A/N And now for a little canon scene drabble. This is set in the middle of S2E2 (The Hounds of Baskerville), if that wasn't obvious.
Thanks to Hummingbird1759, MapleleafCameo, DuShuZhi, maggiemacjack, johnsarmy, and (most of all!) , who brought this fic to 150 reviews!
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XLV. Illusion
John is confused as hell right now, but one thing that he's rock-solid positive about is that he's terrified out of his mind.
The air seems to hum with horrible, tense suspense, and he crouches against the wall in the tiny cell that serves as his protection, back pressed to the cold wall, knuckles white as he grips onto his mobile phone, the only sort of anchor to sanity that he currently has a hold on. Another one of the hound's horrible growls seeps through the chilled air, deep and rumbling and demonic, and he lets out an involuntary whimper, a momentary release of the all-consuming fear that grips his heart and lungs, twists his throat and poisons his mind.
You have to get me out.
He can't explain why the unearthly creature is so frightening—no, beyond frightening, far beyond frightening—after all, it's just a stupid dog, right, and John knows dogs, he's had plenty of experience with dogs… or at least as much as the average man of his age. He's never been particularly opposed to canines, not once, but…
Rough, panting snarls, the thought of Henry Knight's father, mauled and reduced to bloody, shattered pieces, remembrance of the haunted look in the young man's pale eyes, the desperation that led him to contact them in the first place, the icy mist of the nighttime moor and the expression on Sherlock's face in the pub afterwards, the tremble of his hand, the sweat on his forehead and the desperation in his shaking lips, his unsteady voice…
He can hear the paw-steps now, too heavy for a regular dog, approaching him slowly. The claws click and scrape along the lab's cold floor, and John can't help but shiver, his spine vibrating with endless chills. Is this it? The thing is merciless, absolutely vile, it'll tear him apart in moments, Sherlock will find his body here, bleeding everywhere, marring the perfect, medical white…
Sherlock…
Sherlock!
He wants to run, excess adrenaline bursting through his veins, heavy and fierce, gushing like waterfalls. The chemical darts frantically back and forth, with nowhere to go, churning with no friction to burn itself off, working itself more and more until his brain and heart and lungs are frozen with their own absurd motion, his legs are wobbling even without his weight on them.
Any second now.
I can see it.
And he can see it, the hulking, monstrous form, dark and ragged, its teeth inches long and gleaming with anticipatory saliva, dripping, eyes glowing like horrible ruby-toned embers, ready to tear and devour, a fiercer being than any serial killer—
But it's different, suddenly, blurs like a dream and then it's him, it's Sherlock, he's reaching out and the lights are on and his hand is on John's shoulder, the sweetest, softest, warmest touch imaginable, and everything's okay even though his heart is still racing, Sherlock's here and John's alive and it has to be alright, even if it doesn't make sense now.
It has to be alright.