Author: Ariane DeVere
Rating: PG-13 for bad language
Characters: John, Sherlock
Warnings: (a) Angst; (b) it’s an Ariane DeVere fic and may well be crap.
Spoilers: Major spoiler for The Blind Banker
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to way more powerful and wealthy people than me.
My first time with Sherlock fic, God help the poor buggers. I really wanted this to be a 221B fic (221 words, with the final word beginning with a ‘b’) but my evil plotbunny wouldn’t let me edit it down enough, and so either the evil plotbunny gave me far too much food for thought, or I’ve been rambling on and on and on again and didn’t know how to shut up – again.
The gun cocks and Shan tells him, “Not blank bullets now,” and John thinks, ‘They weren’t blank bullets before, lady; the gun was empty,’ but it’s really not the time to be correcting her English, and she’s pointing the thing so close to his head and her finger is so tight on the trigger and he wants to be noble and heroic in the moments before death but why can he smell sand and why can he hear sand blowing across the floor of the tunnel, and why is there sand in the back of his throat and why is his shoulder screaming in pain, and how can the muzzle on such a tiny pistol be so fucking huge, and he wants to be brave for Sarah because she’s looking at him with terror and dread and disappointment, more than anything disappointment, but he can’t stop himself cowering away from the gun and thinking how unfair it is and how nobody should have to be repeating that please-God-let-me-live mantra inside their head twice in their life and who wants to die in a bloody tunnel anyway and he rolls over onto his side and pulls his knees up to his chest and realises that he’s in his own bed and that this is the fourth night running that he has relived the sodding experience and his heart is pounding and the sand is still in the back of his throat and the tears are flowing and he turns his face into his pillow and sobs.
Outside the door where he has been standing since the whimpering began three minutes ago, Sherlock clenches and unclenches his fists rhythmically and furiously as he despises himself for not knowing what to do or how to help, and as the muffled sobbing starts he turns and silently retreats to the living room where he paces frenetically until he realises that he has no bloody choice and even though he would rather throw it through the window than do this, he picks up the phone and scrolls through the menu to find the one person who he knows can provide the help he needs and, with his face full of self-loathing, he angrily stabs his finger onto the button which will call his brother.
Ooh, hang on – have I just invented a new form of 221B fic? 2 sentences, 2 paragraphs and 1 ‘b’ word at the end. There y’go – a 221B. Who said it couldn’t be done? ;-)