I suppose this is sort of John/Sherlock-esque. I wouldn't call it slash though, I'd say it's more true to the characters. Friendship and stuff. General banter. Anyways it's 2AM and I'm tired. Excuse the mistakes, but we can all bask in the JohnLock Love. ;) R&R would be delightful.
Enjoy x
P O I S O N
ONESHOT
Panting, they stopped under a street lamp, the amber glow jaundicing their skin. John could feel the muscles between his ribs burning with each breath; running had never been his forte. There was a light rain in the air, refreshingly cool on their heated skin. Sherlock pushed his fingers into his temples and screwed his eyes closed.
"Where did he go?" John spun on his heel, peering back the way they'd come. No use, the street was pitch black; he could barely see a hand in front of his face.
"Shut up, John. Mind palace."
"Do you want me to run on, see if I can catch him, or what?"
"John." Sherlock, hissed, "I said shut u-"
There was a sound; sharp and fast, like a whistle, stopping abruptly as he tried to finish his sentence. Sherlock's hands dropped from his temples to his neck, fingers parting. In the streetlight, Sherlock's eyes glistened, widening as his leather clad hands found the foreign object protruding from his neck.
"John." Sherlock's breath was steady, a gentle rasp creeping over the edges, "I don't mean to alarm you, but I've been shot."
"Don't piss me about Sherlock-" The doctor turned, then faltered as the detective violently pulled a large black dart from the point just above his collarbone. Sherlock stood for a moment, one hand clamped to his bleeding neck, while in the other he twiddled the dart. A viscous pale fluid bled onto his gloves.
"Poison." Sherlock stated, "Probably from some kind of frog or snake. Oh no. Wait." At this his legs suddenly gave way and he fell against the lamppost, his black coat pooling around him as he sunk to the floor.
"Christ." John skidded onto his knees beside his friend, trying to prise his hands away from his neck. "Don't move, Sherlock, don't move..."
"Oh I shan't, John." Sherlock said matter-of-factly, "Curare; typical paralysing arrow poison. Bloody good shot too."
"Move your hands." John instructed, "I'm going to have to suck it out."
"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock queried, his speech alarmingly already beginning to slur.
"Move your hands, Sherlock. Quickly." John pulled Sherlock's hands from his neck and inspected the area around his collarbone. A small trickle of blood seeped over the bow of the bone, down onto his shirt. John titled Sherlock's head up towards the light, using his sleeve to remove the blood.
"Right you're going to feel some pressure, and it might hurt a bit." John informed him, "Just close your eyes and squeeze my arm or something."
"For God's sake, John I'm not one of your patients."
The doctor licked his lips and angled his mouth at Sherlock's collarbone, over the wound. His teeth anchored into his skin, the taste of the detectives aftershave mixed with the dew of the rainfall congregating in his mouth. Slowly he pulsed his mouth, sucking at the skin around the wound. The acidic taste of poison hit his tongue after a few seconds and he fought the impulse to gag. Pulling away he spat onto the pavement before reattaching his mouth to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's eyes were squeezed shut, fighting the double assault on his neck, his hand clenched around John's wrist, nails digging into his skin. John tasted the metallic tinge of blood. Spitting, his thoughts were confirmed; flecks of Sherlock's blood littered the pavement along with spit and poison.
Breathing a heavy sigh, John collapsed with his back against the lamppost, using his sleeve to wipe the taste of poison and blood from his tongue.
"It's gone. It's gone…" John nudged Sherlock with his arm, "You okay?"
"Give me a minute."
They sat in silence, both trying to get their breath back. John wondered for a moment what might have happened had he run off to apprehend the man they were chasing. Would he have been shot in the neck? Would Sherlock have been left alone? He shuddered and spat again.
"Show me your neck." John angled Sherlock's head towards the light. The dart had left a pin prick mark, however the purple, mottled mark around it lit the whole thing up like a Christmas tree.
"How is it?" Sherlock asked, trying to gage the severity by John's reaction.
"Erm…" John stammered, trying to find the right words to tell his friend that he may have just given him an accidental love bite, "You have a scarf at home, don't you?"
Sherlock sighed, clamping his hand back to his neck, wincing as his hand brushed the bruise. John attempted to pull Sherlock by the arm,
"Come on let's get you home. We can check your legs are working and get some anti-septic on it."
"Thank you, John." It was so quiet John almost didn't hear it. In fact he was pretty sure Sherlock didn't want him to hear it. But he did. Instead he ignored it, and helped the man to his feet.
"Where have you boys been all this time?" Mrs Hudson came barging out of her flat, nightgown swooshing about by her feet as she unlocked the door.
"Nothing to worry about Mrs Hudson, just a slight delay on our journey." Sherlock marched in, the walk home obviously perking him up somewhat. John lagged behind, still trying to remove traces of poison from his lips.
"I've had people knocking on the door, asking for you. I missed most of Taggart."
"Bloody idiot. Every episode the murderer is staring him in the face in the first five minutes. Too bloody obvious if you ask me, even a chimp could figure it out-" Sherlock muttered under his breath.
"So sorry Mrs Hudson." John apologised, still wiping his mouth. Mrs Hudson turned to Sherlock and opened her mouth to speak. Instead, however, she cocked her head to one side and furrowed her brow.
"Sherlock, what have you got on your neck?"
Silence. The two men shifted uncomfortably and John stopped trying to wipe his mouth. Quickly she looked from one man to the other, before mumbling something embarrassedly.
"Nothing to worry about Mrs Hudson, just a minor issue that had to be sucked out." Sherlock smiled smartly and spun on his heel, leaping up the steps two a time. John, mouth slightly agape, tried to explain, but Mrs Hudson mumbled something about bed and tiredness and left him alone in the lobby.
"Brilliant." He said aloud, before starting to climb the steps, "Just brilliant."