More writer's block nonsense. I just went to see the second Sherlock Holmes for the second time, and the first sentence of this fic popped into mind. Also, I like this pairing.
Anyway, this is also a good foray into this fandom. Enjoy, and review.
Warnings/Disclaimers: Swearing, spoilers for the second movie, and Watson/Holmes if you squint. Plot is mine, characters are clearly not.
Over the music, Watson could hear the screams.
The pain in them reverberated through his grit teeth, and he found himself cursing at and praying for Holmes in one breath. The stupid fucking ponce, cavorting off knowing exactly what might happen and leaving him down here to listen to those awful sounds. John didn't know what was worse—the screams that shattered through his composure and swelled in time with the music, or the sudden lack of them as he strained to hear Sherlock's pain.
Screaming meant he was still alive.
Damn Moran. The man gave him no room to move, to think, to save Holmes. He could just sit here like an utter twat and get shot at, his mind running miles a minute with gruesome scenarios of his Holmes at the hands of a sadistic madman that he knew would haunt him for years—assuming he got out of this alive.
He knocked his knee against a jutting gear, and suddenly, he knew what to do. Grabbing at some kind of lever, he ripped the tarp off the trump card he was sitting on.
Over his screams, Holmes could hear the gunshots.
His world was narrowed down to the hook in his shoulder, but his curse let nothing escape. Despite his rising nausea from being spun like a top, he heard a rallying exchange of bullets just outside, Moriarty's singing—he was flat, couldn't he hear himself, honestly—and the squeal of the chain he was suspended on. Nerves screamed just as he did, struggling to keep his mind on the plan, he had to remember the plan; otherwise he would be a poor excuse for a side of beef to no apparent end.
He assumed Watson would never let him hear the end of that.
Moriarty spins him again, and the plan slips from his mind, and he begins to calculate the work it takes to suspend him three feet above the ground—rudimentary physics and John, the only two cures to immense pain. But then the pain is gone—and just as I was almost done with my calculations, no less, how rude is that?—and Moriarty is leaning over him. His fingers fumble for the ledger as the floor shakes under him and he gazes over Moriarty's shoulder and is that a building heading toward them?
Over the music and the screams, Moran heard the gears of a particularly large weapon being turned to point at his perch.
"That's not fair."
Reviews are lovely.
Kit