Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Claymore

Chapter 12

John’s body shivered in shock, as Sherlock carried him inside and laid him gently on a mat. The front of John’s shirt was covered in black blood. As his body jerked with spasms of pain, John reached up and grabbed a hold of Sherlock’s jacket, “Ssssherlloock, “John gasped as his teeth involuntarily chattered together.

Sherlock felt a cold fear seize him as John grew paler by the minute. “John, don’t speak, you are wasting your energy. Clare went to get a healer; she should be here any second, so hang on John, please.”

Though Sherlock worked to keep his voice strong and clear, John could hear a tremor in it as he spoke, it reminded John of that horrible day that Sherlock had jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s. Tears poured down John’s face for he knew if he didn’t get help soon he would die. For a few moments John gazed into Sherlock’s eyes as if seeing him for the first and last time. The curly brown soft hair, the pale white skin, the chiseled cheekbones, the shinning blue-green eyes, these were only the physical attributes that made Sherlock beautiful. John sighed peacefully as he thought how irritated Sherlock would be if he knew that his intellect was the last thing that John considered to be an attribute of Sherlock’s. “Sherlock, I’m not going to make it. Please promise me you will leave immediately after I have drawn my last breath. Promise me.” John insisted as tears poured down Sherlock’s face. John hoped that Sherlock would do as he promised for John didn’t want Sherlock to see his mortal body go through the death throes. As John reached up to touch Sherlock’s face, his body grew heavy and cold in Sherlock’s arms. He looked up once more at Sherlock and then John smiled. “Sherlock…” John whispered as he fell back into Sherlock’s arms.

Sherlock gently shook John, but there was no response. “John, John, answer me.” Sherlock desperately shouted. Sherlock shook John harder this time, ignoring the blood that smeared against his jacket. “John, don’t leave me, please. I can’t stand this, this…fucked up world without you. Oh God, no, please John…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off in a sob as he began to make resuscitation attempts by applying mouth to mouth. When that didn’t work Sherlock began to pump on John’s chest in an effort to jump start his heart. He pounded on John’s chest hysterically until Jake pulled him away.

“Sherlock, he’s gone,” Jake said as he held a sobbing Sherlock to his chest.

Sherlock tore himself out of Jake’s grasp and kneeled down beside John’s body. Sherlock gently kissed John’s cold lips, and then reached for John’s sword. As Sherlock wobbled to his feet with John’s sword, he knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to plunge the sword into his own heart, after all his real heart-John, lay dead at his feet, so what difference would it make to actually deprive his body of breath. Without John his life would be a living tomb. Sherlock raised the sword and was about to take the plunge when a strong grasp ripped the weapon out of his hand.

“Sherlock, stop and listen to me,” Clare commanded.

Sherlock’s face was red from the effort it took to breath normally. As tears poured from his eyes, Sherlock uttered not a sound he just stood there weaving in silent shock. “Sherlock, you need to listen to me. John, can be brought back, but there will be a price. If we bring him back, John will be a Claymore.”

Sherlock’s throat was raw and he felt as if he were going to throw up. “Just do it,” Sherlock hollowly replied.

Clare gently took Sherlock’s arm, “Are you sure? John, will be for all intents and purposes, a monster-a demon.”

Sherlock grabbed Clare roughly and slammed her against the wall. “I don’t care if he’s the fucking Anti-Christ, just bring him back.” Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth.

Clare disengaged herself from Sherlock’s grasp as she and the healer knelt beside John. Sherlock watched in horrified fascination as Clare took John’s shirt off; his skin was ripped open from his clavicle bone all the way to the top of his rib cage. The red muscle tissue was in stark contrast to the black blood that congealed around it.  Clare took out a knife and cut off a piece of flesh from her upper arm and handed it to the healer. The healer kneaded it for a moment or two, covered it with some purple goo, and shoved it as far as he could in John’s wound.