Kind of depressing two-shot with Vic and Marion (Sherlock OCs). Not really any warnings in this part, but there’s gonna be some cussing in the siguiente one.
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How can I tell tu how I feel, when I don’t even know myself?
How can I say I miss you, when every segundo tu were there I only wanted tu gone?
How can I say I’m close by, when really I couldn’t be más far?
And how can I say that, say I’m telling the truth, when deep down I know it’s all a lie?
--VW


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He remembers what it was like before. He remembers every detail of what happened, those two years of living painfully, irritably, under the same roof. But what he can’t understand, is how that was any different from now. They were just as distant then, even though in reality their rooms were a short hallway apart. Brushing past each other, wordlessly, nothing más exchanged than an irate glare, how was that any different from now? They never really saw each other then. And they certainly can’t see now. No, not now that she’s...he doesn’t want to say dead. Absent. Displaced. Momentarily unavailable. That makes him chuckle, a dry sound that leaves a dull ache in his chest, as if he’s forgotten how to properly laugh. The phrase reminds him of the voice he gets every time he tries to call her. The computerized monotone, probably intended to sound female although it’s void, robotic. Marion never bothered to record a proper voicemail message.
He doesn’t even know why he bothers. He knows she’ll never pick up. And he can’t leave a message. Because whenever he tries, his voice always seems to leave him, his mouth unable to form the words, make the sounds, that rest on his tongue. He texts her sometimes. It’s easier to write it out than to actually have to say it. For the others to hear him struggle, for him to hear himself attempt to pour out the feelings even he doesn’t understand. When he’s writing, he can hide behind the screen, behind the words in that plain, black, sans-serif font that fills the pages of texts. “Conversations with Marion Holmes”, his phone tells him. Not much of a conversation, he thinks. She never writes back. All messages in the so-called “conversation” are labeled ‘sent’. Never a ‘received’. But he pretends that’s not the case, in his texts. He’ll still try to sound nonchalant, like they’ve been corresponding regularly the whole time. Sometimes. Other times he’ll pour out his feelings, o what he wants to be his feelings, words dripping with false amor and poetic tears. Sometimes his texts will be cryptic, but dramatic. Vague lines that sound Shakespearean, almost, but in modern English. o song lyrics. Something that could’ve come from one of the bands he listens to, alternative-rock, o heavy metal, minus the screaming but including most of the cussing.
For him to say that he misses her would be an understatement. Not that he’d ever say it though. He might joke around, say he did, but the words would be empty, the meaning shallow. “I miss waking up at three in the morning to the sound of her shooting at the wall”, o “I miss cussing her out when I got angry, and her joking that I never had a sentence without the word ‘fuck’”. o how, when she was annoyed, she’d call him Victor, even though he repeatedly told her to call him Vic. Only John can call him Victor and get away with it. Even Sherlock has to use the nickname. But he does más than miss her. He doesn’t have words for how he feels in her absence. And the worst is that, even if she is alive (which she isn’t, he has to remind himself), she wouldn’t know. There had never been any indication, when she was still sharing the flat with him and both of their brothers, of anything that would suggest that he would feel this way if she left. There had never been anything coming close to resembling friendship, even, just a mutual dislike, some times más prominent than others. Before she died, he was convinced that he would be better off if she were to leave. But now, he knows that deep down that was never true.

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Why do tu feel so close, when I know you’re so far?
o are tu the one here, and I’m looking on from miles above?
I want to feel it when I mean it, when I say it.
Why don’t I feel anything?
Can tu even hear me at all?
--VW


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From the moment they met, he knew they’d have a tough time getting adjusted to each other. He still remembers their disastrous first encounter, which ended with an extremely sore crotch, a bloody nose, and Marion refusing to leave her bedroom for a good three days. From that día on, he felt as if everything he did, those icy eyes of hers were focused on him, glaring, judging. He remembers his first case with John and Marion, how they somehow ended up racing through the sodden streets of Londres with a gang of angry gunmen at their backs. He remembers the panic, the paralyzing fear, as the dreaded weapons were trained on him; John screaming for him to run, shoving him aside, the burning terror as he knew that John, his brother, was going to die, and he couldn’t stop it. The pounding defeat as the last of the adrenaline fizzled away, the hot tears as he screamed John’s name, the firm hand on his back. John’s hand. He remembers how he had looked up at the man, round-eyed, ripping himself away from John’s grip and collapsing on all fours, vomiting until nothing but bile remained. How John had looked at him, something soft in his eyes that looked so much like Victor’s own--their only common feature was those dark gray eyes--as he muttered defeat. How John had questioned him, wanting to know everything about this newly exposed fear of guns, and how his face had frozen, the understanding slowly creeping into his expression as he realized just how much their pasts were linked. Because even if the two had never met--their gap in age meant that Victor was born after John had already left for the military--John knew that it was his near-death in Afghanistan that had torn his brother apart. John’s eyes when he realized, his throat as he swallowed nervously, his hand creeping instinctively towards his shoulder, where underneath the capa and collared shirt, the bullet scar broke the smooth tan skin; yes, Victor can picture it clearly. Distant yells, probably from Marion, and John had risen to his feet, extending a calloused hand for Victor. Vic gratefully took it and allowed himself to be pulled into a standing position, limping over to where Marion stood, arms crossed, her face pulled into an expression of judgement that became highly typical after that, when she wasn’t grinning maniacally. He isn’t sure which was worse, the infuriating, all-knowing arrogant smirk, o the narrow-eyed look that suggested that his mind was an open book, and one she was currently lectura avidly. But after that night, things changed, at least between Victor and John. Their dislike transformed into a sort of grudging respect, although deep within, Victor felt a strange attachment towards his brother that he couldn’t explain. He had never been able to describe how he felt about John, especially regarding the incident that had shaped his fear of guns. Vic and John had never met, and Vic was in military school when he got the call. John had been injured, fatally they thought at first, although his condition gradually improved, and Vic was sent home. After he recovered, John moved to London, but Victor never returned to the military.
    Sometimes he misses Marion’s deductions. He misses being told exactly how he’s feeling at any point in time; he even misses the anger he always felt when she read him, made him seem so obvious, when he could hardly sort out his emotions himself. It was one año before he truly understood, rose out of the heavy fog that muddled his thoughts, the confusion that always gathered in thick clouds when his mind turned to her. One año before he realized what he felt. Love. He was madly in love. With Marion Holmes.
    After that realization, everything changed, and yet it all stayed exactly the same. He tried to act natural around her, o at least as natural as he’d acted before, although his thoughts were screaming from all directions, an endless cacophony of voices pounding through his head. She never deduced it, and he was initially thankful for that, but now the memory just brings him más pain. Even though he knew she didn’t feel the same way, knew they could never have anything más than the odd part-friendship-part-mutual hate they had already, he would pretend otherwise. Imagine that she felt the same warmth he did when their eyes met, envision (and maybe sweat a little at) the things they would do, still burning with adrenaline as they burst into the flat after a particularly trying case. He longed for her touch, her lips, her passionate embrace, the heat that would electrify them as their bodies enredados and intertwined, his smaller, muscular shape fitting perfectly into the graceful curve of her hip and back. Now he wonders what would be different if she had known. Everything. Everything would be different. If she had chosen to deduce--and it would be blatantly obvious, if she had just opened her eyes--she might not have shared the feeling, but she would’ve at least changed. o that’s what he likes to think. If she knew, maybe it would’ve worked out. Maybe she wouldn’t have left, and gotten herself killed. If she knew, would she actually be here today, instead of the distant wishful memory she is now, lingering in the depths of his troubled mind?

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You were always looking, but tu never saw.
If you’d just opened your eyes, tu would’ve known.
Why didn’t tu want to know?
When was I lost? When did tu stop seeing?
And why do I always seem to disappear?
Why do tu do this? tu never respond. Why do
I do this?
Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it to even bother. I’m drowning, drowning in these preguntas without answers.
Why, Marion?
Why?
--VW


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    He can’t forget the día it happened, the día she left. She hadn’t even seemed angry that day, o at least she wasn’t any angrier than usual, and not even Sherlock could figure out why she stormed out of the flat, scarf tight around her neck, boots clicking on the stairs as her caqui trench capa trailed behind her. She was often prone to sudden bouts of anger like that, although she rarely left the flat in a temper. That was Vic who would storm out on an almost weekly basis, walk briskly through the streets with clenched fists and burning blood, then return within the hour. Marion usually locked herself away, so it was highly unusual for her to leave. She had been actuación rather odd though for about a week beforehand, rarely leaving her room and when she did, she was even más snappish than usual. Vic would walk por her locked door sometimes, on tiptoe to prevent an outburst from the girl who wanted, no, demanded privacy, and he would hear strange things coming from the room. Eerie, disembodied whispers, although he was never able to make out any words, an ominous humming, and once, in the middle of the night, he could’ve sworn he’d heard her scream.
He should've known something was up. They all should've. Maybe if he'd known, he could've prevented it. Well, that's what he likes to think. o at least he wouldn't have been as surprised, as upset, when she did leave. They'd all assumed she'd be back in thirty minutes, maybe forty-five at the most. But the minutos stretched into hours, the hours into days, weeks, months. It was a año before Vic could bring himself to face the awful truth: she wasn't ever coming back. At first they tried to buscar for her, but it was as if she'd disappeared off the face of the planet. No one knew anything.
Surprisingly, Sherlock hadn't seemed very affected, but Vic could tell he was just trying to mask his grief. As for Vic, he tried desperately to continue on as normal, to fill the gaping void she'd left with the ordinary, the mundane. It didn't work. He slipped into anguish, and any efforts he made to try and hide it just made it burn even more. If he had only told her earlier, told her how he felt, she wouldn't have gone and broken his heart. Eventually the throbbing pain faded to a dull, ever-present ache, a wound that had healed on the surface but was still tearing him apart beneath the skin. He was the last of the three to give up, to accept that she was dead. But he couldn't mover on. He started texting her, knowing they would never reach her and because of this, saying things he would never say to her face. Poetry.
Another año passed. He wondered if this was what it was like for Marion while Sherlock was gone. Vic had moved in about eight months after the man's apparent death and although she'd apparently gotten over her initial grief, she was still sore. And then, a año later, he'd returned. John was angry, no, furious, but Marion, there were no words to describe how she felt. Vic had felt oddly distant; he had no connection to Sherlock, and thus, was detached from the tearful reunion. That was the difference though; Sherlock had returned, but Marion, he knew there was no hope.
Vic can't believe it's been four years since his eighteenth birthday, four years since his sister Harry turned him over to John, four years since he moved in to 221B. His twenty-first birthday comes and goes, and so does his twenty-second. No one thinks to suggest that he pick up his life, get a girlfriend, mover out, maybe even go to universidad o back to the military. He rotates through several jobs though, clerks, bartenders, other mundane occupations. Several times he is asked out, but he usually declines. He just doesn't have the energy to commit himself to a relationship. He doesn't have the energy for anything, really. The one time that he shows even a hint of his old self is when he comes on cases with Sherlock and John. But after a while even that starts to hurt. Sherlock is too much like Marion. It takes a lot to actually excite Vic now. He still texts Marion, although por now he's completely dado up on a reply. Until the día that everything changes. The text that changes it all.

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Remember when tu saved me? It was so long ago, but I’ll never forget.
Drowning, drenched in fear, panicking. That’s all I was, paralyzed, comatose.
The fear.
The guns.
So many guns.
But tu pulled me from the deepest end.
Took them down, all of them.
Shaking me, making me swear not to do anything stupid again.
Not to get myself into another mess.
Made it seem like it was just that, tu did. That tu were annoyed that tu had to save me, that I couldn’t fend for myself. Nothing more. I believed you.
But now I need to know if that was true, if there really wasn’t anything else.
I’m drowning again, Marion.
tu saved me then, will tu save me now?
I know you’re alive, no matter what they all say. I know.
Where are you?
--VW


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Sighing, he presses 'send' and sets the phone on the mesa, tabla siguiente to the half empty mug of now-cold tea. Hearing his name called from the other room, he hurries over to where Mrs. Hudson is frowning over his unmade bed. Waving off her usual complaints that "I'm not your housekeeper", he quickly straightens the sheets and heads back into the kitchen. His phone screen is lit up, which surprises him, and he looks at what it says. "New text message". Puzzled, he unlocks the screen, and his corazón leaps in his chest. "Reply from Marion Holmes".

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East Café, third mesa, tabla on the left. Patio. siguiente to the green umbrella.
--M.B. Holmes
P.S. I always liked poetry.