This is it then. The end. I don't want to watch and yet I am unable to look away. He deserves my attention. It's the least I can do to bear witness, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me. I pray for him as I watch. Please god, please let him die. As the agony stretches on into eternity; I pray for him.
John POV, 1st person.
Warnings: character death, torture
A/N - Ok so this little piece is quite dark… I actually wrote it some time ago when I was in a much blacker mood, but I've only just typed it up. I'm not actually sure it's that good but honestly all the typing was rather cathartic so I continued and here it is.
I feel the need to mention that I actually love all these characters and don't plan to keep doing bad things to them – it just happens!
To reinforce my warnings this is not a happy tale but to me it, when writing it, its value was more in its explanation of John's view of his world and in exploring a brotherly relationship… I hope you 'enjoy' it or at least manage to take from it something of those threads.
Reviews would be welcomed and appreciated.
This is it then. The end. Our adventures couldn't last forever. The dangers we put ourselves in, time after time, over and over. Heck, we'd been close before. Almost. A dozen times almost. But this time it seemed like the obstacles between us and our survival were insurmountable. Even Sherlock's quick, agile brain didn't have an out. It's not even a we-go-we-take-you-with-us situation. Not like the pool. Here there was nothing; nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
We're chained to steel chairs, bolted to the floor. They have weapons. They have numbers. Even if the shackles and chains melted away we would still be outnumbered. 6 to 1. Not good odds. Not with weapons trained on us. But the steel constricting my chest, binding my arms, ensnaring my legs isn't going to melt away. So the odds really don't matter. Not at all.
We're going to die here; here in this barren, dark warehouse.
They wanted him. Holmes. Sherlock. They left a trail and they knew he would follow. Me? As usual I was right there with him, running alongside. It was my job to protect him really. That's what I'm here for. To look after that beautiful brain, to keep the 'transport' safe, happy, nourished. I've let him down.
Although honestly, even if I hadn't been caught unawares when the trap was sprung, even in a face to face open confrontation, even with my browning fully loaded and drawn, even with my army training… even with all of that it's unlikely I could have taken down twelve highly trained armed men. So perhaps it's not worth worrying about. Perhaps it's not worth feeling the despair. It will be over soon after all.
They want Sherlock Holmes and we come together, him and me, like two halves of a whole. So they'll kill me too. Soon. And then it won't really matter. It won't really matter at all.
I don't really understand the case, this puzzle we've been unravelling. The problem that has led us here, to this point. I know the basics I guess but the deductions, the decryption of the clues, the act of solving is Sherlock's department. He always fills me in on the details later, after the case is wrapped up, after all's said and done. I'm just along for the ride – or, well, the high I guess… The buzz. The danger. It keeps me together, keeps my broken pieces stuck up next to each other in the shape of a human being. Sherlock did that. He knew, he saw, he deduced. He put me back together again like one of his puzzles. He keeps me this way. I owe him. I owe him my life. Literally. So it's a shame I've failed to protect his this time.
Mycroft brought us this particular enigma. Sherlock and Mycroft, well, they don't exactly always see eye to eye. In fact they usually don't. Although sometimes I think they antagonise each other just to annoy us mere mortals. This time Sherlock did his usual 'not interested' dramatics until I convinced him to take the case. To be honest I just couldn't stand to wait out his 'bored' phase any longer, to wait for Lestrade to find something new, to wait for some poor innocent to be butchered. So I convinced him. Maybe I shouldn't have. Then again maybe it wasn't really me at all.
Something in Sherlock's eyes when he looked over the case file. Something undefinable, something new. I know those eyes. I can read them. It's just one of the skills you need to master to live with him. Every look has meaning – and it's usually something very different from what it first appears to be. I profess myself to be somewhat of an expert. I can read into the layers of meaning in those grey-blue depths and tell you something about his thoughts, about his feelings – because he does feel, no doubt about that – even if his face is that stoic and unfathomable mask. I can read him, in that sense, exceptionally well.
In fact, I often think the only person who can read his eyes more accurately than me is his brother. Is Mycroft. But then Mycroft can read so much else besides. Just like Sherlock. So it came as a surprise to me, when Mycroft handed him the file; that flash. That flash of something new and undefinable. It was fleeting and I couldn't tell what it meant. I would need to see it again and compare the contexts because I'm not as quick as Sherlock. Yes, I do understand those expressive eyes now but I won't lie – it took me a while.
Mycroft would have known I'm sure of it. But Mycroft wasn't looking at his eyes; Mycroft was speaking to Mrs Hudson. His brother missed the whole thing. But maybe, just maybe, whatever that look was it meant that Sherlock would have taken the case anyway. Maybe because of whatever he saw. Maybe not because of me. Maybe.
Nonetheless, I suppose it doesn't really matter now. It doesn't really matter why he took the case. Or even why he has to die. I truly don't understand. But I do know it has something to do with Mycroft. I know that the two deaths we looked into were perpetrated by these people. The ones who have beat and bound us. And I know there's a link to his brother. Not in a sinister 'Mycroft, the British government, ordered it' kind of a way. In more of a 'Mycroft is unaware but somehow he's involved in this beyond being the one to pass us the case file' kind of way. And that's really all I know.
That's all Lestrade knows too. I can't help but wonder if either of them will solve it, this case, when they find our bodies. Lord knows, Lestrade will try, but his brain is like mine. Well better than mine probably – he is a detective after all – but compared to Sherlock his brain is slow and fuzzy. He won't mind me thinking of him like that, he knows it's true.
Mycroft then? His brain is the only real rival to his brothers. In fact sometimes I wonder if he isn't slightly more intelligent – not that I would ever bring it up around either of them – but perhaps it's just that his brain is wired differently, it focuses on different things. Things like running a government and international relations. Stuff that Sherlock would find dull. Frankly, the idea of Mycroft doing his own leg work to look into the murders, our murders, is rather ludicrous. But surely for Sherlock… for his brother… yes, for his little brother he'd do it. And if we found them so will he. And they will be made to pay for what's about to happen here. That's a small comfort at least. That my killers will, if not be brought to justice, be served Mycroft's personal brand of punishment. It doesn't make it ok, but it makes it slightly better.
I look over to Sherlock, he's off inside his head, he's trying to think us out of this. I know that if we were in our living room at 221b he'd be sat with his hands steepled, delicately resting against his chin. It's his thinking pose; for all those difficult problems. And he'd likely be abusing the nicotine patches again. Idly I wonder if this would be classed as a three patch problem? Or maybe a six? The thought makes me snort in laughter. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look up. He's in deep.
Our captors are mostly standing in a huddle in the middle distance. One, the one in charge, is on the phone. Presumably to whoever orchestrated this. Eight of them face us, their weapons trained lest we somehow manage to break through our steel bindings and make a bid for freedom. I know that the others are out there somewhere in the shadowy recesses; watching, waiting. Protecting the perimeter.
The man on the phone is moving now, flanked by his team, walking towards us. I can hear his conversation. He's checking orders, ensuring he gets it right. Being a good little soldier. Holmes has to suffer but the other one – that's me – I have to die but no reason to prolong things. In short I'm catching a quick connection out of here. I don't know what to make of that. Happy I guess. I've been through torture before and it's not and experience I'm keen to relive. Although I doubt these thugs could hold a candle to the agonisingly drawn out methods employed by the Afghani army. This isn't about extracting information though; it's about inflicting pain for pains sake. So the 'torture' will be different. And any imbecile can inflict pain.
I glance at Sherlock. He doesn't look up. Happy? God, I just can't reconcile that term with my own death. Pleased? Relieved? Thankful? They just won't fit. No matter anyway, I won't have much longer to worry about it. And Sherlock, god, Sherlock what are they going to do to him? I want so desperately to protect him, to do something to stop them. But I can't. I'm tethered. I'm restrained. I'm gagged. I feel impotent. There's nothing I can do.
I look at him again and I know he's heard their conversation. Even if he's still deep in thought, even if he's in a locked safe-room hidden deep within his mind palace. I know he's been keeping an ear trained on proceedings. I know he knows what their plans are. Just like I know he's aware of everything I've been thinking. I know he's followed my thoughts as easily as he followed my rant about milk earlier today. Probably even easier. It's his uncanny mind reading thing. Skill. Thing.
Look at me Sherlock. I see your eye twitch. Look at me. Please. He looks up for the first time in 10 minutes, the sharp intelligence of his sea-foam eyes locked directly onto mine. I'm sorry. I know he understands and I see, I read the response in those grey-green depths.
Don't be such an idiot John, this is hardly your fault. It's like I can hear him saying it in my mind. Sharp and to the point, infuriated, and just so… Sherlock. I'm grinning and I know my laughter is reflected in my eyes. It's a laughter at the way of things, of me and him, of our dynamic. It's a grin that encompasses our comradery, our brotherhood. It's all I have left to give him. It's my way of telling him I knew he'd say that and that no matter what I'm glad of our time together. I'm glad I met him.
For a moment his quick eyes search mine and then they mirror my sentiment. It's much more subtle but I see it there. He's sorry too, he didn't want us to end up this way but he can't see a way around it. He can't think us out of this mess. And he shares his thoughts with me through his eyes, that silent mirth at the way of things. At our fraternity, at our brotherhood.
We're ok then? I send the message across. I need to know, to be sure; it's important.
No hesitation this time. Yes john, we're ok. Everything's going to be ok.
We both know it isn't, not in the literal way of things. But at the same time it is. It's ok because we say it is. Nothing else really matters.
I hear the beep as the team leader cuts off the call. With a last shared look we turn as one to look at him; me and Sherlock, Sherlock and I. He's standing right in front of us now and feels the need to reiterate the conversation he's just had. I suppose it's kind of courteous, sort of… him making sure we both know how this will play out. Making sure we're not left in the dark. Is it courteous? Or is it so that we'll suffer in the knowledge of what's to come? Well it's not really as if we'll have too much time to dwell. This is it. The end.
Sherlock goes first, that's what he tells us. It means I have to watch. That's my torture. Watching whilst they beat him to death. I feel sick. I don't know what to do. There's nothing I can do. One of the lackeys is walking forwards with the keys to the chains. Walking towards Sherlock. Suddenly it's not ok anymore. No matter what we said, no matter what we agreed. This is not ok. This will never be ok.
At least I won't have to bear the images long. I get a bullet to the brain. It's a small comfort knowing that the images, the sounds, the… everything will be obliterated by that bullet. It will take my existence and my memories of his death. Everything will be annihilated. The neurones holding the information will quite literally be destroyed by the path of burning metal as it rips through my skull. I know from experience I'll be gone before I even register the sound of the shot. I've seen it happen first hand. It's a blessing I guess. Blessing. Perhaps that's the word I was searching for earlier. Blessing.
There's no blessing for Sherlock though. They have orders to drag it out for as long as possible. Oh god, Sherlock. The man with the keys is by his chair now. I can't help it – I'm thrashing, fighting against my bindings. It's useless. I know it is but it's all I have. I can't just do nothing.
He's looking straight ahead now. I know he won't look at me again. We've said all we need to say. He doesn't look scared. He looks young though, so young… too young.
Suddenly, unprompted, thoughts of Peter Pan race across my mind. I remember watching the Disney version with my girlfriend's kid when I was on leave. The image of that quick witted, sharp little lost boy fills my mind. The parallels with Sherlock suddenly floor me. Careless, brave, sharp as a tack, outwitting the bad guys at every turn, adventures and expeditions, never quite able to grow up and merge into the 'real world'… it all fit's, all of it.
I don't know the ins and outs of his childhood but I do know that his parents weren't exactly there for him either. More parallels. And Mycroft? Well whatever Sherlock holds him accountable for, Mycroft was a child himself. Suddenly my eyes fill with unshed tears for this little lost boy. This little lost soul. But people do love him. He was rescued, just like Peter. The thought of Lestrade dressed as Tinkerbelle briefly flit's through my mind and takes with it some of the stinging pain. As the key bearer kneels by his chair I find I can't keep my eyes away from his face. Passive, restful, calm. So unlike his brain.
Then the memory flows unbidden through my mind. Peter Pan seemingly outwitted, about to die, bravely telling Captain Hook that "to die would be an awfully big adventure." And suddenly the tears are flowing down my face. I sag against my restraints and I let them come as I listen to the metallic clicks of the locks being undone.