Battle Royal and Hunger Games inspired, bit of background;
John is from a working class family and aspires to join the army as a doctor. Sherlock is from a high class family, but is rebellious and does not want to follow his father and brother into politics. Eighteen to twenty year olds can volunteer to enter an arena to fight to the death. The sole winner gains fame and fortune.
John joins in hope to win the money, Sherlock as a "screw you" to his family.
Desperate to live, they end up working together.
As this fic begins, Sherlock is bruised but wound free, John has be caught by a bullet to the shoulder. They and one other boy are the only remaining competitors.
John hears a sickening crack from behind him. He whips his head around to see Sherlock falling to his knees, face scrunched up in pain. He's dropped his bow and is gripping at the back of his head. He leans forward and groans, a few arrows falling from his satchel; John sees a trickle of blood roll down Sherlock's neck.
The small boy who had hit Sherlock stands in shock, staring wide eyed between the two older boys.
"Sherlock?" John shouts, crouching down. He sees the boy is about to make a run for it, but barks at him, "stay there."
The boy freezes.
He looks at the back of Sherlock's hair, which is already starting to get sticky from the blood.
"I'm fine," Sherlock says, his voice barely wavering, though John can tell it's lost its confidence, "flesh wound, nothing serious. Took me by surprise."
John frowns, he gently touches the injury, and Sherlock yelps.
He sees red and throws his bag onto the ground, leaping to his feet and loading his gun. His jaw is locked and he is glaring down towards the boy, who couldn't have been more than eighteen compared to his almost twenty years.
The boy throws his mace down and holds his hands up in surrender, realising he stands no chance against John and his gun.
John steels himself, and lifts his right arm, steadying the gun, "I'm so sorry," he half sobs.
The boy swallows thickly, "don't be. I knew I had no chance of winning anyway. I'm just glad I lost to someone like you. Thank you."
John squeezes his eyes shut as he pulls the trigger.
The shot rings out and the boy crumples to the floor, face serene in death.
John takes a steadying breath and turns to see Sherlock lying on his side, chest rising and falling heavily. He throws the gun to the floor and darts to Sherlock's side.
Sherlock winces, trying to sit up, "'m fine" he mumbles, but John stops him, wrapping an arm around his waist and cradling his head.
"I always thought I'd die young," Sherlock says, "that's what my family always said anyway. Never thought I'd be this young though."
"Sherlock, shut up. You're gonna live, we're gonna get out of here, alright? Flesh wound, yeah? We'll get somewhere safe and get you patched up. You can fight this, stay awake."
He's losing too much blood, he silently frets.
Sherlock thinks the same, resigning himself to his fate.
John tries to feel the injury, but there's too much blood and Sherlock flinches when his fingers get too close. He also notices Sherlock's eyes beginning to unfocus, his breathing becoming slower.
"Come on, Sherlock. Stay with me," he runs a hand across Sherlock's cheek, realising how fast he's losing him, "you can't leave me. When we first met, you told me all about my sister, about my family," he sobs, "it was all right. You are the best man I've ever known, the most intelligent, the most human." He cuts off with a quiet sob and drops his forehead to rest against Sherlock's, his chest heaving against Sherlock's slowing breathing. Sherlock feels a few tears drip onto his face. He raises a hand, with difficulty, and rubs a thumb against John's cheekbone.
"You'll be alright. You'll do well for yourself, John Watson. You're a good man, much better than I could have ever hoped to become."
"Sherlock, stop this, please," John's voice cracks as he holds Sherlock even tighter, "please."
He presses his lips against Sherlock's cheek. His nose, his forehead, his chin, his lips. Everywhere he can reach until an obnoxiously loud klaxon sounds and ten uniformed men and women emerge carrying stretchers, med kits, food and such.
"Congratulations, Mr Watson," one man, the leader, says, "our new champion."
John doesn't move, he just clutches Sherlock closer to him, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder.
"Come along, Mr Watson, we need to clean your wounds," another one says.
John remains silent until one, a woman this time, puts a hand on his shoulder, "you have to come with us."
"No," John says, "I can't leave him. He didn't deserve this."
There is no sympathy from the people around him, obviously wanting to just get their jobs over and done with, "he volunteered, just like you. He was prepared for his fate, John."
John looks up at the sound of his given name, tears streaking his cheeks. The woman who spoke them is looking at him with sad eyes. She has a large scar stretching from her throat to her collar, another victor, John realises, recognising her from the newspapers a few years ago. She'd been lucky to survive, he remembers.
He uses two fingers to properly close Sherlock's eyes and rests him gently on the grass. He straightens the ripped and bloodied purple button up he'd been wearing, the one John had taken the mick out of in their first few hours on meeting each other. For the last time he leans down, touching their foreheads together and whispers, "I'm so sorry. We were gonna win."
Fifteen years later, John looks in his full body mirror at his nude form, taking in the scars he'd earned over the years. Most had come from the arena, others from the army and training, a few from plain clumsiness.
He ghosts a finger over the most obvious one on his shoulder. The gunshot wound.
A woman silently appears behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.
"Alright?"
He is silent for a moment, "yeah. Just remembering."
She smiles sadly, rubbing a thumb in soothing circles on his stomach. He'd told her everything, from Sherlock to how he won. She was also a victor, so she'd been very understanding, although she'd won more through chance than by her own skills.
He twists his head and kisses her cheek, "I'll be okay."
"You don't have anything important scheduled until this evening, so why don't you relax for a bit, John? You're very tense."
John sighs, "I will, I will. Just give me a minute, thanks Mary," the anniversary is always difficult, he thinks.
She pats his hip and flashes another sad glance before leaving the room.
John rests a hand over the scar again, Sherlock.
Mary pops her head around the door again, "by the way you have a visitor. Said he would like to see you immediately, I can send him away?"
"No, if he's here I'll see him now," John says wearily.
She nods, "I'll show him to your study."
John shucks on an old t shirt and jeans, hoping this wouldn't be a suit and tie visit.
He pads down the stairs, not bothering with socks and into his private room. He shuts the door behind himself with a falsely cheery, "how can I help you?"
He assumes Mary had allowed the man in here unknowingly, as when the man turns and John recognises him immediately, albeit his being significantly rosier cheeked and less bloody than the last time he'd seen him.
"Hello John."
John leans heavily back against the door. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, no words coming out. Eventually he says, "you died. In my arms, I watched you."
"Not quite."
"Well, either I've gone mad, you're a ghost, or something is very wrong with the system that arranges the games."
Sherlock snorts, "my parents would never have allowed me to die." Unfortunately, Sherlock adds bitterly, "they officially ended the game just after I passed out, the medics were only just able to save me. My father paid a lot of money to ensure I wasn't killed," he pulls lightly at a few strands of hair at the back of his head, as though remembering the injury.
"Still sensitive?" John inquires.
Sherlock makes a quiet, mm, sound and folds his arms, as though touching that area had become a bad habit.
John smiles, "my shoulder scarred. Can't even look at it without remembering what happened, that kid's face, your shouting." He shudders and sighs. "What do you want, anyway? Coming back from the dead? I believed you to be dead, I wouldn't have known otherwise."
Sherlock smirks, "I wanted to see you again," John's mouth quirks up, "I'm also in need of a colleague. Someone who will work with me, as a chronicler, if you like."
"A colleague for? What do you do?"
"I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world."
"Which means?"
"When the police are out of their depth, they consult me." He pauses, "could be dangerous."
John smiles fondly, "you had me at hello John."