Fic: Scorpion
Title: Scorpion
Author: midknight2501
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/character: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Prompt: You knew it was only a matter of time.
Notes/Warnings: Character death, dark themes. Wrote this while I was at work. The idea came to me while watching the show the day before with a good friend. Here's looking at you, kid.
John wakes up- there's something wrong, he's dizzy, someone is in the room with him, he feels weak- he struggles to sit up but flops bonelessly and realizes the bed is warm and sticky wet- the horrible, familiar scent of iron floods his senses like it did on so many battlefields and crime scenes, brings back horrific roaring memories of his being shot-
Sherlock makes a sobbing noise and John only just manages to turn his head to the side and see the other man screwed into the corner, folded up, knees to his chest- he's holding a steak knife. There's a syringe and a bottle of sedative on the flood by his bare feet.
"Sher-" he can hardly breathe the word out, hardly muster the strength for it.
"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock chokes out and drops the knife. John stares at the blade of it, black-red in the faint light coming in the curtains. It still doesn't make sense- not the warmth, not the weakness, not the iron smell of his own blood- because even if people have warned him- Donovan, Anderson, even Mycroft- he never believed Sherlock would turn on him.
"I'm really sorry." Sherlock says again.
It's the last thing John hears.
Author: midknight2501
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/character: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Prompt: You knew it was only a matter of time.
Notes/Warnings: Character death, dark themes. Wrote this while I was at work. The idea came to me while watching the show the day before with a good friend. Here's looking at you, kid.
John wakes up- there's something wrong, he's dizzy, someone is in the room with him, he feels weak- he struggles to sit up but flops bonelessly and realizes the bed is warm and sticky wet- the horrible, familiar scent of iron floods his senses like it did on so many battlefields and crime scenes, brings back horrific roaring memories of his being shot-
Sherlock makes a sobbing noise and John only just manages to turn his head to the side and see the other man screwed into the corner, folded up, knees to his chest- he's holding a steak knife. There's a syringe and a bottle of sedative on the flood by his bare feet.
"Sher-" he can hardly breathe the word out, hardly muster the strength for it.
"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock chokes out and drops the knife. John stares at the blade of it, black-red in the faint light coming in the curtains. It still doesn't make sense- not the warmth, not the weakness, not the iron smell of his own blood- because even if people have warned him- Donovan, Anderson, even Mycroft- he never believed Sherlock would turn on him.
"I'm really sorry." Sherlock says again.
It's the last thing John hears.