(no subject)

[alldeduction]

Who| CLOSED - Sherlock, Cuthbert, Karkat, John and Joan, in that order!
What| Sherlock and Cuthbert face off, one of them dies, then the other one is killed by another guest.
Where| Near the cornucopia.
When| Backdated to Week 4
Warnings/Notes| Death, murder, insults of a sexual nature, probably torture? basically just. this whole thing is going to be dark. And probably more than a little homoerotic.


He was scouting, again.

He'd kept careful watch of the electric fences - had memorized their timing when it made sense, had frustrated himself when it didn't. John was healed, they'd moved camp, but he still preferred to go scouting on his own. There were questions he still had.

And strange flickering visions he was trying to ignore.

When the electric fence went down around the cornucopia, he'd noticed immediately. Half way through his scouting mission and he felt he'd hit paydirt, immediately redirecting himself. But when he found it, it had been picked bare. Nothing was left. He cursed lowly, kicking at the dirt before heading back towards the grass. Pointless.

It was then that he noticed he wasn't alone.

Comments

for cuthbert and karkat

[alldeduction]

[tis_allgood]

This opportunity was too good to be true. Sherlock, his long time rival, out on his own and in perfect shape to be pounced on.

Which is exactly what Cuthbert does, knife out and as fierce as a boy who has been living off of rations in a jungle for weeks. He's feeling pretty good at the moment, he got the drop on someone he didn't think would be so careless.

"Well well, look who isn't as smart as he thinks he is."

[alldeduction]

Sherlock paused as Cuthbert revealed himself, then carefully and openly drew his knife. Twice. Twice Cuthbert had seen him to his death. He would not allow a third time.

"Yes, so very stupid to walk alone, unarmed," He drawled, the blade glinting in the light.

"I've no interest in dying today, Cuthbert, so you had best move on."

[tis_allgood]

"And lose out on some easy money? Not a chance..."

He lunged forward, trying to make Sherlock flinch. If he was going to do this, he was going to have some fun with it. Especially after the unfortunate emotional confrontation they had of late.

"I will be sure to make the proper apologies to your lover when this is over. He thinks the feud between us is finished."

[alldeduction]

Sherlock ducked backwards, as fluidly as he could (which was a good deal less fluidly than he thought he could), his knife still held out at the ready.

"Oh, yes, and I'll be sure to tell your lover--" He paused, comically, sneering. "Oh. Wait."

[tis_allgood]

Cuthbert held off for a moment at that. There was an insinuation there that he didn't particularly like.

"And just what does that mean?"

[alldeduction]

Sherlock smiled, sharply.

"Oh, nothing at all," He said, the words all edges. "Which, I estimate, is precisely what you have."

He waved the knife in front of him in three even strokes as he spoke, the smile flickering around his teeth.

"Jealousy is a very ugly trait, Cuthbert, I suggest you quell it."

[tis_allgood]

Cuthbert takes that more personally than he should. He points his knife right at Sherlock's throat as he responds.

"What would you know of my personal life? You aren't even smart enough to avoid an ambush. Or your own failings."

He takes a step forward, definitely threatening Sherlock now that he's hit a nerve. Jealousy really is a bad trait of his.

[alldeduction]

"I can read it on you as if you were wearing it in neon," Sherlock snaps, a vein in his forehead twitching. It shouldn't bother him, but it always has - the implication that he was anything less than brilliant. The outright statement that he was stupid. Even a hint of it bothered him, even from the best of his friends, but here? Here, he would prove it.

"This isn't an ambush, Cuthbert. This isn't one of your traps. You're all alone out here. You haven't been stalking me, you happened upon me. This is luck. This is chance."

He stands his ground, eyes unblinking, knife at the ready.

"It will not be in your favour."

for john

[alldeduction]

[drpsychosomatic]

It was probably paranoia, he tried to tell himself- but the cannon going off, shouting, Sherlock not being back with him yet after going off on a scouting mission...

The twist in his gut was back, the one that wouldn't give him any rest until he saw that Sherlock was alive, the one that made him sick to his stomach. Abandoning the camp, he snatched up his knife and ran- hoping against hope that all he'd find would be an irritable Sherlock, eyebrow raised at his flushed face and obvious panic.

[alldeduction]

He was dying.

It was almost a completely disconnected sensation. The pain had long since overwhelmed him - he could barely feel it, now, floating in a dull gray haze of nothing. He had no idea how much blood he'd lost, but he could take a guess, the entirety of the ground around him soaked in the stuff. He could see the sky, vaguely, if it didn't keep disappearing under black splotches in his vision.

He was dying, it was just taking too long.

He tried to gurgle something but it came out strangled and weak. A forlorn attempt to convince Karkat to come back, to finish him off, to end it. To egg him into the final death.

He wondered if they were waiting to come for Cuthbert's body until he was dead.

[drpsychosomatic]

No.

His lips formed the word, but no sound pushed past them. He'd know that shape anywhere, even at this distance- he knew what it meant. Running fast enough that it felt like his lungs would burst out through his ribs he threw himself towards Sherlock, crumpling beside him- no thought of the danger he might be placing himself in at all.

"Sherlock," he gasped, eyes wide, his hands unnaturally steady as he made a quick examination of his wounds. He knew he was dead already, he'd known from the moment he'd seen the awkward position he was slumped in, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, it's me. I'm here. I'm here, so-- so just..."

[alldeduction]

The pain came rushing back, suddenly, as foreign hands prodded along his torn and broken body and he moaned brokenly. He didn't even hear the voice, at first, the only sound he could really hear was the torrent of rushing blood through him as it sought any evacuation possible. Rats on a sinking ship.

But after a moment or two it settled in.

"J- Johhhnnngg," He gurgled, the end of the word pulling blood up through his throat and to his lips. He coughed, and the blood speckled across his chest.

[drpsychosomatic]

"I've got you," he told him, though whether he was trying to comfort the dying man in his arms or himself, he couldn't have said. He eased his head into his lap, the echoed memory of holding Joan as she died, of holding men in the desert, all that death- all of it layered under the new image of Sherlock's dark curled hair matted to his pale skin, spattered with fresh blood, his pale eyes almost unseeing. It might be the last thing he ever saw of him, he realised. Dread soaked into every part of his being.

"I've got you," he murmured again- his tone oddly fierce despite its steadiness. He pressed his hand against one of the stab wounds piercing Sherlock's chest. "I've got you, Sherlock."

[alldeduction]

He couldn't talk. It was impossible to try - every time he parted his lips he gurgled blood, hot iron on his tongue, and his vision was failing him. Not enough oxygen to the brain, something whispered, And half your organs are wounded and failing, and even beyond that, you have failed and now John has to watch you die and you promised yourself that you would not let that happen.

He groaned, gurgling, and tried to struggle to get himself up and get away, to find somewhere far away to lay in the grass and die out of sight. But he couldn't, and all his feeble attempt managed to do was cause him to shudder violently in John's arms.

[drpsychosomatic]

"Don't-- Sherlock, just- don't try to move, please," he begged quietly, holding him as still as he could. "Don't. Because--"

But he couldn't say it. He wasn't ready to let Sherlock go. He let out a deep, shaky breath.

"You'd better be there, Sherlock," he said instead, ashamed of how stiff he sounded.

for joan and john post death

[alldeduction]

Re: for joan and john post death

[drpsychosomatic]

He was almost in a daze by the time he made it back to the camp, streaked and spattered with blood- Sherlock's blood, dried on his skin. The idea that he might never see his friend, his best friend, that he might not see Sherlock ever again- it was an trapped animal snared in his rib cage, tearing at anything it could reach- but if he could just ignore it, if he could put one foot in front of the other and keep going until it tired and died...

He slumped by the ashes of last night's fire, staring blankly ahead. Joan would be back, soon.

[formersurgeon]

Joan was out scouting for potential camp locations and any unguarded stashes of supplies. She was checking a tree as a possible hiding place when the first cannon went off. She stopped, looked up, frowning. As the numbers of Tributes had diminished, Joan's anxiety at each one has increased with the chances that it was Sherlock or John. It was going to happen at some point. She started slowly making her way back to the camp.

The cannon went off again. She swore, and started running.

When she reached the camp, she saw John sitting there. A sensation of relief rose, and then was violenty destroyed when she saw his face, the blood.

Oh god.

"John."

She wanted to ask what happened, but it was unnecessary. The only important information was already written on John's face.

[drpsychosomatic]

He didn't know what to say, or what to do. Distantly, he was aware of relief, that Joan at least was alright, but it didn't touch him.

He'd always thought he'd cry. Few things made John Watson cry, and that was how it should be, probably- but he'd thought that Sherlock dying would be enough, that it would be more than enough to knock whatever stubbornness it was in him out of the way. Instead, he just felt horribly, horribly numb.

[formersurgeon]

John wasn't crying, wasn't saying anything, and that was so much more painful. It occurred to Joan that he may be injured, so she crossed to him, crouched down, started looking him over.

"Are you injured?" Her voice was calm, but tighter than usual. The calm came with obvious effort.

[drpsychosomatic]

He wet his lips (accidentally tasting blood, Sherlock's blood, he was covered in it) and forced himself to look Joan in the eyes- whether he looked as hollowed out and unimportant as he felt, he didn't know. He hoped not.

"I'm fine," he said, his throat tight. Now he'd cry, if he was ever going to, but he didn't. It was like he'd forgotten how.

[formersurgeon]

She looked into his eyes, swallowed. He wasn't, of course. Wasn't fine. But it wasn't something she could fix. She couldn't do anything, and the powerlessness stripped her of nearly all her control. She swallowed again.

"John," she said, her voice raw and tinged with the tears she was barely holding back. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock was her friend, and it hurt, so badly, to know he was dead, that she might not ever see him again. She couldn't begin to imagine how John must be feeling.

[drpsychosomatic]

"Yeah," he said, dropping his eyes to the ashes. It was shameful, really- he knew Joan would need comforting, but he couldn't muster anything up to give her, nothing. "I'm- I couldn't find his knife. We lost it. I'm sorry."