Now presenting our first, full-length Sherlock story, Permanent Shadows! Written with Quadrophenia73, this is an eventual Johnlock story. There is a lot of dark and mature content in this story, so readers beware. Read on and enjoy...
Disclaimer: Not ours!
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Could be dangerous.
John groaned, shaking as he lie on the cold ground. Time ceased to hold any kind of meaning for him. He had not seen sunlight in an eternity, and the only human connection he received left him broken and bloody on the floor.
When would this hell end?
Sherlock.
"Sherlock's not coming for you," a voice whispered, driving John mad. "He doesn't care about you. Never did. He's got on with his life, or whatever you would call it."
John turned away from the voice, only to receive a brutal kick to his ribs. They snapped anew but John didn't cry out. He had fought for this long to hold onto what remained of himself. He would keep fighting until he died.
"Oh, tough guy? I can fix that."
The hands grabbed him roughly, digging into his broken ribs and showing no mercy.
No mercy.
More time passed. John's ribs eventually healed, though never properly. His arm was ripped out of the socket and his right leg was broken. Still he held onto hope that one day Sherlock would find him.
Mrs. Hudson was quiet as she made her way up to Sherlock's flat. A full year had passed since John disappeared from a crime scene and everyone had slowly given up hope. If he was still somehow alive, surely he would have found a way to send word to Sherlock, if no one else.
She let herself into the flat and found it in its usual state of disarray. "Sherlock? Are you home?"
Sherlock stood, staring out the window with an unreadable expression on his face. The condition of both the consulting detective and the flat gave proof that everything was completely wrong. When he heard Mrs. Hudson call his name, he responded quietly, his voice dull. "I'm here."
He could hear the elderly woman's footsteps behind him, but that didn't prompt him to move a muscle. He hadn't received a solid night's sleep in weeks. Without John to sit him down and insist that he eat as a normal person would, he had lost weight until he was much thinner than he already naturally was.
"I brought you dinner, dear heart." She held up a bowl of stew she had made especially for him. "You should eat something."
Sherlock finally turned away from the window. "Eating and digesting slow me down. I have more important things to do." He paced the floor, stopping for a moment in front of the smiley face on the wall, or rather what was left of it among the countless bullet holes he had fired into it with John's gun.
"Sherlock, you're wasting away! What would John say?"
Sherlock was quiet. "He would tell me that my logic is ridiculous, and I would tell him to go away. Then he would insist until I gave in."
"Yes, he would, love." She placed the bowl in his hands. "Please eat a few bites." The look on his face broke her heart all over again. She knew the likelihood of John being dead, but Sherlock refused to come to terms with it. He even kept John's room just the way he'd left it, a shrine for a man who would never come home.
Her words seemed to work. Albeit reluctantly, he sat down in one of the arm chairs and picked up the spoon, eating as he stared emptily into space.
Mrs. Hudson stayed with Sherlock as he ate, wondering the whole time if he would ever be okay again.
John's entire body ached as he slowly regained consciousness. He pushed himself upright with caution, gasping when his ribs shrieked in protest. "Sherlock," he whimpered before he could stop himself.
There was no reply.
To Be Continued...