No copyright infringement intended."Sherlock" belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. The character of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, and Sebastian Moran belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Model for Sebastian Moran is Michael Fassbender. I own neither Sherlock nor Michael Fassbender nor do I receive any monetary benefits from this.
John's coming from Tesco when he's suddenly pulled into a van (unmarked, he knows that much). He throws his arms and legs around, trying to hit his attackers (he's sure there's more than two) before, promptly, being struck against the head with a baton.
When he wakes up, an hour later he suspects, he finds himself, hands tied behind his back, at the Pool. As in, the Pool, the second of John Watson's four nightmares.
His breathing is normal - well, as normal as one's can be after being kidnapped for the umpteenth time. John glances around, studying his surroundings. The Pool appears to look exactly the way it did three years earlier, except this time he can't even nurse and rely on the hope that a consulting detective will swoop in to save him.
"Ah, Dr. Watson. Awake at last, I see." A voice, cold and hard as his surroundings, calls out to him, with a false gentility.
He doesn't know the voice, but his heart stops for a moment before it begins to pound at a hundred miles a minute. He's having the strangest sense of dèjá vu right about now.
"I must apologise for the way you've been treated by those buffoons, Dr. Watson." A man steps out from the shadow. He was tall - easily over six feet tall -, well-built, with a ruggedly handsome face, copper coloured hair, and dark green hard eyes that shined from the dull fluorescent lights. His shoulders are set back, firmly, his back as straight as an arrow, and his gray, three-piece Oxford suit is cleaned, pressed, sharp, and looked expensive. His mouth is set firmly in a straight line and John doubts that a smile or a frown has ever creased his features. John has spent a fair amount of time around military men, especially officers, and this man looks like an officer, acts like an officer, and smells like one too.
John takes in a sharp breath. "There's a civilised way to kidnapping?"
"Yes. Of course. It's not all chloroform, batons, and blindfolds, Dr. Watson. There's an amateur, messy, uncivilised way of kidnapping and a professional, clean, civilised way. Unfortunately for you, I clearly overestimated the IQ and competence of my men and you've always gotten the short end of the stick."
Always... That word springs in John's mind. "Yeah, I do."
"But enough balderdash for now, Doctor. We have more important things to chat about."
"Like what?" He glances up at the man, his breathing become shallow. It's been almost two years since Sherlock died and, since then, John Watson has finally adjusted to everyday life. It hadn't been easy, especially in the first year, but, with a lot of help and love, he was able to trudge through it. Events like this prove to John that just because he's gotten relatively over Sherlock and that life, doesn't mean that it has.
"About your best friend, of course." The man takes off his jacket, folding it neatly onto another chair.
"Sherlock?" His name catches in his throat and it feels foreign on his tongue, a side effect to moving on. "Wh-what does this have to do with him?"
"Oh, Dr. Watson", some sort of emotion finally flashes over the man's face. "It has everything to do with him."
"But, what exactly? He's dead. I saw him jump off St. Bart's. And his body was so bloody and, and" - John can barely talk about Sherlock's suicide without a lump forming in his throat. He hasn't completely moved on from Sherlock to do that, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to fully talk about it.
"Did you? If I'm not mistaken, you were knocked down by a passing cycle courier and didn't, in fact, see the actual point of impact."
Well, he had a point there. But; "He's dead. I saw him die with my own two eyes. I was at his bloody funeral, for god's sake."
"He may be dead to you and to the world, but he isn't to me and people like me."
John lets his words sink in, carefully thinking and pondering them over. "Who are you?"
That receives a corner of his mouth to quirk upwards in mild amusement. "I was like you, once. An officer in the army, few tours in Afghanistan, few tours in places I can't mention, then honourably discharged. I used to hunt and I was very good at it. Best marksman in the world, they called me. But even hunting and cheap parlour tricks start to lose their appeal after a while. I became so terribly bored and, on occasion, I even thought about offing myself.
"Funny thing is... wickedness must run in my blood because I soon started offering my services to less than good people. After running with a few low-level criminals, I met him. King of the Underworld, they called him. He preferred to be called a consulting criminal, though."
John's eyes widen and his jaw clenches as he growls out, "Moriarty." He can never say that name without his blood turning cold and his hands tightening into fists.
"Yes", he gives John a thin, tight-lipped, condescending smile for his efforts. "The best marksman should be with the best criminal, after all."
"And so, because my best friend killed your best friend, I die?"
He tuts at him, carefully rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. "Oh, no, no, no. Instinct is like a sense of duty - one can confuse it with loyalty very easily. Moriarty was never my friend; he was my boss. I respected him and I was only loyal to him because he was on top. As soon as someone better came along, I would have left him."
"So if this has nothing to do with revenge, why am I here?"
"Wrong again, unfortunately, Dr. Watson. This does have something to do with revenge. Even though Sherlock Holmes may be 'dead', he still continues to be a nuisance. And, well, I did say I used to hunt." A wild malice that John has only seen once flashes in the man's eyes before his fist strikes him on the cheek.
John sees stars and, though he's been hit before, it's nothing compared to the next few blows to the head he receives. It feels like being pushed out a window over and over again and he thinks he might throw up. He has to try very hard not to cry. "L-look", John spits out some blood, looking up at his captor. "Sherlock's dead and, and he's at the cemetery. That's where he's at!"
The man wipes off some of John's blood from his knuckles, calmly, John's words not affecting him at all. "You've got a girlfriend, yeah? Dr. Molly Hooper."
John's chest drops, his brain becomes cloudy with anger, and he can hear the blood whooshing in his ears. He's able to heave out a ragged breath before focusing his gaze at the man. "If you... don't you dare touch her"-
"Me? Touch her?" He feigns innocence. "I would never. I was just commenting on her beauty and intelligence. She is quite beautiful. And sweet and kind and an all-around good person and wouldn't it be a shame if she, somehow, got into an accident of some sorts?"
Apparently this man has only two settings: stoicism and cruelty, much like his boss. John quickly searches for any possible clue as to who he is. Army, officer, obviously special ops if he was involved in some top secret missions, crack shot. He licks his lips, carefully, "Yes it would be."
"Now", his deep voice gets louder and his eyes, normally so sharp and alert, quickly go over the hangers at the Pool, and he's not so much as telling John this, but more like telling an audience this. "You'd understand why I wouldn't want to hurt a woman like her."
An empty promise, of course. But, there's nothing else to do: John's at the man's mercy - a silly phrase, for those sharp eyes have never known what mercy was.
He barely has a word out of his mouth when his fist connects with John's cheek again. The tears that had been threatening to flow since his first beating finally well up in his eyes and he can taste and smell the copper dripping from his mouth and nose.
Another punch. And another punch. John's only able to count five before one lands right on the side of his head that makes him lose consciousness for a second before pain and misery come roaring back like a tidal wave.
His mouth is so dry that it's hard to speak and it's only getting relief from the blood and tears and his throat is constricting, trying to fight back the sobs. "I don't KNOW where he is!" John is able yell and he can hear the agony and desperation in his own voice.
Another punch.
John Watson has only prayed to God four times in his entire life. The first time was, on the grand scale of future life to come, a bit melodramatic. He prayed that his parents didn't forbid him, ground him from playing rugby with his mates after they saw his abysmal attempt passing his classes. Childish, melodramatic, but definitely life-threatening to an eight year old. The second time was when he was shot in the shoulder in Afghanistan. All he remembers is the white-hot, searing pain and the mantra "Please, God, don't let me die".
He didn't pray to God when he first came to the Pool, decked in a coat of semtex, waiting. He prayed to Sherlock. "Please, Sherlock, don't let me die. Please, Sherlock, don't come. Don't die, please."
The third time he prayed was when he saw Sherlock, on the roof of St. Bart's. He prayed to God and promised that if Sherlock didn't jump, he wouldn't fight with his sister anymore, he'd be a good Christian, he'd find a good woman and have a family, and he'd be a good man. Just please don't let him fall.
This is the fourth time he has prayed in his over forty years of living. He's praying to both God and Sherlock (after you've known Sherlock for a while, what's the difference?) Please, please God, Sherlock, don't let me die by the hands of this psychopath, at the sight of one my greatest nightmares. I'll be nice to Harry, I'll go round for tea with Mrs. Hudson's more often, I'll marry Molly and we'll have a family, and I'll be a good man. Just please.
He doesn't know how long he was out for, but a splash of water wakes him up. "Good, you're still alive."
Same voice, same mocked gentility. John doesn't why the man is still being polite to him. He's kidnapped him; torture him, what's the point?
"I should... I should say the same to you", he musters up enough strength to look up at his captor, smiling wryly.
"A sense of humour in the face of danger. He'd mentioned that." He flexes his hands, readying himself for another round of beating. "Have you ever been hunting before, Dr. Watson?"
Making small talk; how gentlemanly of him. "N-no", John's readying himself, too, for another round of beating.
"Well, not for animals, I suppose. Do you know why I prefer hunting humans to hunting animals?"
"No." John's trying to buy himself more time. More time for God to bring Sherlock back and save him or bring Mycroft and the full might of the British Government over this bloke's head.
"Humans are so much harder to kill. Man is the most dangerous being in the whole world. You give a man a shred of hope and he can live off it for centuries. Hope is an instinct only the reasoning human mind can kill. An animal never knows despair."
John's hope isn't completely gone yet, but, a bit longer, and it will be. There's an odd silence everywhere; it was as if the whole world had tactfully turned away to avoid seeing John die. This is the last chapter, and in the last chapter things always happened violently. Perhaps all life was like that - dull and then a heroic flurry at the end.
That is, until something flashes in his mind. A statement, planted and growing in his mind, which the man had just said. "Hope is an instinct only the reasoning human mind can kill. An animal never knows despair." He had heard that once, back in Afghanistan, by a man his fellow soldiers just called "The Colonel".
"C-colonel." The word falls out of his mouth before he has a chance to think about it and the man's face brightens, brows rising ever so slightly in surprise.
"Yes, sir." He instantly snaps to attention and his hand moves to his forehead for a salute; an old habit of military life that one can never shake. "Colonel Sebastian Moran of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers." His hand moves back to his side and a small grin, most likely sincere, spreads. "Congratulations, Dr. Watson. I never knew a man who's ever put a name to my face."
Well, John has that at least.
"And I must also commend you on your stalling techniques." Sebastian's grin widens as his bloody hands clench into fists again. John closes his eyes and turns his face away from Sebastian.
A violin rings out in the empty and silent pool. The fiddle's solo at the beginning of Camille Saint-Saëns' "Danse Macabre"; Death waking the dead up with his violin. John, quite clearly, remembers Sherlock playing it, often, in the dead of night when everything was still and quiet after a case. He thinks it's just his mind compensating for the beating he's about to receive, but the grin on Sebastian's face twists into a leer, and he then hears a door down the hall being pounded on.
Sebastian Moran is gone before Lestrade and his team run into the pool area, ironically, passed the "No running" sign. Nothing is a more beautiful sight than one Molly Hooper pushing her way passed some of Scotland Yard's finest and running to him, her hair flying behind her like a flame. Gentle caresses and concerned, relief eyes greet him when he's released from the chair. He falls into Molly's arms and she's murmuring something about how happy she is to see him alive and well, for the most part, and how she loves him.
He's just happy to finally let the blackness overtake him in the arms of a beautiful, good woman.