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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
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Chapter 26
John had long since given up fighting against the current. Instead he focused his remaining strength on keeping his head above the surface, which turned out to be quite a challenge in itself for a wounded man with limited mobility in his upper limbs and having suffered major bloodloss. Occasionally he inhaled too early, or a fraction of a second too late, and water entered his mouth, threatening to fill his lungs.
Already having experienced one near-death event, John knew that what they said about your whole life flashing by in a flurry of images was not true, at least not as far as he was concerned. All he saw was darkness, penetrated only by the occasional glimpse of light when he managed to break the surface of what was very likely to be his watery tomb.
It was different from last time. His conscious mind had blocked much of what happened when he was shot as a coping mechanism, but certain bits remained accessible in his dreams; not as coherent, structured memories but fragmental pieces from here and there. The blazing sun, the blue sky, the baking hot desert sand against his face, and what was perhaps the most pungent memory of all: the smattering noise of machine gun fire coming from a variety of directions.
The deafening memory of the explosions collided with the intense white noise of the current around him, and he was knocked back and forth between past and present as though he were slammed against the rocks of the very river he could not escape.
John realized he must have blacked out because the next thing he was aware of was that he was motionless and face down. As his brain slowly crawled its way into painful consciousness, he became aware that he was on somewhat solid land, likely the edge of the river. He did not know if he had been washed ashore out of pure chance or bodily removed from the water. Sunlight was dim through his closed eyelids, and despite the fact that he could barely breathe, he could feel the mud and stones beneath him, and his entire body ached as though he had been assaulted with a cricket bat.
He was alive.
Once he had ultimately decided he was indeed not dead, he was made aware of another sensation. Something was poking at him. A branch being blown in the wind? No, he could not feel a breeze of any sort. Perhaps some carrion bird was already taking the opportunity to eat him. Opening his eyes did not help much at all, for his view was limited to the ground. John would have loved to lift his head and get a better look at his surroundings - as well as his visitor - but he could barely move. Was he even able to speak after that harrowing misadventure in the river? Opening his mouth, he managed a raspy moan.
Almost immediately he heard a gasp which simultaneously conveyed many emotions; excitement, surprise, joy, even fear. But it was decidedly human in nature, and for a moment John dared to hope for rescue. He couldn't be so unlucky as to be found by the clan of deranged cannibals and be brought back to the cabin of horrors a second time… could he?
Then a voice spoke up, nasal and high, words twisted almost beyond recognition by the customary mountain drawl accent, but a speaking voice nonetheless. It was human.
"Come take a look at this, Pa! Lookit what Ah found!"
A kid. The speaker was a kid. Good lord. John tried to form words, to express a plea for help, but breathing alone had become so incredibly hard, and all he could manage was an inaudible whisper. Did he have a punctured lung? Two punctured lungs? Was he dying?
The child's shout out soon brought the approach of heavy footsteps, and John heard a man's voice, although his accent was possibly even thicker than the child's and the doctor could not make out the words.
"Ah think it's alive, Pa!" the child - most likely a boy - eagerly explained. "But it's hurt. Can ya help it?"
"Ah'll be damned…" "Pa" muttered and crouched down next to the prone man covered in mud but otherwise as naked as the day he was born. He stuck out a hand and held it in front of John's face to check if he was breathing, and once he had positive affirmation, he turned back to his son.
"Now ya listen to me, Eli. This here's a man, and he's been shot. Run back up to ya Mama and ask her to call an ambulance. We gotta take this man here to the hospital, or he gonna be dead. Can ya do that, Eli?"
"Uh huh!" the nasal voice drawled, and the boy was gone in a brief smattering of muddy footsteps. John had begun to ignore his would-be saviors somewhere at the middle of their brief talk and was desperately willing his limbs to cooperate with his brain. He was beginning to think he had been paralyzed until he finally managed to gather himself into a foetal position.
"Are y'alright?" the man next to him asked, likely out of instinct. John had a feeling he did not look 'alright' at all. In fact he felt like he should rightly be dead.
"Don't move," he heard, but he ignored it. He was wasting time just lying here in the mud. For all he knew, Sherlock was dead now. It did not matter; he would not leave him to rot away in the cabin of the repulsive monsters who were once men. He turned over and came face to face with the man who knelt at his side. Several teeth were missing on a scruffy unwashed visage. His breath smelled of far too many beers drunk each night. For a moment John felt as though he was back in the hellish cabin. His vision blurred, then became clear again.
"Can ya gimme yer name? What's yer name, son?"
John was done with the trivialities. He could not stay here any longer. Struggling to speak to the eagerly listening stranger, all he could think of was his friend.
"Shuh..."
The stranger nodded, trying to make out his speech.
"Sher..."
John finally found his voice. He had to find him. He had to save...
"Sherlock!"
A moment of silence followed. John wondered if he had successfully managed to convey his message to the simple but seemingly kind-hearted local, until the man spoke again.
"Shelluck? What ya say?"
Of course, John figured. The man had probably not even caught on to the fact that 'Sherlock' was a name, as it was not something people would commonly name their male children in this area. Not that that was true for any part of the world, considering…
Any hope of communicating the situation was thereby crudely stomped into the dirt, as John didn't believe he had the strength to produce the words required to elaborate. Every sound made by his aching lungs made him feel as though a horse had pulverized his ribcage with a vicious and well-aimed kick.
John swallowed, hoping it would at least temporarily ease his laboured breathing. It didn't, and when he made another attempt to explain himself, he quickly realized his muted flow of words sounded more like gibberish than properly enunciated speech.
"S'alright…" the scruffy-looking man murmured, and he, much like John himself, seemed at a loss for words. Probably these kind of situations were not part of his usual daily routine. The doctor, however, appreciated when the local removed his denim jacket, filthy though it was, and used it to cover his naked charge.
"Name's Jedidiah, but my friends call me Jed," the man introduced himself. "Now you just hang in there, yer gonna be alright… ambulance's on its way."
Ambulance? Where the bloody hell were they going to get an ambulance? As far as John knew, he was surrounded by miles upon miles of forests. According to the information about the area, the nearest hospital was forty minutes away. Nearly two hours of driving, and then God only knew how long he would be treated before he could tell anyone about a second person needing medical care...
"Stay still," the stranger known as Jed - God, how predictable - advised him. "Don't move now. Ya don't know if ya got broken bones."
I'll manage, John thought, but he could not even manage to utter the words. He started to speak again, but was cut off by the horrendous cough which rattled his insides and sent him collapsing onto his stomach once more. He likely had pneumonia. He would withstand diphtheria if he had the chance to get back to the cabin and find Sherlock.
And kill those filthy degenerates.
"That's right," Jed encouraged. "Jest lie there. Stay put and relax, and ya'll be in a hospital in no time."
John desperately tried to think of names of bones or muscles, but his mind was giving up on attempting any sort of focus. He could feel the pull of sleep closing its steely fingers around him, making him numb to the outside world.
No... no, I can't... he thought in despair. I have to help... Sherlock! But his lungs were exhausted and battered and the numbing that swiftly overtook his aching body was so damned inviting.
Eventually John stopped fighting it. He experienced brief moments of clarity following, during one of which he attempted to write Sherlock's name in the ground beneath him. It did not go well. The mud was too loose, the ground too soggy, and the letters he formed disappeared before he could start working on the next.
John was close to despair, but before he could suffer the full impact of it, unconsciousness claimed him and, momentarily at least, obliterated all dark thoughts and guilt from his mind.
It didn't matter anymore if he never woke up again.
TBC...
- 25
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- 27
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The Prey