PARA/DOX

Time's First Travelers

"It doesn't hurt as bad as you think." Mycroft assured, a rather hallow promise coming from the man who had used this very method as means of escape. Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt his brother's grip tighten; he knew that the blade was the next step of this ghastly plan. Sherlock winced when he felt the pain, a searing scrape that felt like hot metal being gouged into his flesh. He couldn't see the wound but he already felt it gushing, recognizing even the discreet feeling of dripping blood across his skin. As Sherlock whined quietly he heard John Watson utter a similar noise of discontent, though within a moment Sherlock's arm was wrestled away from his side. Sherlock opened his eyes for this part, wondering what sort of pagan ritual he was now taking a part of. Mycroft was pressing the two wounds together, allowing the dripping blood from Sherlock's arm to find its way into the similar wound that had sprouted across John's forearm. The Doctor's face was determined yet relaxed as their blood began to mix, as if he already felt his DNA becoming more able. Slowly Sherlock's blood was able to join the pool that had collected between the canyon of flesh Mycroft had opened. Sherlock felt his stomach twitch, and for a moment he had to look away to save what little contents his stomach still harbored.
"Get him bandaged." Sherlock insisted when his arm was finally released from its gushing counterpart. "He shouldn't bleed any more than he has to."
"First we need to attend to the other." Mycroft explained, getting to his feet and dragging his brother along in his wake. Sherlock stumbled behind, finding that his balance was much less predictable now that one half of his body seemed to be much more pressurized. The brothers completed the same ritual upon the woman, an incoherent scientist that Sherlock briefly recognized from his time in the laboratory. She was silent, though her eyes grew wide when Mycroft dug the blade into her skin. Aside from this she showed no emotion, and as the brothers began to wrap long strips of the suit jacket across the flesh both scientists seemed more content than afraid. John's eyes had lulled shut, prompting Sherlock to prod desperately at his face in an attempt to pull any sign of life back into the disturbingly cold body.
"We have to get them back. They'll die within the hour." Sherlock declared as Mycroft tied the ends of his bandage, secured so tightly that it might have been a tourniquet.
"What about the corpse?" Mycroft wondered apprehensively, sounding reluctant to leave any man behind. This was uncharacteristic, as Mycroft had never been sentimental. However he must have felt a special bond with the dead, having left his own body behind once before.
"We'll take him too, but if he falls there's nothing we can do about it. He's dead, which means he won't respond to the blood." Sherlock insisted. Already he was trying to pull John to his feet, recognizing that they would have to walk the quarter mile with the handicapped draped across their shoulders. Mycroft gave a noise of defeat, though it would appear that he had no better suggestions. Certainly they couldn't leave the scientist to rot in a time zone none of them recognized. It would be a disgrace not only to him but also to the companions that had survived in his wake. Somehow they would get all three to the light, and hopefully in time enough to beat the impatience of their supervising agents. The only advantage to the scientists' withered states was their surprising weightlessness. Sherlock knew about the concept of water weight, the supposed quick fix to anyone's struggling diet. Though he had never experienced the phenomena first hand, and to his surprise the dehydrated husks of his companions proved to be much easier loads than their usual states. Sherlock could drape John's arm rather easily across his shoulder, marching the man unceremoniously through the fields in an attempt to push the entire troop into the beam that would take them home. Mycroft was struggling with the weight of the corpse, as he had decided to carry it upon his back in a fireman's carry while assisting the woman to her feet. Thankfully she was in a better shape than John, for she was at least able to support some of her weight, using Mycroft's arm as a support rather than a crutch. The gang wandered heavily onwards, forcing each step through the mud with their end goal in sight. As Sherlock walked he could see his bandages slowly turning red, the dark fabric dripping with his most prized blood. He struggled on, feeling his sight blurring, his steps becoming wobbly and inconsistent. The world was beginning to spin, though he couldn't determine if this was due to the beam's influence or the slowly leaking blood. Either way he made it, stepping now so close to the blinding light that he had to shield his eyes with his free hand. Sherlock switched his visor to the present day, watching for any scientist that would be there for their hopeful arrival. Thankfully there were a handful of lab coats mingling about, most staring at the machine but some staring at the wall, as if they could sense that their travelers were close to retuning.
"Sherlock, I'm not sure how far this thing will let me go. I'm not meant for the present, nor for the past." Mycroft explained. "I'll get them to the beam, but if I cannot follow you'll have to manage the three of them together."
"I will." Sherlock promised. "You've helped me tremendously. In fact, it feels good to at least know where you are. You're...well you're everywhere I suppose."
"If I don't make it, will you come visit?" Mycroft wondered, his voice struggling from under the weight of his chosen burden. Sherlock smiled, trying not to get too choked up about the idea of losing his brother for a second time. Who knows how long it would be until the agency allowed him to return to the machine, and who knows if he would be able to surpass any individual time again? Oh despite the chances, despite the impossibility...
"Yes of course." Sherlock promised. Mycroft gave a weak smile, his face looking younger than ever in the silver beam of the light. Only then did Sherlock realize that his brother had indeed been trapped in his teenaged years. Only then did he realize that he had taken on the role of the elder brother without realizing it. Mycroft may be better versed in the science, though it was now Sherlock who knew more of the world around it. More of the emotions that fell hand in hand with the logical facts.
"Alright then." Mycroft decided, clearing his throat as if trying to force any sappy emotions away from his determined concentration. Sherlock nodded in agreement, not feeling the need to say anything in return. Instead he clutched onto John's hand, appreciating the weight of the Doctor against his shoulder, and stepped forward. The beam acted like a magnet, a determined one at that. Just as soon as Sherlock's foot caught into the light the rest of him was sucked in as if in a vacuum, making it impossible not only to keep himself upright but also to keep John Watson close. Sherlock was immediately disoriented, his arms beginning to flail across his sides as he desperately tried to keep his Doctor from falling out of the beam of light. At first he had lost contact entirely, the world beginning to flow much faster, much more urgently. It was if the machine understood the severity of the situation, as if it was trying to deliver its subjects with a determined promptness. Sherlock could only see flashing colors, some of which were obscured by a dark mass in front of him. Anxiously he grabbed at it, recognizing the touch of John's ridiculous suit and pulling it closer, closer, in an attempt to pull them together inseparably. Sherlock wondered how hard the beam would try to kick the Doctor out, and it would be his job for the duration of the trip to ensure that never happened. He had only just reclaimed John Watson, and he would be damned if he let him slip away so easily. Slowly Sherlock was able to pull the Doctor into his grasp, and for the remainder of the trip he managed to wrap both his arms and legs around the still and almost disturbingly unresponsive body of John Watson. He clutched tight, hiding his face into the man's shoulder and forcing his eyes shut. Sherlock didn't care to watch the colors swirl, he didn't have any interest in the blurring of every second that had ever passed. He closed his eyes and waited for it to be over, he waited for his stomach to settle, for the feeling of weightlessness to subside. He panicked, for a moment, before finally he began to fall. Suddenly his stomach dropped out from under him, and just as Sherlock was expecting to fall for a hundred meters he felt his body hit the ground hard. The ground...no. No, the floor. Sherlock opened his eyes carefully, clutching so tightly to John's body that he hardly had time to feel the surroundings that now cradled him. A tile floor, dusty but up kept. A startling lightbulb, power efficient but harsh. A white wall, the same color he had grown to love. And that humming, that accursed humming, which meant the machine was not just working, it was there. They had made it.
"Sherlock!" Victor called, his voice somehow resonating above the rest of the sudden uproar that had sparked within the room. All of the scientists rushed to attend him, realizing that he had not only made the journey but somehow survived it. Sherlock refused the touch of all the scientists; he couldn't stand to trust a lab coat with the precious form of his Doctor. He wouldn't let the gloved hands pry him away, he wouldn't yield to them. John was stirring; he was alive and moving within Sherlock's tight arms. He even muttered a few sounds, all of them only audible to the ear his lips were now pressed up against. Sherlock wasn't aware that he was screaming, though the room had grown so loud that he imagined the machine had started to respond in a humanoid voice. His yells of defense echoed, echoed deafeningly. It was Victor who was finally able to calm him down, the hovering familiar face looking more bruised and bloodied than ever. Oh but despite the blemishes the smile remained consistent, and it was the smile that eventually disarmed the struggling, desperate boy. Victor's hands helped ease Sherlock's arms back into their due places. His words helped calm Sherlock as he rolled upon his back, allowing his limbs to detangle from John's shuttering form. Sherlock had only just allowed John to be steadied by unfamiliar hands when there was a flash of light throughout the room, something not so different than a bolt of lightning. Victor instinctively shielded the boy, throwing his body overtop in an attempt to save him from whatever had passed through the room. Sherlock was momentarily blinded, though his ears were working enough to hear the shrieking of the gears within the machine, the screaming cry of metal that was being overworked, of circuits that were suddenly blowing. The humming ceased, the room began to smell like melting plastic, and sparks began to fly from the wrecked container that was their time machine. The metal grew hot, exhausted from its task. Sherlock sat up, delirious, suddenly finding that the weight he had been thrust underneath had already regained itself. Victor was standing upon his own two feet, stumbling across the room with his face having grown as white as the walls around him. It was not difficult to see what had shocked him, though as Sherlock rolled onto his side he did not allow himself to grow so hopeful. He could see it too, the impossibility of the newest arrivals. He could understand what had made his bodyguard suddenly so upset. It was a familiar face that emerged from beneath the weight of two bodies, a young and forgotten face that took a deep breath before smiling softly. Sherlock stuck his fingers into the tile, blinking twice with a feeling of utmost relief. Though Victor summed it up best. Victor, in his amazement, could utter the only word he seemed to remember. The bodyguard hesitated, his beautiful face stammering to make some sort of comment. And then, like a musical note hit at just the right time....
"Mycroft?"  

A/N: Well then, look at that! Another story finished...so disturbingly quickly. Didn't this one just start? I could have sworn! Time goes fast when all you're talking about is time, I guess. As you can probably tell, I wrote this with the intention of a sequel. And to be honest, after all the fun I had reading through it once it was published, I think there's at least a 50/50 chance I will get around to writing it! Those odds are much better than most other stories hehe. I think this was one of the most in depth books I've ever written, the first one that really had nothing to do with the characters but instead with the moving pieces around them. As you all know I love time, and I had this like...revelation while watering the flowers at work. I thought this entire story up (actually, this AND its sequel) in one five hour work shift. Writing this definitely seems to justify that 100,000 dollars I'm dumping into a STEM degree! All the same, and in that same vein, I now only have two stories to buffer against the void. Once I begin writing my senior project it may take a whole year until I can get back to Sherlock Holmes. This is the question mark time. I am nearing what may very well be the great hiatus. Hopefully not the end. All the same, next up I THINK I'm going to try to publish a long awaited sequel! Which one, you wonder? Well...I suppose that will be determined soon! Hehehe. Thanks for reading! :)