Title: Sand to Glass
Timeframe/Info About This Fic: Set a few months after The Great Game, but before Reichenbach Fall.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC. This is purely for fun.
Authors Note: Sometimes I just wander around my house and look for things to use in John!Whump fics. True story. What can I say? I love John!InDistress.
"Do you like sand, Johnny Boy?"
The darkness was suddenly beaten away as the blindfold was ripped from John's eyes. Moriarty was there somewhere, but he could only hear him. Blinking owlishly in the far-too-bright room, it took him a moment to accurately gauge his surroundings. As his pupils shrank from their severely dilated condition, he was able to make out the blurry objects around him. Surprisingly, apart from John's sore body, there was nothing else in the—circular room?
His head twisted dangerously around his neck, trying to check if the room he was in was truly circular. It was, although he could make out the blurry form of chairs several meters from where he was kneeling. John squinted harder, positive that his eyes had recovered by then.
A sharp rapping jolted John out of his thoughts. Jumping from the loud, echoing sound, John nearly fell over in his messy attempts to turn around while having his hands bound in front of him with loose handcuffs.
Grinning widely, Moriarty stood a mere two meters from John, left hand raised in a tight fist. He brought it down again and the sharp rap tap echoed through the room. With a very confused expression growing on his face, John finally realized that he was in a glass tank. Glancing up, he noted with a dull twist in his stomach that the glass "room" gradually tapered to a thin tube, and then grew large again, not unlike a gigantic hourglass.
How did that maniac get me in here?
"Yoohooo, Johnny Boy!" Moriarty knocked on the glass again with a gleeful smirk. He looked like a child at the zoo, and John had a sinking suspicion he was the "animal" behind the glass.
If Moriarty wants me to be his little "pet," then I'll be it. Like a good animal, John merely clamped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes at the madman in front of him.
"Come now, John. I thought you'd appreciate this little gift for you." The good doctor arched his brow. Appreciate this? Moriarty glanced down, and then looked back up with his dangerous, deadly smirk. "I thought it'd remind you of your days out in the army. Out in the desert sands all day."
"What are you talking about, Moriarty?" John grounded out, finally beyond the point of exasperation. "There isn't any sand here."
The world's only consulting criminal rolled his eyes. "Though it is fun to play with, your ordinary mind is so frightfully boh-ring," he sneered, stretching out the last syllable. Peering strangely at him, Moriarty shook his head in disbelief. "I have yet to see why Sherlock keeps you around. Surely your ordinariness bores him."
Gritting his teeth, John reminded himself that a certain genius insulted him twice as many times per day than Moriarty ever had, so he really had no reason to take offense for being called ordinary. After all, ordinary was good. However, when Sherlock said it, he meant it as a barely detectable compliment. Moriarty's remarks, similar, albeit scathing, were just annoying. However, Moriarty's mention of the six-foot detective reminded John that a certain pale, dark-haired man was not bound beside him. Wrinkling his forehead in thought, the doctor tried to remember what had happened.
It had been a simple case—so simple, in fact, that Sherlock had deemed it too simple for his intellect and sent John on it alone with the answer and three different plans if things didn't work out. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock didn't consider that Moriarty would stoop low enough to hire a crap telly-themed serial killer to trap the intended victim. His large ego also would have refused to believe that Moriarty wanted an army doctor's company over the great Sherlock Holmes. However, James's plan worked seamlessly, and John was currently kneeling at the bottom of an hourglass, sans sand.
More persistent knocking on the glass reminded John that he still had an eager audience. With his expression morphed into barely contained impatience and rage, Moriarty was banging furiously on the side of the hourglass, as if John were the zoo animal that refused to respond. When he saw that he had regained John's attention, Moriarty's dark brow softened dramatically.
"Ah, Johnny Boy. As I was saying, we really should thank me for this little gift. Soon you'll be back in Afghanistan. It'll be like you never left," he added in his singsong falsetto.
Partially confused, partially wary, John didn't know whether or not to take this seriously or metaphorically. "W—what do you mean?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.
Moriarty's dangerous smirk reappeared. "You know what?" He didn't wait for John to answer. "I'll let you figure it out yourself. It'll do you good—get your poor brain working." Doctor Watson stared blankly at the madman. "But you know what, Johnny Boy?" John was really starting to hate both the question and Moriarty's pet name for him. "I'll give you a little hint on how to get out." John looked up hopefully, taking in every grove and wrinkle across Moriarty's pale face.
"This glass from the outside is nearly unbreakable," he started casually. He slammed a bony hand against the glass with a loud slap. He dragged his smooth palm across the glass, leaving behind a large, blurry smudge and a high pitched squeal that made John wince. "It's the same on the inside too." He knocked twice on the glass, causing a ping ping to echo within the hourglass.
"Bulletproof."
He glanced towards the middle of the hourglass, dark eyes traveling up the cool, diamond-like glass sides with an appreciative gleam, as if for the first time he was regarding the craftsmanship and genius that was woven into creating this gigantic hourglass.
A sharp plink sounded behind John, but he refused to tear his gaze from Jim's heartless stare.
"It won't be much help to you, Doctor Watson, but I love it when games are fair." This is all a game to him. "That thing that fell—it's a key. A glass key." Moriarty smiled wickedly. "Hopefully it didn't shatter on the way down." With that note, Moriarty turned around, clapped, and everyone else who had been in the room with him filtered out.
When he was sure everyone was out of the outside room, John released a huge, pent-up sigh that he had stifled in his throat throughout the entire conversation with Moriarty. Bringing his chained hands closer to his chest, John tried to stand up from his kneeling position. He let out a pained groan as dull electricity darted up and down his shins, and he fell back down heavily. Evidentially his time talking to Moriarty—rather, more listening to Moriarty gloat—was just long enough for his legs to fall asleep. As he tried to massage feeling back into his legs with his elbows, he scooted across the slick, cool glass on his rear end until his back pressed into a smooth side. He leaned his head back with another sigh. The glass was cold against his bare neck. A shudder ran through his body, flowing all the way to his numb toes and to his sore fingers, causing the handcuffs to jitter on his wrists. John pulled his lips to the corner of his mouth.
"I might as well try to get out of here, regardless of what that mad man says," he murmured to himself. Feeling that his legs were recovered enough, he struggled back onto his knees and slid across the icy glass towards the key, pulling himself with his bound hands. Praying internally that the key wasn't broken, he finally reached it with a satisfied grunt. Thankfully it wasn't broken. He paused for a second before picking it up to inspect its design. The key itself was beautifully crafted with intricate patterns carved down the side in the shape of vines. If John squinted hard enough, he could see a hairpin crack that streaked through one of the shimmering vines—the only flaw in the once flawless key. He reached for it, preparing to gently cradle it, so as to not make the fissure worse. He struggled to his feet with a content sigh.
Then the sand started to fall.
What the hell?
The initial shock of the warm sand trickling on his forehead had been so great, he dropped the key. Cursing, he tried to grab it as it fell, glittering, through the air, but his hands were caught by the clunky handcuffs. He cursed again as it smashed to the ground, breaking into three separate pieces with a light twinkling. John dropped to his hands and knees, poking tentatively at the sparkling pieces. The surprisingly hot sand was still pouring onto his back, but he hardly noticed. Doctor Watson was shielding the fragments of glass with his own body to prevent the sand from sweeping away any of the potentially lifesaving pieces of the key.
A relieved giggle broke from his nervous frown. Only the key's handle was beyond repair. The actual teeth of the key were still perfectly intact. Picking up the largest piece of glass with slightly trembling fingers, he pushed the head of the key into the lock on his handcuffs. Although the jagged shard on the broken side of the key cut into his skin and left little red welts, John didn't notice. He let out another relieved giggled as the key fragment slid perfectly into the lock and twisted smoothly. After a bit of careful maneuvering, the tumblers of the handcuffs clicked and they sprung open. Freeing his sore and raw wrists, John rubbed them pensively as he thought of his next move. The sand was still falling in his sandy blonde hair, but it was sort of therapeutic. A soft rustle echoed throughout the cool hourglass as the sand struck itself instead of the glass bottom.
Moriarty really needs to rethink his idea of a death trap.
Standing up with a grunt, John peered curiously up through the hole where the sand was leaking from. There has to be a way out…else, how would they have gotten the sand—and me—in here?
Something was pulling at the doctor's pant leg. He looked down and gave a start. He hadn't been paying attention, but already the sand was past his shoes and preparing to trek up his legs. He pulled his left foot free with a grunt, but the moment he set it back down, it sunk through the warm sand with a soft sucking noise. John mashed his lips together in distaste. If Moriarty was trying to make him remember his time in the desert, he was doing a hell of a job of it. Already, unhappy memories of shaking the hot sand from his heavy boots returned to him. Although annoying, the memories weren't particularly frightening, nor were they deadly. By the time he had remembered this, the sand has somehow managed to creep up to his mid-shin.
John pulled both feet with no small amount of effort free, and sloughed back to the edge of the hourglass. He moved for two reasons: one, to escape the direct trickle of sand, and to also get to the lower sides. Although it wasn't by much, the height of the center of the hourglass was slightly greater than the height of the sides, since the sand pooled first in the middle. Until he figured out a way to escape, he wanted to stay as far as possible from the warm sand.
Based from his watch, which was scratched slightly from the gritty sand, John reasoned that he had been within the hourglass for nearly fifteen minutes. It was up to his waist, and for the first time, John was starting to worry. His toes could not seem to catch a break, since for the second time, they were completely numb. He tried to move his legs, but the pressure from the sand was beginning to be felt. He was only able to shuffle half meter away after throwing everything he had against the numerous sand particles, and even then he was extremely winded and weak.
Resting the back of his head against the cool slope of the hourglass, John took a couple of haggard breaths to regain his energy.
"This," he panted, "is…nothing like Afghanistan." He glanced down at the steadily rising sand. The doctor wasn't quite sure if his decision to wear thick pants that day was a blessing or a mistake. The dense material on his trousers kept out the tiny, gritty sand particles, but was equally good at insolating his skin with the suffocating heat from the sand and the pressure. The heat of the particles was now starting to become nearly unbearable.
"Soon this'll be a puddle of mush," John murmured absently, pulling a disgusted face. He wasn't sure if it was phantom feelings fleeting down his legs, or he actually was sweating, but it felt like warm water was trickling down his skin. Pursing his lips, he continued to muse out loud. "I'm either going to be suffocated by sand…or I'll drown in my own sweat. Not the ideal way to go," he muttered wryly.
The sand was up to his chest, and it was starting to become difficult to breathe. He tried to perch on his tiptoes to give him a few more inches, but after a minute of trembling limbs and labored breathing, he nearly collapsed from the effort and the pressure of the packed sand above him. Taking a mouthful of dirty sand, he floundered and panicked as his head submerged briefly. After spending a terrifying ten seconds underneath the dark, warm sand, his head finally broke through the top again, and he was able to stand vertically. It was becoming too hard to move anything below his waist. He was afraid to attempt another shift to ease his aching bones, because if he fell, there was no guarantee he'd be able to correct himself again.
Spitting out a mouthful of gritty sand, he watched at the dark, splattered saliva hit the top of the rising sand—then promptly sunk through the light layers. John watched it disappear with a frown, noting how easily the heavier sand and spit combination passed through the small grains. For the first time, his optimism of escaping was starting to weather away. He tried to swallow, but all that went down his throat was a few sand remnants. He tried to quell the raging fire that seared up his throat, but the dry sand mixed with a lack of water soon overcame him and morphed into a coughing fit.
"I'm starting to get what Moriarty said about this being Afghanistan," John croaked hoarsely after a period of hard, labored breathing. It took him longer to recover, due to the several kilograms of sand pressing down on his chest and lungs. "I certainly don't miss the sandstorms."
By the time John was aware of his immediate surroundings again, the sand was now to his shoulders. With an icy jolt of panic, John realized that if he wanted to continue to use his arms, he had to pull them out immediately before the pressure became too great on them as well. With loud, gasping grunts, he ripped his left hand free from the sand pit, then tugged his right free. Although his limbs were exhausted by the effort, he didn't dare drop them, remembering how quickly the sand drew back in the darkened saliva.
It's more like quicksand, he thought sourly, refusing to open his mouth again in fear of inhaling more sand. To try to relieve his screaming shoulders and his trembling biceps, he placed both hands on top of his head, one elbow tapping absently against the cold glass. The ice that ran through his veins was a relief, and he felt a jolt of electricity wake him back up from his warm, sandy lull.
What I wouldn't give to be a few inches taller like Sherlock, he mused offhandedly. The sand was now below his chin. With each desperate and nervous swallow, he could feel the gritty grains scrape against his neck. Within minutes, he knew the sand would swell up and rise over his mouth and nose, suffocating him. Not relishing the thought of breathing in more of the gravely particles, John decided to try one last little "trick" he had picked up back from the war. Taking a few deep, staggered breaths to prepare himself, he slid his numb hands from the top of his head and sent them diving into the sand. Within seconds, he pulled them back out with a grunt, holding the hem of his cable knit sweater.
Watson groaned when he remembered what he had worn that day. Although it would keep out a bit of the sand, his trademark cream sweater was perforated with holes and wouldn't keep out all of the sand.
It'll help, the doctor reasoned, starting to feel exhaustion and fear creep back into his system. Everything below his waist had become beyond numb, so he wasn't sure if he was still sweating or not. His shoulders were aching from the combined effort of suspending his shaking arms, as well as fighting off the pressure of the rising sand. He pressed the fuzzy sweater to his mouth just as the sand overcame his chin and rose over his lips. Breathing in deeply, the smell of desert and the scent of his cologne overtook him for a moment, leaving his brain to swirl dizzily.
I bet Moriarty imported sand here just from Afghanistan, the poetic bastard.
Distant memories trilled fleetingly through his mind, becoming stronger when he squeezed his eyes shut. In the darkness and partially numb, John's other three senses grew stronger. The rustling sound of falling sand grew louder, yet sounded softer, but he reasoned that was because the sand grains were climbing eagerly closer to his ears. He wished his sense of taste wouldn't strengthen, but it did, causing the gritty grains of sand along his tongue and in his teeth to take on flavors he had long ago forgotten. The deep, familiar scent of the desert caused something in his chest to thud painfully, but again he realized that it was probably due to the pressure of the sand bearing down on his chest.
This bloody sand has probably crushed one of my kidneys, John groaned in his head, still managing to try to stay positive.
He tilted his head back, trying to keep his nose and mouth above the rising sand. Doctor Watson suppressed a wince as the hungry sand eagerly sucked down his loose, sandy hair. However, he was more shaken than he anticipated by the aggressive sand that took advantage of his lowered head. The sand pressed firmly down on his collarbone and shoved him deeper into the sand pit. Instinctively, he felt his body thrash to return to the top, but the heavy sand pinned him in place. With every futile effort he made to free himself, he only felt himself sink further into the sand. The pressure above him forced his knees to buckle, but with a throat, closed-mouth grunt, he forced his knees to overextend and lock in place. For the first time, he felt pain lance up his legs as the weight of his body and the sand above him forced down on the steadily weakening man. John didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he felt pain, since for over thirty minutes, he had been questioning whether or not he still possessed two legs. In his panic, he never even noticed that his hands and the hem of his sweater had gradually slipped from his mouth until he was choking with a mouthful of hot sand.
Oh, God, no…
His eyes flew open from shock, allowing tiny grains to stealthily creep into the doctor's wide, raving eyes. John squeezed his eyes shut, despite the white hot burn of the sand grating across his eyeballs. The doctor squeezed his eyes tighter, feeling tiny tears of irritation leave the corner of his eyes and forge two dark paths down his sand-whipped cheeks. He tried to pull his hands back, but it was no use. Both arms were dragged through the sand and were pinned beside him from the pressure. His breath hitched again as more sand fell into his mouth and trickled down his throat. The pressure soon became unbearable on his chest as the hot and heavy sand piled on his chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The sand had already crossed over his pursed lips and was building up to overtake the base of his upturned nose. Knowing he only had a few more moments until the sand overtook him completely, Doctor Watson conserved all of his pent up breath to spit and blow off all of the sand covering his mouth. He took two gasping, desperate gulps of air before the sand finally covered over the tip of his nose and submerged the doctor completely in the biting sand grains.
Even though his eyes were tightly closed, John could sense the world growing darker. More and more sand piled upon his concealed body, burying the doctor alive in a warm, gritty grave.
Oh, God… Don't panic…stay calm! He urged himself, trying to do everything in his power to keep his hammering heart from breaking out of his suppressed chest, and stealing more oxygen then necessary. However, before he staved off the impending hyperventilating attack, John Watson seemed to sink in a warm haze. The oxygen was struggling to reach all parts of his numb, pressure weakened body. John vaguely felt his knees collapse, and felt the rush as the gritty sand scraped against his raw skin as he fell further into the sand. Other than the rub of the warm grains of sand across his exposed skin, the only thing John was aware of was the soft pounding of blood in his head. As he settled further into his sandy grave, he felt his consciousness slip away like sand through his fingers.
Then, there was a loud boom, and everything fell in with a flash of light.
"John?"
"John!"
Sherlock watched, almost spellbound, as the sand in the hour glass climbed steadily up, covering over the tanned nose of John Watson. The moment his nose disappeared, the spell snapped over Sherlock. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a specialized handgun. Fumbling with quick fingers, he quickly loaded the gun with gray bullets and pointed at the gigantic hourglass. Although he didn't really need to aim, he still took care to shoot above where John had disappeared. Firing two loud shots, the gun recoiled slightly in his hands. The first bullet skidded across the hourglass, leaving behind a large crack. The second bullet nailed the hairline crack in the center, causing it to spread through the hourglass like a diamond cobweb. With a hard hit from the butt of Sherlock's gun, the glass shattered inwards, but the force of the pressing sand caused it to explode outwards in a flurry of blinding sand and sharp glass shards.
Through the haze of flying debris, Sherlock searched for John's prone body with squinted eyes. Then, with a cry of triumph, he spotted the nearly unconscious doctor slide out of the shattered hourglass, his body wracked with coughs and gasps. Half dragging, half carrying, Sherlock pulled John from the wreckage, and safely from the sand and broken glass.
"John?" Sherlock's worried voice barely scratched the surface of John's awareness. John shifted slightly in his friend's arms. His face was red from the sand particles, and his limbs were splayed at odd angles, but the good doctor's chest was rising and falling, albeit very rapidly.
"Mm'seep, Sh'lock…" The doctor was still panting, but his chest movements seemed to be slowing down.
A relieved rush of cold sped through the consulting detective's veins. Conscious and capable of speech. The amount of oxygen deprivation was not enough to cause severe brain damage. "John, wake up. You're perfectly fine now."
John shifted again, and his eyes fluttered open, and then clamped back closed. "Arghh," he hissed, turning his body away from the bright light above him. "Bright…" the doctor slurred. "Lemme a'just"
Sherlock sat back and released a relieved sigh. He wasn't sure what he was would find when Moriarty sent him a miniature hourglass. Know that he knew John was relatively fine, he could relax. "Fine," Sherlock sighed a sigh of mock annoyance. A smile pulled on his lips. "Only because you just survived being buried alive in almost a ton of sand."
"Hot as hell," John agreed with a faint smile.
They stayed in silence as John continued to inhale oxygen like a drug and enjoyed being able to move his numb limbs without being weighed down. Once his brain was functional again, he struggled into a sitting position and eyed Sherlock curiously.
"How did you break through the glass?" he paused for a deep breath. "Moriarty said it was bulletproof."
Sherlock glanced sideways at his doctor companion. "Diamond-studded bullets."
"I guess, diamonds are a guy's best friend too," John murmured with another smile. Then a confused frown found its way on his face again. "Wait—how did you get diamond bullets?" Sherlock's smirk grew slightly. "Ah, I suppose you 'borrowed' some from Mycroft." He air quoted the word.
"Naturally."
"Send him my regards, although I don't think I can afford to refund him." John leaned back with a smile. "Thank you for finding me, Sherlock." Sherlock shrugged, as if saying it was an entertaining case trying to find him. Sherlock never was good with gratitude; he always accepted thanks in ways that he was comfortable with. John glanced behind him at the shattered hourglass and his smile grew.
"I'll spare you the puns of 'saving me before time ran out.'"
"That would be appreciated."
Was this an adequate drabble? :D I made sure that this one had a happy ending, 'cause, well, my other Sherlock fics aren't so cheery... Hopefully everyone was relatively in character. Thank you so much for reading! :D