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WHO| Sherlock Holmes (BBC), John Watson and Garrus
WHAT| Sherlock's gonna die, and then Garrus is also going to die
WHEN| Backdated to End of Week 5
WHERE| The Roof
WARNINGS| Death, Violence, Guns, Suicidal Thoughts

To say that Sherlock was very agitated was putting it mildly. He was, in fact, nearly shaking with a potent mix of rage and utter hopelessness. He hadn't bothered to do anything about the cut on his palm - a near constant reminder of his impending death - and since they'd run out of pain killers his fever was raging out of control. He was feverish enough to nearly be delirious, but that did not mean that he sat still, and the heat consuming him was enough to drive him to seek relief - up up up to the roof he went, dragging a worried John along behind him.

He was going to die, for real this time. It was inevitable. He couldn't quite bring himself to tell John, but he knew it as clearly as he knew his own skin (his firey skin), knew it as clearly as he knew the endless ache in his bones (his broken ribs). He was running out of time and he was almost relishing the idea of finally letting go, of giving up and giving in. He wasn't himself anymore. (Cuthbert had proved that. Howard had proved that.) He wasn't himself, so they were replacing him.

He couldn't blame them.

So he went to the roof and he tasted fresh air and he considered, again, not for the first time, simply asking John to borrow his gun and make an end to it, a real one.

Instead, he decided to kill himself with the truth.

"They've brought another one," He said finally. "Another Sherlock Holmes. I met him, when I found--" He cut himself off from Joan's name, "--Her body."

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Sherlock was a mess, and it didn't take a doctor to see that. More poetically, he supposed, Sherlock's injuries- both physical and psychological- were bubbling up to the surface, making themselves known in hot, clammy skin, shaking limbs, wild eyes. It was difficult to watch, knowing he had nothing with which to treat him. He was going to lose Sherlock, and he knew it. It was simply a matter of time.

It was almost sick, the way his body still reacted with relief to the open sky even when he knew it might as well be a painted set. Up on the roof the evidence of Sherlock's injuries became less lurid, his skin softened by the natural light. His usually cool clear gaze took on a bluer hue as he stared John in the eyes and just barely stopped himself from asking John to end his life. He could see that question, hanging between them- as tangible as the gun he'd won in the bloodbath tucked away safely but still screaming out its presence, the logic to taking its quick, perfect way out.
(Back in London, John had held onto his service weapon illegally and kept it in a drawer as some kind of twisted lifeline to his old life, the one with meaning. He'd wondered on greyed out occasion that faded into bone-deep misery, if he'd kept it just in case one day the monotony and the surety of nothing more than monotony stretching out forever became more terrifying than not existing at all.)

Sherlock was talking, now. He watched him, his chest twisting, as he remembered meeting him. His bright, quick eyes, the frankly ridiculous way that he could be completely charming while saying the cruellest, most inappropriate things, the way he lit up like a spark when someone said the word murder-- and his heart ached for Baker Street, more than it had ever ached for jokes with the lads in the desert, for quick hands snatching up lives before they could seep out into the sand. It ached the way it was supposed to ache at a funeral.

God, I'm in trouble, he thought. Oh, my god. And then he realised he was supposed to be listening, that this hell of endless death without funerals was supposed to be important, that he was supposed to be trying to beat it.

"Joan's Sherlock?" he asked, distantly. Someone to look after her once we're gone, his mind supplied in a quiet whisper. He cleared his throat, straightened up, and pushed it aside. Stiff, forced steadiness propped his words up and gave them a weight and sturdiness he didn't feel.

"I suppose that'll be good, for her, as much as anything can be good in here. You should let me look at your hand, Sherlock."

"Yes. Her Sherlock."

He wondered if the Capitol would keep John, I they threw him away, but he dared not voice those thoughts lest he tempt them.

He frowned at the mention of his hand, almost as of he didn't understand what he was talking about. "It's fine, John. What could you do? Leave it. But you're missing the important part. They've brought another one. My chances of returning after this arena--"

"Shut up," he told Sherlock firmly, the dread of having to endure this without him splitting through his hasty defenses like water that had seeped through the cracks and frozen. "You are not dying on me. You're a complete and utter prick and you think absolutely nothing of drugging me for science or growing stachybotrys cultures in my favourite mug, but not even you, Sherlock Holmes, would leave me here. Now give me your goddamn hand."

"I really don't think I will have any choice in the matter," Sherlock said a little petulantly, though he held out his hand like a grumpy yet obedient child. "Of course I wouldn't do so intentionally, but we have to be rational about this."

"Right, yes, in a perpetual death match arena with monsters, aliens and mouthy gits from the future, the most important thing is to be bloody rational about all this," John agreed irritably, examining Sherlock's hand, a frown creasing his brow. He'd long since run out of anything more heavy duty, but he still had water to clean the wound with, and some gauze to wrap it. He began work now.

"It's all I have left," Sherlock murmured, almost to himself, his voice incredibly low. His mind was wandering into the cut in his hand as John worked, imagining maggots squirming out of it, and he could nearly see them.

He wondered if the capitol let his body decompose, when it died.

(Or if they just used the pieces to make him up again.)

"... Please, John. I know that you dislike discussing it, but I would be infinitely more comfortable if I knew that you would be alright if worse came to worse."

"Well, too bad," he said quietly, tight-lipped, trying to focus on the wound and the one small thing he could do for Sherlock. "Because you are what I have left."

He didn't bother explaining that if the Capitol he woke up in once he inevitably got killed here was one without Sherlock, that it wouldn't have to deal with having him around for long.

"Now. Why are we up here?"

"Well, I'll hold that one over Effie for a while," Sherlock said primly, a lame and probably inappropriate attempt at a joke. Once his hand was wrapped he pulled it back, flexing his fingers as he frowned at them.

"... I needed some air. Any air not filled with blood and soot and sulfur."

There were even less tributes in the arena now, and with the dextro rations slowly dwindling, Garrus knew he was getting irritable patrolling the hallways with Shepard. She hadn't been the same since Thane had died, but that was to be expected, there were only so many times that anyone can watch a loved one die before it begins taking a toll. And her anger combined with his irritability had started to become caustic, so he ventured to the roof. The fresh air immediately made him feel better, but he was on guard the moment he heard voices.

Staff clenched in his hand he caught sight of the two easily within a few feet of him. At this point he did not want trouble, barely having enough energy to keep himself going since he was half starved and with the possibility of them having a gun made the encounter certainly one that could go very badly.

"Ha," he laughed weakly, putting away his supplies with no real haste- what were they going to do once he was finished, anyway? Dance around the very real subject at hand until one or other of them made the other angry?

"Air. Well, that's one thing we don't have to beg a sponsor for," he agreed, as cheerfully as he could manage.

Edited 2014-02-24 02:46 (UTC)

"Please don't give them ideas," Sherlock muttered darkly before freezing, holding out a hand to John's shoulder.

"We're not alone," He said, abruptly, every muscle in him stiffening, turning quickly to see Garrus approaching him.

"Oh. An alien and a child killer. Just what I needed, this evening."

Garrus heard Sherlock's last comment and couldn't help the acidic taste of anger roll through him, his mandibles flaring slightly. He had hoped that he could've escaped that wonderful title in a place where morals seemed to be more of a suggestion than a hard rule.

"You managed to get one fact right, but anyone with a pair of eyes could see I'm an alien." He replied, stopping a few feet away from the duo, for once glad for his height advantage.

"Sherlock," John muttered under his breath, clearly a request for information about their visitor. He'd become perfectly still, gaze steady on its- his face. "Friend of yours?"

"Garrus Vakarian," Sherlock said, his voice a little louder and something in his eyes flashed.

He never backed down from a challenge. Especially not one based on deduction.

So he threw all caution into the wind and stalked towards him.

"District Eight, veteran of one previous arena. Known associates: Commander Jane Shepard, shared a common source universe. Likely served in a war - or several - together, that kind of bond is almost always forged under fire, and the scars are obvious enough to be intentional wounds even if I can't recognize the weapon that made them - or indeed the flesh that they wrought. Second last tribute of the previous arena, was killed by our Victor, Enjolras, after stabbing a fourteen year old girl to death. Though that wasn't the first little girl you fought with, was it, Garrus? You had a good tumble with Pruna before that, didn't you? Good thing Shepard was there, that time--"

"Congratulations, I'm glad to see that you were keeping tabs on the news feed the Capitol gave you of the games." He replied coldly, watching Sherlock advance toward him and holding his ground.

"It wouldn't have been an issue had she not decided to attack me initially. I don't think morals are something to stand firm on in an arena designed for people to brutally murder one another for the enjoyment of others. Just saying."

"Funny, I'd think they're something especially important in an arena designed for brutal murder for the enjoyment of others," John said- stiffly. Quietly.

"It doesn't matter where the information comes from, as long as it's accurate," Sherlock bit back, quite proud of John in that moment.

He couldn't agree more, though he could hardly call himself a moral man.

"It's so much easier to simply ignore one's morals when you can simply follow orders isn't it? But then, you can literally eat poison so who knows if you had morals in the first place."

"A good soldier follows his Commanding officer's orders, a friend attempts to make them accurate to their dying wishes. Then again if someone ripped your friend here limb from limb, left them half alive, and he asked you to win, wouldn't you try?" He rebutted, watching the two across from him. They were mind games, good ones too, and Garrus while irritated was keeping focus on their words.

"I could say the same for you, you eat poison and I've had more humans try to murder me in cold blood here than anyone else. You're no better than anyone else in this hole."

Edited (typoooos woops) 2014-02-24 05:11 (UTC)

"I'd like to think Sherlock would know me well enough not to kill a child in my name," John replied coolly, his fingers curling into loose fists at his sides.
Safely tucked away, the gun he'd been thinking about earlier whispered its other purpose, the other direction he could point it.

"I'll never win." That was all he could say about that. He had, after all, broken Howard's hand in Joan's name, and if someone had killed John he would have immediately broken his promise to himself and killed them.

If he had found the one who had killed Joan, he would have seen them dead too.

But kill to win? No. Not even for John.

"Apparently you don't watch the Capitol news feeds then," Sherlock said snidely as he stepped closer, pulling himself up taller almost unconciously. "So just how much do you know about me then? If you're so unimpressed. Who am I, Garras Vakarian, and how exactly am I like you."

Watching Sherlock's face was interesting, humans were so expressive even in how they straightened themselves up when seeing a potential threat. There was a moment, where Garrus knew that inevitable pause. Sherlock might not kill to win but he would for a friend. That much he could tell.

"I don't follow unreliable sources for my information constantly and don't waste hours collecting information on mundane tributes. So far what I know is you're a fast-talking human who enjoys mind games and puzzles, is dying from a severe infection, has a superiority complex despite being fairly weak, and would murder in cold blood anyone who would dare to touch his friends."

He paused for a moment, glancing between the two of them.

"But what happened with the girl, in the last arena, is a regret. Don't pretend for a moment to know who I am from a few vid clips and rumour."

"Sherlock," John warned quietly, sizing Garrus up and deciding he didn't much like the direction this conversation was going in. Perhaps it was xenophobia, who knew- but he didn't trust the creature as far as he felt confident he could throw it. Which wasn't far.
"Not worth it. We were just leaving, anyway."

He twitched at 'mundane', but let the rest slide. He heard John behind him. Not worth it. Not worth it. As if anything in this place was worth it.

He put a hand out, holding John back as he glared at the Turian.

"A regret? A regret that you stabbed a fourteen year old girl over and over as she begged you for her life?" Sherlock spat. He didn't actually care about the girl in question - had never even met her - but he felt that an accurate judgement could be made none the less. "I bet your only regret was that you couldn't have used a gun."

His hand tightened around his staff, shifting his weight in agitation at Sherlock's words. The anger was rising and he knew he was being baited but bis mind reeled back to the last arena, the three of them left, to Shepard's dying word and her slick blood coating his hands as she died. Perhaps he was a monster in this, she had struggled and his clean kill had gone sideways. She had suffered and it had never been his intention.

"My regret is that she suffered needlessly because of my mistake," Garrus snarled back, "And as a sniper, having a gun meant that she would've been dead before she even knew she had been shot."

"How incredibly noble of you," Sherlock hissed, real anger flashing in his eyes as he stepped even closer, drawing himself taller almost unconsciously.

"An angel of death, smiting children quickly and painlessly? Yes, I certainly see where your regret lay there."

Garrus couldn't help but laugh hard at Sherlock's words. An angel of death, surely that's not what the patrons of Omega intended when they had given him the name Archangel. He knew nothing of humanity's religions or their beliefs in such things, but from his brief knowledge it was odd being called an angel in any sense.

"An angel? Well, you wouldn't be the first to call me one of those. Someone else already beat you to that to give me a better title back home."

Sherlock was much too close to Garrus for comfort and it took very little for Garrus to reach out and give Sherlock a shove away from him.

"That's enough," John cautioned them both, beginning to really get anxious about the continuing escalation. With tensions already running high, and the mood he knew full well his friend was in...

"Sherlock- come on. Let it go."

Sherlock stumbled back a step with the shove, but that only prompted him to go closer, John's voice in his ear like the voice of reason but he could not heed it.

He could almost feel his death, there on the edge, and he was so close to the glass ceiling--

One good shove--

"Oh, good, at least then we know your true colours have been showing everywhere," He bit as he finally gave in and gave Garrus a good shove back.

The shove was what thoroughly pissed Garrus off, his left arm coming around in a fast and accurate punch aimed for the side of Sherlock's head.

"You know nothing about me, don't assume things."

He didn't even try to move (though realistically, he probably couldn't have anyway) and the punch hit him straight in the jaw, sending him staggering backward. His foot hit the glass but it didn't crack.

For the second time in that arena, Sherlock spit out a tooth, and glared up at Garrus, with eyes like daggers.

"No?" He asked, spitting again, blood on the ground. "Yes, you're doing a remarkably good job of proving your tame inner soul."

It was like watching an action replay in slow motion. John saw the punch, saw exactly where it would connect- and couldn't do a damn thing about it.

"Sherlock," he shouted, practically begging, now. "Sherlock. Stop. He's not worth it, come on--"

He had the gun, of course. If Sherlock wouldn't listen, if Garrus wouldn't stop, he could make him stop- but he wasn't about to shoot someone without exhausting the other options first.

He ignored John, not moving closer to Sherlock once he saw the glass that he was now standing on. He was not going to be responsible for sending Sherlock crashing through the skylight to his death.

"And you're doing a remarkable job goading someone you barely know, it takes a special kind of filth that verbally attacks someone until they snap. You're no better than the people that created this place." Garrus growled, blue eyes like tempered steel as he stared Sherlock down with a predatory gaze that seemed to pierce clean through him.

"Get back, John," Sherlock snapped, his eyes blazing as he stepped back off the glass, though he felt it crack under his weight.

He was almost relieved.

He met Garrus' glare with one of his own, unblinking as he stared him down.

"Of course you would take truth as an attack," Sherlock snapped at him. Feet now back on solid ground, he growled at him. "Your kind always do."

"Are you two really going to do this?" John shouted, adrenalin building as he watched Sherlock continue to goad Garrus on. "Really. Now. You're going to keep picking at it until what, exactly? What the hell are you playing at?"

"There is nothing true in your insinuations and false assumptions of who I am." Garrus growled, turning to look at John with his level of irritation rising. These two were chaos rolled into a nice little ball and he was getting tired of dealing with either of them.

"Maybe you should call off your sociopathic guard dog before he does something really stupid to get himself killed, like he wants."

Sherlock raised his hands to his lips, swiping at the blood there and glaring at Garrus.

"I'm done," He said, mostly to John as he stepped back away from Garrus. They were both right. He was so finished that he'd been attempting to commit suicide-by-tribute.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

He looked over at John. "Though we should keep an eye out for Shepard, if she's truly turning her innocent grunts into child-killers."

The comment about Shepard was the straw that finally broke Garrus. The wave of rage that flooded forward had him striking lightning fast and hard. The staff in his hand struck out with a sharp smack before Garrus' body followed through, bringing the staff around in another fast and brutal attack. It was obvious that he was trained, the motions fluid as the staff came down again, aimed for Sherlock's other side.

That was more than enough. Deciding in that instant that Garrus had been warned more than enough times and that Sherlock's life was in immediate danger, John drew his weapon and aimed it squarely at Garrus's head- alien he might be, but heads were a fairly safe bet- and pulled the trigger.

Before the gun even fired Sherlock was crumpling to the ground, utterly helpless under Garrus' assault. His weakened and poisoned body could do nothing, his already broken ribs shattering under the blow. Pieces of his own bone tore through him from within, and he felt like he was drowning, but it was only the blood in his lungs.

He never heard the gun go off.

Garrus heard the bang, he knew that this was likely the way he was going to die. It was odd that he was entirely prepared for the hit, part of him glad that he would no longer have to suffer in the arena.

He was dead before his body hit the ground, the blue blood slowly pooling under him and creeping along the roof tiles toward Sherlock's body.

There was something undeniably strange about silence and stillness after a gunshot. Hyper-aware of the rise and fall of his own chest, the blood running through his veins, John steadied himself, secured the gun and ran to Sherlock's side, crumpling heavily to his knees beside what he already knew on some level was his friend's body.

"Sherlock?" he called, trying to rouse him, leaning in to try and detect breath, to try and find a pulse- but it was too late. Sherlock's broken body had failed him.

Unable to face doing anything else, he squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly one last time, took a long, numbed look at the strangely coloured blood seeping inexorably across the roof towards him, and staggered back to his feet before making a hazy retreat.

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skipping john!

ok!

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