"I, Sherlock Holmes…" Sherlock proclaimed, in the most professional a tone he at his sprightly 12 years could muster. His posture was stick-straight and his demeanor almost comically determined. He was situated in a field whose beauty lied in its unconventional dullness. While most meadows sported charming red roses and blue violets; growing trees and hummingbirds, Sherlock's field was a symbol for death, which had attracted him to it his whole life.
He sat upon the decaying corpse of a giant oak tree, who'd been chopped down several autumns before due to rot and had never been collected. Opposite him sat the boy his age with whom he'd declared this log his own private domain.
"I, Sherlock Holmes…" John repeated uneasily. His back was rounded and his body tense as he looked at the always collected Sherlock for confirmation. Sherlock sighed and his shoulders dropped. As did John's stomach. He had wanted this part of the ritual to be perfect, for the very idea of the upcoming part two terrified him. Blood brothers. John shivered. Many people his age had engaged in the morbid practice, but he didn't expect Sherlock to want to join them. How could he say no?
Overlooking their ceremony was an audience of unenthusiastic trees, whose stubby nature and discolored bark were comforting to John in their functional imperfection. He liked that even if they weren't as grand and beautiful as ones he'd seen in England before, they still supplied oxygen. That was all anyone could ask of them, really. John was just as enamored with the field as Sherlock was, if not more so. He'd had such a flawed existence, but lived under great pressure to keep up normal appearances. Even at a young age, John naturally drifted toward people and art who unabashedly flaunt their imperfections, praying that someday he himself would have the courage to do the same.
"No, John. No." Sherlock said, raising his left brow and shaking his head emphatically. "You aren't Sherlock Holmes. You're supposed to say your own name."
"Oh." John responded, embarrassed. "Right. That's what I thought, honestly. But what you said was, 'repeat after me'. Your instructions were unclear."
Sherlock half-grinned in amusement, but swiftly shook it off to once more adopt the physicality of the adults he'd seen on television. "You're right. Say your own name, understand? We'll try again." Sherlock took a deep breathe, cueing John to join him. There was a heaviness to the air as they once more embarked on making their vows. Sherlock jumped right in:
"I, Sherlo-" he began, but was promptly stifled by an autumn leaf, who thanks to the wind found its home on Sherlock's face. John laughed so boisterously that he nearly fell off the log.
o
When John awoke he was already mid-movement, forcing his body off the pavement. He did not remember blacking out, but as he caught sight of the cyclist who'd hit him rounding the corner, he deduced that that was the case. Good-bye, John. The words echoed in John's head on an endless loop. He pushed the thought away that perhaps these two insignificant words may have been the last for the greatest detective in the world, and the best man John had ever known.
No. John numbly repeated the word in his mind as he stumbled through the gang of bystanders that had come to his best friend's aid. "Please, let me through." He weakly called out, "He's my friend, please. Let me through."
Arriving at the head of the throng, his eyes found the lifeless black mass laid out at the foot of St. Bart's, whose bloodied porcelain face he knew without a doubt was Sherlock's. John felt cold and utterly lost; confused. His ears were ringing, and he feared vomit or a fainting spell was imminent. However hopeless things seemed, he persisted.
o
"Most chiefly, I promise," Sherlock said earnestly, looking intensely into John's eyes who continued to mirror his words. The vows proved to be rather long-winded, and at a certain point John assumed that his friend had improvised it. "That whatever circumstance may arise, I vow to be, truly and eternally, your brother."
Following the end of their pledge came a moment which described their relationship in a nutshell. John and Sherlock held eye contact and silently exchanged a thousand words of praise. They'd never professed their deep appreciation for each other aloud, but it was always known.
Not after long, Sherlock broke them out of it with a clearing of his throat. "Now we'll do the next part." He said, with a half-smile. John swallowed, tensing up again. He began to try to psych himself up, straightening his back and moving his breath into his diaphragm. Prone to anxiety attacks from school, this is how he had been taught to relax by Sherlock himself.
From his coat pocket, Sherlock retrieved a small blade. As he went to work at rolling up both the layers of his left sleeve, John thought he really ought to stop him. But he didn't want Sherlock to think him too much of a coward to become a doctor. It wasn't that John was squeamish, but rather that he thought the whole practice to be suspicious and barbaric. He'd gotten the sense recently that Sherlock was proud of him and had faith in his objectives. It was a nice feeling to have, and he was not ready to throw it away.
Sherlock placed the blade on his forearm and looked at John before saying: "Don't press too hard," and making a shallow cut on his upper wrist. John inhaled sharply, seeming to experience more secondhand pain than Sherlock did firsthand. He wanted to cry. Wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake of humiliation? This made him incredibly uncomfortable.
With hesitance, Sherlock handed him the blade and then it was his turn. His head was pounding and his ears burning, every one of his instincts telling him that there was something wrong with this. He was ashamed at how scared he was. With great effort, he pulled up his left sleeve, like Sherlock had, and put the blade to his skin. He held it there for a moment with a shaky hand when suddenly it was snatched from him.
"You could have told me it made you upset." Sherlock said. John could hardly look at him. "John, it's okay. Do you hear me? Breathe."
"Yeah, I'm sorry." John said, shaking his head. "I should have decided before you'd done it yourself. I really wish I had." It was only then that John thought to look at Sherlock's wound. It was shining bright red in the light, just beginning to drip slightly at the end. John grimaced, taking a deep breath and grabbing Sherlock's arm to get a closer look.
"It's not bad, it didn't even hurt." Sherlock told him. "John, it's alright."
"I didn't want you to think that I was afraid of blood, you know? That I couldn't be a doctor." John explained, looking for something with which to cover up the wound so it wouldn't get infected or raise questions from Sherlock's nosy older brother.
"John, this whole tradition is disgusting." Sherlock spat. "Disgusting! I only did it because I thought you wanted to. As for me questioning your ability to be a doctor because of this incident; I'll tell you now that I would question you more if you thought this was a good idea." John smiled, and Sherlock felt encouraged to comfort him further. "Well, Dr. Watson, if you want to redeem your credibility, I suggest you do your job. Go on, now. Fix it."
John took a moment, staring at the cut with immense concentration. Before long, his eyes flickered with an idea.
He then proceeded to untie his boot with apparent determination. Sherlock studied his friend curiously, as of yet unable to deduce his plan.
Furiously, he rolled off his sock and exposed his bare skin to the chilly air. Sherlock smirked with amusement and blushed; flattered that John would sacrifice the warmth of his foot to help him. Suddenly, John grew still with contemplation.
Much to Sherlock's surprise, John spat directly on his wound. "Oh." Sherlock uttered, an unconscious response. John rubbed his saliva into the cut of his wide-eyed friend using the sock, which he securely tied around Sherlock's arm. "Animals instinctively lick their wounds when they get hurt, so I thought we might give it a try." John explained, grinning.
Sherlock bit his lip, stifling a giggle. John took his place once more across from him.
"Fixed it." He proclaimed with a proud smile. Sherlock nodded, giddily examining John's makeshift bandage as his friend began putting his boot back on over a bare foot. Sherlock was struck with the undeniable urge to speak his mind.
"Blood or no blood, as of today you are my brother. Thank you."
o
Fighting the restraint of the suited man whose hands were placed on his shoulders, John kneeled down beside Sherlock's mangled body.
Sherlock's eyes glowed a disturbing shade of blue against his ghastly white skin. His black hair was matted with blood which had also sprayed down the side of his face. It was an unreal sight. John had spent time as an army doctor. He'd encountered death it all its horrific forms, and yet this was the most disturbing incarnation he'd ever laid eyes upon.
He knew Sherlock was dead. Of course he knew.
Nevertheless, he held a shaking hand to Sherlock's wrist, desperately hoping for some miraculous turn-around. But there was nothing. His best friend and sworn brother lied but a hollow shell before him. "Oh, God…" John muttered, rising. Suddenly, Sherlock was being lifted unto a gurney.
As he looked at his battered and lifeless companion, he recalled the twinkle in his eye he had had as a 12-year-old, on the day they'd become brothers. That child was now being carried away on a gurney, and all John could think was: I can't fix it. I can't fix this. He let out a soundless cry, losing his balance and stumbling into the man behind him. His vision blurred and he could hear his heart pounding away as he became drenched in a cold sweat. He tried to assert his discipline over his body like Sherlock had always told him, tried to breathe, but to no avail. This had been his first panic attack in years. I can't fix it.
"Oh God, no…" The words slipped out of his mouth without him even realizing it. Looking at his left hand, he found that it was stained with a bit of Sherlock's blood. He watched, as the doors closed behind the medics who had collected Sherlock's body, and as a defense mechanism, he stood tall and felt nothing.