Trust Issues

The Ring of Fire

Sherlock was walking swiftly, which surprised John because before it looked like he couldn’t even stand up without overdoing it. John was worried about him, he was never nasty like this, he was never leading, and he looked like a zombie.
“What’s wrong with him?” Greg muttered as he put clipped his knife back onto his belt.
“Haven’t the faintest.” John lied. He doubted that Sherlock would appreciate it if John went and told everyone what was really happening to their captain. He could only hope that they could get off this bloody island before Sherlock was overtaken by the disease, but the hopes weren’t high. He was spiraling downward, into a pit of sickness and insanity. John took a deep breath, walking on with the others and trying not to think about Sherlock for now. But it was a little bit difficult to ward off a thought that kept eating away at your brain; John thought all he could think about was Sherlock. Before this it was the same thing yet the exact opposite. John couldn’t stop thinking of Sherlock because he resembled an angel, a kind, attractive man that made John’s heart glow at the mere thought of him. He wasn’t some type of half dead grouch that made John want to cry. There was nothing more to look at, the engravings all looked the same now, the freezing air was almost normal, the suffering and pain became part of his daily routine. Famine, exhaustion, dehydration, small things like that didn’t seem to matter anymore. He just walked as a default setting now, one leg in front of the other; he could almost walk in a perfect line without bumping into the men with his eyes closed. Greg ran out of things to say. Anderson couldn’t think of another insult to throw around, the entire trip seemed dull now, as if the scythe was just behind the boring part of the book. Even though he knew it would end into even more pain than he wanted, John thought action was better than just sitting and walking and repeating.

                It took a whole day to reach what they thought looked promising, a wider cave with more detail, and this time there were torches. The wood was black and the flames were black, but they still shined grim light over the rock caves. Sherlock, if possible, had only gotten more irritable, practically yelling everything he said and getting more negative than Anderson. He wouldn’t eat, he didn’t sleep, and John had the uncomfortable feeling he was watching him when he was looking the other way. Sherlock led the way, into the newer hallway, his torch held high and his sword out in defense. John took his sword off his belt as well, even though he doubted anything could live down he for very long. And then the hallway opened up completely, into a high ceilinged ceremonial like hall. There were dusty, gray tapestried hanging from the ceiling, but John couldn’t see what they said or displayed. He would guess though, that they resembled the engravings on the wall, dark and twisted. The room was completely empty except for a stone altar. No chests, no display cases that would suggest that there was an ancient godly scythe hidden in here. Sherlock walked up to the altar, examining it from every angle, his sunken in eyes picking up every last detail. Anderson and Mike looked too scared to even approach the captain, as if he would bite their heads off if they tried to steal his thunder. The rest of the crew stood awkwardly in the doorway, as if they were uninvited party guests waiting for an invitation to enter. Sherlock straightened up, examining the crew with squinted eyes.
“It needs a sacrifice, then it will open.” he declared. John could feel everyone’s desire to take a step back. If Sherlock had been his usual self they would have no worries, but with his little mood swing John feared for his life.
“Sir, are you positive?” Anderson asked with a sort of nervous gulp.
“Give that which is most precious to you in exchange for accursed power and wealth.” Sherlock read in a sort of dramatic tone. “There is nothing more precious to me than my own life, so someone just has to be brave enough to volunteer.” He scanned the crowd again, and John sincerely hoped someone would volunteer. He was debating whether or not to give his own life to the cause, but he decided that it was his responsibility to make sure Sherlock got out of here alive and well. Even if the captain wanted to throw him off a cliff at the moment, John still wasn’t about to let him die when he knew his true heart was turning black.
“Any volunteers?” he repeated slowly, as if this was more of a mandatory thing to do. No one came forward, and John started to worry. If no one came forward, who would die? He knew not all of them could make it out of this alive. There was a moment of silence and Sherlock looked absolutely rabid, as if the promise of gold made him go mad.
“I will sir.” said a man, stepping forward through the pack of men. John didn’t know his name, and he felt guilty for not bothering to figure it out. Everyone wanted to make the man get back, to make sure no one died today, but they weren’t brave enough to give up their own lives to save his. They stayed silent as the man walked forward, examining the altar.
“Will you do the honors?” he asked, handing Sherlock a small, curved knife off of his belt. For a moment John thought he saw the flash of the real Sherlock in his eye, looking upon a man that would give up everything for him.
“Are you sure Mr. Hart?” Sherlock asked, almost looking sympathetic.
“We’ve come all of this way, I don’t want to let the group down.” The man decided. He climbed onto the altar, lying down with his head at one end and his legs handing off the other side. “Is there a ritual?” he asked.
“Not that it mentions.” Sherlock said, twisting the knife in his hand and looking at the man upon the table, as if he was craving the death. He’s officially gone mad. Sherlock began to raise the blade, the metal reflecting off of the torch light, and John had to look away. To see someone die, someone he had known, it was too much for him. He looked down the hallway, down into the dark depth of familiar mysteriousness. He heard the knife go down, stab into the man’s heart. He didn’t make much sound, just the faint breath of his last surprise, the words he had meant to say leaking out as no more than a weak moan. And then it sounded like stone grinding against stone, echoing through the chamber. John peaked through his fingers, which were blocking his eyes to avoid watching the poor man’s death. The altar was sliding open, blood from the corpse sitting on top of it dripping to the floor in pools of scarlet. It made John’s stomach sick, but he refused to look away because from the altar came some sort of angelic glow, the first true light John had seen in days. It burned his eyes, burned them like they were about to catch fire in his sockets, but Sherlock reached in, picking up the real scythe, the one that the very Cronos had used to slay his father, and held it above his head in pride. It looked similar to the one John had managed to create, it bent much more wickedly, but it was golden, had jewels in pretty much every available location, and there was ancient blood dried on the blade. After all this time, all this effort and suffering, they had finally made it.
“Let it be known, that…” Sherlock stopped talking, staring blankly at the crew but not moving. Then the scythe fell out of his hands, crashing to the floor with a loud clang that echoed along the long abandoned church above them. John looked at him with shock, his heart stopping temporarily, trying to figure out what was wrong with the captain. And then Sherlock fell, his feet collapsing underneath him and just barely missing cracking his head off of the stone altar. John was one of the first to run to him, run through the men, run to where Sherlock lay, but now he was completely black. Black as the night, as nothingness, his once pale skin matched the obsidian perfectly. His eyes were open, but, to John’s absolute horror, they were black too, not even the faintest hint of green was able to pierce the veil of the sickness.
“Sherlock!” John called, kneeling next to him and patting the captain’s cheek. The skin was stiff, as if someone had dried it out, and Sherlock didn’t respond. “Sherlock wake up!” he repeated desperately. The scythe lay to the side, forgotten. The crew didn’t dare come near, as if they would suffer the same fate as the captain. “Sherlock please.” John muttered, feeling tears start to run down his face. It felt like his very soul had been stabbed with an icy blade, every feeling of hope, every feeling of love he had for this man seemed to have melted into black goo with Sherlock himself. He started to cry now, tears streaming down like rain, uncontrollable. He set his forehead on his captain’s chest, shaking now with sobs, trying to bring his back to him, because like it or not, John had been the one to kill him. And then he heard it, or felt it, or even both, but the most wonderful noise he could ever heard echoes through his ears like God himself singing. It was the sound of hope, of all the hope in world gathering in this very room, as if he was given another chance at happiness, he heart a faint heartbeat in Sherlock’s chest.
“He’s alive!” John exclaimed. “There’s a heartbeat, he’s alive!” John repeated, as if they hadn’t heard him before. There was no response from the crew; they just stood there in silence, as if trying to comprehend what had just happened in the last couple of minutes. John looked to them for support, trying to find the reaction he was looking for. Greg and Moran were speechless, and Anderson’s mouth was slightly hanging open.
“Water, does anyone have any water?” John asked desperately, holding out a hopeful hand. One man threw his flask at him, which John caught effortlessly. There wasn’t a lot left, only half the flask was filled, but John propped Sherlock’s mouth open and poured some down his throat. Even Sherlock’s mouth was black, his teeth, everything. John had no doubt that his very bones were black; the disease had turned him to almost a rotting state. John threw back the flask, now empty, but he was sure that Sherlock needed it more.
“Come on then, there must be an exit in here, we need to find it, we need to get out of here as soon as possible.” Anderson decided, regaining his senses. John wondered if he had been on the verge of crying too.
“Move!” Mike repeated harshly, and immediately the men started searching. It didn’t take long, thankfully, for one of the men to point out a door, blended cleverly in with the stone pattern on the wall. Everyone pretended to ignore the corpse leaking blood on the black marble altar, to not notice the comatose, rotting captain on the floor with John still standing over him. These were just minor details. John watched as a team of men pushed the apparently stone door open, with a loud scraping sound sunlight started leaking into the blackness. John couldn’t look away from the beauty of it even though it burned his eyes more than the scythe light.
“It’s a tunnel, but it can’t be long, get the captain, get the scythe, let’s go!” Anderson called. He ran over, setting John’s replica into the altar, which looked slightly less epic than the real one, but it still didn’t stop John from glowing with pride.
“Don’t touch it, use a cloth or something.” John objected as Mike rushed to pick the blade up. Mike nodded, ripping a piece of his shirt off and picking it up by the handle. John held his breath, just in case a thin piece of cloth would be enough, but apparently it was since Mike didn’t suffer the same fate as Sherlock had. John heard a sort of rumbling, thinking they were just opening the door wider, but everyone had stopped to listen. Mike looked around nervously; did picking up the blade have anything to do with it?
“What is that?” Anderson asked. No one moved or talked, listening to the rumbling, and then, all of the sudden, rock panels in the wall opened up. John didn’t wait to see what was coming out of them; he picked Sherlock up in a sort of bride carry and ran to the exit. He felt heat, blazing heat that singed his hair, but he made it through the door and out of the room. The other men were now running for their lives, John in the lead, struggling under the weight of Sherlock in his arms. Just because he was so thin didn’t mean he weighted any less than one hundred and thirty pounds, John was just happy for the strength he had gained during the trip. He assumed it was fire that was chasing them when he saw other men start to pass him in the sprint for sunlight. They had holes burned in their clothes and some even had blackened hair. Finally the tunnel opened up into a beach, still dark and rocky, but the open air, the wind ruffling John’s hair, it was better than he could have ever hoped for. To his absolute delight he saw their ship, still afloat in the water, bobbling happily in the storm free waters. Where those halls had gone he had no idea, but they seemed to have wrapped them back around.
“Don’t stop, get to the row boats!” Anderson screamed, the last one out of the tunnel. By now John’s arms were burning hotter than the fire, the captain seemed to be getting heavier and heavier with every step he could. His feet started to hurt from being pounded against stones, but he stopped running when he got to where the rowboats were.
“Hurry, hurry, it’s about to blow!” Anderson called. That motivated the men to overturn the small rowboats faster, and John climbed into the first available one, setting the captain down underneath the benches as softly as he could. Sherlock didn’t move, he hadn’t moved since he fell, but John checked once again for a pulse, which was still beating ever so slightly. John climbed back out of the boat, not going to slack off just because his sort of boyfriend was in this state. He helped over turn the rest of the boats, arms burning but it was a lot better than his whole body burning.
“In the boats, come on!” Mike called, and John sprinted to the one Sherlock was in. Greg climbed in with him and Moran started pushing the boat into the sea before John could even get seated. There was a great boom, and a fire ball exploded from the tunnel they had escaped from. Soon the small boat was being tossed around in the waves, Greg struggling to paddle away from the island, which was going up in flames already. Everything dead seemed to burn like oil, all of the rotting trees, the fruits, the animals, all burning. John couldn’t tell if all of the boats were in the water, but they weren’t going to sit around and wait for them. Greg was doing his best to keep up with the tide, rowing as hard as he could toward the ship. John hoped it wasn’t completely flooded, that would be miserable, just more dumping water. But at the moment he wasn’t really caring about that. They got closer and closer, listening to the crackling of the burning island and the distant yells of the men following them.