Sherlock Fanfiction: Deduction
Warning, this fanfiction is quite long and has a bit of language, but enjoy!
Sherlock
I stood in front of the corpse and took deep breath. In order to analyse the figure I need to calm down, think. I take 2 steps forward and crouch, time to take a closer look. I begin with his shoes, dark brown boots that have mud caked on the bottom, implying this person has been for a walk in some sort of field. Judging from the smell of the mud this person may've taken a wrong step, into manure.
~John likes walks~
Shut up. I can't allow people to get in the way of my work. I have to shut him out, like I've always had to. This person's socks are white as now, obviously a neat freak. However his denim jeans are not as intact, the right knee has been torn. My eyes carry on up the body, to the stomach and I slightly tear up, this poor person had met a horrible end. The purple bruises stick out harshly on this person's pale skin, must be from England. His left arm is bent at a weird angle, broken and then trodden on; whoever tortured this lost soul had no remorse. His right hand. No traces of a ring so not married. However he had marks on his index finger, most likely from a mug. From the light brown stains on his fingernails it would most likely be tea that was the beverage.
~John likes tea~
This was getting unbearable. I cannot possibly think about him now, it's simply interference. If I don't get this done the voice may never let me leave. I travel to his face, the mouth. The lips are also slightly tinged with tea and I smirk. They look so perfect.
~Like John's~
Bloody hell! Why must I feel this ordinary emotion, it's child's play, not for an over-achieving adult such as myself! But every time I think about him I feel my heart pumping. Even now with my seemingly clouded visions from an unknown cause I remember everything about him. He went to war in Afghanistan, came back from having a injury which resulted in needing a crutch, and even little things like how he doesn't take sugar in his tea. Now is not the time! Taking my mind off John I look at the upper half of the face. The nose with dry blood running out of it, the bruised cheeks and his eyes. I feel a sharp stab of pain in my heart as I look at his eyes, yet see no cause when I look. I force myself to stare back at the open, brown, beautiful eyes staring back at me, pleading yet pitiful. This person's alive. I swivel my gaze ever so slightly to the side and focus on the cold, hard 9mm pistol being pressed against the temple of the head. I see the face of the holder and red clouds my mind as I begin to recognise this man. The sarcastic smirk, the piercing eyes that make you want to curl into a ball and hide, the person with no conscience.
"Don't speak now Johnny boy I think he's starting to get the picture!"
The same voice as earlier. The same sadistic tone. Jim Moriarty. My eyes shoot like lighting to the captive's face and I saw my friend. My best friend, my hopeless companion give a frustrated grunt at the fact he could do nothing but lie there, watching and waiting for me to work out what the heck was going on. His hair sticks to his forehead with a mixture of blood and sweat, red bruises sticking out blatantly, I bite my lip to stop myself crying out at the sight of the one I love. I reach out to touch the side of his face, to comfort both me and him. The wire connected to my hand restrains me; liquid is being pumped into my veins, definitely a drug. No wonder it took me a whole 5 minutes to work out who this person was. No doubt at all that the purpose of it was to slow me down, to make me…sleepy. I reach to take it out.
"Ah-ah-ah!"
As I touch the wire Moriarty pushes the gun deeper into John's head.
"Not a good idea!"
John
We didn't see it coming. Well, Sherlock probably did but of course he never tells me anything, always gives me that look that says we-both-know-what's-going-on-here but only he does. We had just come back from speaking to LaStrade about a possible case, however apparently the case of a missing cat wasn't good enough for him. We walked home because Sherlock forgot his wallet and of course I never have any money. On the way I stepped in a pile of dog shit, thank God none of it got on my socks or Mrs. Hudson would've had a right old go. I wasn't surprised when I saw a hand in the fridge, just another experiment. I wasn't surprised with the bullet holes in the wall, just Sherlock being bored. I was surprised when I saw him on the phone with his brother, Mycroft.
"Gordon Bennet what's she gone and done this time?"
Mycroft speaks for a while with a raised tone of voice.
"I told her to stay off it! Just get her out of there and back home, Mycroft I thought you were keeping an eye on her?"
Sherlock hangs up. I've learnt not to ask so I just roll my eyes and sit down. 20 minutes later Sherlock tenses up.
"Hey Sherlock, are you okay?" I ask.
"John. Get out." Sherlock replies, wide-eyed and somehow…frightened.
"Pardon?" I ask, confused.
"NOW!" he cries.
Too late. 3 heavily armed men jump in through the window, Sherlock grabs the first and pulls his arms behind his back, whilst I punch him in the nose, knocking him out cold. But then Sherlock suddenly stiffens and falls to the floor, sleeping dart. I am not so fortunate. The other 2 grab me from behind, one restraining my arms and the other tying a gag. Once secure they grab my legs as well and carry me downstairs, me in a frantic panic. I twist and turn but they have God damn good grip. They shove me I the boot of a car, I can't breathe, and I'm hyperventilating. I hear one last thing, Sherlock calling my name. Then the boot slams shut and I hear us driving away, Sherlock still calling my name.
I'm pulled out of the boot after what seems like forever blindfolded, where I am then dragged through what seems like a labyrinth and finally am sat in a chair. They rip off the blindfold and tie me to the chair before hurrying out the room. I look around; there must be some kind of escape. The room is bare, no windows, no colour, nothing but a table and two chairs, one of which I inhabit. No way out. The door opens suddenly; a tall figure walks in, Moriarty. He is holding a screen and places it on the table.
"John! It's been so long! How've you been buddy?!"
I answer with a hard glare. I swear to God if my arms weren't tied up right now I would punch the stupid smile of this guy's face. He squeezes my face as you would to a child to try and make them smile.
"N'aww where's my welcome hug!"
He comes over to give me a hug, and as he wraps his arms around me I stiffen, the overwhelming scent of blood filling my nostrils. I wish these were Sherlock's arms. He goes back to sit down and gives a big grin.
"Okay Johnny I'm gonna get straight to the point, can you guess why you're here?"
Sherlock. My eyes widen at the thought of my fate. Moriarty notices and leaps onto the table to sit cross legged.
"Oh clever John! You do know!"
Of course I do. I'm one of the very very few friends Sherlock has, and Moriarty knows this. Sherlock has come to rescue me, put his life before mine on many an occasion. Moriarty wants to see him suffer. Sherlock only suffers when I do.
"I want to give Sherlock a lovely surprise for when he finds you, think you can help me out with that?"
I struggle against the rope.
"Sherlock's not going to find me." I say defiantly, but as soon as I do the words taste sour, full of lies.
"Oh really?" Moriarty says chuckling.
He turns the screen around and I see Sherlock, in 221B pacing around. He's obviously in his bloody "mind palace". He's pale as a sheet, eyes red from crying. I've never seen Sherlock cry before; I never knew how much he cared.
"Think Holmes THINK!" he cries.
I can't stand to see him like this. This is the man who never doubts his own mind, and at that moment he's pulling his hair out.
"John please, please I need you!"
I struggle to get out. I need to go to him. Tell him it's a trap. If I see him like this I may not survive. I'm frantic, I must've looked like a maniac in front of Moriarty but I don't care. I can't let Sherlock do this to himself. I give up angrily, a quick groan of frustration and a glare at Moriarty.
"Now, now John the show's almost over!"
I want to look away but I have to keep watching, I stare, hypnotised. He finally calms down, he sits down and thinks.
"Okay he goes in a jeep…"
Sherlock…no…
"The Jeep had grit on the side of the wheels…"
Sherlock stop!
"The car's number plate!"
He goes onto the laptop to search up the number plate, all the while I am pleading to God silently that he doesn't find anything. God was feeling cruel.
"Yes! YES! I know where you are! Genius!"
I wince, you flipping fool. I stamp my feet in frustration, I have to get out!
"Ah yes." Moriarty sniggers. "What a genius. Better reward him for his efforts, with not one but two surprises! First he's going to meet the wonderful two people who took you, and then…"
He pauses. I dread what's going to happen next. He kicks me in the chest so I face the roof, then he looms over me with a big grin.
"Then you!" he exclaims proudly.
He kicks me in the side and I hear my own shout of pain. It sears through me like a bullet, like fire, like when Sherlock turns around. I know this is only the beginning.