Love is a Much More Vicious Motivator (Teenlock AU)

Chapter 21

There was a pause, a fraction of a second that seemed to stretch on to almost infinity. No one moved, and no one breathed, there was silence, the eye of the storm bringing momentary peace before shattering the world once more.

Chris faltered. His movement stuttered, and his legs wavered beneath him, like a puppet with all its strings suddenly cut.

Diana screamed, a sound wrenched from deep in her soul, and flung herself backwards, taking the knife with her. She staggered away, the sharp blade bouncing across the carpet, forgotten. Kelly reacted instinctively, hurling himself at her and taking her off her feet with a flying tackle. Tim followed, gingerly retrieving the knife, then hovering nearby to help Kelly restrain her, but she didn't struggle, and she didn't take her eyes off Chris, as he slowly crumpled to his knees.

John lunged forward and caught his friend as he fell. He too fell to his knees, cradling Chris' head in his lap as though he was a tiny child, threatened and vulnerable. The angry yet clean slice in Chris' chest had started bleeding heavily; John hurriedly applied pressure to the wound to stem the pulsing flow of blood, his movements clumsy. Dimly, he registered the early signs of shock, but his mind was more concerned with his savagely wounded friend.

"Chris, Chris, look at me," John murmured, words urgent.

Chris gasped as the pain began to register, the adrenaline leaving a burning trail in its wake. "Hi, John." His voice was only slightly strained with the pain, a slight hitch in his breathing, barely noticeable.

"Chris."

"Look what I've gone and done. Saving lives? Never thought I'd be one for this sort of thing." John raised a jerky smile at Chris' resilient humour.

"It worked out quite well for me, that."

"Good. She didn't slash you, or anything?"

"No, god, no. You were too busy being heroic. No one would have had a chance with knifing me, thanks to you."

Chris laughed, a whispery shadow of his usual rumbling chuckle, but a laugh nonetheless.

Across the room, Sherlock's fixated gaze on John wavered. Sherlock gave a small whistle of alarm, before his flickering vision faded completely. As his head drooped, the blood loss shutting down his body, a last thought flitted across his mind, startling in its clarity.

At least John isn't hurt.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John was torn in two, caught between the man he loved and his best friend. Iveta looked at him sombrely.

"We will care for him, keep Chris going, John. He needs you."

Reluctantly, and yet not at all, John returned his attentions back to the bloodied form in his lap.

Tim was calling 999, the urgency evident in his voice.

"How're you feeling?" John asked Chris, his tone aggressively casual.

"Grand. A bit tired, actually, but that'll just be...Kelly's brutal training session last night." Chris raised his voice so Kelly could hear him where he still pointlessly held Diana. Chris' voice wavered a little, and cracked, but still had the desired effect.

"Hey, just because you aren't fit enough to play half a minute of rugby, doesn't mean you can blame me when you're tired after an easy session." Kelly was trying his damnedest to keep his tone light, but it was laced with heavy fear.

Chris snorted, then winced and arched his back in pain. Fresh blood surged from his wound; John pressed down on it harder. A pregnant pause filled the air, shattered when he spoke again, eager to fill the silence, and keep his thoughts from his own situation.

"John." Chris whispered, voice thin and reedy, obviously weakening rapidly. "Are you..." He raised his eyebrows, suggestively. "With Sherlock?"

"Chris! Is this really the time?"

"Aw, come on...tell me. You've been mooning over him...long enough. And Diana was all...watch me kill your boyfriend." Chris coughed, his heartbeat stuttering, and a thin ribbon of blood unravelled from the corner of his mouth.

"I haven't been mooning, Chris, I don't moon." John was gradually falling into blind panic, symptoms of shock worsening, praying for the ambulance to fly, screaming, up to the door.

"John...mate...you really have." Chris' voice was growing slower and weaker worryingly quickly, his speech slurring like a drunk, forced to take pauses more regularly to catch his breath.

"Okay, fine, Chris, I've been seeing him for a couple of weeks now."

"No...no way...you didn't tell me...you little shit."

"Sorry Chris, some things are best kept secret."

"Not...From me."

"Chris North, you are one of a kind."

"I know...but I really am...quite tired now...so I'm going to have...a little sleep."

"No, Chris, Chris, don't." John flew into wild fear as Chris closed his eyes and his breathing went out of pattern. He coughed twice, more blood sputtering between his lips.

John was helpless; he could only focus on the racing thump-thump of his friend's pulse as it faded, faded, and faded.

Cocooned in John's arms, Chris North, the gentle giant, let out a deep, weary sigh, and then stopped breathing altogether.

John stopped breathing, too. He desperately clung to Chris' last breath, as if holding it in himself would give extra minutes to the limp form in his arms. But deep down, John knew.

He bowed his head and lowered Chris' head to the floor, gently cushioning it so as not to hurt him - though nothing could hurt him anymore. His sandy hair mingled with the crimson carpet, a macabre image of tainted warmth. John finally released the numb wrist in his grip, the pulse that once throbbed so hopefully there gone, and gone for good.

"Chris." He murmured. "Oh, god, Chris."

The garish crimson stain on Chris' t-shirt, the one he wore so often, began to turn John's stomach, so he twisted his head away.

There was silence.

"Goodbye, big man." John whispered, barely trusting his voice. Iveta let a small, choked sob escape her lips, silent tears snaking away down her pale cheeks.

Diana wailed, a broken, cracked keen that sang the plagues of her tortured soul. Kelly didn't shift from pinning her down, only sign of emotion his downturned gaze, unable to meet the eyes of anyone in the room.

Loss, grief, and guilt intertwined in the air, weaving a quilt of sorrow that shrouded John, his eyelids drooping, throat aching, eyes stinging, hands shaking. He still didn't believe it, it hadn't registered properly.

As Iveta choked, Kelly looked on, Tim covered his mouth, Svetlana bit hard on her lip, and Diana stared, broken, it hit John, like a hammer blow to the chest or a machete driven into his head.

Chris was dead.

The ambulance arrived, screaming siren muted to insignificance in John's mind, to take Sherlock away and mend his arm. The police took a hollow Diana without a struggle. There was nothing left to be done for Chris.

***

The sun descending in the west,

The evening star does shine;

The birds are silent in their nest.

And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower

In heaven's high bower,

With silent delight

Sits and smiles on the night.

~Excerpt from Night, by William Blake