thearena | (no subject)

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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.