Jul. 24th, 2011 10:05 pm
leone: (Default)
[personal profile] leone
Title: Dust
Author: [personal profile] leone
Rating: G
Character(s): John Watson, two unnamed OCs
Summary: Why John shoots so well
Warnings: gunfire, character death
Author's Notes: Fill for July 24th prompt: "Pick one of the four seasons and write about a storm during that season.  Spring shower, summer hurricane, autumn wind, winter blizzard, or whatever strikes your fancy.  Must be Watson-centric H/C or angst; what form that takes is up to you."
Word Count: 422

John pounded along the dusty road, a wild smile twisting his lips into something resembling a snarl. The summer heat hung over everything, weighing down breath and movement and life, but it parted before his rage. Uneven gusts of wind lashed his hair and drove grit into his eyes, but he didn’t need sight to know where he was going. Tonight, he knew, he would make the evil bastard pay. Three men were dead because of this lunatic who should never have been deployed past the foyer of a psych ward, and John was damned if tonight would make four. The others were coming, but they were too slow. He was here now, and he would make it end now, and the coming storm would scour the bastard’s bones until only his memory was left in the desert.

            He skidded to a stop, sneezed, and cursed. He could tell from the shadows in the tent that there were two people inside—another victim had been captured. As he squinted through his streaming eyes, the shadow on the left raised its hand slowly; if he did not act soon—

            He raised his gun, steadied his trembling hands, sighted through the swirling dust, and fired. Over the echo of the shot, he heard laughter—but it was not relieved or hysterical. It was triumphant, and mad. A figure stepped out of the tent, barely visible through the dust, but he could see that it was too tall, too thin, too confident. It raised its arm slowly and pointed at him. He could not see if it had anything in its hand, and at the moment he didn’t care. He fired until his magazine was empty, long after the figure had fallen, and he did not spare it a glance as he dashed into the tent. There—slumped on the ground, already covered in the dust that had been blown through the cracks. Blood still flowed from the boy’s leg, but he saw that it was too late. He went through the motions, of course—tourniquet, water, haemostat, but the boy never roused. John crouched next to him and held his hand until the breathing stopped, and after, and when the others found him his leg was so cramped that he felt he would never walk freely again.


            Two years later, the air was clear, the figures were clear, the glass was clear. His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not water, and he did not miss. And afterwards, his leg felt fine.


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