Hello everyone, this story is amazing,
I'm going back to most of the chapters and editing them because I'm ashamed at how bad my revision skills have been.
I love reviews.
Peace&Love
The rain shower, falling hard upon London. The streets damp and puddles litter the streets.
John Watson limps impatiently down Baker street. His old injuries surfacing at the insufferable weather. He desperately seeks warmth through a cup of tea and his boyfriends embrace. As John stumbles to the front door of the flat he wonders idly if Sherlock is even in. The streets of London have been his playground for the past couple of days, something about a murder suicide that was just a double homicide. John tries listening when Sherlock explains things, but sometimes he can't understand over the mumbling.
He steps out of the rain into the significantly warmer confines of the flat. Silence stifles John as he hangs his wet jacket. Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister again, that only means Sherlock and John don't have to be quiet.
The doctor climbs up the stairs. The flat is absent of glass clanking and violin playing. Sherlock must be out. His mind wonders to the warmth of tea in his cold hands. He rarely gets the flat to himself, he almost doesn't know what to do first. He can watch crap telly without Sherlock rattling on about how trivial it is. He could read without being interrupted by violin. The possibilities offer another warmth to John as he reaches the landing to their shared flat.
He pushes the door to the sitting room open. He freezes, he shouldn't have misinterpreted the silence.
John stands in the doorway, staring at a man, burly but well built, he wears a wrinkled button down shirt and simple black trousers. This man stands opposite of him, leaning against the window frame, staring out, as if the window holds the answer to a puzzle.
"What-" John starts before a surprising fist comes into view, interrupting him completely and knocking the army doctor onto his back. His already aching shoulder sends jolts of pain through his body when it connects with the hard floor of the landing. His face smarts and he moves to sit up. The same fist pummels into his face, directly into his nose. John knows immediately that his nose is bleeding, if not broken. He moves his hand up to his nose to try an staunch the flow. Before his hand reaches his face, another smack sends his pain receptors into overdrive. The punch sends his head straight into the floor.
John vision starts to blur against his will. He tries to block the punches but his head isn't sending the necessary commands to his limbs. He knows unconsciousness is going to come soon.
The punches finally stop. John tries to roll away from his attacker but ache in his head renders him immobile.
He hears a distant call through the fog of his brain. Blackness is fraying around the edges of his vision, but he knows that voice without seeing it.
That voice belong to Sherlock and he was calling his name.
Panic courses through the veins of the army doctor. Sherlock is here, he isn't out. If they were willing to beat up a doctor who interrupts, John couldn't fathom what they were doing to his boyfriend. Once more, John tries to sit up, pain and exhaustion cause him to fall once again to the floor.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John mumbles before blackness takes a hold of him.
The first thing the doctor notices is pain. Pain in his head, throbbing, informing him of his concussion. John's eyes remain shut, his head lolls against his chest. He catalogs any other injuries. His shoulder aches, but that's nothing new. Parts of his face are throbbing with pain, bruises no doubt will be forming shortly thanks to the punch happy intruder. He feels blood on his lips from his nose.
John moves to other parts of the body. He is sitting up, his back against something with cushions. He shivers unexpectedly, a cold draft worms its way around John and settling on his back. Why would he be suddenly colder? They must of moved him. He is next to the window, against the couch. And Sherlock said he had no deduction skill. John scoffs silently at the thought.
His head throbs painfully as the doctor opens his eyes. Harsh light invade his retinas, he turns his head away from the window. He tries to push the pain to the back of his mind. He looks around the room, his vision a little blurry and blackness around the edges a little bit.
"John?" a faint whisper catches the older man's attention. John instantly tries to stand up, and fails. His body barely moves. He feels around, his hands are behind his back, ropes carefully tied around each wrist, holding them in place to the leg of the couch. The coffee table is nowhere to be seen. How he doesn't notice that he is tied up before now is a mystery. He twists and turns his body, trying to pry the restraints from his hands. He tugs at his wrists, trying to get them free, or even trying to move the couch, a moment of panic invading his already fogging mind. He can feel the rope beginning to rub his skin raw against his panicking wrists.
"Calm down John." Sherlock breathes. John stills instantly. Right, John thinks. Struggling is useless, the ties are not going to budge. His takes deep breath, calming himself down and willing his lungs under control from the previous struggle. He scans his eyes lazily around the room. The intruders are nowhere to be seen. Did they leave? Why would they do that?
"John." Sherlock interrupts his thoughts again, this time impatiently. The doctor's fuzzy eyes find the detective's gray eyes. He sees the icy gray through the haze and smiles despite the situation. Sherlock's lips curl up slightly. He considers the genius, looking for signs of injury. His face is almost equally bruised and bloody. The younger man is tied to one of the wodden kitchen chairs. Ropes wrap tightly across his thin chest and legs. His hands are behind his back, no doubt tied with ropes also. He would have already broke his thumbs and taken care of the attackers if he was restrained by regular handcuffs. John glances around the room once more looking for any signs of...well anything.
He finds nothing, even he doesn't know what he is looking for, weapons maybe, something to untie the both of them. John returns his gaze to his boyfriend. The younger man's eyes convey warmth, concern and a slight twinge of disinterest. Only Sherlock Holmes would find being tied to a chair during a home invasion boring.
"Where are they?" John whispers.
"They are searching your room now, I believe. They shouldn't be much longer." Sherlock answers with a matter of fact annoyance.
"Who are they?" John asks.
"Home intruders. They were inside and woke me up from a nap." Sherlock responds with a huff.
"Random?" John questions with disbelieving tones, no way is this a coincidence.
"Nothing to suggest otherwise. I don't believe in coincidences." Sherlock states, reading John's mind. Again.
John nods in agreement and promptly regrets it. His head pulses, the pain, which he has been able to push away for a little bit, becomes annoyingly present. John's vision obscures the sitting room, he leans his head back slowly against the couch as the ceiling begins to spin slightly. John lets out a quiet groan in protest and shuts his eyes.
"John, Are you okay?" Of course Sherlock notices. The detective's voice is thick with concern. Despite the situation, John is suddenly pleased with the concern, it mean Sherlock really does care for him. He swells a little with pride that he got the proclaimed sociopath to care. A morbid thought given the reason. However, John shouldn't be surprised, they share 'I love you's everyday.
"I'm fine." John mumbles through thought and pain.
"John. Look at me." Sherlock demands quietly. John opens his eyes and winces against the light and the blurs of the shapes. He looks in the general direction of his lover.
"Honestly, Sherlock, it's just a headache." John says blinking, he's not sure if the young man believes him.
"We will get out of here." A defiant statement.
"I know." John sighs. "Is it bad that I'm getting used to things like these." He adds with a smirk.
"Probably." Sherlock chuckles lightly.
"Are there only two?" John asks and then he hears loud footsteps coming down the stairs. Sherlock nods quickly.
"I love you." He says. John focuses through the haze and sees the blue eyes piercing the doctor. A true statement. A promise.
"I love you too." John says, his own promises radiating off the statement.
They both look towards the door expectantly, once the footsteps from the stairs silents.
Two men stroll happily through the door and into the sitting room. Their expressions are a dark contrast to the situation. The front man is the man John knows from the window. His shirt even more wrinkly in the front. His trousers full of dirt. He is older than the second man, definitely well built. His stance suggest an almost army background.
The second man is younger significantly, but he is definitely the muscle. His hair is short, military style just like the older mans. His arms are covered with muscles, no wondered his was able to subdue Sherlock. This man wears a simple t-shirt that seems two sizes to small and his trousers are impeccably clean. How are these two related? Father and son, partners. Their hygiene seems completely different from each other.
"Ah. I see the love bird is awake." The older man almost coos with excitement. The tone causes John to go stiff. The older man walks steadily to the doctor and kneels down beside him, blocking his view of Sherlock and the second man. He hovers over John and eyes him up and down. John shifts awkwardly at the attention. The sudden adrenaline from the situation pushes the pain away and bringing his senses forward in a focused determination.
"Good, now I will have time to play with you." The older man says.
"Go to hell." John states clearly, he is not going to play this madman's game. He survived Moriarty, he can survive some idiot who is stupid enough to break into their flat and then threaten his boyfriend.
Anger flashes through the man's eyes. He brings a hand towards John's face, who instinctively flinches away. No impact comes and just like that, the anger is gone and the man laughs.
"Oh come on Johnny boy." The man says, slapping the doctor's already bruised face. John pales.
"What did you call me?" John asks already knowing the answer.
"Don't be dull, Johnny, Moriarty sends his regards. He really would have liked to be here this time." The man says rubbing a thumb over John's face. John grows even paler. Of course it is Moriarty, he should have just assumed. That bastard won't leave them alone. The doctor's eyes flash with anger. He arches his back and tries to move away from the man.
"What does want Moriarty this time?" Sherlock calls impassively from the opposite side of the room, to distract the intruder away from John, no doubt.
"Don't worry Johnny, we are only here to maim not kill." The older man states ignoring the detective, moving his fingers down the struggling doctor's torso and resting them on his hips, holding him still, his fingertips painfully digging into his sides. Add that to the list of bruises for tomorrow. "We get to play a little." He adds with a smile. John closes his eyes and remains silent.
"Don't touch him." Sherlock yells across the room, all attempts at being neutral fades. "Get off you stupid bastard. Go tell Moriarty to come himself." Sherlock continues. John listens to his boyfriends rant through closed eyes. Then he hears a snap of the finger and Sherlock is silent. John opens his eyes frantically and struggles against the man in front of him, trying to see around him. "Stop, what did you do?" John cries, struggling against the binds.
"Nothing, my pet. He's just silenced. See?" The man says moving out of John's sight, Sherlock's scarf is tied around his mouth. He eyes are wide in concern, concern for John and a flash of anger for the situation. Anger at Moriarty, at the men in front of them who are no doubt going to hurt John. Sherlock conveys revenge in those eyes. The man moves himself back into the doctor's vision. He picks himself up and straddles John's legs.
"What are you doing? Get off me you bloody arse." John says, rocking his hips up and moving his body around, writhing in the uncomfortable proximity.
"Sebastian said you'd be a fighter." The man says, John stills as realization flashing across his face stupidly. Of course Moran would have a hand in picking these thugs. That explains the military presence of them. "Good thing I like fighters." The man says bringing his hands across the heavily breathing chest of the doctor and slowly moving down to grip his hips again.
"What should we do first?" The man fakes contemplation. " I know." He lifts one hand away from John and puts it behind his back. "I've got just the thing. Close your eyes Johnny." The older man demands, of course John refuses. "Don't be like that, close your eyes." The man insists. John's eyes remain open, staring into the dark green eyes of evil in front of him. The man sighs and then snaps his fingers again. John hears a muffled breath from across the room, he sits up straight a peers around the man before him. The younger silent man has John's Browning is pointed right at Sherlock's head.
"No. Please, I'll do anything, just don't hurt him." John pleads.
"Oh I know you will." The man says patting John's cheek. "Now close your eyes." John takes one last look into the stormy cloud colored eyes across the room and obeys. He shuts his eyes and prepares for what's next. The man drags his hand slowly down John's chest and underneath his jumper. John flinches at the ice of the unwelcome hand. The hand rubs all over the doctor's torso, pinching his nipples, causing John to yelp in surprise. John then feels the cool of something else. The man slips a knife under the jumper. John solidifies his stance against the blade.
"We must get rid of this." The man murmurs. John hears the rip and his chest becomes instantly colder. He feels the fabric move to his sides, leaving his chest bare. "Well built for a doctor." The man smiles. "I know you aren't going to enjoy this as much as I am." He adds menacingly.
A sudden pain erupts from John's side, he can feel the knife cut a deep gash on his hip. He knows how deep they are. He is going to need stitches, probably a lot. "Open your eyes, Johnny." John complies. Piercing forest green eyes stares back at him. The man moves to the doctor's other side and slides the knife, making an identical cut. John tenses in response and closes his eyes against the pain, trying not to scream.
"No, I said open your eyes John." The man says and drags the knife down his torso, leaving a deep angry red line. John's eyes shoot open, gasping as tears threatening to cloud his vision once again. Might bleed out from this one.
"You know you have beautiful eyes." The man says leaning forward. John knows what he is going to do, he is powerless to stop it. The man forces his lips upon John, running his hands up and down the doctor's bloodied chest, the friction stinging and aggravating the cuts. The man cups John's face, smearing red everywhere. John doesn't move. He lets the attack go. He moves his mind somewhere else. The lips push forcibly into the doctor's mouth. The man's teeth grip John's and bite his lower lip, blood bubbles to the surface.
The man breaks the kiss off, gasping for breath. He moves his lips down John's neck, nipping and nibbling the pale skin. John remains still in shock. The man bits down hard on John's shoulder, John gasps as he breaks the skin and blood starts going to the surface of the bite mark.
"Sir. The time." The younger intruder speaks. John tenses in surprise. His voice was deep and throaty, unexpected.
"Ah yes." The older man says jumping to his feet putting the knife in his back pocket. "Thanks Johnny." The man says. "That was fun but so much to do so little time." John doesn't dare look over at Sherlock, for fear that he would break in those weathered and cloudy eyes. He instead follows the man as he moves over to the book case, seemingly looking for a good read. "There was only two things that the boss insisted." The older man says, grabbing the heaviest book in the flat and meandering back over to John.
The man snaps his fingers again and the younger man is over by John, untying one of his hands from the couch leg.
"What are you going to do?" John asks, more to distract himself for the inevitable pain.
"I think you know Doctor Johnny." The man chuckles. The younger attacker grabs John's free hand and lays it flat against the floor, gripping John's forearm to keep him still. John struggles against his hold but to no avail. John looks over to Sherlock who has tears in his eyes. John lets his own tears streak down his face. He mouths an 'I love you'. Sherlock nods.
"This is really going to hurt. The boss doesn't really like your blogging anymore." The older man says and with that brings the book down with powerful force. All the bones in John's hand scream in protest as they break and possibly shatter. The sudden pain rips through John's body at an alarming rate, almost causing him to pass out. He screams, shutting his eyes, hoping the pain isn't real. The weight of the book leaves his hand and John whimpers at the pain racing through his body. There is no holding back now.
"Once more for good measure." The older man says and slams the book against his hand again. John's yells echo the flat. Tears spring freely from his eyes and he faints from the pain.
He wakes up thirty seconds later to the older man slapping his face. The sting vibrates through his whole body.
"One more thing before we go." The older man says, taking the gun from the youngest intruder. "I'll be sure to tell Moriarty about the fun we had." They both chuckle.
"Go...to hell." John gasps out between breaths.
"Not yet." And with that he points the gun at John. The doctor can hear the muffled screams of Sherlock and doesn't look at him. He stares down evil.
"Oh relax Johnny, maim not kill remember." The older man says, and with one quick movement he pulls the trigger. John screams again. His shoulder erupts in the worse pain he could ever imagine. Worse than Afghanistan. The older man drops the gun on the floor and kneels over the Doctor.
"That really was fun." He plants a kiss on the doctors lips. John tries to move in protest but everything hurts. "I'll see you soon." The man says and with that both intruders are gone.
John's head moves to the left side staring at the gun shot. The bastard hit him in the same shoulder. John gasps and whimpers as the pain racks through his body. His broken hand lays uselessly on the ground beside him. He tries to tug his other hand free. The rope seems a little looser. He pulls hard and fast against the rope. He looks at Sherlock whose eyes are puffy and red. Defeat in his eyes.
"It's okay. I'm okay." John says. He tugs at the rope but it still won't come loose. John remembers something. He can still feel his phone in his pocket. He could reach and get it, with his broken hand. Either that or bleed out. He looks over at his boyfriend. Sherlock is shaking his head, of course he knows what he plans to do.
"It's the only way." John says. Fast, do it fast. John grabs his bottom lip between his teeth, better than biting off his tongue.
With all the courage he can muster, John lifts his hand onto his thigh. "Fuck, oh bloody fuck." John exasperates. Even moving his hand hurts. John calms himself and takes deep breaths. He feels himself getting dizzy with the gunshot and the cuts. He is losing blood and fast, Sherlock is going to have to watch him die. That will not happen. John slides down so he can be as horizontal as possible. He uses his forearm to nudge the phone through the pocket and up towards the entrance. It works. He bits his lip to distract him from his shattered hand. He continues pushing the phone up until he sees it peeking through opening of the pocket. In one quick motion he grabs the phone with his hand, yanking it painfully out of his pocket falling to the floor beside him.
"Fuck. OH my fucking bloody fuck." John screams. He shoulder aching, his breathing quickening, bloods is pooling around him. It won't be long before he loose unconsciousness.
He uses his elbow to dial. Mycroft or Lestrade. He decides on Mycroft who can get here faster than anyone.
The phone starts ringing. John slumps towards the phone, his ear to it. His breathing is still quick and his vision becoming fuzzy. He's going to pass out, on the phone to his boyfriend's brother. Oh great.
Two rings, three rings, on the fourth ring he finally answers.
"John." Mycroft says on the phone. Nothing in his voice giving away the surprise he feels.
John's visions swims in and out. "Hel-lp-p." John mumbles unintelligent.
"John, What's wrong?" Mycroft asks calmly.
"Baker Street. Ambbbulance." John says laying his head on the cool floor next to the floor. He could fall asleep here, it is so nice and soothing. He knows he should be do something, but the adrenaline and exhaustion and pain are immobilising him.
He can hear panic in the distant, someone calling his name. Blackness tunnels his vision and he can hear something muffled as he worms his way into subconsciousness.