Well, I was so struck by the sheer drama and tragedy of 1x20 Do No Harm that I had to have a little bit of…prose, shall we say, on the subject. I was annoyed that we saw so little of Shannon's reaction to Boone's death, so I decided to think a bit about it. And thus, my thoughts. This is my first real venture into the "Lost" fanfic sandbox, so don't expect greatness.
Harm
Shannon feels a combination of guilt and an acute awareness of sheer irony. Boone saw her dead, mangled and devoured by the monster. And now Boone himself has been killed. How? She doesn't know. She doesn't want to know. All she can see is his mangled body, crusted with blood, in front of her. And yet she doesn't want to see that. She wants to see him as he was. But even the way he was was miserable, depressing, tragic. She'd killed him. It was her.
Shannon grinds her fists into her eyes to stop the tears, but by now nothing can stop the scream, howl, cry of horror and grief that rips itself from her and flies into the strained silence surrounding her.
He suffered immensely. Oh, yes, he'd been in horrible, mind-altering pain in the last few hours; there was no doubt about that. She can't stand to envision him, writhing and shivering as he faded. Alone.
The blood smeared everywhere on him fills her sight. It blurs and swirls in her vision, consuming her whole being. She gags, chokes, and falls to her knees next to him. Shannon is dimly aware of someone taking her away, of them muttering something. She is laid down on the sand, and a blanket is pulled over her.
A restless night. She weaves in and out of consciousness, waking up from dead unconciousness, then remembering the blood and his still face and she can't cry any more.
The morning is rather cold for the island. A steady drizzle starts about ten in the morning, and Shannon hides under a tarp so she doesn't have to face anyone. Their sympathetic looks, their concerned voices, and their attempts at comforting touches. She can't even think of Sayid; he is light-years from her present state of mind.
Boone will be buried as soon as the rain stops. Jack is gone, into the jungle. Everyone is avoiding her. She doesn't care. She is alone, wallowing in her numbing guilt.
She tries not to think, tries not to dwell on the wounded look that had permanently settled in Boone's eyes since Sydney. She never cared. She ignored him. Reveling in her power over him, she sneered at his obvious pain, and rubbed his love for her in his face. Yet he had borne it silently, without protest. And suddenly he was different. What had changed him? Whatever it was, out in the jungle with that Locke, that he had done, it had killed him. Bloodied and disfigured him and taken him from her before she had a chance to ever reverse what she had done to him.
She curls her toes into the sand. The crimson paint on them is chipping.