~ Requiem ~
Dragging himself out of sleep was like trying to swim through cotton wool. His limbs were heavy and his head leaden. John's lashes fluttered, he could hear a bird chirruping, notes that warbled gently through the air.
He stirred beneath the heavy covers of his bed, shivering as the cold hit his bare feet, and managed to sit upright. The room swayed dramatically around him. Like a swing and a lullaby, trying to sing him off into a doze before he could stop himself.
The chirruping turned into the ringing of his phone. Shaking fingers wrapped around the offending device, bringing it close to his ear. His breath whispered between his teeth.
Laughter. Someone chuckling at the other end. It sounded familiar. And then Sherlock's voice cut through the laughter, cold, calm, controlled.
"Catch. You. Later."
Another chuckle. Happy.
"No you won't!"
John dropped the phone as if burned. Images surged to the forefront of his mind. Imposing. Carrying with them the stench of fear. He looked around the room, blinking away the vision of Sherlock. Sherlock holding the gun. Moriarty. Moriarty laughing. Smiling. Fear.
John panted, patting down his chest spasmodically, body vibrating with that fear and uncertainty. He could feel them, the bombs, too tight. Suffocating. But there was nothing. Nothing but the thin material of his shirt between his fingers.
He shivered violently.
The memory, or was it a dream? Of being dragged into a black, sleek car with the feel of a gun pressing into the base of his neck. He was scared, yes, but also angry. A long drive, an awful silence and severe faces. No one spoke, and he was not willing to disrupt to quiet. When they did come to a stop, John was hushered out of the car to be stood face to facw with the one and only, Moriarty. He was smiling…..
The chirruping started at that moment, but when John looked to the window, he saw only the rain sleeting against the pane and the street beyond. No bird? He cocked his head to one side, bewildered and seeking.
A strange feeling came over him then. The sensation of cold, sticky fingers touching his neck, his chest. And then they pushed. Hard. Forceful. Driving the breath from his lungs until he felt empty. Something within him crinkled and gave way like paper, he gasped. Desperately wheezing for air.
Staggering upright, ignoring the spinning. He was so dizzy. So dizzy that he could barely see straight, he had to trust his sense of direction and the feel of the cold walls beneath his fingertips to lead him out of the room. He knew when he hit the living room, the smell of burnt toast overpowered the scent of rain. He heard a little shuffle and turned blindly toward the loungeroom.
A smudge of black shifted restlessly before him. It warped and then crystallized. Sherlock was holding his violin, watching John expectantly. A faint smile coiled across his lips.
"Did you hear the bird, John? I thought I heard a bird?"
He ran the bow over the violin, letting loose a long, painful wail. John frowned at him, he had no idea what Sherlock was going on about. He was the one making the noise. He rubbed his head, and then his throat. The phatom hands were still there, light, but definitely there.
"Sherlock." John tried to say, but his words were raspy, barely coherent. "Sherlock, you have to call-"
"Why are you being so dramatic, John?" Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. Another wail filled the room.
"Sherlock…please..." John's legs began to buckle and he found himself slowly collapsing to the floor.
"Sarah will be here soon, John." Sherlock muttered with a knowing smile. He sat on his chair and played the violin. "You'd better rip your face off, here she comes."
No sooner had he said the words than she appeared before him. So beautiful. So perfect. He reached out his hand, wanting to touch her. She was doctor, she would help him.
But she simply stared. Head cocked to one side like an inquisitive bird, eyes bright.
"You'll be alright." She said, her voice sounded fuzzy, muffled and, contrary to her solemn expression, broken and desperate. "You'll be alright."
John blinked, so dizzy. He dragged in a thin breath and forced himself to look back up at her. She was still there. The sound of something choppy and loud filled his head, made his hair ruffle with an invisible wind. He clutched at his shoulder as pain blossomed and something warm and sticky began to ooze between his fingers.
"Jo-ohn!" Sarah screamed. She was leaning into him, over him, but she was still so far away.
The loungeroom disapeared in the blink of an eye, the carpet dissolved into sand, the roof fell away, showering them in debris and the overbright sun. Sherlock was still there, in his armchair, but Sarah was walking away. She was still screaming.
John tried to stand but suddenly he was too heavy, he looked down to find himself wearing his army gear, the helmet over his head tipped and he held it balanced in one hand. The ground shook and he dropped to his belly, shrinking into the sand as he peered around him.
"You'd better save her, John." Sherlock was saying, he used the violin bow to point to her, Sarah, still walking away.
John staggered to his feet and ran after her, desperate to get her out of this warzone. She shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have. The ground shuddered again but he remained standing only with sheer force of will. His fingertips grazed Sarah's arm.
"You'd better save her, John!" Sherlock was shouting from his chair. "You'd better hurry!"
And Sarah turned back to him, just twisting her upper body to send him a weary look. Her eyes were dull and empty. His hand tightened around her arm.
It was then, with their eyes locked and skin on skin, that the bullet ripped through her skull, tearing her apart before his eyes. John did not move. Pieces of Sarah rained down on him, spattered him until he was covered in red. He could taste it on his lips, feel it on his eyes and between his teeth. Still, he did not move.
She shouldn't have been there.
"You'd better save me, John!" Sherlock was saying. "You'd better hurry!"
The violin screeched.
John turned, found Sherlock still sitting there, he looked perfectly fine but for his expression. Scared. Knowing.
John ran to him just as the bullets struck his temple and he was gone in another explosion of red and black gore. John slipped in it, the sand was stained red, gritty on his skin as he struggled back to his feet. The chair was still there, and the violin, propped against the armrest. But no Sherlock. No Sarah.
Not anymore.
A giggle bubbled in John's throat and frothed at his lips. He ignored it. The sand around him was red. The sky was burning. Phantom hands were tugging at his shirt, prodding his chest. Something fell over his face and suddenly bitterly cold air was being forced up his nose and passed his lips.
John crumpled to the ground and stared, through unblinking eyes, as the sky began to dim above him. The clouds thickened and darkened, forming solid beams and tiles and…
"John. John Watson, blink if you can here me..he's not responding, we need to get him to the hos.."
John drifted out. He didn't care what these shadows were saying, Sarah was gone. Sherlock was gone.
A tear rolled down his cheek, another stung his eyes, but couldn't blink to ease the pain. The world was moving as he lay still, unable to think, unable to form a coherent thought. He focussed on those around him, but they were dark shapes. Nothing more than specters of glass with ash innards.
Another tear rolled.
"Watson? Can you hear me? It's Lestrade. Watson?" No face, only a voice. Not a voice he cared around.
Everything was fuzzy. Better to sleep. Better to sleep and never wake up. Never have to know that Sherlock was gone…
John cried out. He couldn't help it. He felt so alone.
A hand wrapped around his arm, squeezing.
"He's back, alright, bring the stretcher and we'll load him into the ambulance." Someone was saying, they sounded strange, petulant. No? Worried. Perhaps. Not that it mattered.
"Better hurry." John mused vaguely, and those around him froze. "Better hurry."
He gave a sad little chuckle that brought up something thick in his chest. It rolled up his throat, stopping any air from filling his weak lungs. He began to cough. And hack. His bodies last ditch effort to save himself. But John wasn't really think about death or breath, because he was back in the desert, with the red sand beneath his boots.
~OO~
"Wake up, Sherlock." Annoying. Sherlock didn't like to follow orders. He wouldn't.
Besides, he wasn't asleep, he was just….dozing. So technically, he couldnt wake up. He moaned gently, one hand went to gingerly finger the pain at his temple while the other seemed to float listeless about him. He encountered bandages at his head and frowned, odd. He didn't remember getting hurt.
Not good.
Sherlock opened his eyes and the scene swam before him.
Lestrade was crouched beside him, but did no register his awakening, his attention was held on something else, a little ways away. People were surrounding something. Something.
John, a voice whispered in his head. And he was clambering to his feet and wonkily making his way over to the crowd of people. Out of the corner of his eye he saw others, hovering a few meters away, as if not daring to come any closer. He paid them no heed, intent on reaching John before someone could stop him.
The paramedics were strapping an oxygen mask to John's face. Sticking him with needles. Palpating his chest, his stomach…
John suddenly groaned, his eyes flickering around him in clear confusion. His lips stumbled over unheard words and Sherlock pushed through the paramedics to get to him. He crawled so close his nose almost touched the doctos clammy forehead. He peered down into those unfocussed eyes and wondered, not for the first time, what was going on in John Watson's head.
As if it would held, Sherlock tapped his index finger to the tip of John's nose. John blinked and twitched with each little tap, but not like it bothered him, not at all. There was an expression on his face, one that made him smile, ever so slightly.
"Hello, John." He said softly, and John smiled.
It was a strange kind of smile, blood coated his teeth, staining his lips and overflowing to roll in little red droplets down his chin and cheeks. But he was smiling and he looked so hopeful, so relieved. His lips moved but no sound emerged.
"Excuse me sir, we need to get him to the hospital. You'll have to ride in the other Ambulance." One of the paramedics said, sounding rather put out. He pushed Sherlock out of the way, seemingly uncaring to the way he toppled over at the shove.
But Sherlock's eyes were locked on John. John, who had saved his life at the risk of his own. John, who was his only friend and who had grounded him.
He watched a flicker of uncertainty cross John's face, his breathing sped up and hissed through his gritted teeth. But other than that he did not move, perhaps he couldn't, only his eyes and the rise and fall of his chest. John blinked up at him and Sherlock's resolve hardened.
"Quiet unacceptable." He said stiffly. "I will be riding with him to the hospital."
But the paramedics wouldn't be coerced. They glared at him. Part of Sherlock wondered whether this was normal, whether all Paramedics were this grumpy, or maybe it was their reaction to him. He'd been told he wasn't much of a people person. He supposed it was true, then.
"No, I -" Sherlock began again, but this time it was Lestrade who stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He gently pulled Sherlock away from the still staring John and brought him to his feet.
"I'll drive you to the hospital, okay? Sherlock?" He said patiently, but Sherlock wouldn't look at him, distracted.
"Yes, yes, fine then. If it must be that way."
"It must." One of the paramedics mumbled peevishly.
Lestrade frowned at the man but said nothing more than, "We'll meet you at the hospital." And then he was pulling Sherlock away, it was almost like a piece of himself was stretching, being pulled taught with every step away from John he took. But at last it snapped, like the last strands holding a tooth in place. He felt numbed as the binding was broken and he walked stiffly beside Lestrade.
"Why must it?" He asked of no one in particular, and narrowed his eyes.
~OO~
Why was Sherlock walking away? It was, John decided, quiet unfair.
He didn't want ot be alone. Not after he'd realised his friend was alive. Not Dead.
Not dead.
But he could still see it, the bullet shattering Sherlocks skull into a million pieces. And the blood spraying his limbs and his face.
John licked his lips and tasted it, coppery, sickening.
"Sherlock." He tried to say. "Come back."
Those blurry figures were around him again, converging. He wanted to push them away, tell them to call Sherlock back. But they remained impassive, and he didn't like it. Alone again. Once more.
He was lifted, rigidly, onto a stretcher. He felt the air shift, bouncing, they were carrying him over the rubble, the remains of the tiles. He rolled his eyes around but caught only shifting colours and the whirring of dizzyness, he shivered against the cold. It was creeping up into and around his limbs, digging deep into his skin until it reached his bones. He felt brittle and weak.
Shudders began to dance across body, and the first etching of pain carressed the edges of his awareness. Like claws tickling his innards, his bones. He did not resent the pain, because it let him know that he was still alive. That he was still aware and that he was not, in any sense at all, dead.
The night hit him with an almost physical blow, the moons rays were so bright that they lit up the area with an eerie glow. John tried to blink but his lashes only trembled. So cold.
"He's going into shock. We need to hurry." One of the blurs above him said. Shock. Yes, that sounded about right.
Shock. Cold. Blood loss and internal injuries. The bomb….
"Alright, easy, try not to jostle him. He needs to stay alive until we get there."
That, that, did not sound right. Didn't they want to keep him alive?
John felt a sputter of fear, of bewilderment. But it was quickly swallowed up by a wave of tiredness and he felt his awarness slipping away. He watched the dizzying spin of the stars above, the moon watching him and the shadowed blurs that were carrying him.
John listened to sounds of his body. His chest was gurgling, bubbling, something crackled and the cool crackle of blood trickling into his lungs made his stomach churn. Darkness encompased his vision, creeping into the corners until he saw only a pinprick of light.
And then even that was snuffed out. Leaving him to feel the cold and the loneliness more acutely than ever.
~OO~
The car was filled with an awful kind of silence. It was stuffy, the heat was on full blast, yet Sherlock still shivered inside his damp coat. Lestrade kept glancing at him, concerned for the other man despite himself.
"You've no need to worry, Lestrade, I'm not going to break down on you." Sherlock drawled after a time.
"You were just blown up, Sherlock, you have the right to break down."
"But," he replied caustically. "I will not. I would like silence, now."
And so the cars was once more drowned in that thickened silence. There were no other cars out, it was almost one in the morning, they should have been in bed, themselves.
Sherlock stared blankly out of the car window. He thought of Moriarty. The man was dangerous. Beyond deadly. Moriarty had to die. It was a simple fact.
Sherlock pulled out his phone when it buzzed.
What of it?
MH
He gritted his death. Damn his brother! He interfered when it suited him but he played ignorant when he couldn't be bothered. His fingers flew over the phone, eyes narrowed.
John in hospital.
SH
He tucked the phone away, annoyed. If Mycroft wasn't willing to help, then he didn't need him. He ignored the next message, didn't even bother. Sherlock watched as the hospital loomed up ahead, he wondered if the ambulance had already arrived and, if so, how was John going?
~OO~
"Watson! What the hell are you doing? Get a move on!"
The ground shuddered beneath his feet. He clung to the helmet on his head and lurched after the man running ahead of him. Gunfire momentarily deafened him, but he carried on, feeling the straps of his med kit digging into his shoulders. A scream echoed at his right.
"Get over here, Watson!" A hand yanked his shoulder, dragging him down to the red stained sand beside a man who's neck looked like raw meat.
John showed no expression, his training allowed him to think calmly in cases of emergency, and he didn't want to show this man how seriously screwed he was. He dumped his kit beside him and pulled out bandages, pressing them against the wounded soldier's neck. The man gargled something, eyes wide, but John could not find any words to console him. This man was dead anyway.
"Can you save him?" The soldier asked beside him, looking hopeful but grim.
John pressed his lips into a thin line, unwilling to answer. But perhaps the soldier registered the hesitation, because his expression turned bleak.
White doves flew high in the sky, letting loose a barrage of bombs that, when they hit the ground, seemed to shake the whole earth.
"G-gonna diie.." The wounded man said. He gritted his teeth and his hands fumbled blindly around him. John sighed heavily. The earth shuddered, people shouted and screams made him cringe and hug low to the sand.
The wounded man made a strange sound and John refocussed his attention on him. He frowned when he saw the gun pointed at him. Wobbling in the weak man's hand.
He didn't move. They were close enough that no matter which way he turned, he would be hit. More blood oozed from between his fingers but he didn't take his hands away.
They did not say a thing, staring at each other and listening vaguely to the sounds of the war going on around them.
The wounded man pulled the trigger.
Somewhere deep in John, he knew that this was wrong, that he had not been shot by someone he was trying to help. But the bullet still tore through him, hitting his shoulder and spinning him back into the sand where he lay, gasping, and wondering what the hell was going on.
Each time he breathed he felt the red sand rasping against his throat, drying his mouth out and filling his lungs. He coughed. Couldn't breathe. His body arched, trying to simultaniously curl in on himself and pull himself apart.
He opened his eyes. A familiar face looked down on him, smiling. Happy.
Wow...!
20 reveiws for one chapter, I totally hadnt expected that! You guys are so unbelievably awesome!
And I hope I've done this chapter like the first, I hope you enjoyed it and stay tuned for more!
If you want more...
House Calls - House Calls and I are in agreement, we want to keep John and Sherlock as friends. So If anyone is expecting slash, I'm sorry! I have nothing against it, nothing at all, but I cant bring myself to write slash, not when I know my twin snoops on my writings occasionaly!
Takaouto - As Takaouto pointed out, I havent stayed true to the end of the TGG ending, the dialogue is very different. I wanted do to this simply because I wanted to make it a little different! Hope no one minds!
SilverSmile - SilverSmile said that this was one of the few fics she'd read that had a bad reaction to the bomb, that bembazzles me, I mean, I would have thought a lot of people would like to play around with this idea. Has anyone seen any such stories? I'd love to take a look at them!
-Alerix Slynn