I CAN SEE THE REAL YOU
(SO, PLEASE. STOP CRYING)
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Disclaimer: Iron Man and Avenger belongs to Marvel. And Sherlock Holmes belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle. But idk Sherlock movie belongs to who :'D
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Genre (s): Hurt/Comfort/Family
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Warning: Typo is my most loyal fan, spelling mistakes because English is not my mother language, Possibly OOC, Mostly Fluff with a lot of Angst. I hope. Not Beta.
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Tony tried to gulp a breath, chest heaving a little too fast. His sight hazing in and out, body trembling; because of the cold or blood loss, maybe a bit of both. He vaguely thought he saw blue light covering his entire figure (the same color of his arc reactor—his old arc reactor—the reminder of the very first of his bad, bad decision in life). Blinding enough to jerked him awake from his slumber. As the light receded to a lightest blue, he saw thousands of stars scattered around the night sky, it was beautiful.
You couldn't find this breath-taking scenery around America. Not with how the town itself was famous for the 'the town that never rests' slogan, hustle and bustle of various people clamoring across the city.
So where is he?
But the pain was excruciating, horrible, terrifying, hurt, hurthurthurtgoditfeltlikehisbodyisburning.
The last thing he saw before he lost to the dreamless land was someone hovering and hands extending towards him.
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Where is this?
Who are you, people?
Is that a scissor?
What do you want to do with that thing?
No! No, let me go!
He struggled, fruitlessly, uselessly.
This armor blocking his movement.
Get it off.
The blur of someone waving their hands in front of his sight, trying to...placate him?
No. No. There's no way. They're trying to hurt him!
Get it off.
The blurs changed into shadows of multiple people. They held him down, shouting and ordering around, while the other cutting his chest open.
Get it off.
The vision of that man standing above him and shield posed to attack.
Get it off get it off get it off getitoffgetitoffgetitoffgetitoff—
Get it O—
A cool, invisible hand descended upon him; covering his wild, wandering eyes. He gasped, heart beating painfully.
You don't need to worry. They're here to help you.
Help—gulped—help me?
Yes. So, please. Rest, my child.
It took time. But after a minute of blind panic, his ragged breath turned shallow before it evened out. When the ghostly hand finally lifted and disappear, he could see the blurs started to calm their frantic activities, slow movement was gesture and shooting voices was uttered.
Then he knew no more.
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Mycroft watched from the doorway, as one of his bodyguards wiped the blood away from the prone figure while the other cut another white roll to bandaged every large gash he could find. He thumped his cane in agitation, gaze straying from the crumpled mess of the armor suit to a face of the mysterious-and-close-to-dying man (but still alive and still breathing, not like his brother). Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.
He needs a drink.
TO BE CONTINUE
(A/N): Okay, this chapter is really, really short. Sorry :P
Reviews are appreciated~
Best Regards
Akabane Kazama