DARKEST
A/N I have a tendency to write angsty, dark one-shots and have decided to put these unrelated (unless noted) ficlets together in one place. Please be aware, some of these are dark, some of these are depressing; some of these are death fics, others are nightmares. Some they survive and others they don't. I think you can probably understand from this the reason of the name "Darkest." And so we start the first chapter.
I don't own Sherlock.
In the cover of the night, two hearts beat in sync, rapidly accelerated by adrenaline. The owner of one is bleeding heavily, the red liquid spilling quickly over the makeshift bandage (a no-longer-navy-blue wrapped tightly around his arm) and dripping down onto his hand. There is a gun in his hand, the silver of it flashing brightly in the darkness. It is wet with his own blood, and it slips in his hands whenever he raises it to aim. Each shot goes wild, but he cannot give in. Fighting is the only option he has left.
The other man is in a better state. His shots are precise, but they take time to set up, and neither men have much time. They are sure backup will find them soon, and emergency services, but, until then, they are on their own. They are outnumbered three to one, and each opponent they drop seems to be replaced by another. It's an endless stream of enemies and they haven't got enough bullets.
A wild scream stills the night for a moment. The shorter of the two men whips his head sideways, looking for the source. He cannot find anything at first - and then it dawns on him. He is missing his comrade.
A glance down at the ground finds Sherlock. Blood is leaking from between the pale fingertips that desperately grasp at his chest. His eyes are becoming distant and he is obviously not far from death. Panicked, John drops to his knees and rips off his jumper, the gunfight long since forgotten.
"Sherlock, no, please," he is screaming despite himself. He isn't even aware of the clouds of people streaming around them, nor the ratio of backup to enemy. He puts more pressure on Sherlock's chest, shocked by the blood that is slowly soaking through the cream jumper. His hands are slick with blood not his own, as they have been many times throughout his life - but this time it's different. It's not a wounded soldier dying at his hands, it's Sherlock.
"Please!" he screams again, just as Sherlock's heart ceases to beat. He sobs loudly, ignoring the gunshots behind him. He doesn't move for a full minute, and even then he wouldn't have moved voluntarily. A bullet rips through the air, cutting the night in a silver streak, and strikes his back. He falls back, shocked, pain clouding his senses.
Even as the world fades, Sherlock's piercing scream is replayed over and over in his mind…
"Oh, God, no," he wakes with a jolt, sitting straight up in bed. His heart is racing. John Watson groggily raises a hands to his face, covering it, when he discovers tears. It confuses him at first. It was just a nightmare, wasn't it?
A twisted smile breaks on his face. Let Sherlock discover him like this. The genius will be completely confused, even more so than he is. Then again, discovering his blogger crying over his "death" would be horrible. John could already imagine the jeers.
Still, there is a slight ache in his heart, and he decides to call for Sherlock anyway.
When there is no answer, he tries again. He is once again met with silence, and he remembers.
The dream was no dream at all; it hits him all at once, the guilt, panic, fear, desperation, depression. All of it is too much for him and he breaks into a round of real sobs. How could he have forgotten? Was it even possible, to wake into the night and forget your flatmate's death?
Still crying, John Watson curls up in the corner of his bed, suddenly feeling very alone. He doesn't bother to call out again.
Sherlock is not answering. He never will.