Oh my, this is quite an old fanfic that I'm now sharing with you guys. It had been written way before BBC Sherlock season 2 was released :-P
So now I edited it here and there in a way that updates it season-wise and makes it appear more polished :-D
My god I'm only writing Sherlock fanfics. :-O
I promise i'll start writing about other things!
Unless you don't me to. Then I won't, of course. Haha, I'm such a masochist.
P.S: I can't really get into character with Sherlock in case you haven't noticed. At least not 100%. He's too smart for my simple brain. TT_TT
It'd been 6 o'clock in the afternoon when John kindly informed his flatmate that he would go buy some chinese for dinner.
But Sherlock, not paying much attention to the man at the time, had dismissed him impatiently with a wave of his hand. He expected John would be back on time with the warm oriental meal in separate plastic bags, ready to be only half consumed by either of them.
Though not in a lifetime would've Sherlock been able to deduce, not even guess, that John would only return at 5 o'clock in the morning, four days later and so battered up.
Sherlock held the small dart in his hands. Funny little thing he'd made in these last few days. Unlike John, he'd not been idle. What he'd invented out of boredom had enough sedatives to knock an immense body-builder unconscious and enough poison to kill a small bird. Though, of course, both the former and the latter could be adjusted to the user's liking.
Then suddenly, upon hearing a sudden and loud thump by the flat's entrance, Sherlock rolled his eyes and carefully placed the dart on the living room's desk, unappreciative of the interruption. Well ok, maybe it hadn't bothered him all that much. There was finally something going on since John had 'abandoned' him! With is brain's gears spinning, he thought back to the previous sound. He was confident the 'noise' hadn't just been a clumsy knock by some drunk, desperate client. He frowned, feeling a little disappointed. No, definitely not a client, the amount of sounds made at that time was the result of something much heavier than a hand hitting the door. Therefore the only logical explanation would be-
Sherlock rubbed his now empty hands together. His decision had left him somewhat apprehensive, forcing him to sweat, even if only a little. He took a deep breath and rushed to the door, forgetting only momentarily to separate himself from emotions.
John…
The consulting detective barely opened the door when a body tumbled in.
It was John. Or maybe what was left of him. No, he's still alive. Look at him!
It was true, John Watson was still alive, but his torn clothes and bruised body could've made anyone think otherwise. Sherlock had tried to keep himself calm and steady, but the more he analyzed the man's body, the more he worried. First thing the detective noticed was the considerable amount of weight loss. Sherlock wondered how John had made it from wherever he was all the way to Baker Street, because evidently his captors had not bothered to drop him off anywhere near. Then, starting from the head and making his way down, he saw purple spots on John's forehead, mouth and cheek from where he'd been beaten. Eyeing the rest of John's body, there was about 5 or 6 lacerations on the arms and legs and other cuts around the body, though not as deep, all of them at least two days old. Whoever had done this to John had clearly wanted him alive.
"John, wake up." Sherlock decided to shake his friend awake as gently as he could manage. "John Watson, you need to wake up." Sherlock persisted. John began to mutter something. Thank goodness. Sherlock took advantage of this moment to drag him further inside the flat, closing the door when he was all the way in, not minding the looks and frowns people had given him outside. He spun around to see John opening his eyes briefly and moaning softly.
"Sherlock?" The soldier groaned weakly, in pain. From his searching eyes, Sherlock could tell his friend was seeing everything doubled, and was probably suffering from one hell of a headache.
"Don't worry, John, everything's going to be fine." It hadn't been the most original and non-cliché thing he could say, but it really didn't matter to both of them. Sherlock kneeled by his friend, placing his head on his lap. "I'm going to take you to a hospital-"
"Mori-Moriarty." The doctor murmured. He was already starting to slip into unconsciousness again.
Sherlock blinked, rationalizing the unexpected information. "I know." He eventually said, when it all settled in his head. Sherlock then heard the click clacking of shoes coming down the stairs and the loud gasp of an elderly woman. "Mrs. Hudson!" He uttered with urgency. It was just who he wanted to see.
Mrs. Hudson stared in shock. "Is he-"
"Ms. Hudson, call the cab. Fast!" The other woman, without another word, ran to the door and did as she was told while reminding everybody that she wasn't the housekeeper. Sherlock turned once again back to his friend, who wasn't awake anymore. The procedure of awakening him had to be repeated. When John finally opened his eyes again, Sherlock advised him, "Sorry, John. I need you to try not to sleep. And you might not like this next part." He apologized, picking John up the bridal way. They might've even laughed at this if they were in any other situation. But they weren't. John grunted in protest at the way his body moved, thus making him feel uncomfortable, but he didn't have enough energy to actually complain out loud.
"Just this once, Sherlock. I'm the landlady, mind you. But do make sure John's taken care of!" She called out worriedly to the men as both entered the car.
"St. Bart's Hospital please." The detective instructed as he helped John buckle up in the backseat, seeing that the other man was trying not to doze off. Noting that the ride would be bumpy, Sherlock let his friend lean his head on his shoulder and kept him awake through the ride.
For the first time in his life, the detective Sherlock Holmes felt panic, or at least something near panic. But it was definitely unnerving. And he detested it.
Soon enough John Watson had been admitted into the hospital. The nurses had asked what Sherlock Holmes' relationship to John was, and if he had any relatives. The detective had answered flatmate and friend for the first question, and said that John had a sister named Harriet who was currently out of the country.
With the paperwork out of the way, Sherlock was now by John's side in his hospital room. He lied on the bed with the IV attached to his bandaged up arm in deep sleep after finally been given the chance to rest now that he was in professional care. And all the while Sherlock stared at him, wondering.
Whatever the reason Moriarty had done this to John, Sherlock vowed he'd discover and have his revenge in way or another.
It's late and I want to go to bed hahaha.
I just wanted to explain one little thing before I go.
Remember how I said that Harriet wasn't in the country? Well that's just an excuse, because I didn't really want to include her in the story :-P (Sorry! Don't hate me for this :-D)