A/N: A chat on Omegle that gave us this fabulousness! Thanks to crutches-and-cheesecake (tumbler tag) for this wonderful story. Crutches-and-cheesecake began, and every other paragraph is mine. Enjoy!
Sherlock saw it happen before it actually happened. Sitting in the back of a taxi, the seventeen year old knew that the car coming from the other direction was too far over the line, and it was going much too fast. Sherlock had just enough time to exhale slowly, close his eyes, and relax as much as possible. The more relaxed his body was, the less injured it would be. Theoretically. The two vehicles collided violently, bending and crushing metal, and Sherlock never lost consciousness.
This was his curse, he realized, he could see and feel everything that happened. He lay there, his transport sending him waves of pain that he pushed away to focus on what was real. The smell petrol was overwhelming, it threatened to overpower him as he breathed through the pain. There was a minimal chance that cabbie lived, that conclusion was thrown away when he saw the unordinary angle of his neck. How would the bruising develop, he wondered, in a violent quick painless death.
Greg Lestrade just got off duty and was walking out of the small restaurant with his takeaway for the night when he heard the worst sound of colliding metal. Looking up quickly, Lestrade dropped the bag and left it forgotten on the sidewalk. Swearing, he quickly stepped to the road. He called 999 immediately, but still needed to see about the potential people inside. The problem was, he shouldn't get to close, as he could smell the petrol as well. Cursing again, he carefully stepped up to the taxi.
"Bloody hell." he whispered, looking at the very dead man in the front seat. He looked through the now broken window at the passenger strapped, slumping in the back seat. Barely a kid, he thought, but definetly alive. He coughed, the smell of petrol worsening as he walked around the other side. The door was caved in, crushed against the other vehicle, and both cars were beginning to smoke. He looked around, swearing at the bystanders gawking at the scene, too terrifed to step closer to help and see any lives ended carelessly. He heard a tap against glass and spun to see the young man, bloody hand against the glass.
Sherlock focused his gaze on the man on the other side of the window, just trying to think about anything other than the amount of pain and discomfort he was in. The man looked frightened, and that made sense, but he also looked as if he wanted to help desperately. Sherlock thought he definitely lived alone, too. He'd seen the takeaway place. It was the most likely place for the man to come out of. Sherlock coughed again at the fumes, sending spasms of pain throughout his body that caused his face to contort just the tiniest bit. He was good at hiding things in his face. Sherlock needed out of the car desperately, thinking that it might explode if they weren't quick. He tried to shif his weight against the door.
Greg saw him move towards the door just as the dim sound of an ambulance echoed in the buildings and street around them. He looked around, frantic to find them when the flicker of orange flames caught his eye. His heart stopped as he watched the small flames in the other car reach orange tendrils through the blackening smoke. This bloke needed to be out, now. His hands shook as he fumbled with the door handle-it was jammed. He swore and looked at the boy again, seeing blue grey eyes shift slightly to the side. The other door! He stumbled and raced around the car, ignoring the wailing of the sirens slowly growing as he wrenched open the door.
Taking as deep of a breath as he could, Sherlock steeled himself and quickly shuffled himself to the other side of the car in small movements. He sucked in a breath at the pain and moved again, not really caring about the internal damage at this point. Smoke was filling the car, and he was going to get out. Sherlock didn't notice the blood on his face or hands as he moved toward the open door, and he pushed himself to move faster, finally reaching the door and all but half-stepping, half-falling out of the door. Lestrade supported the young man as much as he could, and Sherlock let him. Not five seconds after Sherlock got out of the car, the flames were eating the seat he was just in.
Lestrade moved quickly, pulling the young man as far away as he could from the now burning car, people moved as he stumbled to the gound, knees cracking against the pavement as the young boy in his arms hissed and slid from his arms. Lestrade cradled him best he could as he lay him on the ground. He brushed away at the blood on his face, smearing the red onto porcelain cheeks, he just stared.
Sherlock needed to focus. He knew that all too well, but the pain throughout his body was getting worse. Much worse. In order to cope, Sherlock opted for not speaking. Instead, he focused on breathing, but even that was difficult. His breaths were shallow and far between. He looked at the man in front of him curiously, finding anything he could to distract himself. Professional. Clearly follows the rules. Well, most of the time. This being the case in point. He hadn't stayed away even with the fumes. The man was most likely looking for a promotion. Sherlock blinked once, his panic overridden by curiosity. /Is this how I die, then?/
Greg watched as the blue grey eyes blinked slowly, trying to focus past the cloud that wsa threatening to cover them. He shook the boy lightly, and stared at him, he leaned down and swore. "You will not die, dammit, not today. You listen to me, you don't close your eyes again, you hear? Medics are almost here, you'll be patched up in a jiff." He watched the chest rise and fall, slowing, slowing. The boys eyes were fluttering as he tried to keep them open, tried to stay awake, past the pain.
His eyes blinked, but stayed open. Sherlock didn't /need/ to listen to whomever this person was, and he didn't even know him, anyway. But even still, Sherlock kept his eyes open as best he could. The sirens got closer, and Lestrade swore at them to 'hurry the fuck up'. The breaths were at even longer intervals now, and Sherlock felt that if he stopped thinking about every breath, they would just stop, and his brain would fail to comply. Inhale. Exhale. Over and over. The EMT's got out of the ambulance, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Inhale. Exhale.
It was only when the EMT's forced Lestrade away that he finally took a deep breath and looked away from the man. The cars were burnt, any bodied would be destoryed, no caskets for those poor buggers. He started as a blanket was placed around his shoulder, and he watched with a detached facination as the boy was lifted onto a gurney, and strapped down. He could hear the sigh, almost of relief, as what had to be morphine was pumped into his viens. He closed his eyes. He was out of his hands now, poor bugger.
Almost as soon as the morphine was in his bloodstream, Sherlock was out. His life was left in the hands of those in the ambulance, and that would just have to do. Sherlock survived the catastrophe, and he remembered pretty much everything. He wouldn't see the man that pulled him out of the car for many years, and even when he did, Sherlock wouldn't realise it. The memory lived in Lestrade's mind just as vividly, and he never brought it up again.
So, yes? No? Want to do an Omegle story with me? Let me know! =^.^=