'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'
Sherlock was busy inspecting the body when it breathed.
She. She breathed.
Bloody-
Sherlock stumbled to his feet. She was still alive. Idiot. She was still alive. There was no one there to help. He'd dismissed them all.
The wound in her side seeped, and Sherlock quickly crouched down again. "Ambulance!" he shouted. "Someone call an ambulance!" Would they hear? What was he supposed to do? Sherlock reached into his pocket. Empty. He'd left his phone on the charger at home like an idiot.
He had precious little knowledge regarding medical procedures, deeming it unnecessary in his line of work. Nervous, his hands fretted back and forth, while the woman continued to breathe, just barely. She was going to die. Right here in his arms.
But suddenly, something clicked in Sherlock's head. It was like he'd put on sunglasses and the world was a slightly different color. And most importantly, he knew what to do. Without bothering to think about it, Sherlock flew into action.
It took three minutes, and then he sat back and took a deep breath. Lestrade's loud steps thudded behind him. "What is it?"
"Call an ambulance. She's alive."
"What? How could we miss-? Whatever." Lestrade dialed quickly and soon hung up. He peered down at Sherlock's quick handiwork over the wound. It was bound tightly, expertly. Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "Didn't know you have medical training."
Sherlock gulped. He stood quickly, blood on his hands. He looked down at the wound with fresh eyes and suppressed a shiver. Where on Earth did that come from? "I don't."
A siren wailed in the distance. With a shiver, Sherlock backed out the door and thudded down the stairs.
"Sherlock!"
"Not now, Lestrade!"
He poured out of the front door and into the busy night. It smelled like rain and the sandwich shop across the street. Sherlock didn't notice. He tried to stuff his hands into his pockets but quickly pulled back. They were still bloody.
What just happened?
'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'
John finished tying up Reggie's wound the best he could. "I'm sorry. We have to keep moving."
Reggie was pale. Ghostly. His eyes were rimmed red and drooped. Uneasy breaths hitched in his chest. He groaned when John lifted him to his feet but otherwise said nothing.
Hot sand. Bright sun. Cracked lips. The makeshift tent smelled like sweat and blood. John didn't bother to pack it up. It wasn't his anyway. It belonged to some unfortunate and probably dead soul. He needed to get Reggie back to the base. Now. "Stay awake. Reggie? Reggie? Listen to me. You can't fall asleep."
"She's gonna kill me," Reggie muttered. John's shoulder was already sore from carrying him but he hefted the man's arm up higher.
"What are you talking about?"
"My wife," he breathed. "She's gonna kill me if I die."
A sad sort of laugh escaped John. He gripped his friend tightly. "You're not going to die, you idiot. You're gonna live to see her smack you right across the face for scaring her so bad."
Now Reggie laughed. Or, attempted to. He ended up wheezing. "I've never wanted a slap so much."
"Just hold on. We're almost there."
'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'
It started happening more often; strange things Sherlock couldn't explain. He woke up at two in the morning once, so hungry he shamelessly raided Mrs. Hudson's refrigerator. A few days later he was paralyzed by fear while talking to a suspect. He had to excuse himself and stand outside for several minutes before the phantom of terror passed. Mycroft kept saying to notify him if it got worse, continually the hovering snoop. It got worse. Sherlock didn't tell him.
Instead, Sherlock would develop soreness for no particular reason or feel suddenly so tired he couldn't stand. His adrenaline spiked without prompting. It was… well, disturbing.
After several weeks, Sherlock still wasn't sure what to make of it, or rather refused to make anything of it. He wished Lestrade would ask him to help on the serial suicide cases popping up lately. It would be wonderfully distracting. But he hadn't had any luck. No worries, however. That would soon be remedied. Standing by a frozen pond in a city park, he exhaled slowly and stared at the cigarette dangling between his fingers. Quickly, he put the cigarette between his lips and breathed in the smoke. Taking out his phone, he brought up with a list of people's numbers who would be attending Lestrade's press-conference around now. Creating a group text, he blocked his own number and typed. Lestrade really was an idiot. He thought it was some complex algorithm that let Sherlock text everyone in the room at once.
Idiot. Just snitch get the guest list from your desk and use Facebook to get their numbers.
Sherlock pressed the send button. Wrong.
He smirked tiredly. Wrong about what, he had no idea but Lestrade would have to give in eventually if he kept bugging him. I need a case.
He did it again. Wrong.
There. That should be enough. Their faces would have been quite hilarious, he thought. Sally would be blushing all the way down her neck.
Sherlock closed his eyes, slipping the phone into his pocket, and enjoying the pure silence that enveloped this single moment. It wouldn't last. He didn't care.
The wind carried the smoke away, gray wisps to mix with the fog as security cameras watched on.
Without regard to the calm atmosphere, Sherlock's heart began to race.
'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'
John Watson coughed.
"You alright?" Reggie. He was behind the wheel of a four wheeler jeep, slurping down the dirt road through a tangled jungle. It was early evening, and the bugs were having a feast. Animals shrieked and cicadas hummed.
John, sitting beside him, nodded. Coughed again. "Yeah. Yeah. Does it smell like smoke to you?"
Reggie frowned; sniffed. "No. Why?"
"I can- cough- hardly breathe." Continuing to cough, John placed his hand on the door handle. "Just- cough- stop for a second."
Confused, Reggie complied. They ground to a stop in the mud, and John pushed open the door. He stepped out into the fading heat and tried to expel the smoke from his lungs. What on Earth?
"Are you asthmatic or something?" Which of course, didn't make sense. Reggie shut his door with a slam and walked toward him with a concerned frown. His boots squelched.
"No," John wheezed. He took a few deep breaths, pulling in the humid air. "I think I'm alright now."
"Alright..." Reggie cocked his head. "That was strange. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm... fine." John frowned. It was weird. He began walking back toward the jeep when a flash of movement caught his eye. He stopped; peered into the dense jungle around them. Reggie opened his mouth but John hushed him. Out of habit, his hand flitted near the handgun at his waist. It was probably an animal. But you couldn't be too careful.
Another flash. Red. A bandana. Profanity plopped out of Reggie's mouth as they spotted more and more flashes of red. The rest of their troop would roll down this road within ten minutes. But right now they were alone.
"Get in the car," John hissed. "Too many. We've gotta run."
Reggie nodded just barely, and, at the same moment, they dashed for the jeep.
The world exploded.
'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'
An assistant burst into Mycroft's office. The man was specifically charged to watch Sherlock via security camera, especially since Sherlock was acting peculiar lately.
The man had Mycroft's attention immediately.
"Sir. Look." The man thrust a screen into his hand. A security camera video.
It was Sherlock. Smoking in a park. Alone.
Mycroft pursed his lips. "I thought he stopped..." The camera shook as a breeze rattled it and the next frame came to light in stark clarity.
Oh. Yes, that was cause for alarm. Instantly, Mycroft stood. He grabbed his coat. "This has escalated farther than I would like. I need to talk to him."
The assistant nodded. "Do you really think it's his-?"
"I don't know. Don't pester me."
The man wasn't paying attention. "But is it really possible? It's so rare, I thought it didn't, you know..."
"Do shut up." Mycroft didn't take the time to see the man's startled expression. He was already gone.
The car ride was uneventful but harrowing in its wait.
Mycroft reached the park in five minutes and quickly began to search for his brother. It wasn't hard to find him. A young jogger was at his side. Sherlock was on his knees, clutching his shoulder. The woman beside him had a turned up nose and a slightly lazy eye.
She looked up when Mycroft approached. "I just found him here. Is he alright? Do you know what-?"
"Thank you," Mycroft snapped. "He'll be fine." The woman took a step back but she didn't leave. Mycroft quickly lifted his brother's face. Sherlock's eyes were screwed shut in pain. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"
"Is that you, Reggie?"
Mycroft frowned. "What? No. It's me. Mycroft. Sherlock, look at me."
Sherlock opened his eyes. They were dilated, pain filled. "I think someone shot me."
Mycroft shook his head. "No. I saw the video feed. I… apologize, Sherlock. I should have confronted you earlier. You're fine."
A bit of venom finally shot through Sherlock's haze of pain. "I am clearly not fine!"
Not bothering to argue, Mycroft just nodded. Carefully, Mycroft unwound Sherlock's fingers from his brother's shoulder. Sherlock hissed as Mycroft shrugged Sherlock's coat off and unbuttoned his shirt. "Look, Sherlock. See?"
Sherlock saw.
His jaw slackened. "Wh-what?"
His shoulder was fine. As Mycroft expected it to be. Mycroft bit his lip worriedly. How was he to handle this?
Sherlock was busy blinking at his shoulder, not understanding. The pain seemed to fade. Sherlock relaxed. When he chose not to see the answer, the genius could be downright blind. Carefully, Mycroft stood him up. "You're okay. You gonna be alright."
Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it. He shook his head slowly.
They had both forgotten the young jogger until she spoke up, just as shocked as Sherlock. "Oh my gosh," she breathed, "You get phantoms."
Both Holmes brother's gazes shot her.
Sherlock was paler than usual. His eyes danced between Mycroft and the woman as she jogged away, apparently satisfied that he was in good hands. "That's not…?" he trailed off, his question landing on Mycroft. He settled on a statement. "That's not what happened here."
"Don't delude yourself, Sherlock."
Sherlock gulped. "Mycroft, I could feel it. Ripping my shoulder. Hitting the bone. I swear I was shot."
"No. It was a phantom. Like the woman said."
Phantoming: (Fahn-tohm-eeng) v.
Temporarily sharing the emotions, memories, talents, or physical state of Yuanfen counterbalance. Physical sensations can include, but are not limited to smell, taste, hearing, and touch, which is most often experienced through pain. On the rare occasion, knowledge and certain talents of the other counterbalance can be accessed.
"It makes sense," Mycroft murmured.
Sherlock did not respond. His eyes were glazed over. If anything, Sherlock was logical. It would be foolhardy to keep avoiding this conclusion. Mycroft watched his brother come to that conclusion, noting the resignation in his eyes. "How am I supposed to function if I am constantly bombarded by the life of some stranger?" he hissed.
Mycroft pursed his lips. The idiot still didn't get it. " You have always felt stronger than me, Sherlock. It makes sense your connection would be deeper." Mycroft pursed his lips, dreading the words as he spoke them. "You need to stop fighting."
Sherlock sneered. "I will not waste my life striving to find someone who is nigh impossible to locate."
Slowly, Mycroft nodded, guilt pulsing through his chest. His brother's opinion on the matter was his doing. "I need to show you something."
'~ooo000OOO(*~~*)OOO000ooo~'
Every bump of the jeep sent jagged agony up and down John. He unclenched his teeth long enough to spit out instructions to Reggie, who was driving, dodging bullets, and trying to keep John from bleeding out in the backseat.
"I can't tie it!" Reggie shouted. He cussed, dodging a ditch in the road and swerving awfully. The jungle was a blur outside.
"Neither can I!" John answered. His entire left arm was limp with pain. But he was not about to die because he couldn't tie a ruddy knot to stop the bleeding.
Pulling himself up into a semi-sitting position, John took the strap of fabric in his teeth, thinking, through a hazy head of pain, that he either looked like a corpse or a freaking G.I. Joe. Hardcore, like, woah.
Dear lord, he must be seriously lacking blood to have stupid thoughts like that.
"Almost there, John! You alive?"
"Shockingly." John tightened the strap around his shoulder wound the best he could, knowing it was not nearly tight enough. "How much farther?" He hissed in pain when they thumped over a log.
"Sorry!" Reggie looked back, finding a second to give him a wild grin. "I told you. We're almost there." The sudden sound of gunshots knocked the smile off his face. He faced the road again and pressed the gas pedal to the floor. "Persistent dudes."
But soon the shouting, the jungle, the gunshots, were left behind.
They shrieked to a stop in front of the marching troop. Knowing they were safe, John slumped in relief. He was so… tired.
He's hurt! Get him a doctor! Now!
Ambush... They're waiting… Not enough soldiers.
Don't fall asleep, John. Remember? That's what you told me.
And then John knew no more.
AN: Forgot to mention, I did not originally write this in a chapter format, so I'm just picking and choosing places to stop. Sorry if it's abrupt. Please leave a REVIEW!
