Ficlet: Fade to White.
Title: Fade to White
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: G
Word count: 523
Warning: major angst; imminent death of major character
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Note: My entry for the Bonus Challenge, theme: "The 11th Hour," Cycle 4, Round 3 of The Games at Thegameison_sh.
John tried at first to stay in one place. That was what you were supposed to do. But after a long time, he realized three things: One, Sherlock was not here. Two, no one was coming. Three, he needed to move. He refused to just wait for death.
But when he could no longer see his gloved hands - even when he put them right in front of his face, forced to admit that he really was snow-blind, goggles torn off in his fall off the side of this bloody mountain - John stopped again, snow knee-deep. Freezing wind was tearing him apart. He could no longer feel his limbs. He still had a little oxygen left. He inhaled through frozen, cracked lips.
Sherlock would have discovered by now what John knew: the sherpa was their killer. Rough hands pushed John off the side of the trail, and as he plummeted into whiteness he realized his lines had been tampered with. He wondered if Sherlock had been able to examine the ropes.
He heard a voice, just once, that he believed (clinging to the last of his optimism) had been Sherlock’s. That meant Sherlock was safe; or maybe it meant he was down here too, lost; and so John searched, blindly, vaguely aware that he was just staggering in circles. He screamed Sherlock’s name into the wind that threw the words back into his face until he was very sure that no one, not Sherlock, not anyone, heard him.
He had banged his head on rock on the way down, and there was unbearable pain in his skull. If it wasn’t the altitude that was crushing his brain, it was intracranial bleeding. His arm was broken; also a few ribs, every breath stabbed. His doctor’s calculations informed him (excellent bedside manner) that he probably had a single hour left.
Until the end.
Freezing to death was supposed to be like sleep. The pain in his skull kept him awake; something to struggle against. Now he knew he was hallucinating, because he was in Baker Street with Sherlock, running through London streets, laughing and quarreling and chasing down criminals, just the two of them, and no one else could ever understand this intensity, this brightness, this consuming love. It seemed like now was the time to tell Sherlock that his only regret was having to leave him. John had no idea what was waiting on the other side for him, but he knew he had experienced a sort of heaven already, maybe the only kind of heaven he was meant for.
Sherlock was tugging him up from his comfortable chair in 221B, impatient, but this time it was so hard for John to follow; worse than the beginning, with the cane. Sherlock wouldn’t wait for him to catch up, though, pulling harder. He imagined Sherlock was bloody irritated at being held up from the chase because John couldn’t move his limbs properly.
“All right, Sherlock, I’m coming,” he mumbled as his vision flickered out.
Sherlock fastened the straps around John and helped guide the stretcher basket up to the helicopter, then climbed in after him.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: G
Word count: 523
Warning: major angst; imminent death of major character
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Note: My entry for the Bonus Challenge, theme: "The 11th Hour," Cycle 4, Round 3 of The Games at Thegameison_sh.
John tried at first to stay in one place. That was what you were supposed to do. But after a long time, he realized three things: One, Sherlock was not here. Two, no one was coming. Three, he needed to move. He refused to just wait for death.
But when he could no longer see his gloved hands - even when he put them right in front of his face, forced to admit that he really was snow-blind, goggles torn off in his fall off the side of this bloody mountain - John stopped again, snow knee-deep. Freezing wind was tearing him apart. He could no longer feel his limbs. He still had a little oxygen left. He inhaled through frozen, cracked lips.
Sherlock would have discovered by now what John knew: the sherpa was their killer. Rough hands pushed John off the side of the trail, and as he plummeted into whiteness he realized his lines had been tampered with. He wondered if Sherlock had been able to examine the ropes.
He heard a voice, just once, that he believed (clinging to the last of his optimism) had been Sherlock’s. That meant Sherlock was safe; or maybe it meant he was down here too, lost; and so John searched, blindly, vaguely aware that he was just staggering in circles. He screamed Sherlock’s name into the wind that threw the words back into his face until he was very sure that no one, not Sherlock, not anyone, heard him.
He had banged his head on rock on the way down, and there was unbearable pain in his skull. If it wasn’t the altitude that was crushing his brain, it was intracranial bleeding. His arm was broken; also a few ribs, every breath stabbed. His doctor’s calculations informed him (excellent bedside manner) that he probably had a single hour left.
Until the end.
Freezing to death was supposed to be like sleep. The pain in his skull kept him awake; something to struggle against. Now he knew he was hallucinating, because he was in Baker Street with Sherlock, running through London streets, laughing and quarreling and chasing down criminals, just the two of them, and no one else could ever understand this intensity, this brightness, this consuming love. It seemed like now was the time to tell Sherlock that his only regret was having to leave him. John had no idea what was waiting on the other side for him, but he knew he had experienced a sort of heaven already, maybe the only kind of heaven he was meant for.
Sherlock was tugging him up from his comfortable chair in 221B, impatient, but this time it was so hard for John to follow; worse than the beginning, with the cane. Sherlock wouldn’t wait for him to catch up, though, pulling harder. He imagined Sherlock was bloody irritated at being held up from the chase because John couldn’t move his limbs properly.
“All right, Sherlock, I’m coming,” he mumbled as his vision flickered out.
Sherlock fastened the straps around John and helped guide the stretcher basket up to the helicopter, then climbed in after him.