For July's 'Let's Write Sherlock', for the prompt re-writing fairy tales. This is based on the elements (less the plot) of 'Little Snow White', although the title is taken from Angela Carter's 'The Snow Child'.
Warnings: Dark!John, violence, descriptions of blood, major character death, Sherlock/John.
They were both drunk, but Sherlock was more so; John, hardened through long years of medical student parties and loud army barracks, had drunk twice as much, but was merely tipsy. Sherlock was sloshed. John had to keep one of his arms wrapped tightly around his waist to stop him from toppling over.
"Come on," he muttered, irritated, feeling his fingertips tingling in the cold wind that blew through the trees at irregular intervals. Snow rose up like a mist around their ankles. In the darkness it was impossible to see the mud that had probably been trooped through it earlier in the day; the moonlight made it into a perfect white; a brittle, gentle, blanket.
Sherlock mumbled something intelligible, snorted to himself, and folded at the knees so suddenly John came down with him, ending up on all fours in the snow with an undignified thud. Sherlock, stretched out on his back like a carefully drawn line, began to chuckle.
At any other time John would have been laughing with him – it was his instinct to start laughing when Sherlock did, like his smile was something desirably contagious – but this time he couldn't bring himself to. He was too busy watching Sherlock in the moonlight, his skin pale as the snow and his hair as black as dark wood, as a bird's wing carved from ebony. The contrast was brought to John's notice with a sharp, painful jolt. He'd never realised so intensely, so vividly, that nothing was out of place with Sherlock, nothing was unsuited to him. And yet…and yet…something was missing.
John had grazed his finger on a tree root when he'd fallen; three drops of blood had slithered from his hand and settled like tears on the snow. He glanced at them, and then back at Sherlock, mesmerised. Sherlock was still on his back, eyes half closed, blinking fuzzily at the sky. Vulnerable, and almost perfect.
John could make him perfect.
He took the small knife he always carried 'just in case' from his pocket and, in a heartbeat, had tenderly settled himself across Sherlock's knees. Sherlock tried to lift his head, but John put the palm of his free hand to his chin and carefully pushed him down again, into the backdrop canvas of the snow.
"John? What're you doing?"
"Shh," John murmured. "Just…something…"
"Seems a funny time."
Sherlock was slurring; he wouldn't remember this in the morning. John was safe. He drew the blade of the knife through Sherlock's shirt, over his chest, right over his heart, as if he were going to cut it out. Sherlock blinked, and then began to wriggle and twist, but he was weak and John was strong, he was trusting and confused and John was determined; he knew exactly what he had to do, right here, in the moonlit forest. The blood fell like twists of apple peel, and John caught them in his palm before any could hit the snow and spoil it. He waited until his cupped hand was filled, and then replaced the folds of Sherlock's shirt. The wounds weren't deep; they wouldn't do any lasting damage.
"John?"
Sherlock was still, even paler. John had his eyes fixed on his lips; they were blue with cold, ugly, chapped and flawed. He brought his filled hand up to his chest, pattering blood onto his knees and Sherlock's already-stained shirt, and dipped two fingers of his left hand into it.
"John?"
"Shh. It'll make you look…perfect."
"John, please-"
John had his fingertips to Sherlock's lips before he could complete the sentence, gently painting the blood onto them like lipstick in faultless, stroked lines. He was very gentle, very calm, working in a trance, hypnotised into dizzy ecstasy by the way the liquid, apple red, wine red, spread over Sherlock like shadow, hiding the ugly coldness of his mouth and replacing it with rosy colour.
White snow, black hair, red lips. Much better. Perfect.
Sherlock grunted and tried to sit up, pushing his elbows into the snow with a shudder and heaving himself sideways, spilling blood from his chest and lips onto the ice. John, surprised by his sudden movement, was dislodged from his perch across Sherlock's knees, anger growing inside his chest as he saw his work of the past few minutes spoiled; the snow was churned and bloody, Sherlock's lips were smeared as he drew a hand across them; his whole face, which had been so wonderfully still and beautiful, was contorted with confusion and pain. He wouldn't be quiet; he was talking, shouting, making the blood crack and run like melted wax.
John only did it to stop him moving, to stop him ruining the picture. It was easy to put one hand over Sherlock's mouth, pinning him with a knee to the hip, pinch his nostrils and wait until he stopped breathing.
Afterwards, he made it all better. He patted the broken, powdery snow back into place and covered the blood spatters with fresh. He cleaned Sherlock's mouth and repainted it, smoothed his hair, and pulled his black coat over the rosy patch in his shirt. The new blood on Sherlock's lips was a little too lurid, a little too fresh, so he blotted it with his own, kissing him with utmost precision and care. His mouth tasted of iron and sugar.
When he pulled back the scene looked so perfect John almost expected it to come alive again. It was a masterpiece, and it was unmoving, sleeping in eternal perfection.
By the time John strode away the mist had settled around Sherlock, like a coffin of smoked glass.
I wasn't going to enter challenge two, but I had this idea literally 24 hours ago with only two days left of the deadline to write it up, so I apologise for any errors, as well as the very morbid streak I seem to be stuck on at the moment.
Thanks for reading, reviews welcome!