The silhouette of a face was visible for a moment in the blackened room as lightning flashed across the dark night sky. Dark curls stood out in contrast with the pale skin of the man sitting curled up on his favourite chair. Darkness returned. One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three. One kilometre away.
Ever since John Watson's departure, the great Sherlock Holmes had locked himself up in 221b Baker Street like a caged animal. John had moved out a week after Sherlock's return from the dead and had left Sherlock to his own thoughts. John had chosen Mary.
Quietly Sherlock wondered if John was afraid of the thunder that roamed above London; if he awoke startled at the first dark rumble, back in the dusty heat of Afghanistan once more. He was a soldier, after all. He considered sending a text, but thought better of it. John had Mary now. Sherlock had to let go.
Silence had settled over the room, broken only by a distant rumble of thunder and Mary's steady breathing. John watched her chest rising and falling rhythmically, her eyelashes fluttering with her every exhalation. Mary was lying beside him, soundly asleep, her arm resting limply on his chest, unaware of his racing thoughts. He found himself unable to fall asleep, but it wasn't the storm keeping him awake. Left alone, the thoughts he had been trying to suppress were threatening to break through to the surface again. They lingered in the back of his mind, making him question his choices. When it had become clear to him that Sherlock would never come back, that he was gone for good, it had been easier to just try to forget, not to think about what might have happened if they had had more time. It had been too late then, and he had tried to move on. And he had met Mary. She had helped him through the grief, giving him the possibility of living a normal life, a life without murders and mysteries. The mere idea of marrying Mary, having children, living together without the fear of being confronted with the sight of thumbs in the fridge had felt comforting. But then Sherlock had come back, and John had once again been reminded of the thoughts he had desperately tried to push away. He couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if Sherlock had never left.
Pacing. Elevated heart rate - ninety-three beats per minute to be precise. A slight tremor of the right hand.
Sherlock was restless. It was the storm, or it was the memories in the walls surrounding him; the familiar smell of home, the dusty surface of the mantelpiece, the empty glare of the skull resting upon it. The quiet and stillness made him uneasy.
He was pacing in front of the window, his violin resting against his cheek and with bow in hand but unable to play. The wall he had built around himself since his departure had grown thick and hard, and it was difficult for anything to seep out. It had been cracked and torn down, but he had rebuilt it time and again. It had kept him alive in Serbia, Mexico and Moscow, and it was keeping him alive now.
He had needed to be protected. Yes, he had won; his mind had conquered and Moriarty's network had been brought down. The surge of victory was minusculed by the scars on his back, on his arms and foremost on his heart.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let one dusty brick fall to the ground.
He played.
After an hour of staring into the darkness of the room and being haunted by his own thoughts, John gave up trying to fall asleep. Carefully, so as not to wake Mary, he moved her arm from across his chest, inched away from her warm body and rose quietly to make his way to the kitchen, remembering to avoid the creaky floorboard next to their bed. John filled the kettle, set the water to boil and sat down to wait. The wall clock ticked away the seconds, reminding him that he was wasting time wallowing in the past. He knew that he should be thankful to have met a woman willing to spend her life with him, willing to love him, care for him. He knew that he should be happy and he was. He loved Mary, he really did. Yet he couldn't help but feel an emptiness, a void consuming him from within, as if there was something missing. Something Mary would never be able to give him. John knew that he should content himself with the fact that Sherlock was alive, be happy to have him as a friend, but part of him, a part he had tried so hard to hide, was unable to let go of the thought that maybe, just maybe, they could have something more than just a friendship, be something more than The click of the kettle brought John back to the present, pulling him away from his thoughts. A glance at the clock told him that it was just after three in the morning, and in that moment he knew that it was time to forget, time to let go.
His fingers were trembling in the pale moonlight of his bedroom. The scarlet curtains hung heavy, lining the bright window with shadows. He tightened his grip around the syringe in his hand, his movements fumbling.
John.
He had promised John he would never revisit that chapter of his past, but John wasn't there to judge him. Sherlock could picture his frowning face and the gentle concern poorly concealed in his gaze. John wouldn't have let him out of his sight, had he known what he was up to.
But John wasn't there.
Sherlock took a deep breath and steadied himself. He had coped in the cold, raw streets of Serbia, and he would cope now. With his back placed firmly against the side of his bed, his legs stretched out on the floor, he gently set the syringe aside and brought his phone out from the pocket of his suit pants.
I will have Mycroft's minions deliver what belongings you wish to keep. They can rid of the rest. -SH
His chest felt heavy and he let the phone drop to the floor with a thud. It was for the better.
His hands were no longer shaking and he was able to pick up the syringe without trouble. The transparent liquid contained within was glowing invitingly as the moonlight reflected back from the thin glass. Sherlock placed the needle in the crook of his arm and let the substance enter his arteries, already feeling his pulse pick up and his legs tremble.
Run. He wanted to run. He needed to run. His body was demanding release. With palms supporting his weight, he got up and pushed his mobile phone into his pocket and headed for the door.
He didn't even bother putting on a coat.
The rumbling storm had given way to drenching rain, thrumming against the windowpanes, splattering across the roof, the moon glowing dimly through the darkness of the night, shedding a faint stream of light through the rain-battered window. John took a sip of his steaming tea and cursed under his breath as the hot liquid burned his tongue. Holding the warm cup in his hands, he thanked God that Mary was a heavy sleeper; he didn't want to try to explain why, instead of lying beside her, holding her sleeping form, he was drinking tea in the middle of the night, thinking about his ex-flatmate. He felt pathetic. He Suddenly, the buzz of his mobile phone startled him, making him spill tea on his lap, setting off another string of curse words. Putting the teacup aside, he reached for the mobile phone, its screen flickering in the dark room, indicating he had a text message. John found himself secretly hoping that it was from Sherlock. What the hell was he thinking? Sherlock wasn't interested in a romantic relationship, let alone with But now, it seemed that John had been wrong. The text message made him inclined to believe that he had imagined all of it. Sherlock probably didn't mind that he had moved out, didn't mind that he was gone. Maybe he was even happy that he didn't have to live with John and his countless jumpers any more.
I could come over tomorrow and get them?
He let his finger hover over the send button for a while. After a moment's hesitation, John swallowed and pressed the button.
The world's only consulting detective had no idea how he had ended up on the hard, wet ground in the middle of the night. The alley was dimly lit and very secluded; there was little evidence of life aside from a bin filled to the brim with trash. Rain was pouring down and he was shivering violently, cold down to the very bone. He didn't know where he was, and he most certainly did not recognize the sleep-stricken, unshaved face that was dragging him up from the ground.
'Oh, Christ, Sherlock' the man grunted as he threw Sherlock's limp body over his shoulder and dragged him off towards what appeared to be a police car.
'I kn-ow you' Sherlock slurred and tried to flip over to get a better look at the man's face. "Ish it Fred?"
'Shut up, Sherlock, or I will shoot you.'
There was a hint of authority in his voice, and Sherlock did as he was told, as the strong man carried him to the car and dropped him off in the passenger seat. The door was slammed shut behind him and locked, making Sherlock feel like a fugitive.
The man entered the driver's seat.
'It's Greg. How many times do I have to tell you that?'
Sherlock regarded him coolly, but Greg simply rolled his eyes. This wasn't he first time he'd pulled a using Sherlock off the streets. Christ, a few hours ago he hadn't even known the man was alive. It was all very typically Sherlock.
'Why are you here? I don't need your help' Sherlock muttered between clenched teeth, pulling his soaked shirt tighter around his body. God, he felt cold.
'Yes, you do. Mycroft's orders.'
'Bloody Mycroft.'
Greg ignited the engine and drove off towards 221b, and Sherlock sighed to himself, gazing emptily out of the rain-streaked window. He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket.
It said John.
John.
He froze in his seat.
I could come over tomorrow and get them?
Sherlock closed his eyes, a soft ache stretching out across his chest. A rapid descent into his mind palace, and he was outside the door. The one door he hadn't been able to close in his time away. It had a name tag reading 'John Watson'
He closed it with a quiet thud.
Please, help yourself. - SH
He felt utterly, utterly miserable.
It had stopped raining by morning. The sun had begun to rise, casting a soft glow into the kitchen. John had fallen asleep seated with his head hanging down, his shoulders slumped forward; the sleep had finally taken him sometime in the early morning hours, freeing his mind from the painful thoughts that kept torturing him. A patch of sunlight fell on his face, making him open his eyes. As the morning sun warmed his skin and blinded his unadjusted eyes, he thought better of it and pressed them shut again. Finally, he lifted his head and forced his aching body to move off the kitchen chair, listening for any sounds to indicate that Mary was awake. It was silent apart from the soft hum of the refrigerator. John felt relieved; he wasn't going to have to explain anything to her—at least not this morning. John tiptoed to the bathroom, past Mary's sleeping body. He needed a cold shower to clear his mind, his head feeling heavy, as if molten lead had been poured into his skull. After the shower, he proceeded to shave the stubble off his chin. The shower hadn't helped him as much as he had hoped it would; he felt tired, completely exhausted. He felt worse than he appeared if that was even possible, considering the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and his pale, puffy face. "Well, you're up early for a Saturday morning." John had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn't heard her come. She was standing in the doorway in her bathrobe, gazing at him in the mirror. "I couldn't sleep any longer, so I thought I might as well take a shower," John said, dragging the razor across his chin. "You look awful." She moved closer to him and slipped her arms around his waist. "Ta very much." John chuckled and rolled his eyes as he leaned down on the sink to wash his face. As he turned around to face her, he placed a quick kiss on her lips. But it didn't feel right. He felt guilty although there was no reason for him to feel that way. Or maybe there was. He hadn't done anything, hadn't done anything with Sherlock, but he had thought about it. He had spent his night longing for his best friend while Mary was right in the other room. And the worst thing was that he wanted to do something, he wanted And it made him feel unbearably guilty.
Sherlock was resting on his back on the leather sofa, his palms pressed together tightly, fingertips resting against his chin. He was absolutely still. The only movement was the slight elevation and depression of his chest as he took small, quiet breaths, and the sunlight dancing across his forehead and the wall behind him.
It had been early morning when Greg had dropped him off at the apartment. He had been very angry after finding Sherlock's stash displayed openly on the kitchen table, and had stormed off after taking the syringe, plastic bag and its contents with him. Sherlock had protested, albeit weakly, but had eventually realized it was a lost battle: Greg wasn't going to let him keep the drugs.
Since then he had been lying awake on the sofa, counting the minutes before John Watson would arrive at 221b and run up the stairs like he normally did. It stung that he would be coming for all the wrong reasons, but there was some comfort to be had too.
Sherlock sat up with abruptly with a sigh, swinging his legs down from the sofa and onto the floor, fishing out his mobile phone from his pocket at the same time.
No new text messages.
Dramatically he cast his phone aside and resumed his position on the couch. He felt restless and irritable, and there were no distractions.
He was angry at Greg, he was angry at Mycroft, but most of all he was angry at himself.
John Watson would walk out of his life just as fast as he had walked into it, and all Sherlock's efforts were in vain.
"Are we going somewhere today?" Mary was looking at him questioningly, a slight frown on her forehead, her hands on his waist. "Hmm?" John cocked an eyebrow and placed his arms over her shoulders. They hadn't made any plans; they used to stay at home on Saturdays, watching TV together, cuddling on the sofa. But he had a plan. Or no, he didn't really have a plan at all, but a stupid idea, doomed to failure, that had come into his mind in the middle of the night when his judgement hadn't been at its best. He was going to go to 221B and get the rest of his things. And he was going to meet Sherlock. The man would probably point out that John had put on some weight, being irritatingly right, or just lie down on the sofa, deep in thought, and ignore him. And one thing John knew for sure was that the meeting would only make him feel worse than he already did. "You have shaved, put on cologne, got dressed, and it's only seven A.M. And it's "Like I said, I couldn't sleep. And I'm just going to get the rest of my stuff from Baker Street—" Mary cut him off. "Should I be jealous?" She smiled teasingly and gave him a wink. "Ha, ha," John said sarcastically, trying not to think about how he had spent his night yearning for Sherlock. He was glad that Mary accepted his friendship with Sherlock; she even seemed to like him, which was quite unusual, considering how rude and inconsiderate the man could be. But John wasn't sure if their friendship would last. There was a good chance Sherlock had already had enough, that he had got bored. When John had packed his things and moved out of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock hadn't objected, hadn't asked him to stay. John had found himself hoping that he would say something, anything, to give him reason to reconsider, but Sherlock had remained quiet. An hour later, John was sitting in a cab, gazing out of the window, thrumming his fingers against his thigh—a nervous habit of his. A small flutter started to grow in his stomach as he took his mobile phone out of his pocket. He took a wavering breath and sent the message.
Sherlock knew John had arrived at 221b before the door even opened. It was as if something had shifted in the air; as if millions of tiny particles had re-centered around Sherlock's chest, pushing the air out of his lungs. It felt heavy to breathe and Sherlock had to sit up on the sofa. Distractedly, he wiped his palms against his thighs and bit his lower lip.
He was nervous. It wasn't like him at all. Then again, nothing was what it seemed when it came to the involvement of John Watson.
Sherlock could hear the front door closing downstairs, and the first few hesitant steps that John took into the hallway. Ever the soldier, Sherlock could practically hear him considering walking right back out and leaving again, only to become more determined to make it up those damn stairs and face Sherlock.
A few heavy footsteps later, and there was a quiet knock on the door.
John's phone had stayed quiet. If not getting an answer from Sherlock had already reduced him to a quivering mess of nerves, he didn't want to know what would happen when the man stood before him, his unruly curls framing his cheekbones, his blue eyes studying John like— He quickly stopped himself from finishing the thought and swallowed against the lump in his throat. John was afraid that every forbidden emotion he had tried so hard to stifle would be laid bare before Sherlock's eyes. He didn't know if he was going to be able to hide his inner turmoil from Sherlock, from He felt like he was suffocating, his breathing laboured. Sherlock would have to give him CPR if he continued like this. The thought made his cheeks burn. For God's sake, he was a Cursing the fact that he had decided to come, John raised his hand and knocked. The knock was too light to belong to a soldier. John closed his eyes and tried to compose himself, drawing a deep breath through his nostrils. He listened, but he couldn't detect any sound. No reason to panic, he told himself. Sherlock probably wasn't even home. He knocked again, this time more loudly. More determined. He heard a shuffling sound, then footsteps coming toward the door.
Sherlock opened the door in his blue morning robe, regarded John for a second, then turned around nonchalantly and threw himself down onto the couch.
'You will find that your things have been collected and placed in your bedroom. Take what you wish' Sherlock spoke, his baritone voice carefully neutral: no quivers or high octaves to give away his inner storm, threatening to lay his very soul bare in that very moment.
John took a careful step into the living room and closed the door behind him. He looked around the room, avoiding to meet Sherlock's gaze, evidently embarrassed to be there.
Sherlock sighed loudly and got up, wrapping his robe tightly around him and turned to face John.
'Do you need me to show you where it is?' Sherlock's tone was challenging, and John finally faced him.
Avoiding Sherlock's gaze, John looked around the room, saw the skull on the mantelpiece, the shelf filled with dust-covered books, the music stand in front of the window with some notes on it. The room seemed to be largely unchanged, but John couldn't help but notice that his armchair wasn't in its usual place. Maybe this was Sherlock's way of letting him know that he wasn't welcome any more. "Do you need me to show you where it is?" John forced himself to look at Sherlock. The man was staring back at him, challenging, wrapped up in his robe, his hair a dark mess of curls on top of his head. John's mouth went dry as his gaze locked with Sherlock's bloodshot eyes, his dilated pupils. John didn't need his medical degree to see the signs. He cleared his throat. "Have you... are you..." John couldn't bring himself to say the words, he didn't want it to be true. Sherlock rolled his eyes and raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue. Exhaling deeply, John shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat again. "Are you on drugs?"
Of course he would know, Sherlock scolded himself. John wasn't stupid, after all.
'It's for a case' he said neutrally, his gaze never leaving John, studying his reactions. 'Judging from your reaction, you don't believe me. Slight frown of the bottom lip, eyebrows raised questioningly. Judging by the dark shade under your eyes, you aren't sleeping very well either. Mary? Oh, Mary cares very much and it bothers you that she keeps asking if you are okay. So, what do you do during your sleepless nights? Drink tea, for one, yes, you always drink tea, oh, but there is something more. Something I can't quite put my finger on. Something has you distracted, but wha-'
'Shut up, Sherlock' came John's threatening reply. His hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides, and the protruding muscles of his neck were tensed. Sherlock didn't know what had gotten to him, but he had wanted to rile John up, and he was very good at doing so.
'Oh, I'm sorry' Sherlock snarled sarcastically. 'Did I hurt your fee-'
Sherlock hadn't been prepared for the punch. It landed on his cheek and pain surged within him instantly. The right side of his face throbbed and he swore he had heard something crunch sickeningly. He slumped over, hands protecting his face from further punches. But no further punches came.
Sherlock's chest was hurting and it felt heavy to breathe, as if he couldn't get enough air. Increased heart beat frequency, the overwhelming feeling of not getting enough air. Panic attack.
Sherlock practically ran out of the apartment, only stopping for a second to grab his Belstaff coat and a plastic bag that hung from the coat hanger. He was down the stairs in less than three seconds.
John had experienced a range of emotions in the past few hours, from fear, regret and despair to sadness and frustration, but now his anger was overriding everything, bubbling to the surface. His previous nervousness was a distant memory, replaced with anger he struggled to contain. He was furious. This time Sherlock had crossed a line. A line John hadn't even known existed. In the years they had known each other, Sherlock had lied and manipulated; he had almost got John killed, not once but several times. He had been an utter and complete arsehole. He had faked his suicide and disappeared for two years. Two But now Sherlock had crossed a line and John had finally had enough. He had spent two years mourning for Sherlock. Sherlock had let him suffer, had let him believe that he had killed himself. John had wasted two John knew he couldn't take it any more. He just couldn't. He wouldn't survive losing him, living through that pain again. Once had been enough. If Sherlock was going to get himself killed, John wouldn't be there to witness it. John knew he had to stop torturing himself. There had been too many sleepless nights and too many restless days. It wasn't healthy. Suddenly exhausted, he slumped down on the sofa. He buried his face in his hands, battling the stinging sensation behind his eyelids. To hell with him. To hell with
The moment Sherlock got out of 221b, he started sprinting. He ran without purpose, without a target location: he just ran like he had never run before. Not before long his lungs felt like they were on fire, but Sherlock didn't stop. Sweat was trickling down his forehead and his breathing was laboured. His sides hurt and his legs hurt, but hurting most of all was his heart.
The encounter had been the final proof; John didn't care anymore. He was angry, and rightfully so, and he didn't care. Moriarty had won.
It wasn't before thirty minutes that Sherlock came to an abrupt stop. His legs wouldn't bear his weight anymore and he couldn't breathe. Black dots were covering his field of vision and he felt faint. His legs caved in and he rested his back against the brick wall behind him. The ground was cold and hard, and despite the bright daylight the autumn air was chilly. He didn't know where he was and he honestly didn't care. He was sure Mycroft was keeping track of him from somewhere either way.
Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. He wiped sweat from his brow and moved moved some unruly dark curls out of his eyes. He took a moment to take in his surroundings.
The brick building behind him was old and worn-down, an industrial building from the late 30s no doubt. There were clear signs of use: the brickwork was darkened in places, most likely heat-related, and some windows on the first floor were smashed. There was grafitti on the wall, but Sherlock didn't pay too much attention to it. The place was secluded, and it would have to do.
He extracted the plastic bag from his pocket and shrugged the coat off of his shoulders, laying bare his long-sleeved, dark purple shirt. He rolled the sleep of his left arm up to his bicep, freeing the curve of his arm. The syringe was already loaded. It had been hidden underneath a removable wooden floorboard in case someone would figure out that he had relapsed.
A short moment later, the drugs were flowing in his veins and he let out a sigh of relief. It wouldn't last long, he knew. Mycroft would have someone pick him up any moment now and he would be very disappointed. Not that it bothered Sherlock that much. He would be forced into sobriety again though, and that was something he didn't look forward to.
Sherlock closed his eyes again and enjoyed the sensation as it increased in strength. He didn't hear that someone came down the alleyway he was in, and he most certainly didn't react until it was too late. The stranger's needle was injected deep into his neck and his limbs went limp. He faded into darkness.
A few hours later there was a knock on John's door but there was no one there when he answered it. However, on the ground there was a tiny envelope addressed to Cpt. John Watson. Inside it there was a single lock of dark, almost black, hair.
After composing himself, drying off his tears, John rose from the leather sofa, squared his shoulders and gave the room a last glance. He was tired; his anger had abated and all he felt was exhaustion, seeping out of every pore of his skin. John could feel his heart aching, a stab of pain in his chest, as he closed the front door of 221B behind him, but he didn't waver in his decision. It was high time for him to let go of the past and move on. John would forget, he would let Sherlock go, it would break his heart, but he would let him go. He had to. On his way home, John stopped at a flower shop and bought flowers to Mary. It wasn't something he did every day, and he had a hard time choosing among the abundance of different roses and pelargoniums and tulips and God knows what else. The lady who owned the shop had said that he should buy red roses because they symbolize love and passion, desire and romance, and John had paid and hurried out before she had had time to finish her analysis. Mary had seemed surprised but she had said that she loved the roses, and John had said that he loved her. Sherlock's face had appeared in his mind, mocking him, making arrogant remarks about John's inability to forget him, but John had pushed the image away, forcing himself to focus on Mary, and kissed her, trying to convey all his love for her. Later, John had received a letter that had made his blood boil. How He shoved the letter in his trousers pocket but thought better of it and tossed it into the bin under the kitchen sink. John had had enough of his games. As he returned to the living room, Mary looked at him questioningly. "Who was it?" "Nobody. They just had the wrong address," John replied and went to sit beside her on the sofa, wrapping his arm around her, placing a kiss on her head, telling himself that he didn't care any more. Not this time.
Sherlock's dreams were feverish. They were short sequences of events one after another, darker and more disturbing the longer his restless sleep continued. He would jolt awake and find his hands were tied and snakes would come slithering from his throat, threatening to suffocate him. Moriarty's laughter would echo down windowless corridors as Sherlock ran for his life from an invisible enemy. Then there were the ones about John.
His John.
The only person he'd ever sworn to himself he would protect, no matter the cost.
Those dreams were the worst. John lying on the warm sandy surface of Afghanistan, a bullet hole in between his eyes and blood flowing down onto the sand. Moriarty laughing, his finger still hot on the trigger. Sherlock watched John die, over and over, until something from the outside world finally woke him up.
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and groaned at the bright light that met him. His head felt groggy and there was a stinging pain coming from his neck and his forehead. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness he noticed that he was in a place he had never seen before. The ceilings, floor and walls were all concrete and there were no windows. A bright industrial lamp hung from the ceiling, blinding him. There was a heavy-looking metal door on his left, a security door no doubt, and a small table next to it. On top of that table was a camera but Sherlock chose not to think about it. He was sitting in an awkward angle on a metal chair, rope tying his ankles to the front legs of the chair and his wrists together behind his back. He was in pain, but his face remained neutral. There is no reason to panic.
He did the best he could to stretch his pounding extremities and started looking for clues as to where he was, and more imporantly who this was about. Sherlock knew the drill; he had been kidnapped before. Find escape route. If said route does not exist, distract perpetrators until Mycroft or John comes to his rescue. Only, this time he wasn't sure John would come. He wasn't even sure John knew he was missing or if he cared. A faint ache persisted inside his heart and he had no idea what do make of it all.
Inspecting the chair he was on, he tried to determine whether or not he would be able to escape. The odds didn't seem to be in his favour. His wrists and ankles were tied together properly with cable ties and it would take more than a little manouvering and nudging to get them to snap. All he could do for now was wait.
Sherlock didn't have to wait for long. He heard distant sounds of footsteps and two men talking just a few minutes after he had woken up. The door rustled as the strangers unlocked it and it slid open.
In came two big-looking men, about his own age, dressed in all-black, convering everything but their eyes. The man on the right was carrying what looked like a toolbox and it made him uneasy. He did not recognize them and didn't doubt they were but mercenaries hired by someone to do their dirty work.
'Gentlemen' Sherlock greeted them politely, keeping his face in check. 'Would you be so kind as to untie me? It is terribly uncomfortable.'
The two men shared an unamused look but didn't respond. The man on the right put the toolbox down on the table with a large thud and opened it, inspecting its contents carefully. The left man started speaking, his voice rough and edgy.
'You listen 'ere, Mr Holmes. We're goin' to send your precious John Watson a message. He has somethin' that ain't belong to him, and we want it back.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. How very intellectual. This would be an interesting conversation.
'I regret to inform you that captain John Watson is no longer in my service. I am afraid you will have to ask him. What is it he has?' Sherlock couldn't help but be a little curious. He was a detective after all.
'O', but we both kno' that's not quite true, Mr Holmes' the man retorted. 'What was it Mr Moriarty said?' Sherlock froze at the mention of that name, but quickly put his mask back up. 'People do get sentimental about their pets.'
The man on the right had finised his inspection and picked up a knife and what looked like a whip. Sherlock cringed and closed his eyes.
'Not so cocky now, eh? Mr Holmes.'
I am not in Serbia, I am not in Serbia, I am in the United Kingdoms. Moriarty cannot hurt me.
He kept his eyes closed but felt as one of the men cut his shirt open, revealing the pale flesh of his abdomen. He felt the first whip like a gunshot to his stomach, feeling hot liquid seeping out from the long wound. Biting down on his lip he tried not to show any signs of pain but all the memories came back to him, reducing him to a quivering mess. He recalled the smell, the sounds and the feeling of Moriarty hawking around him like an angry predator telling him over and over exactly how little he meant to the brave John Watson.
He didn't feel the second whip coming and didn't hear the click of someone taking a photograph.
A second envelope was delivered to Cpt. John Watson.
Hour after hour John lay awake, fidgeting, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep, unable to put the envelope out of his mind. He had received yet another envelope late in the evening, his name scribbled on the back. Without opening it, without giving it a second thought, he had thrown it away. He had tossed it into the bin under the kitchen sink, and now it haunted him, kept him awake. Damn Sighing heavily, John slid off the bed and made his way to the kitchen. He knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep until he saw what was inside the envelope. A small voice in the back of his mind had been telling him that Sherlock might be in danger, and he had tried to push the thought away, tried to convince himself that it was just another one of Sherlock's stupid games, but he couldn't. He couldn't ignore the thought; his mind refused to let go of the possibility that Sherlock needed help. He knelt down on one knee, rummaged through the trash and picked the envelope up. He tore it open and withdrew a photograph. It was too dark to see it clearly; the only light was the soft glow of the moon filtering in through the dusty window. Without taking his eyes off the photo, trying to make out what it showed, he rose to his feet, walked to the kitchen table and fumbled for his mobile phone. Using the light from it, John could finally see, and the first glance was enough to make him collapse to his knees. He allowed the photo to fall onto the floor. Involuntarily, his hands moved to his stomach, a cold shiver running down his spine. His legs felt suddenly weak, his chest tight as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move. He felt nauseous. The vivid image of Sherlock being tortured, his wrists and legs bound, his stomach bleeding, burned in his mind. He had been wrong, John tried to think rationally, but his thoughts were an incoherent mess. He didn't know what to do. His heart pounded erratically, as if trying to escape his chest, cold sweat starting to form on his forehead. He forced himself to grab hold of the kitchen counter, pulling himself up. Another wave of nausea surged over him, and he leaned on the counter to stabilize himself, his legs threatening to give out under him. John wasn't sure when his body had started moving toward the bedroom. It was as if someone else had shifted into his body and made him search for his trousers. After what felt like seconds, John was out of the front door, stumbling into the cold night air. The air helped clear his mind, and his focus jerked back to Sherlock. His senses seemed heightened as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, drew air into his lungs and dialed Mycroft's number. "John." His voice was calm and collected, and John could feel the anger starting to build within him. "Where the "Who?" "For God's sake, Mycroft, don't play stupid. You know bloody well who," John said, anger creeping into his tone. "I'm afraid—" John cut him short. "Just—" He sounded strangled. "Tell me. The line stayed quiet for a moment before Mycroft spoke again. "There's a blind spot." John felt as if he had been punched in his gut, uneasy feeling settling over him. "What do you mean there's a blind spot? You are Mycroft "John, I—" "Shut up. Just. Shut up. It wasn't a request. It was a demand.
Sherlock was sore. His abdomen pounded and ached, as did his head. Before the men had left them to his misery they had cut his wrists and ankles free – Sherlock's ultimate opportunity to escape – but he had just slumped down onto his knees on the ground, his head down in submission. As soon as the door had been slammed and bolted shut, Sherlock had crawled into the far corner of the room, resting his head against the cold wall, his knees pushed up against his stomach as far as they would let him. He felt pathetic.
He had been through far worse in his adventures with John, but they had been breathing as one and nothing had been able to get him then. But then Moriarty had forced him to jump from St Bart's in front of John before shooting himself in the head, and everything had changed. He didn't like admitting it, but his very person had been changed that day and John would never be able to forgive him.
The very morning after he had left for Moscow to start dismantling Moriarty's network. Mycroft had tended to the necessary preparations and he had been put on a flight faster than he had thought was possible, but then again it was Mycroft. He had made some phone calls, packed his bags and left his heart behind in London, aching for the day he would return and get to see John again.
In Moscow he had immediately ran into trouble. He admitted it had been partly his own fault. Desperate for some relief from his own mind he had sought out the first drug dealer he had come across. Later, it had turned out that the drug dealer had been the son of an infamous mafia lord and that said lord hadn't been pleased to know his son had been royally fooled. He had put a price on Sherlock's head, and after that he had had to change identity. He had cut his hair, bleached it blonder and gone to a tanning salon to no longer be known as Sherlock Holmes. He did have an international reputation after all.
Moscow had been nothing compared to Serbia. Sherlock cringed. He didn't want to think about it, afraid of what reaction it may provoke in him. He had never felt so vulnerable. Scratching his cheek he was surprised to see his hand come back wet; he hadn't even realized he was crying.
A broken sob escaped from Sherlock's throat and he put his arms around his knees and rested his head upon them, rocking himself back and forth.
'John' he said brokenly in between silent sobs.
'I'm so sorry, John.'
It hadn't taken long until a black sedan had pulled to a halt alongside John. Rolling his eyes, John had entered the car and let the driver take him to Mycroft's office. As the car had moved through unfamiliar streets, John had given up on trying to see where they were heading and instead, thrumming his fingers against his thigh, he had forced himself to think, to focus, despite the worry gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Pacing back and forth in the office, his hands clenched into fists, John felt the anger growing within him, his worry being overridden by frustration. "Tell me, "Whoever they are, they must have known about the CCTVs. The footage shows Sherlock entering the building, but after that, there's nothing. They must have entered the building through a door other than the main entrance. A door that is not covered by CCTV. A blind spot." Mycroft's cool and calculated demeanor made John even angrier. "He is your Mycroft remained calm, his face showing no signs of fear or worry. "He's not dead. Or, at least, it's very unlikely. They clearly want something from you. They use him to motivate you to give them what they want. Killing him before they get their hands on it would be "They are torturing him. He's To John's surprise, Mycroft didn't mock him. "We are going to find him."
During the next day, Sherlock didn't make a sound. He would sit, his legs crossed, with his head resting against the wall, regarding anyone who entered his cell in silence. Food was offered - his life wasn't in danger, for now - but he ignored it. He simply couldn't get himself to eat when John wasn't around, and John was very, very far from here. If he closed his eyes he could see him in 221B distractedly sipping on his tea, but the images were too painful so he pushed them away. John wasn't coming for him this time.
That was when he heard familiar footsteps down the staircase outside his cell, and the blood in his veins froze to ice.
'No' he told himself. 'It isn't true, he can't be alive. He died in Serbia. This isn't real.'
But the footsteps continued and the door opened.
In came a well-dressed, young man, his short black hair trimmed into perfection. A smile was plastered to his face but it never reached his eyes.
'You' Sherlock said with distain.
'Sherlock' said James Moriarty and smiled welcomingly.
By the time the morning sun began to cast its warming rays through the well-cleaned windows of Mycroft's office, John had stopped pacing around the room and slumped into one of the leather chairs along the wall. John wanted to break something, tear down the perfectly ironed curtains, take down the books off the shelves and throw them on the polished floor, one by one. To Mycroft's delight, the exhaustion kept John still. Mycroft was sitting behind his desk, making phone calls, watching the CCTV footage over and over again. A small frown had appeared on his otherwise expressionless face, but his eyes remained cool and distant. Before John had finished thinking about how he would destroy the teacup on Mycroft's desk, his mobile phone started to ring in his pocket. John suddenly became alert. He had waited for something to happen, for the phone to start ringing, for the kidnappers to make a demand. He fumbled for the phone and looked at the screen, the caller ID showing an unknown caller. John took a steadying breath and put the phone on speaker. "Evening, gentlemen." John stiffened in his chair. The voice was familiar—too familiar. He held his breath. The voice continued, "Oh, you are surprised. You thought I was dead? No, no, no, no. Boring!" John's throat felt dry; he couldn't speak. His mind was spinning through incoherent thoughts as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. The man couldn't be alive, he just couldn't. Sherlock had told John that the man was dead. Sherlock had "Have you lost your tongue, Johnny boy? You can talk, go ahead." John exhaled the breath he had been holding. "You are supposed to be dead," he said in a strangled voice, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Oh, Johnny," the voice said with a laugh, "Am I?" "Where is he?" "Ah, now we are getting somewhere. You are already missing your boyfriend, I suppose." "Where. Is. "Oh well. You are very protective of him, aren't you? Adorable." "If you lay so much as the tip of your finger on him, I swear—" Moriarty's laughter cut him off. "Tut, tut. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. But speaking of your boyfriend, if you want to see him alive again, you should do as I say." "What do you want?" John spat the words through his teeth, grinding his molars into each other, anger leaking out of every pore in his body. "There's a car waiting for you. You shouldn't let anyone follow you. Especially you Mr. Holmes, I know you're there, don't be stupid. Send someone after him, I assure you, you'll never see your baby brother alive again." "What if I don't get into the car?" "Then you can say goodbye to your boyfriend. Because I'm bored and he's tied up. And there are all sorts of knives and whips, and I'm And with that, the call ended.
Sherlock shuddered with pure, genuine fear. He knew Moriarty was a maniac but he had never foreseen to what degree, but the phone call to John had made realization unfold in front of his eyes like a nightmare. He was scared like he had never been before. He had been scared in Serbia when he had gotten himself caught by the very same man that stood in front of him now, but the sensation paled in comparison to what was before him.
'Not John' Sherlock said, his voice strained with self-control. 'Anything, but please not John.'
For a moment Moriarty looked as if he was going to ravage him, and his eyes lit up mischievously. He took a step closer to the chair where Sherlock was bound to.
'Oh Sherlock, my dear' he said softly. 'I am only going to have you prepared for when Johnny boy arrives, no doubt he will.'
The hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stood up at the insinuation in Moriarty's tone. He tried to push himself back onto the chair as far away from Moriarty as he could, but there was little point. Moriarty was a hawk and he its prey.
The table beside the door had been frequented all morning, strange men coming in and out leaving things upon it. Sherlock hadn't looked too closely upon it, but he knew none of it would be pleasant. He steeled himself.
'Relax, baby' said Moriarty and smiled sweetly at him. 'Daddy's here' he sang and took a step closer, striding around Sherlock's chair. Sherlock felt trapped, and the only thing separating him from Moriarty were his suit trousers and his purple shirt that had been buttoned up to cover up his seeping wounds. There was a savage look in Moriarty's eyes as he bent closer to Sherlock from behind his chair, his lips gentle against his ear. Sherlock shivered.
'I know you have longed for this as i have, my dear Sherlock.'
His breath tickled Sherlock's neck uncomfortably and he felt sick to the stomach.
'And after I am done' his lips slid down the length of Sherlock's neck as he murmured 'with you, no one else will want you.'
'You are mine, Sherlock.'
Sherlock tried to fight away the tears that were threatening to fall.
'You are a monster' he spat, his voice low and threatening.
'There there, Sherlock. You wouldn't want to anger me, would you?' His jaw was clenching with rage. 'You know what I can do when I'm angry.'
Sherlock knew. He swallowed.
'Now, are you going to cooperate? Otherwise there won't be much left for Johnny boy.'
Sherlock closed his eyes and Moriarty took quick steps around to the front of Sherlock's chair. He felt strong hands unbuttoning his shirt and he focused on breathing. Inhaling and exhaling. It felt like he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.
The hand were replaced by gentle fingers caressing the two whip marks on his stomach. It hurt.
'Tsk, I see my men have not treated you too kindly. I am here to repay you.'
He pushed himself up against Sherlock's side and he could feel his erection pressing against his ribs.
'You are sick.'
Moriarty withdrew himself and Sherlock opened his eyes. Moriarty's were cold and there was flame in them, like liquid magma threatening to erupt at any moment.
'What did I tell you? Don't. Make. Me. ANGRY.' He shouted the last word and his voice echoed between the four walls.
Sherlock would fight to the very last second. For John, he would fight.
'You are going to regret this' Sherlock spat. 'Mycroft will find you and he will end you.'
Moriarty slapped Sherlock across the face hard enough to leave a mark, the smack echoing sickeningly.
'You are going to obey me, Sherlock' Moriarty said, his tone condescending. He walked backwards towards the table where he picked up a roll of duct tape. With skilled fingers he tore off a long strip and threw the rest of the roll back onto the metal surface. He then proceeded to place the tape gently over Sherlock's lips, Sherlock fighting back to bite him as well as he could. Eventually the tape was on and Moriarty grinned at him wickedly.
'This is even better than I had imagined. You are beautiful.' He stroked his hand across Sherlock's abdomen and down toward his thighs and Sherlock shuddered.
'It's such a shame you are WORTHLESS. How did you ever think you'd get to keep the humble John Watson? He went off and fucked Mary as soon as he thought your body was six feet under. You. Are. Nothing.'
Moriarty let go of Sherlock and strode back to the metal table and scanned for something. He removed his grey suit jacket, revealing a white tightly-fitted shirt underneath, and a black belt holding up his suit trousers. Carefully, he picked up what looked like a syringe in his right hand and a surgical scalpel in the other. He walked, back straight, to Sherlock and dropped the objects on the hard floor next to his chair. He then made sure Sherlock was properly tied to his chair: ankles and wrists attached.
Sherlock had closed his eyes. This was too much. It was Serbia and John wasn't here. God, why was John not here yet? Had something happened to him?
He felt hands fumble with the buttons of his trousers and then how his trousers were being pulled down to his knees, revealing his black boxers.
'You are nothing, Mr Holmes. A big fucking mess. You know, I'm disappointed in you.'
He heard the sound of a metal object being picked up from the floor, and then a sharp pain from his abdomen which made him emit a muffled scream. He couldn't see what Moriarty was doing but the hot smell of iron reached his nose and he felt like he was going to be sick.
When Moriarty pulled away he picked up the syringe and pressed the contents into Sherlock's arm - relief at last.
'You fucking junkie. That's all you are.'
Moriarty discarded his bloodied shirt on the floor, picked up his suit jacket and slammed the door behind him.
Sherlock took one look at his stomach before giving in to the drugs.
The marks read "worthless" and they were seeping with blood.
He closed his eyes hoping he would never wake.
"Don't be stupid." Mycroft had stood up behind his desk and was keeping John's gaze locked up with his. His eyes were serious, daring John to object. "I don't have much choice, do I?" John tried to keep his voice even, despite the knot of panic that had formed in his stomach. He loved the rush of adrenaline that accompanied being faced with danger. He was addicted to it. But now there was suddenly a lot more at stake than just his own health and well-being, and it took all his strength to remain composed as his nerves threatened to betray him under Mycroft's stare. "There's always—" "No," John shook his head, "I have to do this. There's no other way." Mycroft sighed as he sank into his chair. "You both are going to end up dead." "If I don't go, he'll die anyway," John said, his voice hoarse. "And if he dies, I can't... I just—I can't. Not again, Mycroft. No. I—" John let the sentence trail off, at a loss for words. John blinked, fighting to keep the tears from falling from his eyes, trying to keep his calm facade. "We need a plan." "There's not enough time!" John exclaimed with frustration. "Every second we waste here trying to pretend that there's another way to do this is a second closer to Sherlock being killed." His voice broke on the last word and he buried his face in his hands. He took a wavering breath and raised his gaze again to meet Mycroft's eyes. "Just. Let me do this. I have to. I— I have to." Mycroft paused, considering John's words for a moment, but then nodded slightly. "Very well then, as you wish." "Thank you," John said and turned to walk to the door, not wanting to waste any more time. John was about to open the door, but Mycroft's voice stopped him, "John." John let go of the doorknob and turned around, raising his eyebrow. Mycroft looked serious, but there was something else in his gaze that John couldn't quite put his finger on. For a moment, he thought it was sadness, but it was so uncharacteristic of Mycroft to show such emotion that John thought he had just imagined it. "Be careful." John cleared his throat, but not knowing what to say, he just nodded, turned around again and left Mycroft standing in his office alone. *** There was a black car waiting outside the building. The windows of the car were tinted, so John couldn't see who was inside it, and he became painfully aware of the unpleasant sensation tightening his gut. After gathering enough courage, he settled into a soldier's stance the best he could, his shoulders squared, his chin up at a slight angle, and walked to the car. The car door opened, and John was greeted by a man pointing a gun toward his head. The man, dressed in black, was wearing an earpiece. He had a black cloth wrapped around his face, leaving only his eyes showing. "Put your hands up!" John resisted the urge to roll his eyes and obeyed. The man got out of the car, spun John around, pushing him against the car. John's cheek smashed against the metal, sending a flash of pain through his head, and he couldn't stop the cry from leaving his mouth. The man kicked his feet apart and searched him for weapons. Not finding anything, he grabbed John by the back of his jacket and shoved him into the back of the car. John found himself sitting between two men as the car started moving. He attempted to raise his hand to bring it to his aching cheek, but the man to his left took hold of it, wringing his wrist. "Keep. Your. Hands. John fought the urge to vomit as the pain radiated from his wrist up his arm. As the man let go of his hand, John swallowed relieved, discovering that the man hadn't sprained his wrist. The further away from Mycroft's office they got, the more John started to regret. It wasn't just his own life on the line; Sherlock was going to suffer from his attempt to play hero.
Sherlock sat, his head hanging, blood dripping from his arms and forehead. Moriarty had come back and taught him a lesson, and Sherlock hadn't made a sound.
He was nothing. John Watson made him a man and being dependent on another human being like that, it was weak.
'Johnny boy will get tired of you, you freak' Moriarty had sang, and there was truth to it all. He would try to save Sherlock, his moral standards wouldn't allow him to act otherwise, but then he would go back to Mary. He would go back to his life, go back to his family, and Sherlock would be left alone again. Like he had been since he was young.
It hurt. Silent tears rolled down his bruised face.
He would not live again without John. He would rather die.
When the car came to a halt, John had no idea how long they had driven, let alone where he was. He wasn't even sure if they were in London any more. He had lost track of time and distance while he was slumped between the two rather sturdy-looking men, who were at least a head taller than him, afraid to move an inch for fear of getting a bullet through his skull. While the driver had been taking him further away from the safety of Mycroft's office, John had tried to come up with a plan, pushing his brain to the limit, trying to think of what Sherlock would do, but his attempt was in vain, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of panic. He was alone with no other weapon than his bare hands and he knew that he stood little, if any, chance against the armed men. He needed a miracle, he really did. John tried to peek out the car window, but the man to his right was blocking his view. He could feel his stomach clench in fear, as if someone had tied his insides up in knots, his breathing rapid and shallow. But a hint of courage remained, and it kept him from giving up. He would do everything in his power to save Sherlock. If he could do anything to keep Sherlock alive, he would do it, or try to do it, even if it cost him his life. John could hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel the rush of blood through his trembling body, as the man to his right opened the car door. "You had better not to try anything lil' man, or I'll blow your head off. Sit still." His voice was low, threatening, and John felt a shiver run down his spine despite the blood flowing through his veins and warming his body. He obeyed, careful not to so much as breathe. He wouldn't be much help to Sherlock if his brain was splattered across the rear window. John watched as the man crawled out of the car, and swallowed as he felt the other man's gun pressing against his left arm. One wrong move, he thought, and he would lose his arm. "Get outta the car. No tricks. Nice and slow," the man outside the car commanded, his tone raising goosebumps on John's skin. John heard the front door of the car open and slam shut as he proceeded to climb out, cold sweat trickling down his forehead. He could hear the heavy footsteps of boots as the driver walked around the car. The footsteps stopped, and for a moment there was complete silence, followed by an angry yell: "Are ya deaf? Get out of the fucking car!" John swallowed against the dryness in his throat and resisted the urge to wipe away the drop of sweat threatening to run into his eye, pushing himself closer to the door. Suddenly he heard a gunshot crack through the air, followed by another in quick succession. There was a loud thump and muffled screams. Another thump. Reflexively, John slammed his left elbow into the man's chest and used his right hand to grab his gun and wrench it free. The man's eyes widened in shock as John pointed the gun toward his head. A silence followed; there were no more gunshots, no more footsteps, no more screams. The moment of silence stretched and stretched, endless, charged with tension, as John kept his eyes locked with the man's. John didn't dare to move, didn't dare to speak, didn't dare to breathe. John tightened his grip on the gun. "The tables have turned, huh? Do as I say or I'll put a bullet through your brain," he said, his voice unnervingly calm, holding an edge of anger. He felt a thrill override his fear, the surge of adrenaline pumping through his system, as he saw the panic in the man's eyes. "Get out of the car. NOW!" Holding the gun in steady hands, aiming at the man's head, John watched as the man shuffled out of the car. "Don't move," John said slowly, and the man stopped immediately, standing still. John waited, expecting the sound of gunshots, but nothing came. "Don't try anything funny," John said harshly and inched himself forward until he could peek out of the door and check the surroundings. There were no trees, no grass, only asphalt and concrete buildings, surrounded by a tall metal gate. It was an industrial area, but the buildings were clearly abandoned, in desperate need of repair, the ground covered by dirt and debris. John scanned the area for the shooter but he couldn't detect a single living soul. His heart pounding violently in his chest, he got out of the car, and prepared himself for what was to come. Nothing happened. "Move," John said, motioning with his gun in the general direction of the buildings, "Show me where he is kept. But if you make one wrong move, I swear I'll kill you." The man didn't say a word as he started walking toward the buildings, the sound of his boots heavy against the asphalt. As they walked past the car, John saw the two men lying on the ground, motionless, blood trickling down their foreheads, their eyes wide open in shock. He knew that Mycroft had sent the shooter. It was the only possible explanation. John couldn't help the grin that spread across his face, although he knew it was highly inappropriate. Oh They had entered one of the buildings, and John stopped the man, "Use your earpiece and tell your boss that you have everything under control and you're coming in." For a moment, the man hesitated, but John gave him a threatening look. The man swallowed, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing up and down and did as he was told. "Boss, we are comin' in," the man began, "Uh-huh. Yeah, we've got him, boss. Yeah." John nodded his approval and motioned the man to open the door. The man fumbled with the lock, and John held his breath, clutching his gun so tightly that his knuckles turned white. A voice started speaking, snapping John out of his state of shock. "Well, well, well. What do we have hear, then? Did you come to save the poor damsel in distress?" Moriarty was standing next to Sherlock, smiling. There was pure evil in his grin. "Move," John commanded the man who had led him to the room, "Go stand next to him." "Have you forgotten," Moriarty began, his voice carrying a threat, "who your boss is?" The man paused in mid-step, a soft tremor apparent in his hands. "I have a gun. You do as I say." The man froze, considering his next move. "Idiot!" Moriarty muttered, rolling his eyes as the man went to stand next to him, leaving a large space between them. "Well. I'd better go, then." "You are not going anywhere," John growled, pointing his gun to Moriarty's head. "Oh, Johnny," Moriarty sang, "Are you going to kill me? Just because I had a little fun with your John took a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. "Shut up. I am going to kill you." He steadied his hand, his body flooded with adrenaline. Moriarty burst out laughing, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. John thought that he would never stop laughing, but at last he opened his mouth. But before he could say anything, sirens started in distance, the sound growing louder every second. "Sorry boys! The police are here. I guess you have to let me go if you don't want to end up in prison," Moriarty said, shrugging his shoulders. "No," John said, not lowering his gun, keeping his finger bent on the trigger. "Don't be silly," Moriarty began, but Sherlock's weak voice cut him off, "Let him go, John. He's not worth it." Sherlock's voice was faint and slurry, his body trembling from the effort. John held the gun firmly, but lowered his arm. John didn't bother to look as the men fled the room. He hurried over to Sherlock and started freeing his hands. "Sherlock! Sherlock! Are you alright? The ambulance is coming, don't move." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John stopped him, "Shh. Don't try to talk. You are safe now. I'm here. I'm not leaving, Sherlock. You are safe."
The door opened, and John felt the blood drain from his face. He felt a wave of shock hit him, leaving him paralyzed. He was unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare. Sherlock was tied to a metal chair, his head hanging down, his hair a mess of curls covering his face. His upper body was covered with a dirty shirt, streaked with dried blood, sweat making his shirt stick to his chest.
The sirens were blaring in the distance, their sound echoing between the grey buildings. Sherlock could hardly hear them, nor did he pay them much attention. John was here. He had said something about an ambulance but Sherlock hadn't listened; his attention had been elsewhere. John's strong arms were holding him upright, one arm around his back and the other across his shoulders. He could feel John's erratic heartbeat against his side and the warmth of John's body seemed to kick-start his senses, one by one.
He was tired, hungry, thirsty, but most of all he was in pain. His arms, chest and back were thudding from wounds that were most likely inflamed. Taking breaths hurt and his throat was completely dry. He had refused to touch any food or water that had been placed in front of him, and he started feeling like that hadn't been a clever idea.
As John guided him outside the ambulance had made its way to their location and medical staff hurried to Sherlock, gently releasing him from John's grasp and putting him on a stretcher and rolled him over to the parked vehicle. Sherlock was too tired to protest, to talk, and to do anything. He simply lay on his back and stared up into the clear sky.
'I need to go with him' he heard John say in an angry tone, but he was denied by the medical personnel. Sherlock needed to go to hospital and John would have to wait. No, it didn't matter that John had military medical training, and no, they weren't going to change their minds about the situation.
'Bloody Mycroft's posh fucking men' he also heard John muttering in between clenched teeth before the ambulance doors were shut and the vehicle drove him away, leaving an angry and frustrated John on the pavement.
Beep, beep, beep. The rhythmic beeping of a machine continued in the distance, not quite in reach of Sherlock's consciousness. He was lying on his back in a hospital bed with an IV attached to his right arm, his pale skin damp from sweat. His eyes were closed and his breathing was weak, but he was alive.
'He has suffered fractures caused by blunt force trauma to rib 3 and 4, and there is severe bruising on his upper thorax. His mandible is fractured and his left radius is broken. There are several infected wounds, most likely caused by whipping, on his back and stomach, and he has suffered from blood-loss. It is too early to say whether or not he has suffered any brain damage from his injuries.'
John's jaw clenched and unclenched as the nurse recited Sherlock's journal for him. That bastard. I will kill him if I ever see him again. He thanked the nurse for the information and went back to the table on the side of the bed where Sherlock lay.
His hospital room was anonymous; the walls and ceiling were painted white and the floor was a matte brown. There was one small window behind Sherlock's hospital bed but it was tinted and provided little-to-no light. It was sparsely furnished – a bedside table stood next to Sherlock and upon it stood an elegant vase with one tulip – from Molly or Greg, no doubt. There were no paintings, no electronics – Mycroft had promised John that Sherlock's whereabouts would remain unknown to anyone but himself and John, and to achieve that one had to use a little discretion. For that, John was thankful.
The beeping of Sherlock's machine grew louder and the beeps came more frequently and Sherlock was startled awake to find John sitting next to him. Something tightened in his gut.
'Mary' he croaked. 'Where is Mary?'
John regarded him quizzically.
'Why are you not with Mary?
"Why are you not with Mary?"
"What—oh," John said as understanding dawned on him. He had left home in the middle of the night without telling Mary, and she was probably worried sick by now. "I need to call her. I'll be right outside if you need me," John said, fumbling in his pockets for his mobile phone. He rose and, not waiting for any answer he hurried out of the room.
He checked the screen. There were nine missed calls and they were all from Mary. Great.
She answered after only one ring. "Where the hell have you been? Where are you? Are you alright?" She sounded worried, but there was something else in her voice that made John feel uneasy. Anger. It was faint, but still recognizable.
"Mary, I'm sorry. It's just that—" John paused, suddenly not sure how to continue. He didn't want to tell her what had happened. He knew that Mary wouldn't understand. She wouldn't understand because she hadn't been there, she hadn't seen Sherlock being bound to a metal chair, defeated, blood and sweat all over his trembling body, left alone with a man who had tortured him in ways John didn't want to think about.
"I'm at the hospital. I'm alright, don't worry. It's Sherlock. He is… He's been in an accident, and I need to stay with him," he spoke quickly, unable to stop the words flowing from his mouth. He felt an immediate pang of guilt for lying to her, but he couldn't take the words back now.
"What happened?"
John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, "You don't need to worry, but I really have to stay with him. He needs me."
"John, I'm sure the doctors are capable of taking care of him. I need you—"
John cut him off. "I'm sorry, Mary, I really am, but I have to stay. I'll call you later. Love you." He ended the call before she could protest. He would sort things out with her, but now was not the moment. Sherlock needed him more. And John would be there for him.
He walked back into the hospital room and sat beside Sherlock's bed. "How are you feeling?"
How am I feeling? Sherlock wasn't sure he actually wanted to check how he was feeling. He had put his mind on lock-down and wasn't inclined to remove the only safety he had left. Moriarty had taken everything that was his and torn it out, leaving his heart bare.
'Never better' he said, putting on his best convincing smile. 'Just a few cuts and bruises is all.'
He knew John wouldn't believe him, he had probably investigated his journal already, but he didn't want him to worry. John had to back home to Mary and everything had to have its toll. But God, his head was hurting and his hands were shaking. He had no idea for how long he had been with Moriarty or what drugs he had been injected with but he knew that this was only the beginning of his abstinence and cravings. It would get a lot worse, and without John Sherlock was convinced he wouldn't be able to stop himself.
He needed distractions, and John was one. But John had Mary; they would create a family of their own and eventually John would forget about their adventures together, and Sherlock would be left alone solving his crimes, trying to make the hours pass faster.
It was all because of John Watson.
The only man he'd ever give his life to protect.
And boy, had it backfired.
It hadn't taken John much longer than two years before he had forgotten and moved on while Sherlock had still been stuck on day one, his wounds fresh and open. It had taken him all his willpower not to send John a text or call him, just leave any sort of indication that he was alive.
But it would have been too risky with Moriarty on the loose and Sherlock would never have forgiven himself had something happened to John. So he had let it happen. He had stood by as John forgot him and found himself a partner, one that was sure to leave him. Sherlock wasn't going to get in the way of John's happiness, he wasn't selfish enough. So he would sit alone and inject himself, duly noting down all the substances he had taken in case Mycroft would find him. He had promised Mycroft that there would always be a list, and there always was.
'You don't look okay' came John's quiet reply. It was so quiet Sherlock didn't know if he was meant to hear it. Then again, he did always ignore the standard conventions regarding his social life.
'John, really, I'm fine. Go home, Mary needs you.' He looked John directly in the eyes, his own face revealing nothing. 'She needs you. Mycroft will have someone guard me.'
There was something unreadable in John's eyes, and for a moment Sherlock though he would actually heed his advice and leave, but he never stood up from the chair he was sitting on.
'Sherlock, I-' John started, not quite knowing how to phrase the question he was about to ask. 'What did he-'
'Spit it out, John. What did he what?' Sherlock knew he was going to regret this.
John steeled himself.
'What did he do to you, in there? I've never seen you so...'
Sherlock swallowed and looked away. This was definitely not a conversation he wanted to have, ever. He hated to lie to John.
'Nothing I haven't been through before when I was in Serbi-'
He stopped short in his tracks. John didn't know what had happened to him in Serbia, and he could never know. He bit his lip in silent frustration.'
'Never mind, it is irrelevant' Sherlock dismissively waved his hand in John's general direction before he had time to protest. It became painfully obvious that they had never really talked about what had happened that day when Sherlock had launched himself off of St. Bartholomew's hospital. Sherlock hadn't even told John why he had done it, aside from that his life had been in danger. If John knew the actual extent of what Sherlock had gone through to save him… He shuddered at the thought; he would never allow John to know about his vulnerability. John was an army doctor and most certainly not interested in something as trivial as his reasoning.
'Why are you still here?' Sherlock put on his best neutral tone – he was a good actor. 'Don't you have anything better to do?'
'Well, I-'
'John, really, I am not a child. I am sure Mary would be more than pleased to see you.'
"Yeah, you know what," John began, "I'm sure she would."
John watched Sherlock turn his head slightly away from him, avoiding John's gaze, his jaw taut, and his eyes focusing on the wall behind John. "Well then? What are you waiting for?" His voice sounded flat, tired, but John recognized bitterness in his voice. He and Sherlock had spent far too much time in each other's company for him not to notice it
"I'm not waiting for anything. Mary is safe at home, she can wait. I'm not going to leave you alone. I'm not going anywhere. Not this time. Not after—" John paused, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to talk about what had happened to Sherlock, he wanted to know what Moriarty had done to him. He wanted to know what had happened in Serbia, but he didn't want to ask. Something awful must have happened, and he was afraid to ask, afraid to know. However, there was something he could do for Sherlock, and he would do it. He would stay. He would be there for him.
"And don't try to make me leave, because I'm not going to do it. Even if you beg me to—and I'm certain you'd never do anything like that—I'm staying."
Sherlock nodded once, realizing how tired he was. He didn't really believe John would stay with him – he was always too, much yet never enough – but he was too exhausted to discuss the topic any further. Instead he tried to relax and let his head rest heavily upon the pillow that was propped up behind his head on the hospital bed. He felt like miniscule insects were crawling underneath his skin and there was a tightening of his chest; his withdrawal symptoms had kicked in faster than they usually did. Sherlock didn't want to try to analyze what it was Moriarty had kept him injected with, but whatever it was it had been strong. Mycroft was going to kill him.
Ever since Sherlock was a teenager, Mycroft had had to drag his lifeless body out of dark alleyways and abandoned buildings because he had been too high to be able to find his way home. He had been lying on cold, damp cement floors more times than he could count. It was on his 17th birthday that he had promised Mycroft that if he had to use, he would write a list of exactly what he had taken. Sherlock hadn't agreed to it at first – in fact, he had protested violently.
'Piss off, Mycroft'
'I don't need your help'
'Don't you have cake to eat?'
When Sherlock eventually relapsed however, there had been a list. There had been a silent agreement, because Sherlock hadn't really wanted to die.
This time there had been no list.
'Sherlock?' John's voice dragged him out of his mind-palace and into the present.
'John.'
He switched his attention to John. Dark circles were underlining his eyes and there were wrinkles where Sherlock was sure he hadn't seen them before. Argument with Mary.
'I want to go home.'
John sighed and ran his hand along his face, feeling the scrape of his stubble against his skin. "I know," John said in a tired voice "but you can't go home just yet. You need to rest."
For a moment, Sherlock lay quiet and still, his eyes fixed on John, his expression unreadable. But then, his lips curling downward, he withdrew into a silent sulk.
John took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. "Sherlock, look, I know you want to go home but the doctors won't let you. They need to keep an eye on your vital signs and make sure that your condition improves or at least remains stable. You have gone through a lot these past few days and I—" John paused at a loss for words.
He looked up to see Sherlock watching him. He looked pale, tiny pearls of sweat glistening above his lip and on his forehead, and a thin film of perspiration covered his bare upper body, making his skin shine under the harsh fluorescent lightning. Seeing him like this, laying in a hospital bed, his wounded body against the white sheets, made John realize how much Sherlock needed him to take care of him, to make sure that he ate and slept. Sherlock looked so helpless, so vulnerable as if he would shatter into a million pieces if anyone were to touch him. The sight made something painful twist in his chest, and John swallowed hard to get rid of the lump forming in his throat.
"And it is safer for you to stay here."
Safety. Oh, John. I'm not safe anywhere anymore. Sherlock regarded John quietly, suddenly unsure of what to say. He didn't feel unsure very often, but the times it did happen John was always somehow involved. John was always there.
Sherlock put on his best sulk.
'Surely you can sign my release papers? Doctor Watson.'
'Sherlock!' John protested but Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow challengingly. He held John's gaze for a moment and felt his own soften. He sighed.
'Please?'
God, he hated begging.
'For me?'
Sherlock knew he was being pathetic, but he couldn't help it. He wanted out of the hospital and away from the doctors. They were employed by Mycroft no doubt, and paid to record his every movement. He felt trapped and the last thing he wanted was for everyone to see his shaking, messy, self-deprecating withdrawal.
He wanted to get away from John, get away from the fact that John was Mary's, away from the crumbling sense of dread growing in the pit of his stomach. He wanted a fix, a case, a get-away. He wanted John, wanted him so badly, but he couldn't have him.
'Alright' John sighed. 'Fine, I will see what I can do, but I can't promise anything, okay?
Sherlock nodded.
'Oh, and there is one more thing' John said and got that stern look in his eyes, a look Sherlock hated. It was the scolding-because-I-am-a-doctor-and-know-better-than-you-look.
'Yes, John?'
He bit his lower lip in determination and Sherlock scolded himself for following the movement with his gaze.
'I want somebody to search the flat.'
John walked out of the hospital room and closed the door behind him. He needed to be alone to settle his thoughts. John knew how much Sherlock wanted to go home, and he couldn't blame him, but he also knew how much easier it would be if they stayed. Nothing would prevent Moriarty from eventually finding Sherlock, but being in the hospital, trapped in that room, was definitely safer than being at 221B Baker Street where Moriarty would look first. Hell, the man had probably already been there since they left the building where Sherlock had been held. The mere thought made John's stomach twist into knots.
Holding his mobile phone in his hand, John paced back and forth along the hallway, trying to decide whether or not he should make a phone call. A voice in the back of his mind was telling him to go back to the hospital room and tell Sherlock that he would have to stay, at least for a few days, but after what had happened, John couldn't bring himself to deny Sherlock anything that might make him feel better. John didn't have the heart to force Sherlock to stay inside four walls like a caged animal, not after Moriarty had treated him like one. Sighing, John stopped pacing and dialled Mycroft's number.
"Hello, John."
"Mycroft," John greeted him wearily. "Sherlock wants to go home." There was no use in mincing words, John thought.
"No doubt, Doctor. But do you really think that's wise? I have hired the best security guards I—"
John cut him off. "I know, Mycroft. And I want him to stay, too, but I also know that he won't be able to rest, not here. He needs to be somewhere familiar, somewhere he feels safe."
The line stayed quiet for a few seconds, and John swallowed against the dryness in his throat. He knew that he had sounded desperate.
"Very well. I'll get everything ready. You can leave in the morning."
John resisted the urge to sigh in relief. He hadn't expected Mycroft to give in so quickly; he had been prepared to argue his point, if necessary. "Thank you," John said hastily before Mycroft had time to change his mind.
"But I need to ask you a favour, I'm afraid," Mycroft continued. "You must stay with him."
'I will' John said, and it was not only a promise to Mycroft, but also one to himself. He would stay even if it would most likely cost him the only relationship that had ever made him happy, beside his and Sherlock's. She had been there when he had needed someone the most and was the only one who had seen him for who he was, not who he had been when he had aided the great Sherlock Holmes. And she was the only one that had believed him, really believed him, that Sherlock had been real.
He hung up on Mycroft and went back toward the room where Sherlock was lying. He stopped outside the door and stretched his fist out as if to knock but thought better of it.
Sherlock was lying in the same position he had left him in; on his back, his arms curled around himself protectively, eyes closed.
'Sherlock?' John started carefully.
Sherlock opened his eyes and scanned John's face and posture, then his eyes lit up slightly.
'I get to go home. When?'
'First thing tomorrow morning.'
Sherlock groaned loudly but realized there was little point in protesting considering he had already been granted what he wanted. With great struggle he turned to his side and fished up his cellphone that was lying on the hospital side-table.
1 New Message
From: Unknown
One genius to another, it is never going to work out. – M
Sherlock's face remained completely blank as he deleted the text message. He opened a blank text.
To: Greg
I need a case. – SH
He pressed send and turned his attention back to John who was still hovering uncertainly in the doorway.
'For God's sake John, I'm not dying.'
It was only partly a lie.
He motioned for John to sit down on the chair he had previously been occupying and looked at the time on his phone. 02:04 AM. Shit.
Late meant sleep. Sleep meant dreaming. Dreaming meant reliving Serbia and Moriarty all over. He only prayed he would dream silently.
John awoke to a muffled scream. Disoriented, he blinked, trying to force his eyes to adapt to the darkness. John registered his surroundings—he was still in the hospital room, sitting uncomfortably in his chair, his neck stiff and sore, his back hurting. The only light was a red glow from a digital clock sitting on a bedside table. It read 4:36 AM.
Another scream brought his mind into focus. "Sherlock," John whispered and stumbled up from his chair, rushing to Sherlock's side.
Sherlock was writhing, kicking his feet and whimpering, his curls plastered to his forehead, his brows drawn into a frown. The sheets were soaked with sweat, twisted around his lower body. Sherlock was clutching the sheets in his fists as he kept tossing and turning, his face pale, his expression fearful. John swallowed, the sight making something painful twist in his chest, and knelt beside the hospital bed.
"Sherlock," John said again, quietly, not wanting to startle him awake. "It's me, John. You're safe. You're having a nightmare. It's all right. You're all right. Sherlock—wake up."
"No," Sherlock cried out, jerking his head from side to side. "No… No… Please, don't—"
"It's me, Sherlock. It's me, John."
"Please… Don't!"
John couldn't take it any longer; he settled his hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders, trying to keep him in place. "Sherlock, wake up."
Sherlock's eyes shot open.
He was panting heavily, writhing violently to get out of John's firm grasp on his shoulders.
'No… please' he begged, his eyes glossy as if he wasn't quite there.
'Sherlock' John said again gently but not letting go of his hold on Sherlock. 'I'm here.'
Sherlock's eyes were darting frantically from side to side and not focusing on anything in particular, mumbling incomprehensively. John moved one hand from Sherlock's shoulder and placed it on his temple; it was burning feverishly.
'Not good' John muttered in between clenched teeth and let go of Sherlock as he pressed a button next to his head to alert the nurses.
'Sherlock' he tried again and there seemed to be some recognition because Sherlock's frantic movements stilled. 'Listen to me. You're safe, you're- I'm here.'
Sherlock's icy blue eyes finally focused on John's. They studied his features with confusion.
'J- John? You were… they were-'
'I know' John said soothingly. 'It's over.'
"But... You—" Sherlock's voice was trembling, barely above a whisper. His eyes were focused on John's, glistening, filled with fear and confusion
"Shh," John hushed. "You were having a nightmare. You're safe now. We are in the hospital." He kept his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, caressing him with a circular motion, trying to convey that everything was all right, although he knew that it wasn't true. Nothing was all right. Sherlock was in danger, and John knew he could have done something to prevent it. He should have pulled the trigger, John thought bitterly, he should have killed Moriarty while he had the chance. But he hadn't done it, and now Sherlock was in danger and full of fear—so full of fear that it made John feel completely powerless. He didn't know how to help Sherlock and he hated it, he hated not knowing what to do.
As the lights were turned on and the nurses rushed in, John saw Sherlock's eyes widen with panic.
"No. No. John, please. Don't let them—"
He struggled as three nurses tried to hold him down to check his vitals, but he was weak and they were strong. A forth nurse stood by the foot of Sherlock's bed.
'BP is 110 over 80, patient has noticeable tachycardia' the first nurse noted as she checked the display that was hooked up on the wall. She turned to John.
'We are going to have to give him something, or he might end up hurting himself.'
John nodded once. He presumed it was Mycroft's orders to run everything by him first. He was an army doctor after all, and he had the most experience with Sherlock's well-being than anyone else.
Two nurses remained to hold Sherlock's writing body down as the other two scurried off down the corridor. John beckoned for the nurse on Sherlock's left side to move, and took her place. He placed a firm palm on Sherlock's shoulder.
'Sherlock' he tried. Sherlock turned his head in the direction John's voice had come from, but his eyes were glassy and he just wasn't there. 'Sherlock, listen to me. They are going to give you something.'
'No! No, please no. John, don't let them, I don't want-'
John leaned in closer to Sherlock's face.
'They are nurses. They are going to give you something to calm down or you might rip open your stitches.'
Sherlock's struggling became more violent and his hands started trembling.
'Please, I don't know anything, I-'
Two nurses came running back with medicines placed on a metal tray. John overlooked what they had presented.
On the tray were pills of lorazepam and benzodiazepine, a sodium-chloride solute, a syringe and disinfectant. John steeled himself for what he had to do. There was no way Sherlock was going to swallow pills in this state and he wouldn't let any of the nurses inject him with anything. It felt like a betrayal, but Sherlock needed to calm down and an intramuscular injection was the only option. John was the only one who would be able to do it. He sighed.
'He is not going to let you do it' he said. 'Prepare me a 2 mg 0,9 % lorazepam solution.'
The nurses regarded each other but nodded in acceptance; Mycroft had apparently given clear instructions.
A syringe was handed to him and John leaned down and attempted to get Sherlock's attention again.
'Sherlock, it's me – John. I know you are not going to like this but-'
'John?' Sherlock answered shakily, eyes attempting to focus on his face.
'Yes, it's me. You need to calm down. I'm going to have to give you something.'
John motioned for the nurses to help him hold Sherlock down to minimize the risks of him getting hurt. John ripped open Sherlock's hospital trousers at thigh-level and searched for his lateral vastus muscle. As he found it, he spoke to Sherlock in a calm voice.
'Sherlock, this might sting a little.'
As he injected the needle and pressed the contents out he looked over at Sherlock's face. His eyes were full of hurt and fear.
'Why did you let them do it, John? Why?'
Sherlock's voice was small and frail, and it cut into the depths of John's soul.
John listened to Sherlock's steady breathing as he sat beside his hospital bed, his head buried in his hands. The guilt he felt increased with Sherlock's every exhalation, tightening his throat. Why did you let them do it, John? Why? Sherlock's words echoed in his mind.
John knew he had done the right thing but he couldn't understand why he felt so guilty, as if he had betrayed Sherlock. But then, John though, maybe he had. He was—had been—the only person in that hospital Sherlock could really trust but he had broken that trust and he didn't know how to earn it back. Sherlock was in a vulnerable state, and John knew that every little mistake he made would push Sherlock further away from him, beyond his reach, and he wouldn't be able to help him if Sherlock shut him out.
The room was dark again, the lights turned off. John was exhausted but he couldn't fall asleep, his guilt keeping him awake. John had only an hour before dawn, before they left the hospital, before they went back to 221B Baker Street, and he wasn't sure if he was more afraid of encountering Moriarty who would most certainly be waiting for them somewhere or of going back to live with Sherlock, his ex-flatmate, his friend who was only a ghost of his former self.
The morning arrived too soon. John squinted his eyes as the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the curtains of the hospital room, warming his face and chest. He hadn't managed to get much sleep. He had been woken up again and again with racing thoughts that he was unable to suppress, thoughts about Moriarty, about the danger they were in, about his mistakes that had led them to their current situation, thoughts about Sherlock.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he glanced at Sherlock. He was asleep, lying in the hospital bed, white sheets covering him up to his chin. Sherlock looked peaceful, his features softened, as if he felt safe and secure in John's presence, but John knew better. He knew that the peacefulness was artificial and, above all, temporary, an illusion caused by drugs. He knew that it would be gone as soon as Sherlock opened his eyes. Sherlock would wake up and he would remember. He would remember how John betrayed his already fragile trust, letting foreign people, people John hadn't even seen before, take his life in their hands, shooting him up with sedatives. John swallowed, but the lump in his throat persisted. He was making mistakes after mistakes, hurting Sherlock in the process, hurting a man who had already gone through enough pain to last a life time.
His thoughts were interrupted when he detected a flutter of Sherlock's eyelids, a faint movement that would have gone unnoticed had he not been staring so intently at his resting features. A frown appeared on Sherlock's forehead and stayed there as he blinked his eyes in quick succession. John wasn't sure whether it was to adjust to the light or to clear the rest of the drug-induced fog from his mind, but he decided he'd rather not know, the guilt already becoming too much for him to bear.
"Hey," John said, his voice dry from lack of use, and watched as Sherlock's gaze shifted and met his.
He regarded John in quiet cotemplation.
His face was curled into a frown, and his eyes were tired and worried, and there was something else about as well him that Sherlock couldn't pinpoint. Anger? Disappointment in Sherlock? There was no way to tell. He frowned at himself.
If he hasn't been so utterly selfish and stupid to develop feelings for his friend none of them would be in this mess. John wouldn't be a threat, and not a single soul would care if he had perished in his meeting with Moriarty. Everything would have been so much easier.
Yet, here they were; the air between them full of words neither of them dared utter.
Sherlock shook himself back to reality and back to the throbbing pain of his abdomen, jaw and chest. He realized he hadn't yet said something and that John's eyes were darting between his and the nurse alert button. He felt a sting of hurt in his gut.
'John' he answered; he didn't quite recognize his own voice. It was coarse and dark, and not at all as convincing as it normally was.
'Sherlock, I-'
'John' he said again, with a little more certainty.
'Yes, Sherlock. It's me, I'm here.'
"Are you in pain?" John asked although he knew he wouldn't get an honest answer. He expected Sherlock to lie, to say something like "I'm fine John, please do stop fussing", or to roll his eyes and sigh in exasperation, not bothering to answer such a stupid question to which the answer was nothing but obvious. Of course Sherlock was in pain; he had suffered multiple trauma, and the nurse had mentioned something about him having several inflamed wounds on his back and abdomen, most likely caused by a whip. John hadn't seen the wounds but he had convinced himself that they weren't too deep or too severe, because if they were, Sherlock wouldn't be able to remain so calm, so collected. Yes, Sherlock could endure a lot of pain, John knew that, but he was still a human being.
Sherlock was staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He was looking pale, even paler than the day before, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. The dark circles under his eyes made him look older, as if ten years had passed in one night. His hands trembled slightly, and John knew that Sherlock fought to control the tremor. John recognised the symptoms of withdrawal; he had expected them, but that didn't make it any less painful. He didn't want to witness it—he had already gone through that hell with Harry—but he had to. John had to stay there for him. Sherlock would want to inject himself with anything he could get his hands on, and John had to be there to stop it from happening. He had to keep an eye on him, watching his every move, ensuring that he didn't relapse, although seeing him in that state was a constant reminder that their friendship hadn't been enough to keep Sherlock away from drugs. He hadn't been enough.
Sherlock began to open his mouth, but John stopped him, "I'll go get a nurse."
Before Sherlock had time to protest, they were startled by a brisk knock on the door. A nurse bustled into the room without bothering to ask for a permission to come in. She was a slender woman in her late-fifties, her faded brown hair tied up in a tight knot. John could do nothing but stare as the woman went straight to Sherlock's bed side, smiling way too cheerfully, humming a happy tone.
"Good morning, gentlemen!"
John cringed inwardly. His head felt heavy from lack of sleep, and the mere thought of having to be polite now irritated him. Right now, he couldn't stand having happy people around him. Not now, when Sherlock was suffering, and he himself felt so miserable. There was nothing to smile about, no reason to be even remotely happy.
He tightened his jaw and gave the nurse a brief nod, stealing a glance at Sherlock. To his surprise, Sherlock didn't look annoyed. In fact, he looked nothing like himself; there was no roll of his eyes, no sign of irritation.
Then realisation suddenly hit him. Sweat had soaked through to the sheets, and Sherlock's chest was rising and falling in rapid rhythm, his breaths short and shallow. How could he have been so fucking blind? It was obvious: Sherlock was in serious pain.
"How are we feeling today…" she paused, her smile changing into a frown, and looked at the chart in her hand, tapping a ballpoint pen against her bottom lip, "...Holmes?" She looked up from her chart, waiting for a response. Sherlock stared blankly at the nurse. Her face lit up in a wide smile "Good morning Mister Holmes! Did you get a good night's sleep last night?"
Oh dear God.
"He needs more pain medication," John said in a serious tone, "now."
"Sure thing, dear. But first, I need to check Mister Holmes' wounds."
John was starting to get angry. He had to grind his teeth together not to yell at the nurse. His temper was short today, and he wasn't letting Sherlock suffer for one second longer. Just as he began to open his mouth, Sherlock's voice stopped him.
"No!"
Startled, John turned his gaze back to Sherlock. Something shifted in his eyes. John couldn't put a finger on it, but Sherlock looked suddenly different…scared? He was biting his lower lip, his eyes cast down.
"I—there's no need. I'm fine, really," Sherlock said, but his shaky voice didn't convince John.
"Just give him some pain medication," John said, barely managing to keep his voice down, and added, "please," for good measure.
Sherlock nodded in agreement, glad that neither John nor the incredibly annoying nurse asked questions. John couldn't see what had happened to him, not really. It would cost them their friendship.
Sherlock had observed John and knew he found scars unattractive; he was repulsed by his own gunshot wound and rarely ever showed it. He was self-conscious about it, no doubt, and it was nothing compared to what he himself must look like underneath the bandages.
He tried to will the pain away by clenching and unclenching his hands and looking everywhere but at John. His John.
A beep from the table next to his hospital bed was a welcome distraction.
1 New Message:
From: Greg
I have a case for you. Come see me the Yard when they let you out of that madhouse.
Sherlock was just about to type that he was on his way when he heard the recognizable thuds of umbrella being used as a walking cane. Great. Sherlock signed inwardly.
Mycroft was clad in a perfectly fitted gray costume, his gray tie blending in nicely with his polished shoes and the soft white of his shit. The black umbrella hung neatly from his left arm.
'Brother, dear' he said, with one of his typical smirks that didn't quite reach his cold eyes. 'Dr. Watson' he nodded politely. Sherlock rolled his eyes but the gesture hurt.
'What do you want?' Sherlock said tiredly. He had no energy to play games today. If Mycroft noticed his lack of sarcasm and wit, he didn't mention it.
'We have arranged for you to come home' Mycroft said simply, his cold demeanor revealing nothing. 'To 221B. We will have nurses tend to you twice a day and I have posted men to watch all entrances. You'll be safe – for now.'
Sherlock let out a breath of relief, one he didn't even know he had been holding.
'Your apartment will be searched, of course, for any…' Mycroft's expression turned sour '…complications. You can be off within the hour.'
They sat in awkward silence in the back of a black sedan, each of them looking out of their respective windows, neither of them knowing what to say. John could see from the corner of his eye Sherlock fiddling with the hem of his shirt, his slender fingers trembling on his thigh. He seemed nervous, and John was afraid it had something to do with his presence. He was afraid that Sherlock didn't want him back to Baker Street, but hadn't dared to say no for fear of having to stay in the hospital. It had been Mycroft's one condition that John would stay with him, and John hadn't hesitated. It hadn't occurred to him until now that Sherlock, however, might hesitate.
John considered suggesting Mycroft that maybe Mrs Hudson could look after Sherlock instead, but decided to wait until he was sure that Sherlock would be all right. John knew it was selfish of him wanting to stay with Sherlock despite Sherlock's apparent reluctance, but he didn't trust anyone else to take care of him, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to bare the guilt if something were to happen to him.
John reached into his jeans pocket for his mobile phone and took a look at the screen. There were no phone calls, no messages. He swallowed. That meant Mary was angry, possibly furious, and what made the situation even worse was the fact that he couldn't really blame her. Running away in the middle of the night or moving back in with his ex-flatmate wasn't exactly the way an ideal partner should behave, and John knew that, but he had had no choice. He couldn't just leave Sherlock to his own devices. Sherlock needed him. And as much as he wanted to deny it, John knew that he needed Sherlock too.
The time after Sherlock's fall had been complicated at best. John had been torn between gut wrenching anger and utmost relief, and he hasn't known what to do with the turmoil inside his heart. He had grieved and grieved the loss of Sherlock.
John sighed quietly to himself. He got lost in thought so easily these days.
The sudan pulled up outside of 221B and Sherlock opened the door on his side and attempted to get out, eager to be able to lock himself in his room. He craved a fix and he was almost certain Mycroft hadn't been able to find all his secret stashes. Pain wracked through his abdomen as he pulled himself out. John noticed but didn't mention anything. He was probably tired of him already.
Sherlock climbed the stairs 221B much slower than he normally would, each step hurting more than the next. He was exhausted when he reached the top of the stairs and John had to prevent him from falling backwards with a steady hand on his lower back. The touch sent sparks up his spine.
Still in his hospital clothes he retired to his room as soon as he entered the dusty apartment and closed the door behind him. He could hear John wandering about uncertainly in the living room.
Sherlock had left John hovering in the living room. Hearing the door of Sherlock's bedroom slam shut with a loud thud, John swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, and let his gaze wander around the room, trying to occupy his mind with anything else than the fact that his presence wasn't desired.
His chair had been brought back to its usual place, opposite Sherlock's. Mycroft was behind it, of that John had no doubt. Sherlock was the one who had got rid of it in the first place, and there was no reason for him to suddenly change his mind—he had wanted John gone, and the fact that he had rushed into his room without saying a word, indicated that his opinion on the matter hadn't changed. But here John was, standing in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do.
John was taking small steps around the room, pondering whether to sit down, or whether to run away and never look back, when he heard Sherlock opening and closing drawers, pacing agitatedly in his room, as if he were looking for something.
Something.
He felt his heart sink into the depths of his stomach, as the realisation crashed into him. Of course.
"Sherlock," John said, his voice hoarse, and wasted no time in taking long strides toward his bedroom door.
"Sherlock!" he shouted, not caring if Sherlock heard the desperation in his voice, and knocked on the door with more force than necessary. "Open the door. Now."
With an exasperated sigh Sherlocked faced the door and John. Why didn't anything ever go his way?
'It's not locked' he announced and sat down on the bed a bit faster than he perhaps should have considering his injuries, grunting audibly and cursing himself under his breath. He was so weak and he felt pathetic. Of course Mycroft had found his hidden stashes. He was agitated and restless to go visit Lestrade at the Scotland Yard, but Mycroft had said he was to spend a week in the confines of 221B before he was allowed to leave the house. He had men watching his every move, no doubt. It was really rather annoying being the little brother of the British government.
Sherlock sprawled out his bed on his back and turned to the door, hands clasped together behind his head.
John entered.