By the end of it, Sherlock was running for his life. He couldn't see what was chasing him, but he could hear them - a pack of them - just barely audible over the continuous screech of strange music through the arena. He hadn't stopped to figure out what they were. If they were coming down on him, then Wyatt and Howard were sitting ducks, and he doubted he could take down a pack of animals by himself, with not a weapon to speak of --
He heard Howard's voice, a song on the wind, long before he saw him. He was still running, the singing getting louder, when he realised he was no longer being chased. Once he caught sight of Howard, cradling Wyatt's body, he finally allowed himself to slow - the adrenaline and the fury making his heart pound like a jackhammer in his chest.
By the time he actually reached Howard, he was walking - barely making a noise as he approached the boy, a solemn expression on his face despite his racing blood. It only took a glance to affirm that Wyatt was dead - killed by the same poison that had killed John.
His fingers curled into a fist, tight enough to turn his knuckles white.
"I don't have matches," He said, his voice oddly emotionless. "John's dead."
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He heard Howard's voice, a song on the wind, long before he saw him. He was still running, the singing getting louder, when he realised he was no longer being chased. Once he caught sight of Howard, cradling Wyatt's body, he finally allowed himself to slow - the adrenaline and the fury making his heart pound like a jackhammer in his chest.
By the time he actually reached Howard, he was walking - barely making a noise as he approached the boy, a solemn expression on his face despite his racing blood. It only took a glance to affirm that Wyatt was dead - killed by the same poison that had killed John.
His fingers curled into a fist, tight enough to turn his knuckles white.
"I don't have matches," He said, his voice oddly emotionless. "John's dead."