Replacement
Title: Replacement
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock-John friendship, Mycroft
Warnings: Major character death.
Summary: John is Sherlock's heart, now more than ever. Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=38604491#t38604491
"They gave me...John's...what?" Sherlock rasps out.
Mycroft meets his eyes willingly, which means this almost certainly isn't Mycroft's fault, which doesn't stop Sherlock from wanting to slam his fist into his brother's repulsively sombre face.
He can't, though. He's on his back in a hospital bed, covered in bandages and I.V.s, limp with exhaustion and drugs. The thing inside his chest, whatever it is, is hammering away, aching, too large for the narrow space.
"He was a match," says Mycroft, "and he was available." The softness of his voice makes Sherlock want to scream at him. Available of course means freshly killed, in the same explosion that nearly killed Sherlock. "There was precious little time to find another donor. Besides, I would have thought you'd find it rather--"
Mycroft must see something murderous in Sherlock's face, because he stops and finally, finally looks away.
Rather what? Sherlock wants to snap. Appropriate? Touching? Noble?
He forms the words with his dry, cracking lips, but to his surprise nothing comes out of his throat except a hiss. His chest is far too small. He feels warm liquid trickle into one of his ears and mentally traces it back to the source. Interesting. He hasn't cried involuntarily since age eight. The pounding in his head is threatening to block out all else.
Mycroft is talking again, but then Mycroft is always talking. Sherlock shuts his eyes, listens to the pounding. That's not John, there inside him, that's the electrical impulses of Sherlock's nervous system, jolting a bit of meat from John's cadaver and making it squeeze. Not John. It's the muscle that used to make a vein in John's neck stand out when he was angry. It's the circulatory organ Sherlock once felt thudding through John's sternum and knitted jumper--that late-night stakeout when he reached out in the dark to make sure John was still there behind him. It's what used to make John's pulse race at the scene of a recent crime--
Sherlock blinks his eyes clear so he can glare at the ceiling. Mycroft is heading towards the door, umbrella in hand. Thank God.
"...So I hope you'll take that into account," Mycroft is saying now. What is he talking about? Oh--what John would have wanted, or some similar rubbish.
John's wishes are immaterial. He's dead.
Sherlock is alone now. His eyes wander around the hospital room, taking in data. The rapid drumming inside him gradually slows even though the ache doesn't stop. Sherlock observes a stain on a ceiling tile (a mistake by a resident doctor, hastily covered up). He studies the scuff patterns beside the light switch (one of the morning nurses is a very short man who wears a watch). He notices that the bandages on his arms were applied by two different people--no, three: one left-handed, the others right-.
It doesn't bother him that he has nobody to explain these deductions to. He's used to that. Or he used to be used to it. He can accustom himself to it again. Talking to himself. It's what lone geniuses do.
He shuts his eyes again. He only needs to hold slightly still to feel it, the constant steady beat. Can almost hear it again. If he put in earplugs or submerged his head in water, he would probably hear it clearly. Or he could use John's stethoscope. John won't miss it.
Sherlock swallows. Clears his raw throat.
It's no more foolish than talking to the skull, he tells himself.
"Hello," he whispers.
Hello.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock-John friendship, Mycroft
Warnings: Major character death.
Summary: John is Sherlock's heart, now more than ever. Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=38604491#t38604491
"They gave me...John's...what?" Sherlock rasps out.
Mycroft meets his eyes willingly, which means this almost certainly isn't Mycroft's fault, which doesn't stop Sherlock from wanting to slam his fist into his brother's repulsively sombre face.
He can't, though. He's on his back in a hospital bed, covered in bandages and I.V.s, limp with exhaustion and drugs. The thing inside his chest, whatever it is, is hammering away, aching, too large for the narrow space.
"He was a match," says Mycroft, "and he was available." The softness of his voice makes Sherlock want to scream at him. Available of course means freshly killed, in the same explosion that nearly killed Sherlock. "There was precious little time to find another donor. Besides, I would have thought you'd find it rather--"
Mycroft must see something murderous in Sherlock's face, because he stops and finally, finally looks away.
Rather what? Sherlock wants to snap. Appropriate? Touching? Noble?
He forms the words with his dry, cracking lips, but to his surprise nothing comes out of his throat except a hiss. His chest is far too small. He feels warm liquid trickle into one of his ears and mentally traces it back to the source. Interesting. He hasn't cried involuntarily since age eight. The pounding in his head is threatening to block out all else.
Mycroft is talking again, but then Mycroft is always talking. Sherlock shuts his eyes, listens to the pounding. That's not John, there inside him, that's the electrical impulses of Sherlock's nervous system, jolting a bit of meat from John's cadaver and making it squeeze. Not John. It's the muscle that used to make a vein in John's neck stand out when he was angry. It's the circulatory organ Sherlock once felt thudding through John's sternum and knitted jumper--that late-night stakeout when he reached out in the dark to make sure John was still there behind him. It's what used to make John's pulse race at the scene of a recent crime--
Sherlock blinks his eyes clear so he can glare at the ceiling. Mycroft is heading towards the door, umbrella in hand. Thank God.
"...So I hope you'll take that into account," Mycroft is saying now. What is he talking about? Oh--what John would have wanted, or some similar rubbish.
John's wishes are immaterial. He's dead.
Sherlock is alone now. His eyes wander around the hospital room, taking in data. The rapid drumming inside him gradually slows even though the ache doesn't stop. Sherlock observes a stain on a ceiling tile (a mistake by a resident doctor, hastily covered up). He studies the scuff patterns beside the light switch (one of the morning nurses is a very short man who wears a watch). He notices that the bandages on his arms were applied by two different people--no, three: one left-handed, the others right-.
It doesn't bother him that he has nobody to explain these deductions to. He's used to that. Or he used to be used to it. He can accustom himself to it again. Talking to himself. It's what lone geniuses do.
He shuts his eyes again. He only needs to hold slightly still to feel it, the constant steady beat. Can almost hear it again. If he put in earplugs or submerged his head in water, he would probably hear it clearly. Or he could use John's stethoscope. John won't miss it.
Sherlock swallows. Clears his raw throat.
It's no more foolish than talking to the skull, he tells himself.
"Hello," he whispers.
Hello.