Fic: I Am Become Death
Title: I Am Become Death
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Zombies
Word Count: 1345
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which Sherlock does something very bad.
AN: Written for the 'zombie' square for angst_bingo
They always need bloody milk. John's not sure where it all goes. He's not sure how, or why they always need milk. It's not like they drink that much of it. Maybe Sherlock's using it in some sort of dairy-related experiment that he hasn't seen fit to share with the class? He wonders if they do milk with a child-proof cap. Probably not, since there's nothing inherently dangerous about milk. He's still wondering how much exactly he should pick up when his phone vibrates inside his pocket.
It's probably Sherlock. He's been happy enough locked away in the bathroom for the last two days, ignoring almost every one of John's curious questions and most of his offered cups of tea. But he seems to have some sort of sixth sense that tells him to want something the minute John goes out. John thinks he does it on purpose.
He opens his phone and reads the message.
I need you to come back, at once.
SH
John's used to the vague air of impatient insistence all of Sherlock's texts seems to give off. As if everything is a matter of vital importance in Sherlock's unique and magical world view. But there's something about this one that makes John frown at the letters. This one isn't quite right. Perhaps it's the 'I need' rather than the usual 'do this,' 'do that' and 'go here.' Sherlock's texts are always dramatic but John can't remember the last time one of them sounded personal. He's not sure Sherlock has ever sent him a text with strange undertones of personal need before.
John's typing out a question before he's even thought about it. Because if Sherlock's done something awful he'd rather be in some way prepared for it.
What have you done this time, and should I be worried?
He doesn't get a text back until he reaches the exit, bag of shopping dangling from his fingers.
I don't feel able to judge for myself.
SH
John can't help thinking that sounds a whole world of not good. The sort of not good that makes him suspect it would be in the public interest for him to go straight home, just in case Sherlock has built some sort of Death Ray. Or worse. John isn't exactly sure what constitutes worse than a Death Ray, at this particular moment in time. Maybe he'll think of something on the way home. On the other hand, if it's a problem that can be solved with milk then they're all set.
The flat's cold when he gets back, much colder than when he left. Which suggests Sherlock had been doing more of his bloody cold weather experiments. If he'd broken the heating while sodding about with it again then he was paying for dinner.
"Sherlock?"
There's a thump from upstairs, and John follows the noise with a wary sort of curiosity. Because it wouldn't be the first time Sherlock's neglected to mention that he'd turned their flat into a hazardous working environment. There's no plastic hanging though, last time there'd been plastic hanging, and that had been a fun argument.
"I bought milk, with any luck it won't all disappear into some netherworld when I'm not looking this time."
John tentatively pushes open the bathroom door.
The bag of milk hits the floor.
The bath is full of ice, it's stacked up high around the body there. The body that's naked and taped carefully with needles and electrodes. There are notations on its pale skin in Sherlock's careful handwriting. The chest cavity is pinned open and completely empty. The rough edges of its sawn ribs looked ragged and messy, but there's a clean thoroughness to the scoured insides.
The body is still moving, mouth opening and closing in slow, dry rasps of sound. The eyes are flat white, wide and staring, and its grey-blue fingers curl and scratch at the porcelain and the grubby tiling. They're not twitches and spasms, there's purpose in the movement. Purpose and intent.
John opens his mouth but he can't speak. Sherlock's standing by the far wall, fingers pressed tight against his mouth, eyes narrowed in uncertainty. His instruments have been left on the floor and on the edge of the bath in scattered disarray.
"Is that what I think it is?" John's voice is barely audible, there's horror, fascination and a genuine desire to recoil away from the...thing in the tub.
"It's a re-animated corpse," Sherlock says and his voice is flat too.
John nods stiffly, a fine buzzing somewhere at the back of his head.
"Why?" John forces out. "Why is it a re-animated corpse."
Sherlock shakes his head. "It was never supposed to be, the chemical reaction was unexpected, brutal and unexpected. I wasn't prepared for it. I've been trying to work out exactly how - it defies every law I know and yet it's there. It exists, against all probability, it exists."
John doesn't want to look at it, but he can't stop himself. Can't look away from it.
"How much does it - how aware is it?"
"No brain activity at all," Sherlock says. "No blood flow. I can't even tell how it's moving." He gestures with a hand, a frown on his forehead like the dead body in the bathtub clawing at the wall, is a puzzle to be solved.
John shakes his head. "That's impossible."
"Apparently not."
John wipes a hand over his face, tries to think rationally, tries to work out what the hell is going on.
"John, do you have any idea what I've done, what this means? This is impossible and incredible. It's genius - it's genius and it's history. I've accomplished the impossible in a way science has never -"
"Shut up," John snaps and Sherlock actually stops talking. "Just stop, for god's sake, Sherlock. You made a fucking zombie."
There's a moment of silence but it's not long enough - John doesn't think it would ever be long enough, for him to take it in properly. He wonders if Sherlock really does understand what this means. All the awful, terrible things. John can't help looking in the bath again, at the slow shifting body, trying to pull itself upright out of the ice. It's wrong, it's the sort of wrong that leaves a creeping chill up the back of your spine and an awful sickness in your gut. The sort of wrong which suggests the world will never quite be the same again. This is - this is atom bombs and genetic engineering and stealing fire from the gods. Only it's worse, it's worse than all of them.
"You've broken all the laws of bloody science and nature," John says. It's quieter, but there's still that edge of horrible fascination under the horror. "It shouldn't be possible."
"No, it shouldn't," Sherlock admits. "I don't know how I did it."
"I don't think anyone should know how you did it. Do you have any idea how horrified I am that this is even possible. That we live in a world where someone managed to re-animate the dead."
John rubs a hand across the back of his neck and finds it cold and damp. He exhales so hard it's just a rush of air.
"This is genuinely frightening, Sherlock, do you even understand that?"
Sherlock looks at him, and John's not sure he does. John's honestly not sure that Sherlock understands at all.
John catches his hand, and his fingers are cold in the chill of the bathroom. He pulls him closer, squeezes until he knows it hurts.
"This is a line, this is a line and I'm telling you to stop, please, just trust me. This is not somewhere you should go."
Sherlock frowns at him, and then after a moment he nods.
There's an ice pick among the tools scattered by the bath. John scoops it up and takes a step forward. The body in the bath twitches in the direction of movement, mouth falling open, head twisting awkwardly on its neck.
The flat, white eyes stare up at him, and there's nothing behind them at all.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Zombies
Word Count: 1345
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: In which Sherlock does something very bad.
AN: Written for the 'zombie' square for angst_bingo
They always need bloody milk. John's not sure where it all goes. He's not sure how, or why they always need milk. It's not like they drink that much of it. Maybe Sherlock's using it in some sort of dairy-related experiment that he hasn't seen fit to share with the class? He wonders if they do milk with a child-proof cap. Probably not, since there's nothing inherently dangerous about milk. He's still wondering how much exactly he should pick up when his phone vibrates inside his pocket.
It's probably Sherlock. He's been happy enough locked away in the bathroom for the last two days, ignoring almost every one of John's curious questions and most of his offered cups of tea. But he seems to have some sort of sixth sense that tells him to want something the minute John goes out. John thinks he does it on purpose.
He opens his phone and reads the message.
I need you to come back, at once.
SH
John's used to the vague air of impatient insistence all of Sherlock's texts seems to give off. As if everything is a matter of vital importance in Sherlock's unique and magical world view. But there's something about this one that makes John frown at the letters. This one isn't quite right. Perhaps it's the 'I need' rather than the usual 'do this,' 'do that' and 'go here.' Sherlock's texts are always dramatic but John can't remember the last time one of them sounded personal. He's not sure Sherlock has ever sent him a text with strange undertones of personal need before.
John's typing out a question before he's even thought about it. Because if Sherlock's done something awful he'd rather be in some way prepared for it.
What have you done this time, and should I be worried?
He doesn't get a text back until he reaches the exit, bag of shopping dangling from his fingers.
I don't feel able to judge for myself.
SH
John can't help thinking that sounds a whole world of not good. The sort of not good that makes him suspect it would be in the public interest for him to go straight home, just in case Sherlock has built some sort of Death Ray. Or worse. John isn't exactly sure what constitutes worse than a Death Ray, at this particular moment in time. Maybe he'll think of something on the way home. On the other hand, if it's a problem that can be solved with milk then they're all set.
The flat's cold when he gets back, much colder than when he left. Which suggests Sherlock had been doing more of his bloody cold weather experiments. If he'd broken the heating while sodding about with it again then he was paying for dinner.
"Sherlock?"
There's a thump from upstairs, and John follows the noise with a wary sort of curiosity. Because it wouldn't be the first time Sherlock's neglected to mention that he'd turned their flat into a hazardous working environment. There's no plastic hanging though, last time there'd been plastic hanging, and that had been a fun argument.
"I bought milk, with any luck it won't all disappear into some netherworld when I'm not looking this time."
John tentatively pushes open the bathroom door.
The bag of milk hits the floor.
The bath is full of ice, it's stacked up high around the body there. The body that's naked and taped carefully with needles and electrodes. There are notations on its pale skin in Sherlock's careful handwriting. The chest cavity is pinned open and completely empty. The rough edges of its sawn ribs looked ragged and messy, but there's a clean thoroughness to the scoured insides.
The body is still moving, mouth opening and closing in slow, dry rasps of sound. The eyes are flat white, wide and staring, and its grey-blue fingers curl and scratch at the porcelain and the grubby tiling. They're not twitches and spasms, there's purpose in the movement. Purpose and intent.
John opens his mouth but he can't speak. Sherlock's standing by the far wall, fingers pressed tight against his mouth, eyes narrowed in uncertainty. His instruments have been left on the floor and on the edge of the bath in scattered disarray.
"Is that what I think it is?" John's voice is barely audible, there's horror, fascination and a genuine desire to recoil away from the...thing in the tub.
"It's a re-animated corpse," Sherlock says and his voice is flat too.
John nods stiffly, a fine buzzing somewhere at the back of his head.
"Why?" John forces out. "Why is it a re-animated corpse."
Sherlock shakes his head. "It was never supposed to be, the chemical reaction was unexpected, brutal and unexpected. I wasn't prepared for it. I've been trying to work out exactly how - it defies every law I know and yet it's there. It exists, against all probability, it exists."
John doesn't want to look at it, but he can't stop himself. Can't look away from it.
"How much does it - how aware is it?"
"No brain activity at all," Sherlock says. "No blood flow. I can't even tell how it's moving." He gestures with a hand, a frown on his forehead like the dead body in the bathtub clawing at the wall, is a puzzle to be solved.
John shakes his head. "That's impossible."
"Apparently not."
John wipes a hand over his face, tries to think rationally, tries to work out what the hell is going on.
"John, do you have any idea what I've done, what this means? This is impossible and incredible. It's genius - it's genius and it's history. I've accomplished the impossible in a way science has never -"
"Shut up," John snaps and Sherlock actually stops talking. "Just stop, for god's sake, Sherlock. You made a fucking zombie."
There's a moment of silence but it's not long enough - John doesn't think it would ever be long enough, for him to take it in properly. He wonders if Sherlock really does understand what this means. All the awful, terrible things. John can't help looking in the bath again, at the slow shifting body, trying to pull itself upright out of the ice. It's wrong, it's the sort of wrong that leaves a creeping chill up the back of your spine and an awful sickness in your gut. The sort of wrong which suggests the world will never quite be the same again. This is - this is atom bombs and genetic engineering and stealing fire from the gods. Only it's worse, it's worse than all of them.
"You've broken all the laws of bloody science and nature," John says. It's quieter, but there's still that edge of horrible fascination under the horror. "It shouldn't be possible."
"No, it shouldn't," Sherlock admits. "I don't know how I did it."
"I don't think anyone should know how you did it. Do you have any idea how horrified I am that this is even possible. That we live in a world where someone managed to re-animate the dead."
John rubs a hand across the back of his neck and finds it cold and damp. He exhales so hard it's just a rush of air.
"This is genuinely frightening, Sherlock, do you even understand that?"
Sherlock looks at him, and John's not sure he does. John's honestly not sure that Sherlock understands at all.
John catches his hand, and his fingers are cold in the chill of the bathroom. He pulls him closer, squeezes until he knows it hurts.
"This is a line, this is a line and I'm telling you to stop, please, just trust me. This is not somewhere you should go."
Sherlock frowns at him, and then after a moment he nods.
There's an ice pick among the tools scattered by the bath. John scoops it up and takes a step forward. The body in the bath twitches in the direction of movement, mouth falling open, head twisting awkwardly on its neck.
The flat, white eyes stare up at him, and there's nothing behind them at all.