I was nervous about posting this, since I originally only wrote it for myself and my bestie. This is just a short one-shot based on the idea if while Sherlock was taking out Moriarty's men, that he was captured in the process. Somewhere along the way, John figured out he was alive and realized he was captured and went after him. Only uploading because some other friends of mine wanted to read it, so I decided to put it up all at once. I probably made some mistakes, but hey, I didn't intend for this to be public in the first place, so. Enjoy if you wish? C:
The teams split up upon entry. Lestrade stood alone, walkie-talkie in hand as his expression turned dark. He was pacing in place, looking ahead as he realized someone was heading a direction alone. "John, don't!" Lestrade called, beginning a short jog after him. "Donovan, take over!"
John heard Lestrade coming after him. To be quite honest, he didn't care. He had to help. Especially because he thought he knew where Sherlock was.
Three years since he saw his best friend. Lying on the ground beside the hospital, soaked in blood, deathly still like ice. John's feet pounded against the ground with purpose and anxiety. Sherlock was here. Alive. Who knew for how long? But he didn't die in the fall. John would never even begin to comprehend how such a phenomenon worked, but at the moment, he didn't care.
He was far ahead of Lestrade. He stepped into a large room, each wall holding at least two doors. Lestrade had grabbed at least three team members on the way over, for he suddenly appeared and ordered them to split up and search.
John did his own, going to the doors on the far wall and barreling into it with his good shoulder. All these doors were unlocked, if not already propped open. Another door. Empty.
John turned around, and a door caught his eye from his right. It was closed all the way. No bars on it, all metal and hiding sight. John felt the world swim as he began to approach it, pulling his gun from his side. One arm stretched out towards it, the other readying his gun.
He tried the knob and felt it bend under his push. The door opened with a slow creak, and he felt his steps drag as he approached the darkness. He didn't bother calling to Lestrade or his teammates. This was something he was prepared to face alone.
His gun was already raised, but at the sight his eyes fell upon, the world seemed to stop. Three, large, muscular men stood with guns, their eyes shifting on the new face entering. On John's side of the room, a large table was set up with various supplies on it, and blood dripped off the side in a small line.
One of the men had a chain in his hands that led down to their prisoner's cuffed hands, where he sat on his knees, head-down. With the dark black curls bent and unkept, John knew who it was anyway.
Sherlock.
Part of the soldier in him took over. "Release him..." John has begun to say with a darkened voice, without realizing. His eyes flickered. "...Or I will kill you."
Sherlock's head rose slowly at his voice. It seemed like slow-motion. What John saw never left his mind for the rest of his life. Blood. That was the majority of Sherlock's face. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and he was barely recognizeable under the crimson. He was bound and gagged against his will. His expression, blank. But to John, he could see terror, fright, pain, recognition... Sherlock's emotions were haywire, and his old friend could tell just by looking at him. John's heart seemed to stop as his eyes met Sherlocks. It was only a mere second, but to John it was the rest of the world at the edge of his fingertips.
Gun fire errupted, and John's first instinct was to take cover. With a strong hand, he flipped the table and dumped it's contents, ducking behind it for cover. After a moment, he rose up and fired. Sherlock didn't even flinch, even when his captor fell dead.
A bullet whizzed beside John's head and he ducked again, breathing hard with his legs tucked in. He waited, and then rose once more, his bullet taking out his last target.
Three men lay dead around Sherlock, who ha slouched a bit without the holder keeping him up. John was up and moving, already kneeling in front of Sherlock as Lestrade entered the room. John held his breath, tearing his old friend's gag from his mouth. Sherlock was still, his eyes trained on John. "Sherlock." John muttered, eyes wide.
"Get the paramedics down here!" Lestrade ordered out the door, his voice strung with stress and horror. He raced towards Sherlock and rounded him, reaching for his cuffs to release him. His hands were shaking, his eyes wide. John understood.
"John..." Sherlock suddenly muttered, sounding out of breath and pained. It took all his effort to speak. It sounded strange, hearing Sherlock's voice for the first time in three years. It made John cringe. He sounded so... broken.
"It's alright, it's alright..." John wasn't sure who exactly he was calming down, Sherlock or himself. His hands were on Sherlock's shoulders, he was shaking, horror stricken... John was gentle. Sherlock's head began to droop and John's heart fell. "Hey, stay awake. Stay awake, Sherlock." He didn't dare ask if he was okay. He already knew the answer to that. Part of him begged Sherlock would say something. Something annoying. Something mean. To insult him. To tell him he was late.
For the first time since John met him, Sherlock had nothing to say.
He drew a sharp breath and his breathing escaped ragged and pain-filled. It hurt John to see Sherlock like this. He was always calm, collected, though he got on edge at times, he was always thinking, always doing his best to stay strong. John didn't want to hurt him, so he settled with keeping his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and shakily reminding him to stay awake. This hurt him. The blood on Sherlock's face still dripped freely from his face, his eyes trained on John with a look of defeat and helplessness.
His friend's eyes clenched shut, and John seemed to stop breathing. This was too much, seeing Sherlock so broken and small. A soft, clear tear escaped from Sherlock's shut eyes as if he wasn't even trying to stop it. His breath hitched. His shoulders shook.
The ex army soldier threw his arms around his old friend. Sherlock's head fell tiredly against his shoulder, and once Lestrade freed his arms, they drooped forward. Sherlock seemed to rise them, all intent to hug back, but it was too much for the weary detective. He hid his face in John's shoulder, letting his old friend coddle him. Three years, Sherlock had been in here, beaten nearly to death, without so much as a shred of hope since everyone thought him dead. But now, John was here.
His heart shattered. Tears and blood stained his shoulders. Sherlock wasn't even trying to stay strong anymore.
When the paramedics came in, they found John's arms wrapped around a wounded Sherlock, who's head was buried in his shoulder and tears in his eyes. His breathing was audible, with all sorts of interesting hitches and gasps. Anderson and Donovan came in, both stopping short as if they had been slapped in the face. But John didn't regard them. Didn't even look away. Just held on. Held on tight to his old friend. Sherlock was alive.