Can this be the end?

[monkeybard]

Mine are the evens, methylviolet's are the odds. But really we're both pretty damned odd.



Round 1 here.
Round 2 here.
Round 3 here.
Round 4 here.
Round 5 here.
Round 6 here.
Round 7 here.
Round 8 here.
Round 9 here.
Round 10 here.
Round 11 here.
Round 12 here.
Round 13 here.
Round 14 here.
Round 15 here.
Round 16 here.
Round 17 here.
Round 18 here.
Round 19 here.
Round 20 here.
Rounds 21 through 33 here.
Rounds 34 through 52 here.
Rounds 53 through 67 here.
Rounds 68 through 75 here.
Rounds 76 through 86 here.

87. Motionless

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock's disdain could have been used to cut steel.

"How bad is it?"

"Just a graze."

Lestrade hoped Sherlock was telling the truth. "Can you cuff Mr. Ferguson?"

"If he's not too stupid." Sherlock sauntered forward, deftly extracted Lestrade's handcuffs from his jacket pocket, and approached Ferguson, careful to not get between Lestrade's gun and the motionless man. "You see, Ferguson, I really want Lestrade to blow your brains out. I'm rather hoping you'll give him the excuse. So please, do consider trying to resist me as I handcuff you. You'd be doing the world a favor."

88.  Wicked

Ferguson didn't take the offer. Sherlock cuffed him, none too gently judging by the man's pained grunt. "Dear me. Shoulder a bit twingy, is it?" asked Sherlock with false sympathy. For good measure, he gave a sharp tug on the restraints, hard enough to make a point. Ferguson gasped and blood drained from his face.

Lestrade pretended not to notice. With the suspect secure, he stood down and traded his firearm for his phone. "I don't suppose those warrants I mentioned earlier will be a problem to acquire now, do you?"

Sherlock's only reply was a wicked and satisfied smile.

89. Wound

It didn't take long for additional officers to arrive on the scene and take Ferguson away. Normally Lestrade would have accompanied Ferguson to the station, then gotten a jump on the paperwork. Not this time, however; not with Sherlock growing steadily paler beside him, not with John in hospital, status unknown.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go to A&E and get your wound looked after."

"I told you, it's trivial. Just a graze."

"Maybe so, but you can still have it checked out while we wait for word on John. And you'll be close at hand when he's approved for visitors."

90. Touch

Sherlock relented and climbed into Lestrade's car without comment.

Lestrade considered offering to run the siren again, as a joke of course, but Sherlock's tight expression and tense demeanour warned him off. Still, he pushed the speed limits all the way back.

Sherlock was silent as the ride progressed. He sat without moving, eyes closed as if in thought or sleep. More likely it's pain management, thought Lestrade.

He pulled up and shut off the engine. Sherlock made no move. Worried, Lestrade reached out to rouse him.

Pale eyes flashed open. "Don't touch me."

Lestrade withdrew his hand. "We've arrived."

91. Slave

Getting Sherlock admitted on a priority basis proved easier than Lestrade expected. For one, A&E was fairly quiet. For two, even an organization as much a slave to paperwork as the NHS expedited when the soon-to-be patient was dripping blood.

One look from Sherlock told Lestrade that he'd better not even think about accompanying him into the exam room. Taking the hint, he went instead to the admittance desk.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for information on a patient. John Watson?"

A guarded expression flickered across the woman's face. "Are you family?"

Lestrade produced his warrant card. "Police. And a friend."

92. Trust

The woman wasn't quick to trust. She pursed her lips and reached for his ID. He relinquished it and waited as she examined it. Finally convinced, she handed it back.

"Wait here." She rose and went in search of the attending.

Soon a woman in a white coat arrived and greeted him. "DI Lestrade? I'm Doctor Chatterjee."

Lestrade skipped the pleasantries. "John Watson. How is he?"

"The curare made things tricky, but he'll be fine. Your friend has friends in high places."

"He's not religious." Or was he? Lestrade was suddenly unsure.

"That's not what I meant."

Of course. Mycroft.

93. Vicious

And speak of the Devil… An exquisitely-suited figure emerged from the exam area, a pair of Blackberry-wielding assistants in tow. "Ah, Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft greeted him calmly, as if he'd expected to see him. Knowing him, he probably had. "I see you've resolved the situation with Ferguson. Well done."

How the hell…? Lestrade didn't finish the thought. It wasn't worth asking. However, thinking of Ferguson reminded Lestrade of Sherlock – and his brother's likely reaction to Sherlock in less than pristine condition. "Mycroft, Sherlock…"

"Judging by the particularly vicious curse with which he greeted me, his damage must be entirely superficial."

94. Incapacitate

"He said as much. I didn't entirely believe him."

"A wise decision where my brother is concerned. This time, however, he's proved quite truthful. It will take more than a maniac's ill-aimed bullet to incapacitate the great Sherlock Holmes." The comment came with Mycroft's most sardonic smile.

"Have you seen John?"

"I have not." His tone implied it was by choice, not directive. "I've no doubt he is receiving excellent care." He nodded once to Chatterjee who returned it, pleased.

"I'll let you both know when he's fit for visitors," she said.

"Better be soon," said Lestrade. "I hear Sherlock."

95. Weary

Indeed, it was hard to ignore the voice exclaiming vociferously against wearing a sling. Mycroft raised one hand to his brow. Lestrade wasn't sure – the expression came and went so quickly – but he thought Mycroft looked weary.

"Sherlock, do humor the man, if you please. If only to please John."

Sherlock ignored the remonstrating physician and focused on Mycroft. His coat hung over his good arm, and his shirtsleeve was cut away, revealing a blood-spotted bandage on his bicep. "John's awake?"

"It's hard to be sure," Chatterjee hedged.

"Nonetheless, if you behave, I'm sure the doctor will allow a visit."

96. Pallid

Lestrade had never seen someone simultaneously pouting, demanding, and obsequious. Leave it to Sherlock to be able to express all three at once.

"Doctor, I'd like to see my friend. Please."

Chatterjee eyed him, Lestrade, and Mycroft, and then came to her own decision. "Come with me. Only you. I won't have the room cluttered with all of you at once."

She ushered him in, waved the attendant nurse out, and said, "I'll be outside." Reassurance or warning? Both, determined Sherlock.

John's eyes were closed. They'd washed away the white make-up, but his face remained pallid and, without eyebrows, incomplete.

97. Recumbent

Sherlock pulled the one visitor's chair close to John's bed. The sling made everything doubly awkward. Finding a tolerable way to sit and hold John's hand (to monitor heartrate and autonomic responses, of course, just in case John wasn't yet able to respond verbally) nearly defeated him, but at last he managed.

"John?" he called softly, once he was settled.

He could feel John's heartbeat thudding regularly, reassuringly, but his friend's recumbent figure remained motionless. There was no change in pulse.

"You'd better look quickly," he continued on. "I'm following doctor's orders. Wearing a sling and everything."

John's eyelids fluttered.

98. Giggle (or Ass)

"You're going to miss it if you don't look now."

Slowly, so slowly, John's eyes opened. He turned his head on the pillow. Such a small movement yet so gratifying that Sherlock had to suppress a manic giggle of relief. 

"I knew that would get your attention," he went on smugly.

John rolled his eyes in reply.

Sherlock grew serious. "We got them both, you know. Farnsworth and his nephew Leo."

John's eyes tracked along Sherlock's damaged arm, questioning.

"Just a graze. Nothing really. I told Lestrade..." He shrugged dismissively and winced.

John snorted an almost-laugh and whispered fondly, "Ass."

99. Mitigate (or gaudy)

“Really, John. Is that the best you can come up with?” Sherlock mocked gently, hoping to provoke another smile. John looked so weak, so small among all the monitoring equipment and other paraphernalia. A gaudy tangle of IVs snaked over his arm, one saline, one blood. Both would mitigate the effects of the drug, but they also stood as a stark reminder of Sherlock’s own failure.

“No.” John’s voice was scarcely audible, but nonetheless drew Sherlock’s attention like a magnet. Understanding, knowing eyes met his own. “Not… your fault.”

Sherlock swallowed, then gave John a determined grin. “Of course not.”

100. End (or Poodle)

Even in his injured state, John could see through Sherlock's façade. Behind the self-assurance and bravado, there was a lost look in his eyes, like someone had kicked his pet poodle or stolen his favourite toy.

Hm. John didn't like his own role in those analogies. He blamed the drugs and exhaustion. He'd been up since 3:10 that morning!

"Time?"

"Late. I should go. Let you sleep." Sherlock didn't stir, hand still in John's despite the obvious evidence that his friend's vitals were strong.

"Stay."

"Awfully long day."

"But… good end… to it."

Sherlock smiled. "Yes. I suppose it is."