Chapter Nine: Blood
A small child lied in his bed, silent. His mind was lost in the realm of dreams, giggling and laughing in content. No horrors or sadness of his conscious mind entered his dreams, and a small smile spread across his lips; a rare one, that hadn't been seen for a long time. In those dreams, he held the hand of another small boy, who echoed his laughter and giggles. A larger hand shook him from the bliss, calling him back to the harsh reality he belonged to. The hands broke apart;like the breaking of the child's heart as he woke without the tender, reassuring warmth of his friend. Small hands rubbed sleep from his saddened, dark eyes. His smile fell, like the new fall of snow, and he didn't return his father's warm, sad smile.
Both distressed men wandered down the pathway, one leaning heavily on his cane, the other walking with a quick, brisk pace. His coat bellowed around him as he walked, his eyes taking in everything. "John!" He snapped, "Keep up!"
The doctor gave an irritated sigh. "Sherlock, I'm doing my best. Not everyone can walk a mile a bloody minute." The detective muttered something inaudible in reply, before stopping dead in his tracks. "Where?" He shouted, throwing his hands up and spinning to face the other man. "I've memorized all of London and nothing. Where?!"
John leaned against his cane, rubbing his temple with his freehand. His tongue snaked out between his two lips, wetting the surface before darting back in; a nervous habit. "Calm down," he finally breathed. "You'll attract a damn crowd."
A sigh slipped past Sherlock's small lips, and he shook his head, said lips curving into a snarl. "Oh, yes, John. Lets calm down, have a cup of tea. Ah, what does it matter? Shall I make it clear for you? My son is out there, dying-"
"Our son, Sherlock."
"Excuse me?"
"You said 'my son'. Hamish is our son, last I thought."
"Irrelevant."
John's face heated colour and he opened his mouth to snap something in reply, something along the lines of, then what is it? when he was cut off by a scream. A loud, high pitched, and breathy scream. Before John could catch his senses, Sherlock was off and running. The doctor ran after him, the adrenalin suddenly coursing through his veins.
Pictures flashed through his mind as he followed after his husband, blurring and mixing the contents of reality and thought.
Hamish, smiling. Eyes a bright blue, like the clear sky of London, when it wasn't raining, that is. Undertones of iridescent gold and green giving them endless depth, as though there were a whole world behind those eyes. So much like Father, wasn't he? The two children, bleeding with their blood sliding and staining the ground-No. Keep up with Sherlock. He's getting ahead-The two images slid together to create a scene that made the good doctor's heart nearly stop. Blood plastered the side of the boy's head, matting the dark curls. His eyes were distant and glassy, blurring the blue colour. A faint trickle of blood slid out his nose, and rolled over the small, rosy, heart shapes lips, until they mingled with the blood gathered and pooling at the nape of his neck. Small, glassy eyes turned to fixate on John, causing his breath to catch. Blood stained lips opened, quietly, and whispered, "Fingers beat five, three times. Save us, save us. Fingers beat five, three times. Save me…Papa." His voice changed, becoming deeper, and his small, pale hands reached out to shake John. "John! John! John….!"
His husband's voice brought him out of the dream. He was shaking and shouting at him. "John!" Once he realized that the man was conscious again, he cursed. "He knocked you out," he muttered. "Moran knocked you out as you were running towards them." As though explaining who them was, he gestured towards the two teenagers lying splayed across the pavement. Both eyes were open with a mixture of horror, but held the same glassy fog Hamish's had. John stared at them blankly, barely able to support his weight.
Sherlock was on the phone, though John could barely understand the words he spoke. His body went forwards of its own accord, hands stretching to take their pulse, pressing his hands against the blood soaked skin.
The girl's eyes flickered, turning their fearful gaze to his equal frightened. "Don't…don't worry…" He breathed. "You'll be alright. Just let me…let me.."
A hand on his shoulder, and he glanced up to see Sherlock, shaking his head. Briefly, his eyes fell shut. Brushing a sticky strand of hair off her head, John held the girl's hands. He watched her chest begin to rise and fall rapidly, her body giving distressed spasms, until eventually it fell still.
His hands stayed clasped in hers, the police sirens barely registering on his fogged mind. As the paramedics arrived, they pried John from the girl. Though he acknowledged the warmth of his husband's arms around him, his eyes remained focused on the girl. Her eyes were still open, and glassy. Though to John, it seemed as though her scarlet lips were moving, silently whispering. "Fingers beat five, three times. Fingers beat five, three times. Save us, save us…"
The boy sat silently on the floor, pushing a train on a wooden track. The train was new, its plastic face yet to be ruined by small, uncareful hands. The blue paint on the sides was shinning brightly in the dim light, the eyes staring blankly ahead and the smile wide. Over the cheeks were a faint rouge, matching the outline of the one on it's side. The train was pushed into a tunnel, where the darkness swallowed its cheery face and bright colours. The boy rose, hair falling into his eyes, taking the hand of his father. And the train remained, trapped in darkness, forgotten and left.
A/N: Again, sorry for the no upload. And short chapter. And my inability to be dedicated to this story. -.- School's been awful, and I have a camp I have to get ready for. But life is life. Hope this chapter was good. Please send me your comments, thoughts, maybe even prompts. You can message me here, or my tumblr's sherlockianh . Working on the next chapter. Should be up soon. If anything, before Season 3.