Chapter VII, part two
"breath"
The road is bumpy and light flickers onto Sherlock's shut closed eyes, his head swaying back and forth to the rhythm of Moriarty's muffled and strained breath. It's cold in the ambulance, the high pitch of the sirens echoing against the metal doors dully, whispers of each member of the staff blending into one another, misting his head slightly. The sweater is damply heavy in his arms and Sherlock doesn't even dare to move so not to fall further down this awful path of ice like void he's been feeling build up in his chest. Even though it does sound childish and petty at best, he feels just as small and meaningless as every moment Mycroft is beside him, taunting and telling the world just as much more comfortable, more worthy and more needed he is by everyone.
Oh, brother, brother. What have we become?
"Hey, man," suddenly a hand begins to ghost over his shoulders and Sherlock trembles involuntarily, stopping kneading the material in-between his numb fingertips nervously. He slowly opens his eyes, looking surprised at a freckled face of a young girl hovering over him. She can't be older than twenty-something, cinereous fringe falling loosely down the sides of her face, the rest of her hair bound in a messy pony-tail at the base of her neck. The uniform she's clad in is way too big for her, sleeves rolled up comically high up her sunburnt elbows, big brownish eyes twinkling worriedly at him. "don't cry. Your boyfriend will be alright, we've seen worse cases than that. Just you see, he'll be patched up sooner than you dare to hope for. He'll live, so no need for depressing yourself just now. Everything will be alright. He'll be just fine."
Sherlock blinks at her slowly the moment her words hit his dozy ears, eyes getting bigger and bigger at each syllable. She shudders, not understanding, when he breaks into a fit of uncontrolled, low-pitched giggles the next moment, hugging the tattered piece of clothing closely to his quavering chest, uttering some incoherent mix of slurred words.
The air grows colder and he can swear he's freezing by the time sobs wreck his hunched body. There's a needle stuck in his arm and a sedative flows excruciatingly mercury-heavily, fast up his suddenly solid veins. The darkness invites Sherlock dancing, taping a melody in his head too akin to a telephone ring to let him sleep peacefully.
Just as voices start to buzz around him, John's laugh vibrates hauntingly in his pocket and he tries to stay up just for a second longer, breath going rapid and world spinning even faster and less merrily than before.
Back and forth.
Up and down.
Up into the sky.
And down the rabbit hole.
A never ending chase of the dark.