room they were meant to be observing. Despite this interruption Sherlock could still feel the pressure of proximity, the whole of the room drawing close to him, suffocating him as they drew nearer.
"He's checking the dials." Victor added. "He looks pleased."
"Then where..." Sherlock stepped closer, nearly bumping into the glass if an unknown hand had not grabbed at his collar and pulled him back in defense. He searched aimlessly, turning around and around, looking for anything which might have been human. Where had John gone, if not in the present, if not in the past? Was he trapped somewhere in the middle, and if so, could Moriarty ever get him back?
"He's pressed a button. The remote is gone but there's something on the machine." Victor explained. Sherlock gritted his teeth, waiting for the moment the trio appeared within his view. He wasn't sure how long time travel was supposed to take; there was no rule book, no precedent to follow. Perhaps John and his companions were stuck in the middle, somewhere severed between the seconds that separated them from their destination. If so, they were ruined. Perhaps they really had appeared within the fifties, a piece so small from each that it was undetectable by his human eye. Perhaps a single cell from each had appeared within their designated destination, one which had dropped unceremoniously to the dirt in a spectacle so negligible Sherlock would never notice its arrival. Sherlock prepared for the worst. The machine's loud humming began again, this time with Moriarty staying on a designated side of the room. He was watching the wall where the travelers had last stood, waiting for them to appear once again. Sherlock hadn't switched his visors; he was still waiting on his own appearance. The room was silent, though Sherlock expected that to change. As of now they were holding their breaths, though when their lungs finally gave out they would begin to ask questions. If the travelers failed to appear within either time zone there would be plenty of inquiries going around. If they showed up bloody and battered there would be screams. The only thing that could not persist was this silence. The humming continued, like background music to the most dreadful affair.
"Anything?" Sherlock wondered, tugging on Victor's sleeve after some moments of pawing around in search for it.
"Nothing. And you?" Victor repeated.
"I don't see them. I'm starting to worry they're lost." He admitted mournfully.
"How long will it take for this machine to bring them back?" one of the scientists complained.
"Weren't you all the ones building the thing? Shouldn't you be asking yourself these questions before making us worry?" Sherlock snarled, turning back blindly to confront the location of the voice. He was getting better at the death stares, even through blindness. His hearing was beginning to serve him better as compensation. There was no response, which was probably for the better. The machine continued to hum long after the audience had taken their seat. Sherlock was the first to sit, or rather the first to give up. His knees gave out and he fell heavily into his chair, nearly toppling over had Victor not reached a firm hand out to steady him. Sherlock's view of the empty fifties became obscured by tears. He kept them quiet, though just as soon as his hope dwindled so too did the rest of the room. They all began their own mourning process, one which started with a much heavier silence. One which did not seem to wait on a word, rather one that existed in the absence of one.
"All hope is not lost." Victor assured prematurely. "Perhaps it takes longer than we thought."
"What's Moriarty doing?" Sherlock wondered.
"He's reading dials." Victor admitted.
"How is his face? Upset, anxious?"
"His hands are twisting." Victor commented. "Though he's always been one to fidget. I can't swear it's uncharacteristic."
"He must realize it's over." Sherlock grumbled. He eased the fifties visor back over top of his head, pushing the most recent film over his eyes to study the mannerisms of the scientist behind the glass. Sherlock stared through a lens that only John Watson could make, a forever prototype. It was handcrafted by his most careful hands, those that worked so hard but were smooth as satin; a hand which could curve and cradle every one of Sherlock's jagged edges. The boy tried to hold back his agony; he thought he had prepared himself for this heart wrenching show of failure. But how could you prepare yourself for such a thing, the complete erasure of a man who meant so much? It was meant to happen, it was destined to. Everyone knew this trip would be suicide. John knew this, too. Sherlock hoped they were already engraving that ridiculous plaque in his honor. In the end it would be the only gravestone he ever received.