Once again, here's a song fic. It's based on 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables' from Les Mis. I've had this floating around my brain for a few months, but Ashleigh finally convinced me to write it. This hurt to write, so I apologize for any pain caused while reading it. Also, I can't find the author of the quote, so if anyone know, PLEASE let me know. K thanks
A HUGE thank you to Benedicted-Cumberbatched for all of your help on this. If it wasn't for you, this would still be floating around my head.
Trigger warnings: Suicide
Discalimer: I don't own anything. Not the characters, not the song, nada
Drip, drip.Oh for God's sake, that drip was going to drive him mad. Cold, why was he cold? He couldn't feel his hands or his arms for that matter. He gave a slight jerk. Tied, he was tied up. To what? His feet, were they still attached? He jerked them and found that they were tied too. Chair, he was sitting. His head was killing him. Had someone hit him. He couldn't remember. Why could he not remember. He finally opened his eyes. He was in Baker Street, tied to his leather chair it looked like. Why was it facing the couch? The room was empty. No sound was coming from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson must be out. Where was John? He looked around. There was no light on, save for the light in the kitchen. The sink turned on just enough to cause a drip.
"Oh, bloody hell." His jaw was sore, how convenient.
He continued the inventory of his flat. His gaze landed on John's chair. Why was turned upside down? Was that blood? What the hell had happened? He jerked his head around towards the desk once again. His gaze fell towards the floor, were those feet? Brown shoes could be seen from behind the chair
"John? John!" Sherlock tore at the restraints, telling himself the ex-military captain was knocked out, knowing he was wrong. "John, Wake up!
"Tsk, tsk, oh Sherlock, you know better than that," an Irish voice said from the hallway.
"John, please," Sherlock said, ignoring the devil in the room.
"One gunshot."
"Shut up!" the detective bellowed.
"Oh, it was too easy," Moriarty chucked as he walked toward John's chair, "all too easy to take it all from you." He sat down on the upturned chair, and held up his hand, "your inspector," he lowered one finger, "your housekeeper, oh no, your landlady. Your dear, dear brother, whatever shall the British government do?" He smirked, lowering 2 fingers. "and today, Your blogger," another finger went down, only his index finger remained. "So, that leaves your pathologist or is she your lover? Molls, can you come out here?" He glared at Sherlock and chuckled. "Oh dear, she'll need some help. How silly of me to forget." He stood and disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom.
"No," Sherlock murmured, "please..."
His head shot up when he heard the soft moans of pain coming from the bound and gagged form of Molly Hooper. Face covered in bruises, one eye swelled shut, she stared at Sherlock, trying to smile but it turned to a grimace when Moriarty shifted his hold. He had her cradled in his arms, as if she was his beloved child. His face held a blissful peace.
"Look at her Sherlock, isn't she beautiful. The purple of the bruises really brings out her eyes, well the one we can see. Don't you think?" He set her down and straightened out the yellow dress she was wearing. She looked toward the ground, taking shuddering breaths. "I couldn't decide what to do with her, you see? She's far too important for a car crash and a bullet is too easy." He pulled a knife out of his jacket pocket and traced Molly's face with it, chuckling at Sherlock's struggle.
"Leave her out of this, please. I beg you!" Sherlock pleaded.
"Oh, begging is it?" Moriarty turned his face towards Molly, "You're far more important than I thought. He didn't even beg for John's life. Caused it in fact. Well, he caused them all, but his especially. I don't think he'll ever learn to listen do you?"
Molly's eyes went wide at this. Moriarty chuckled again and moved his cold stare to the body on the floor. Though instead of following his gaze, she looked at Sherlock, unwilling to believe what he had said. He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at what remained of John Watson. The scream exploded from her, though muffle from the gag, and her sobs grew louder.
"Poor, poor John. He never really saw it coming."
It had been a very trying case. What started out as simple insurance fraud, led to uncovering an affair and an offhand murder that seemed to have nothing to do with what Sherlock was hired for. It turned out to be the one connecting factor. Long story short, the gardener did it. The case had consumed him for a solid two weeks. When he finally returned to the world around him, nothing seemed quite right.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Mycroft hadn't annoyed him in 4 days. Mrs. Hudson was due back from her sister's 2 days ago. It had been weeks since he had heard from Lestrade. John was in the living room typing up the latest case. He could hear him poking at each individual key. Was Molly working?
"John." he asked, walking out of his bedroom. "Is Mrs. Hudson back yet?"
"You can do your own laundry, you git," John replied, not pausing in his typing.
"I'm not talking about the laundry. She should have been back from her sister's days ago." He plopped down in his chair and stretched his legs out.
"Maybe she decided to stay later."
"No, that's not it. She would have phoned." He rested his head on his fingers. "Something's wrong."
"You're overreacting, Sherlock." John said, still not looking at the detective.
"When do I ever overreact? I haven't heard from Mycroft in four days, which is a record for him. What about Lestrade?"
He finally turned toward the detective, placing his arm on the back of his chair.
"I'm telling you, John, there's something wrong!"
"How right you are, Sherly."
Both men jerked their heads towards the door. There stood Moriarty, looking as if he owned the place. John quickly stood up and snapping to attention, as did Sherlock.
"What-"
"Surprised to see me? Well, I would be too," he said as he walked into the room. "My mood hasn't been the best the past few months, so I'll cut to the chase. I warned you, Sherlock, but you never listen do you?"
"Warned me about what?"
"I'd burn the heart out of you. Boys," he called, turning his head slightly, though never breaking eye contact with Sherlock.
Three men in suits strolled in the room. Each one easily over six feet tall. Ex-military. Prepared to fight. Prepared to kill.
"John," Sherlock whispered.
Moriarty simply smirked and nodded. "Take them."
One of the men stayed by Moriarty. The other two made their way toward John and Sherlock. John dived toward the desk where his gun was hidden. Goon one beat him to it though. He placed a calculated swift punch to John's stomach and finished off the move with quick punch up, knocking John's head back. He fell like a brick.
Meanwhile, Sherlock was dodging punches from Goon two. He had the advantage over the military man. Where he was thick and strong, Sherlock was thin and agile. He grabbed a lamp and hit the man upside the head with it, effectively knocking him unconscious. Goon one saw Sherlock's blind spot and took his chance. He rushed the detective, knocking him to the floor. They rolled, both throwing punches and both successfully landing some. When they finally stood up, both men were bleeding. They stared at one another, breath coming quick. Sherlock drug his arm under his nose wiping away the blood, wincing at the contact.
"Done already?"
Sherlock threw another punch, but it was blocked. The goon's responding punch came quicker than expected and Sherlock was knocked over the back of John's chair and he finally caught sight of John. Fury flooded his mind. He turned toward the goon and rushed him until his back hit the kitchen table. Beakers and petri dishes crashed onto the floor. Sherlock jabbed his fist directly into the man's nose, effectively breaking it. He fell hard, unconscious or dead, it didn't matter to Sherlock. He rounded on Moriarty, who simply stood back and smiled. Sherlock slid to a stop when he saw the gun held in Moriarty's hand.
"I told you Sherlock. I told you I would burn the heart out of you. It was easy really. A couple of staged car crashes. Can't trust cabbies nowadays can you? You would think an inspector from Scotland Yard would know better. Poor Mrs. Hudson though, who would ever hurt a poor old woman? If you pay them enough, anyone. One more step and the good doctor dies." Sherlock had been inching steadily closer during Jim's confession. "Now your brother was harder. I couldn't very well pay anybody to kill him without it leading back to me. So, I thought and thought and thought. 'How do I get rid of the British government?' A jaywalking pedestrian. A swerve and an unfortunate miss. Not the death I would have picked for Mycroft Holmes, but needs must."
Sherlock didn't move a muscle during this speech. All of them gone. How could he have missed this? Why had he let them die? Why had he not paid more attention?
"Now it's John's turn."
"NO!" Sherlock took a step toward Moriarty and was instantly captured by the third goon, who caught him from behind. He trapped him by hooking his arms under Sherlock's and brought his hands behind Sherlock's head and linked his fingers together.
"When will you learn, Sherlock?"
Time stopped. The shot echoed through the flat and left Sherlock with a high pitched ringing in his ears. He looked toward his best friend, watched the blood pool around his now lifeless body. Sherlock didn't notice his tears, only the small twitch in John's foot. The nerves fighting for the life that was fading from him.
"No...no please..''
"Too little, too late, Sherlock." Then all he knew was blackness.
"So you see, poor Molly, he didn't care enough to save his best friend, but you? He's begging for your life." He started walking around the room, tossing the knife from hand to hand. Molly stood as still and as straight as she could, trying to keep what dignity she could. "I knew you were important to him. Not this important though. I knew he used you, that I could easily get to him through you, but I didn't know he loved you. Because he does, you know. I don't know how you did it, frumpy little thing like you." He came and leaned on Sherlock's chair so that he was talking into Sherlock's ear. "What is it about her, Sherlock? Can't be her winning personality. She's sweet sure, but so morbid."
"You're one to talk," Sherlock spit out.
"We've had this conversation, Sherlock, be careful what you say. It might be the last thing, Miss Molly hears. Well, it will be actually." Moriarty smiled up at Molly. "You know, there's this phrase that I've heard. Fits you two to a T if you ask me." He stood up, never taking his eyes from Molly, and walked slowly towards her. "'You're in love with him, and he's in love with you, and it's a tragedy," he stood behind her, knife in hand, "because you look at him and see the stars, and he looks at you and sees the sun. And you both think the other is just looking at the ground." He stabbed the knife into her side. Her eyes closed and she took a deep breath.
"Molly!" Sherlock screamed, trying to tear his binds. She opened her eyes and looked at him. Smiling as best she could, she shook her head. Moriarty pushed the knife in harder at her movement and held it there. She fell like a stone when he pulled it out.
"I'll kill you," Sherlock whispered with as much venom as he could muster.
"No, I don't think you will," Moriarty said, looking around. He found a dish towel and cleaned his blade. He looked up, "I've already killed you. You have nothing left, Sherlock, nothing. No Detective Inspector to give you the high profile, thrilling cases. No landlady to feed you and usher people in. No big brother to get you out of trouble. No best friend to put up with your bullshit and no woman to love you. Tell me, what else do you have to live for?"
When silence met him, Moriarty went to Sherlock and untied him. "It's been fun, Sherlock." He turned and made his way toward the door. When he reached it, he stopped.
"I have you, Jim," Sherlock said, "and that's all I need."
Moriarty chucked and made his way out of the door. "We'll see," he called from the corridor.
The silence was going to drive him mad. His mind palace was in pieces. Beams fell across the staircase, doors hung from their hinges, and glass covered the floor. Redbeard was nowhere to be found. The memories fades with each second. He could only see their bodies, mangled and broken upon the ground, laid out like the trophies of war. A war that wasn't theirs.
He had never given the casualties of war much thought. People at the wrong place at the wrong time. People who couldn't get out. They lost control of their lives by no fault of their own. They did nothing to deserve the fate dealt to them. Was there anyone to mourn them?
Bright blue skies, birds singing, children laughing. Seemed like the perfect day for most. The graveyard was silent though. Sherlock was left alone with his demons. He didn't know how long he had been there staring at the gravestone. He didn't really care. He had nothing better to do.
His big brother. His big brother, who was, at the same time, the worst and best brother. Everything that Sherlock ever needed, he provided. He never thanked him. Only acted like the annoying little brother. He just couldn't find it in him to ever grow up when it came to Mycroft. He never seemed to mind, not really. Mycroft enabled him if anything. Maybe he was trying to make up for their parents absence during his childhood. He should have asked him. Too late now.
Sherlock stood up and wiped the grass from his pants. He wanted to laugh at the simple headstone his brother had picked out. It was sleek and elegant, almost identical to one that marked his own grave for those two long years. Was it his final way of saying goodbye to his little brother? To remind him of his biggest mistake. It was most certainly something Mycroft would do.
Sherlock turned and walked away, his demons close behind.
"Falling is just like flying, only there's a more permanent destination." What if you keep falling though? Never landing. What did he have left? No family to speak of, no friends, nothing. Sideways looks on the streets from people who called him a liar and a fake. Excited glances from those who believed and trusted him. Broken hearts from the ones who dared to speak to him. This world was not made for him. He could survive in it, but he needed help. Even he could admit that, but his help had been taken from him.
The streets were the hardest. Not because of looks he got, he could ignore those well enough. It was the people. They followed him everywhere, the ghosts of the souls lost to him. The man in a three piece suit, the soldier with a limp, the old lady with the floral dress fussing over her grandson. She was the final straw though. The short girl with the long chestnut hair, but it was never the right shade. He knew he had to stop when he grabbed her. The poor girl was scared to death. He apologized, of course but the fear in her eyes was too real.
She screamed, people looked and he did what he does best. He ran. He ran to Baker Street. The black door stood in front of him, the knocker straight. He walked to the door, and pushed the knocker to the side. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open. The dark staircase greeted him, the same way it had for the past month. Soundless, the darkness inviting, dragging him under. He looked towards Mrs. Hudson's door, hoping against hope she would walk out, knowing she wouldn't. He trudged up the stairs, listening for the sound of John's footsteps above him. Reaching the top, he took off his coat and gently hung it up.
The fireplace called to him. Without thought, Sherlock moved toward it, and the knife holding his unopened mail. He jerked it up out of the wood and pondered it. He looked toward his chair. Soon, it would be over soon.
Anderson hadn't seen Sherlock in days. After the deaths, he made sure to keep an eye on the detective, ready to help if he could, but after Sherlock grabbed the girl, he hadn't come back out of the flat. Baker Street stood before him, but it felt wrong somehow. He tried the door and found it unlocked. The smell nearly knocked him down. He was up the stairs before he thought to run.
Sherlock was in his chair, face toward the ceiling. His left arm was over the side, dried blood trailing down his wrist, staining the carpet below. The knife on the floor below his right hand. Philip rushed to the detective's side and grabbed his wrist, feeling for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find. After a minute of frantic searching, he gave up. He pulled out his phone and dialed 999. While waiting for the dispatcher to pick up, he saw the paper. Only 2 words were written, but those words said it all.
You win.