So obviously I came up with this idea before The Empty Hearse came out, but it seemed so good that I couldn't help myself. There is no Johnlock in this story, sorry. Just good old fashioned friendship. So far, this is the fanfic I am most proud to say I wrote. What do you think?
~East Wind~
Disclaimer: The usual. You know the drill. Obviously I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters involved. (S3 SPOILER ALERT!) The Moran in this story is obviously not the same as he was in TEH. Was anyone else hoping for a little more of him? ...No? Just me? Well, that's fine, but I rather wished his character had been a bit more like this. And I still wonder if maybe he had something to do with, you know, that thing at the end of His Last Vow... Anyone else? (END SPOILER ALERT)
Sherlock punched the face of that stupid American.
Over. And over.
Again. And again.
Desperation drove Sherlock to keep punching.
Blood spilled over his hand every time and Sebastian Moran was soon gasping and choking on his own blood. But Sherlock didn't care. He took the title of sociopath seriously. But then there was his best friend. John would always be the exception.
Sherlock grabbed hold of the front of Moran's shirt and slammed him with all his strength into the wall. The man gasped, groaned, then, chillingly, began to chuckle. Sherlock put a hand to his bloody throat.
"Where is John?!" He screamed at him. "What have you done with him?!"
"I..." Moran said through his glee. "Am fulfilling Motiarty's last order. And now there is nothing you can do. You will burn, Sherlock Holmes. Inside and out. Starting with your heart."
The detective brought his fist to Moran's face several more times. He would get his answer one way or another. Failure was not even an option. He harshly demanded the same question from the bleeding man. This time, Moran smiled into his face.
"He is where you should have been... For the past two years. And you'd better hurry. I suspect he has mere minutes left."
Sherlock stood stunned for several moments before dropping the blonde soldier (but not his blonde soldier), now giggling hysterically, to the ground. Sherlock figured he would lose consciousness in a moment.
A cab wouldn't be fast enough. Sherlock ran out of the ghastly warehouse where he had found Moran, he ran faster than he had ever run before across the streets. Darkness had just fallen and the sun strived in vain to shine between alleyways. All Sherlock could think of was John. Save John. The John you had to lie to for two years. The John who accepted your friendship anyway.
John who forgave you.
Over. And over.
Again. And again.
Desperation drove Sherlock to keep running.
Save John.
Sherlock reached the downtown graveyard, hardly realizing that he could barely get air into his lungs. Oh well. Breathing was boring anyhow. He ran pell-mell to the site of his own burial and spun around on the spot.
"John!" He screamed. There was no response. Sherlock called his name several more times before his legs gave out and he fell to his knees in front of his own grave stone. His name stared down at him, mocking him. The reflection in the smooth stone showed the picture of a man wrecked to pieces. Where could John be? Sherlock sat on the ground and breathed, hoping to clear his head, deduce, but his mind palace had fallen apart. He was missing something. He had to be…
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Sherlock lifted his head. That sound. Where was it coming from? He placed a hand on the ground.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Horrified, Sherlock fell on the ground, stomach pressed to the earth, his nose inches from the grass.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The noise… It was coming from… Oh God...
Sherlock could see it now. A rectangle shape in the grass he laid on. It had recently been dug up, then put back, and a layer of grass had been placed over the top to make it look natural.
All the evidence added up.
The sound came from the ground beneath his grave.
"John!"
Sherlock was on his feet in less than a moment. Within the next, the man was racing frantically across the graveyard, stripping off his Belstaff coat, scarf, and jacket, blindingly desperate to answer the Morse code SOS he had just received from six feet under.
He could see the maintenance shed (usually, he assumed, used for the storage of grave-digging tools) just beyond the tree ahead of him. As Sherlock neared it, he could see the strong lock holding the door to the frame. The wood of the door, however, was clearly on the verge of rotting. Sherlock didn't even slow down. With the full force of the adrenaline pumped into his crazed run, he slammed his shoulder into the door. It burst entirely off the hinges and fell with a crash to the ground, the consulting detective on top of it. He scrambled to his feet without bothering to brush off the splinters of wood in his hair and on his clothes. He grabbed the first large shovel he came into contact with without hesitation.
Sherlock burst from the shed and darted back to his grave, praying silently that the SOS had not ceased. He buried the blade of his shovel into the earth the moment he was close enough.
Over. And over.
Again. And again.
Desperation drove Sherlock to keep digging.
Every moment counted now. He had to hurry.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Sherlock tore the grass from their roots and continued into the earth. Dirt covered every inch of him, coating his hair and shirt and arms.
Scrape. Scrape...Scrape.
Sherlock paused, but only briefly. There was a hesitation before the last dash. John. No. John. Coffins were hardly made to sustain a constant air flow. Time was running out. He had to get to John.
Thump... Thump... Thump.
As the soil flew and Sherlock called out John's name, the noises beneath him got weaker and weaker. Just a few feet more. Dirt flew into his eyes and mouth but he would not stop to get it out. Only John mattered.
The detective did not cease, even when the Morse code beneath him did. He hacked wildly at the earth until his efforts were finally rewarded with the jarring noise of his spade hitting wood. He widened the ditch until he found the long edge of the dark coffin. He thrust his shovel into the edge several times until it finally broke open. In a moment he had thrown his shovel out of the hole he had made. Using what he thought may be his last bit of adrenaline-fuelled energy, he pried open the lid of the coffin with a loud grunt.
Inside laid John. He was on his side, hands tied behind his back, feet splayed from his last attempts at kicking the sides of his chamber, but with his right foot at a noticeably awkward angle. He wasn't gagged. Clever John. He knew that screaming would only use up the oxygen he had in there. But his eyes were closed. John wasn't moving.
The sight made Sherlock's heart stop and race seemingly at the same time. A new bout of energy rushed through him as he grabbed John by the front of his jumper. For once in his life, Sherlock's common sense didn't kick in correctly. His primary thought was that he had to get John out of that coffin. His coffin. Sherlock dragged the dead weight up and up until he was able to pull John's body over the edge of the ditch and onto the soft grass above ground.
Sherlock ripped off the rope binding John's wrists, turned him over, and laid a hand on his chest. After a moment, his other hand flew to John's nose and mouth. No. He wasn't breathing.
"John!" Sherlock called. No response. He slapped John's face lightly. He did didn't move. "John, don't you dare make me do this. John!" Overcome with panic, Sherlock grumbled to himself ("Dammit, people are going to talk.") before tilting John's head back, reluctantly placing his lips over John's, holding his nose, and blowing air into his lungs. Sherlock then drew back, placed the heels of both his hands over John's heart, locked his arms at the elbows, and began pumping at his chest. Once. Twice. Thrice. At the fifth and hardest pump, Sherlock pressed his lips once more over John's and breathed out.
"Come on, John," Sherlock begged as he placed his hands on John's chest. "Come on…" Sherlock repeated this process four times, then five, the possibility of stopping never once crossing his mind. He repeated the process.
Over. And over.
Again. And again.
Desperation drove Sherlock to keep pumping.
John couldn't leave him. He would never do that. Not to Sherlock. He continued giving John chest compressions, arms growing weaker every time. Come on, John. Come back. Please, John. Come back...
The man beneath Sherlock's hands suddenly arched his back. Without warning, he sucked in a large lung full of air and, with several unnerving sounds, coughed and hacked in his greedy struggle for oxygen. John lurched onto his side and Sherlock quickly drew his hands away. Words could not express the relief and felicity he felt at that moment. He allowed his own forehead to fall onto his friend's trembling and jerking shoulder. Alive. John was alive.
When the poor man's gagging and coughing had finally died down a bit, Sherlock very carefully rolled him onto his back again. John's eyes remained closed, but he was taking shuttering breaths at least. Nevertheless, it was undoubtedly necessary to discern his stimulus reaction.
"John?" Sherlock asked loudly as he placed a hand beneath his friend's head. Almost immediately John's eyes fluttered open. For a moment, the man seemed to panic when his eyes didn't immediately meet Sherlock's. A pale hand then gently but firmly gripped his left shoulder and John was grounded to reality again. He turned slightly to see the gaunt and practically cadaverous features of his best friend (Sherlock silently scolded his mind palace for its twisted ironic word choice) and, had John been able to through his continuous gasping, he would have breathed a huge sigh of relief.
"John, listen to me, are you hurt?" Sherlock was now looking the army doctor up and down. "Are you alright? John, are you hurt?"
John Watson laid a weak hand on the detective's upper arm. "No, no, fine." He responded hoarsely. He coughed a few more times before continuing. "Y-you… okay?"
Sherlock gave a little scoff. Obviously John's first concern would not be that his own well-being. "Of course I am, you idiot. But I did not just spent at least two hours in a condensed compartment with no oxygen flow."
"I'm, I'm fine really, just, let me..." John took in a strained breath.
"No. Nope, your ankle is broken," Sherlock replied, eying John's right foot.
John seemed confused for just a moment before shifting his leg and letting out a small hiss of discomfort, his face contorted in pain. "Oh," he said carefully. He spoke slowly, but as clearly as he could through his aching lungs. "Right. If I recall, I gave Moran hell. He was rather forced to do it."
Sherlock, despite himself, grinned. Oh. This was a peculiar emotion. It seemed like… pride. But not in himself. He was all too familiar with how that felt. No, he was proud of John. Ever the soldier, he had fought back until his captor reached a breaking point.
Sherlock tried not to wince at his mind palace's second bout of unfortunate word choice.
Instead, he gently placed a hand on each of the other man's shoulders. "It's alright, John. We're alright now. I texted Lestrade the address where Moran is located. Assuming he did not yet regain consciousness, which is highly unlikely considering the state I left him in, he is certainly being arrested right now, along with his accomplices who helped kidnap you. And that…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Was the very last strand in Moriarty's web of criminals. Which means…"
John's eyes instantly brightened. "You can tell everyone you're alive? You can… stay?"
Sherlock smiled once more. "As soon as we get you to a hospital to make sure your brief lack of oxygen has not left you permanently damaged, and to cast that ankle."
John sighed as much as his weak lungs would allow, but he gripped Sherlock's shoulder and began to pull himself upright. Sherlock gently helped his friend into a sitting position, then patiently waited as a bout of dizziness nearly took John back down again. The smaller man squeezed his eyes closed and held on to his head with one hand and Sherlock's forearm with the other until he could see straight again. Sherlock then very carefully hoisted him onto his feet. Well, foot. As soon as John attempted to put weight on his injured ankle, he cried out and might have collapsed if Sherlock had not been there to catch him. The detective lifted the smaller man up then proceeded to drape John's arm around his bony shoulders whilst wrapping his own thin arm around John's waist, earning a pained but grateful smile from the soldier. With Sherlock supporting half of John's weight, he could limp gradually but efficiently forward.
Together, the two partners slowly shuffled their way toward the egress of the sinister graveyard, with John not seeing and Sherlock neglecting the Belstaff, jacket, and scarf strewn across it. They both had more important things to worry about.
Not that this particular case had fazed them. No, not one bit. This was just another day in the life of the world's only consulting detective and his blogger. And they both knew that if they could get through The Fall, then surely nothing they went through after could daunt them. Through The Work, they created a complicated, strained, but decent friendship. Complicated, but not totally incomprehensible. Strained, but never to be broken. Decent, but ready to be made better. Because they both shared the same desperation. A desperation for adventure. The two lived and breathed through the cases and adventures they shared, so they would continue to perform them.
Over. And over.
Again. And again.
Desperation drove Sherlock and John to keep living.
What did you think? Well whether you liked it or not PLEASE leave a review. Good or bad, they are wonderful. You are wonderful. Follow or favorite too if you want!
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~East Wind~