His bare feet slapped wetly down in the blood spattered floor, a mix of the pig's blood that was oxidizing slowly on his trousers and the warm liquid that dribbled down his arm and throbbed with the beat of his heart down his back. The tiger was crouched on the floor with blood gushing from its mouth where John's knife had penetrated.
John sprang down onto its back, and felt it convulse with anxiety below him. Without hesitation, John used his steady left hand to sink the knife into the animal's neck deeply. He wasn't entirely certain precisely where the jugular lay a big cat's neck, but he knew that if you stabbed anything deeply enough it would die.
The tiger sunk liquidly to the floor.
“I'm sorry,” John heard his own voice say, as if in a fever dream. “There's a good boy, shhh, shh. I'm so sorry. Please... forgive me.”
Numbly, John realized he was gently running his fingers through the tiger's bloody fur.
Gasping for breath, John laid quietly on top of it, resting his head on the animal's and feeling its life ebb away beneath his sweating cheek. A long white whisker bent against his forehead. His own weight felt too impossible to hold up anymore. Shock began to set into his extremities and his head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton.
Time passed.
John registered movement; he was being lifted off of the tiger's rapidly cooling body. Everything hurt. His body roiled with pain. He had no energy left to do anything but hiss inaudibly. He was laid face down on the cold cement. Something was wrapped tightly around his arm; there was pressure applied to his back. The tiger's body was taken away.
John was left alone in the cold room, in a bad way, but the door to the cement room was left open.
And that was how it stayed, until Sherlock and a team of Mycroft's people found him soon after.
Re: Due to some absurd game of Moriarty's, John has to kill a tiger with his bare hands.
John sprang down onto its back, and felt it convulse with anxiety below him. Without hesitation, John used his steady left hand to sink the knife into the animal's neck deeply. He wasn't entirely certain precisely where the jugular lay a big cat's neck, but he knew that if you stabbed anything deeply enough it would die.
The tiger sunk liquidly to the floor.
“I'm sorry,” John heard his own voice say, as if in a fever dream. “There's a good boy, shhh, shh. I'm so sorry. Please... forgive me.”
Numbly, John realized he was gently running his fingers through the tiger's bloody fur.
Gasping for breath, John laid quietly on top of it, resting his head on the animal's and feeling its life ebb away beneath his sweating cheek. A long white whisker bent against his forehead. His own weight felt too impossible to hold up anymore. Shock began to set into his extremities and his head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton.
Time passed.
John registered movement; he was being lifted off of the tiger's rapidly cooling body. Everything hurt. His body roiled with pain. He had no energy left to do anything but hiss inaudibly. He was laid face down on the cold cement. Something was wrapped tightly around his arm; there was pressure applied to his back. The tiger's body was taken away.
John was left alone in the cold room, in a bad way, but the door to the cement room was left open.
And that was how it stayed, until Sherlock and a team of Mycroft's people found him soon after.
– * -