Disclaimer; Nope. I don't own a thing. Pity, though...

Screaming For Some Healing

It's the scent of dead, rotting flesh that reaches Mohinder's nose first, sharp and acrid and invading his nostrils as if it's quite happy to make itself at home.

Next, is the taste of copper on his tongue, thick and tangy and sliding down his throat with all the ease of a brick.

Thirdly, is the wetness along his cheek, a consistency that cloys and sticks to the chill skin of his face, still warm. The crimson liquid is disturbingly fresh, bright with oxygen as the geneticist cracks his eyes open blearily to blink away the gumminess there, only to discover that the blood... the blood isn't his own. There's no wound on his body, other than the dark, aching bruises that pepper their way up from his wrist to his elbow. He hisses softly. The pain... it's merely a nuisance, nothing more.

However, once coherency comes to Mohinder, once it all begins to sink in, slow and seeping and rotten... it all becomes clear. The smell. The blood. He's drenched in it, soaked almost from head to toe in the sticky, crimson not his own and now the panic kicks in, pumping frantic adrenaline through his veins.

War. It's the sight that greets him; the muted effects of a battle, twisted and abstract-Picasso i and it all seems to shift as he focuses, frowning, of a massacre so terrible that bile rises in Mohinders throat... and he forces the bitterness down, swallowing thickly. But this of course only allows him to acknowledge the metallic taste in his mouth, and that in turn makes the vomit surge its way up from his gut, heaving acid and bile and the remains of some unknown meat onto the dirty carpet below him.

"Now that... that's just disgusting. You should learn to control yourself, like a good dog." Sylar drawls, though his voice is laced with pain, flesh marble-pale and ice to the touch as Mohinder soon discovers as he reaches out for blind reassurance, fingertips staggering and stumbling over the taut, stubble-roughness of Sylar's cheek.

But no matter how hard Mohinder blinks the bleariness in his eyes still persists, like a thin gauze over the tender orbs that prevents him from seeing clearly, and the world is just a mish-mash of violent colours. Shaking his head to clear the cotton wool from his brain -- and to perhaps take back some of his failing eyesight -- Mohinder coughs, throat red raw. "W-what happened?"

A pause. "Take a look." A heavy breath falls from Sylar's parted lips, and the following sharp intake of breath is worrying, though Mohinders shaky efforts to touch are quickly pushed away, hot hands that shove the geneticists roaming hands away. "Stop it. There are more important things to worry about right now."

Warm slickness seeps down his sleeve and Mohinder frowns, shaking off the bothersome liquid with ease, at least partially chastised by Sylar's words. "...Wait. You didn't—?" His balance falters, off-kilter, and he wobbles slightly as he pulls himself to an unsteady bearing.

Sylar huffs, and it's clear that he's not entirely impressed with his darling pets assumption. Maybe he should teach him a little bit of a lesson, later? "My dear Doctor Suresh, if this had been my doing... why, it would've been a lot less messy." His tone is full of contempt as he takes in the all too gruesome sight that litters the living room of the Petrelli mansion. The vacant stares of glassy eyes are almost disturbing, the dead and quickly decaying bodies doll-like with their stiff limbs, made up so prettily with crimson lining their throats and spattering their chests... though Sylar can't help but feel disgusted that he hadn't at least managed to play a part in this fun little game, this mockery of death. Oh no, he partook in none of this. Unfortunately.

Peter sits propped up casually against the wall, with eyes plucked fresh from his very skull... though the dried blood caking fine cheekbones says otherwise. "But who, in their right mind, would want to liquidise such pretty eyes as those?" The murderer murmurs to himself in a sing song tone, nudging the prone form with one foot. Nonchalant.

"Your... your lack of remorse is... is.."

"Speechless, Mohinder? That's a first."

It feels as if something is trying to burst up from his throat, choking and gagging uncontrollably where moments before there'd been only the gentle sound of breathing. Contract and relax, contract and relax and Mohinder's puzzled as to why words have left him. There's only the warm weight of Sylar pressing hard against his back, as the distinct feeling of difficulty breathing spreads like a cancer to the rest of him, a bathumpbathump loud in his head. Contract. Relax. Pressure in his head and behind his eyes and Mohinders eyesight begins to fail entirely. "S-sssyllarrr..."

It's a disease. It'd spread throughout the room, even before their non-too-subtle arrival. It's a disease that had mercilessly slain Peter and Nathan, before swiftly moving onto their mother. Heidi and the boys soon followed. Airborne...? Does it matter? They're dead. Prolonged exposure and all that scientific crap, Sylar muses.

It's funny really. Sylar had come to finally take those last remaining powers that he'd been struggling to obtain for a long time, and instead he walks into a massacre whilst also falling prey to the monstrosity of this unknown thing as it eats away at Mohinder's eyes, slim and tanned fingers flexing and clawing madly at the sockets, struggling for breath. And all Sylar can do is watch, pressing his precious pet to his chest and oh... leaving as fast as his legs can carry him. Which is quite fast mind you.

Away from the suffocation of death and pain and that... that... unexplainable happening Sylar can breath again. He's mildly disgusted, of course, as the blood that seeps down Mohinders cheeks in slow, gradual rivulets wasn't his doing at all. And for some reason the harsh, wet gagging that rises from his pet's throat doesn't cause a tightening in his gut. It causes only anger.

"Hush." There's only bleak darkness for the geneticist now, and his quaking limbs cling to the strong arms of his Master, his life-line. Cool hands on his forehead and the heady bathumpbathump in his head eases to a gentle ache, and the pain... it gradually begins to diminish as Sylar takes pity and heals him.

... But there's no sight that greets his eyes. No glimpse of a cloudy sky, or the thunderous appearance of his lovers face. Indeed... there's nothing at all, and no matter how hard Sylar tries, Mohinders eyes remain glassy and glazed.

He remains blind.