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mysterooTitle: Untitled.
Author: Roo.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: I wrote this today when I was feeling unbelievable upset/frustrated. I toyed so much with killing off Sherlock, of making it bloody and angsty to fit my mood, but try as I might I couldn't manage it. So I present you with this - a short drabble written in an unhappy haze of emotions.
He's going to do it.
He knows what will happen when Sherlock pulls the trigger.
He gears himself up, ready to run, to grab the idiotic genius by the waist and propel them into the water.
Now!
It explodes behind his eyes and shudders through his body before he's ready, fragments of tiles and dust and plastic screaming through the air towards them. They hit the water, his arms wrapped around the lanky man to protect him. Dark shapes twist and contort into obscure patterns, undulating out into the edges of his peripheral vision as he holds his breath. One second becomes fifteen, fifteen becomes thirty, thirty seconds becomes a minute. To him, it seems an eternity - the time stretching on forever before him as his vision begins to cloud and his lungs burn as he struggles to hold on. When he kicks up to the surface, he is still clutching his friend. Rivulets of water trickle down his face. He can't tell if he's crying or if it's the chlorine water from the pool.
How did I get here?
He's holding Sherlock by the wrist, his fingers pressed to his pulse-point as they're hauled from the pool by one of Mycroft's men. He cannot remember what happened but below his thumb, he feels the steady thump of Sherlock's still beating heart. Comforting. Alive.
People are talking to him but it sounds like a foreign language. He's trembling, each convulsion rattling the bones within his body. Eyes wide, he turns to look around but everything jolts - a glitch in the hardwiring of his system, a malfunction in the control room.
He takes a gasping breath, drawing air into his lungs. He knows it's selfish but he wants to suck all of the oxygen from the room - to store it up inside his body forever, to keep it because he still feels like he's drowning under the weight of what has just transpired.
"Sherlock.." He murmurs, his slurred voice surprisingly loud in the quiet of the room. Oops. I said that one aloud, he thinks, as he begins to hyperventilate.
Your increased breathing is reducing the carbon dioxide concentration of your blood to below its normal level thereby raising the blood's pH level, which has initiated the constriction of the blood vessels to the brain, and is preventing the transport of oxygen and other molecules necessary for the function of the nervous system. In short, John, you're going into shock, his brain supplies. He giggles nervously, aware of a dull throb in his head and a tingling sensation in his lips.
Then he feels a pale hand in his, a low voice telling him to breathe, and suddenly everything is better.
Author: Roo.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock.
Rating: PG-13
Author's Note: I wrote this today when I was feeling unbelievable upset/frustrated. I toyed so much with killing off Sherlock, of making it bloody and angsty to fit my mood, but try as I might I couldn't manage it. So I present you with this - a short drabble written in an unhappy haze of emotions.
----------------------------------------
He's going to do it.
He knows what will happen when Sherlock pulls the trigger.
He gears himself up, ready to run, to grab the idiotic genius by the waist and propel them into the water.
Now!
It explodes behind his eyes and shudders through his body before he's ready, fragments of tiles and dust and plastic screaming through the air towards them. They hit the water, his arms wrapped around the lanky man to protect him. Dark shapes twist and contort into obscure patterns, undulating out into the edges of his peripheral vision as he holds his breath. One second becomes fifteen, fifteen becomes thirty, thirty seconds becomes a minute. To him, it seems an eternity - the time stretching on forever before him as his vision begins to cloud and his lungs burn as he struggles to hold on. When he kicks up to the surface, he is still clutching his friend. Rivulets of water trickle down his face. He can't tell if he's crying or if it's the chlorine water from the pool.
How did I get here?
He's holding Sherlock by the wrist, his fingers pressed to his pulse-point as they're hauled from the pool by one of Mycroft's men. He cannot remember what happened but below his thumb, he feels the steady thump of Sherlock's still beating heart. Comforting. Alive.
People are talking to him but it sounds like a foreign language. He's trembling, each convulsion rattling the bones within his body. Eyes wide, he turns to look around but everything jolts - a glitch in the hardwiring of his system, a malfunction in the control room.
He takes a gasping breath, drawing air into his lungs. He knows it's selfish but he wants to suck all of the oxygen from the room - to store it up inside his body forever, to keep it because he still feels like he's drowning under the weight of what has just transpired.
"Sherlock.." He murmurs, his slurred voice surprisingly loud in the quiet of the room. Oops. I said that one aloud, he thinks, as he begins to hyperventilate.
Your increased breathing is reducing the carbon dioxide concentration of your blood to below its normal level thereby raising the blood's pH level, which has initiated the constriction of the blood vessels to the brain, and is preventing the transport of oxygen and other molecules necessary for the function of the nervous system. In short, John, you're going into shock, his brain supplies. He giggles nervously, aware of a dull throb in his head and a tingling sensation in his lips.
Then he feels a pale hand in his, a low voice telling him to breathe, and suddenly everything is better.
