Count the Inflammable Minutes (2/2)tawabidsMay 24 2011, 15:58:40 UTC
Damn! Damn! DAMN! You shout the words, slam your gloved fists into the concrete. Nothing! Nothing delicate enough for the interior workings of that cutting-edge military device. You get up and run, run, run back to the office. Pull the drawers onto the floor. Upend the jar of sweets. Tear the calendar off the wall. Look for the tools to work with spectacles, clocks, anything, there must be SOMETHING.
Paper clips? Would the paper clips do? You kneel and sweep them into your hands like the first snowball of winter, stuff them into your pockets and run, run, run. Back to John. Run. Back to John. Run.
John to slumped down over his own knees, hanging tense off the handcuff. Something is wrong. There is more blood than when you left. The pile of tools are in slightly different positions. Two of them are missing. You flash your memory from only a few minutes before: a slot screwdriver, and a craft knife.
Oh, John.
You fall down in front of him, shedding paper clips, grasp his shoulders and push him back into a sitting position. His eyelids flicker in a dead faint. The craft knife is on the floor beside him, the blade bloody to four inches. Something soaked in crimson rolls off his lap. It is the bomb. He has cut it out of his own chest, in the sparse minutes since you left him. Idiot, no YOU, you are the idiot for leaving him, you are the idiot. You. You. You.
His hand is wrapped with a half torn-off sleeve and wadded into the gaping hole. You fling aside your coat, ball your scarf and press it tight, over his hand, over the wound that is draining him.
"We won!" you scream into the empty, metal cavern. "No heartbeat for the bomb! We won!"
And Moriarty, laughing, releases the magnetic lock on the security door.
Later, in the hospital, after you have frantically explained why John's stomach needs to be pumped for alcohol at the same time that the nurses are trying to apply a blood transfusion, after Lestrade has returned to tell you there is no sign of Moriarty (of course not), after the porters have thrown you physically out of the corridor where John was wheeled away, you sit with your head in your hands. Think, think, think, but there is nothing you can do.
Somewhere in surgery bay 6, John’s heartbeat is a ticking clock. Those dear muscular fibres, red as volcanic soil, they have been contracting and releasing every moment of every minute for his entire life. You wonder how you managed to miss almost every heartbeat. Why you never saw the pre-eminence of that endlessly reliable pound of perfectly synchronised muscle, filigreed with blood vessels, worn by the sandpaper of adrenalin and the slow drip of time. You can hear your own selfish heart pumping, like a blinking blue light in the back of your eyes. You would give one in each two pulses to John, if you could. You would wire the two of you together, chest to chest, and your ventricles would close once for you, once for John. Once for you, once for John. You would both have to take things carefully, perhaps you would even live half as long, but you would do it. If for no other reason than to pay back John’s heart. Darling heart, it worked so hard to get him this far and if it can’t go on you would pick up the slack on its behalf. If you could.
And then someone comes, and you will delete their face and the sound of their voice, but you will never forget the words.
Re: Count the Inflammable Minutes (2/2)tawabidsMay 24 2011, 16:15:50 UTC
Good Lord this is brilliant; Sherlock's stream-of-consciousness strikes the perfect balance between frantic and uniquely logical, uniquely HIM. I don't think I breathed the whole time I was reading it.
Re: Count the Inflammable Minutes (2/2)zevbaldwinMay 24 2011, 16:23:59 UTC
Wonderfil! "You would give one in each two pulses to John, if you could. You would wire the two of you together, chest to chest, and your ventricles would close once for you, once for John. Once for you, once for John. You would both have to take things carefully, perhaps you would even live half as long, but you would do it. If for no other reason than to pay back John’s heart." - this is so much love. Excellent!
OP - Re: Count the Inflammable Minutes (2/2)tawabidsMay 25 2011, 05:14:37 UTC
OH MY GOD. I love it! I love the second person stream of consciousness adrenaline rush of this, and then the sheer poetry of Sherlock's thoughts while waiting for news. It's wonderful and brilliant! Thank you! :D
Re: Count the Inflammable Minutes (2/2)tawabidsMay 25 2011, 09:37:50 UTC
Second person fics are tricky to do, but if you get them right, they're gorgeous. Like this one here. Wonderful grasp of Sherlock's thoughts when he's caught halfway between sheer panic for John's life and the determination to win the game with Moriarty.
Re: Count the Inflammable Minutes (2/2)lindentreeisleMay 26 2011, 19:20:25 UTC
You are a genius. This is the second fill I've seen from you today. Are you new to the fandom and/or kinkmeme? Or have I just somehow missed you before?
Paper clips? Would the paper clips do? You kneel and sweep them into your hands like the first snowball of winter, stuff them into your pockets and run, run, run. Back to John. Run. Back to John. Run.
John to slumped down over his own knees, hanging tense off the handcuff. Something is wrong. There is more blood than when you left. The pile of tools are in slightly different positions. Two of them are missing. You flash your memory from only a few minutes before: a slot screwdriver, and a craft knife.
Oh, John.
You fall down in front of him, shedding paper clips, grasp his shoulders and push him back into a sitting position. His eyelids flicker in a dead faint. The craft knife is on the floor beside him, the blade bloody to four inches. Something soaked in crimson rolls off his lap. It is the bomb. He has cut it out of his own chest, in the sparse minutes since you left him. Idiot, no YOU, you are the idiot for leaving him, you are the idiot. You. You. You.
His hand is wrapped with a half torn-off sleeve and wadded into the gaping hole. You fling aside your coat, ball your scarf and press it tight, over his hand, over the wound that is draining him.
"We won!" you scream into the empty, metal cavern. "No heartbeat for the bomb! We won!"
And Moriarty, laughing, releases the magnetic lock on the security door.
Later, in the hospital, after you have frantically explained why John's stomach needs to be pumped for alcohol at the same time that the nurses are trying to apply a blood transfusion, after Lestrade has returned to tell you there is no sign of Moriarty (of course not), after the porters have thrown you physically out of the corridor where John was wheeled away, you sit with your head in your hands. Think, think, think, but there is nothing you can do.
Somewhere in surgery bay 6, John’s heartbeat is a ticking clock. Those dear muscular fibres, red as volcanic soil, they have been contracting and releasing every moment of every minute for his entire life. You wonder how you managed to miss almost every heartbeat. Why you never saw the pre-eminence of that endlessly reliable pound of perfectly synchronised muscle, filigreed with blood vessels, worn by the sandpaper of adrenalin and the slow drip of time. You can hear your own selfish heart pumping, like a blinking blue light in the back of your eyes. You would give one in each two pulses to John, if you could. You would wire the two of you together, chest to chest, and your ventricles would close once for you, once for John. Once for you, once for John. You would both have to take things carefully, perhaps you would even live half as long, but you would do it. If for no other reason than to pay back John’s heart. Darling heart, it worked so hard to get him this far and if it can’t go on you would pick up the slack on its behalf. If you could.
And then someone comes, and you will delete their face and the sound of their voice, but you will never forget the words.
"He's going to be okay."
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"You would give one in each two pulses to John, if you could. You would wire the two of you together, chest to chest, and your ventricles would close once for you, once for John. Once for you, once for John. You would both have to take things carefully, perhaps you would even live half as long, but you would do it. If for no other reason than to pay back John’s heart." - this is so much love. Excellent!
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Utterly amazing. Just gorgeous. Well done indeed.
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*is quiet*
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