Sherlock was shaking. He hadn't seen or heard from John in nearly a week. He was frightened that something may have happened. One moment, he was saying he was going out for milk and beans and then he just vanished.
Obviously, he'd reported him missing and done everything he could. But somehow, he couldn't find the moment at which John had vanished from the London streets. The security cameras tracked him until the store, where he had done his shopping, but after he left, there was no trace.
The first night, Sherlock didn't worry too much—it was fine if something had come up and he needed to go away for a day.
The second night he'd had a nightmare. John, in this dream, had been killed, his throat slit and stuffed with newspapers.
He hadn't slept since, keeping himself awake with nicotine and worry, texting John's phone every hour on the hour.
Statistics tried to comfort him. They weren't working. He hadn't told anyone but Lestrade and Mycroft about John's disappearance, but before long, Mrs. Hudson had gotten worried, too. "He's a grown man, Sherlock," she'd said. Which was true. But there was a deep ache in Sherlock's stomach, knowing that something may have happened to him.
Maybe Moriarty got him.
Maybe he'd been killed in a hit-and-run.
Maybe he was shot defending someone.
Maybe he was in a hospital somewhere, neither himself nor anyone else having any idea who he was.
Then the sleep-deprived, nicotine- and panic-fuelled paranoia kicked in.
Maybe he'd left Sherlock.
Sherlock sat down on the sofa, curled up, and started rocking back and forth.
"No. It can't happen like this." Memories of his mother leaving flooded back into his mind. Could it be that John abandoned him, too, just as Sherlock was starting to (re)discover deep emotional connections? Their recent semi-row might have done it. Sherlock really had no idea. But the thought terrified him. He was alone, cold and afraid.
It'd been a regular morning. John woke up next to Sherlock, as usual, he got up and ready, had breakfast, and then went to get some shopping.
What happened next was a blur.
He was crossing the road when a car hit him full on. He got up, fine. Four men grabbed him, dragging him into the back of the car.
He couldn't see anything, and it was silent.
He was pulled out roughly by what felt like the same men, and dropped onto the floor.
"So nice to see you again, Johnnyboy." No, not again, for gods sake. "I trust you had a nice journey." The voice laughed. He heard footsteps coming toward him, one hand grabbed onto his crotch. "Hmmm, I wonder what little games I can play with you this time?" John tensed. Last time this had happened, he was violated in every sense of the word. This was something he'd never shared with anyone.
He was dragged across the gravel floor, into a building. A small room, he guessed, going by the sound of the echoed noises.
"Thanks boys! I'll see you later." The voice laughed. Then, everything went quiet. John's blindfold was pulled off, and he looked up to see Moriarty, again.
"Why the fuck are you doing this?" John screamed.
"Because it's such fun." He giggled. "Loosen up, my pet. It's okay. I'll only do to you what he did to you." John squirmed, he didn't like the sound of this one bit.
"No, this isn't fair. This is violation. I have my rights." He demanded, almost crying with anger.
"And I have my needs, darling."
John felt his stomach lurch. He felt nothing but loathing hate for Jim Moriarty.
The torture went on for what felt like ten years. When he was left alone, he could feel the bite marks on his back pulsating with blood. This had happened last time. Johns whole body was torn to shreds, after hours of beatings, sexual acts and near death moments, he was sure he'd never get out.
"Alright, Johnny. I brought my favorite pet some food." Jim strolled in again, holding a large plate.
"No. I'm not eating. Maybe if I die, then you'll stop."
Jim giggled. "I like me a stiff. It must seem like but a moment of pleasure for you."
"No. Not at all."
"I want you to call dear Sherlock."
"Good."
A phone was pressed to his ear.
Sherlock picked up, and when he heard his voice; his favorite sound, he couldn't stop crying.
"Sherlock, help me. Please help me. He's got me again, I'd never walk away from you like that, believe me, please, I love-"
"No, no, nooooooooooooo, sweetie." Moriarty sang as he pulled the phone away. "We shan't be saying goodbyes."
Moriarty had John, and he was crying. Moriarty was playing a game with him. He'd say he'd burn the heart out of him. John was his heart. His only heart. And going by the tone of his voice, there was more than just kidnapping going on. Sherlock felt like swearing, felt like killing, felt like ripping Moriarty limb from limb with his bare hands. But he couldn't. He threw his phone with a strangled scream and it crashed into John's vase, shattering it.
Not for the first time that month, he wanted to rip out the emotional centres of the brain. If he had never cared, this wouldn't have happened. If he had just lived life on logic alone, John wouldn't be in danger now.
He took a deep breath. He could figure this out. He had to. There was a reason Moriarty had permitted the phone call-permission was obvious or John would have spoken differently. Sherlock rubbed his face. There had to be something. Anything. One little sound in the background, one little clue, one little giveaway that could tell him where they were.
Moriarty was too smart to permit the call being traced, so he couldn't go to Lestrade. No point. Instead, he picked up the phone with its newly chipped corner and sent a text to John's phone.
What do you want?
SH
He was too agitated to sit. He paced the living room, waiting for an answer, forcing himself to breathe normally, running through what John had said on the phone and any sound there may have been in the background.
He took comfort in only one thing. John was alive. For now.
John wanted nothing more than to be at home with Sherlock. "For god's sake. Why do you have to play this game?" Moriarty was looking at his phone, smirking. "LISTEN TO ME." John roared.
"Calm down, sexy. It was just your companion texting me asking for a price. I think he's finally got my little metaphorical riddle, about burning the heart out of him. I mean, it will take a while for me to break your spirit, John, but it is possible. I've done it to stronger men than you." He ran his finger across Johns throat as he spoke, grinning.
"Why would I be his heart?" John asked, thickly. His brain went blank.
"Don't be dim. You're the only person who he close to loving. Killing you will kill him, and that's all I want. But as I said, I don't like to get my hands dirty."
Jim started fiddling with John's cuffs. "Aaah, the handcuffs. Always one of my favorite gadgets. Along with the riding crop, and I know that's one of your favorites." Before John could register what had just been said, a loud whack of air came past his ear, right onto his cheek, causing excruciating pain. It was bleeding everywhere.
"Now, sexy. I want you to tell Sherlock what my price is! Let's call him again, shall we?"
"What is your price?"
"Let's see. I've rather taken a fancy to his brother, I'd like to have my way with him."
"No. Just kill me."
"Call him."
The phone was shoved to his ear again. Sherlock picked up.
"Sherlock, his price is Mycroft. Don't do it, just leave me here, I don't expect you to betray your brother because-" The line cut dead.
No, thought Sherlock. It isn't Mycroft he's after. He wants to see me suffer. That's what this is about. Me.
Moriarty was going after the only two people Sherlock cared about. He was good. He knew exactly what buttons to push and in what order. No doubt this was an experiment. Seeing exactly what mattered more to Sherlock-John or Mycroft? His boyfriend or his brother? Just a piece in a game. Right now, Sherlock didn't care.
He texted Mycroft:
Threatening messages from Moriarty. John kidnapped. You are ransom. Need calls traced.
SH
People said "don't do it" all the time. They never really meant it. They just didn't want you to feel guilty if you couldn't save them.
But on the whole, John was right. If Moriarty got to Mycroft, wars would start. Not could, would. Mycroft was the British Government's walking computer-unhackable. If Moriarty killed John, the worst that would happen was that a life would be lost. So Sherlock had to think of his choice as would he rather be responsible for World War Three which would kill millions, or the death of only one person. He hated himself for what he was about to do. But he had to do it. Slowly, he opened his phone and texted Moriarty:
No.
SH
"He's chosen, darling!" Moriarty laughed in his face. "He'd rather see you dead." John felt his blood boil.
"You're a fucking idiot. He doesn't want either of us to die, he just knows which is best for everyone. For once in his life, he isn't thinking about himself."
Moriarty sat down, quietly for once, in a little plastic chair in the corner of the room.
"Why.. why would he do that?" He frowned. "He's a sociopath.." For once, Jim wasn't his know it all self. "He can't come and save you, mind. I could keep you here for the rest of your life and he wouldn't know you were alive." His voice started to get high pitched and annoying once more. "ANOTHER PHONE CALL, SEXY."
"Just stop it. I'd rather you killed me than tortured him. He's already chosen what's best for everyone, just get on with it."
"You'll read off this card." Moriarty was writing words down, "and you'll read it exactly, or I'll kill him."
Once more, the phone was shoved to his ear. John read:
"Hello, sexy. It's me again. No, not your boyfriend- I'm just using John as my voice, even though I'm sure you miss my seductive tones. You've made your choice, and I've decided I'm going to keep John here, as a little.. shall we say, slave. He'll fulfill my every fantasy. I've explained that if he doesn't do what I ask, I come and kill his little boyfriend, you. So naturally, he'll do anything I want. I just can't wait for your reply!"
The line cut dead once more. John felt disgusting and dirty. He just wanted the floor to swallow him up right there, but he knew that Moriarty would have his way with him as many times as he pleased.
You know those calls will not be easily traced. CCTV records will be checked. Stay calm, Sherlock. Everyone makes mistakes, even him. Just buy time.
MH
Sherlock was literally frozen. Moriarty'd reiterated his point by having John say the words. He knew how much it hurt. Sherlock was desperate to think he'd done the right thing by protecting the world over John. Part of him didn't believe it. His mind spun through various schemes, none of them pretty, and he kept having to remind himself that it was a mistake to theorize before one had all the facts.
It was hard to think, though, as he pictured John naked, bruised, cut, bleeding, and humiliated. But John was a soldier, and if anyone could take it, he could. Sherlock just hoped that he had the endurance and the strength of will.
"Forgive me, John," he whispered as he stared at John's cane in the corner. He hoped to all the deities he never believed in that John wouldn't need it permanently.
Which is why I'm asking you and not Lestrade.
SH
FROM THE BLOGS
Anonymous: You won't know me, but I'm just a guy who has your brother tied up. Sherlock has decided that John's life is worthless, and is about to let him die.-M
Harry: What the fuck? Who is this? How do you know Sherlock and John?
Harry: Somebody had better tell me that that was some kind of sick joke, because now I'm going out of my mind.
Sherlock: I'm trying to work it out.
Harry: Sherlock, tell me what's going on. Please, if nothing else. Just let me know.
Sherlock: Moriarty has kidnapped John and is demanding my brother as ransom.
Harry: Moriarty? The man who started that crap at the swimming pool?
Sherlock: Yes. And the bombings.
Harry: Oh god. Okay. Well, erm, what do you think you're going to do? Because I really - look, I'm sorry, I can't do this.. I just don't know what I can do…
Sherlock: I don't know.
Mycroft: If I were to trade places with John, the chances of locating Moriarty and stopping him would be greatly increased, if anything.
Sherlock: And if he manages to torment you into divulging secrets, the chances of losing millions of lives would be much higher.
Mycroft: Implying he manages to do such a thing in the first place. If you want to find John, it would be the quickest way. I'm not telling you I will go unprepared Sherlock, I am telling you we should come up with a plan other than trying to trace calls, and sit worried.
Sherlock: You think I'm just sitting here? You think I'm just casually scanning my blog out of boredom? I am trying to come up with a plan! You've never seen him. You didn't see the look on John's face when he came back last time.
Sherlock: I'm trying my best to be civil.
Sherlock: You're probably right. I just can't think right any more.
Harry: I need to get out. It's no good me sitting here. I'll keep updating via my phone. Please, John, I hope you stay…safe, for now.
"You won't get Mycroft this way." John sighed.
"Oh, yes, I will." Jim laughed.
"I'm not important enough for that." he looked down at his shoes. Sherlock wouldn't risk his own siblings life for that of somebody who was unimportant to him.
"John, when I first got you, I thought you were just playing with fire. Sherlock is like an unattended bombfire, and you were just a little child who got too close. But it's more than that now… he's grown to, love. He won't let you die."
"Even so. I don't want Mycroft to die for me. We don't get on at the best of times but he means something to me even so. He is Sherlock's brother. I'd rather you just killed me."
"Wait there." Jim waved his hand and pulled out his phone. "We have another text."
Sherlock blinked as his vision wavered. Five days without sleep and now he needed to focus. Now was not the time to start hallucinating. He'd only just noticed a post on Harry's blog that said Moriarty was going to kill John.
If you kill him you will die
SH
He'd sent the text before he could think. He meant it, though. If Moriarty killed John, then Sherlock would find the most painful death imaginable for his rival.
"Booooooring!" Jim sang.
"What is it, he's not giving Mycroft over is he?"
"No. It's none of your business. Time for a gag, I think."
Jim wrapped a piece of cloth through Johns teeth, tightly. He could barely move his tongue. He really just wanted to die.
Jims phone kept buzzing, and he'd sing remarks, but John got told nothing. Occasionally, he'd move john into a position where he could do what he wanted. The rest of the time, he was lying on the floor, bound up. John stopped trying to speak out.
"What are you thinking, pet?" Jim asked, untying the gag.
John hadn't eaten for days now. He'd only managed to gulp down some water, and he was too scared to sleep. He was starting to pass out at inconvenient times. This was one of them.
Jim kicked him back to consciousness. "I said, what are you thinking." He spat angrily into his face.
"I'm thinking about when you'll leave your gun unattended so I can shoot myself in the head." John had never felt so helpless. He felt like he was drowning.
"I can sort that for you, but not now. In all due time. I think, I'll go and pay your little boyfriend a visit. SEBBY! Take care of John."
A huge bouncer looking man sat on the small plastic chair.
"I'm going to text Sherlock and let him know. Have a nice time. Sebastian won't go easy on you!"
Before John knew it, Sebastian had punched his lip open with a knuckleduster. He could feel his blood spilling all over his neck. The endless beatings were taking their toll on him. He slowly passed out, but the very last thing he heard was the click of a camera and Sebastian laughing. No doubt that it would be sent around to everyone as a joke.
Sherlock's phone buzzed. Picture message. He saw it and it just made things worse. He was reminded of something from a film John had been watching-it's always the love interest that gets hurt, never the hero.
Damn it, Moriarty, just take me and be done with it. Since I'm what you're really after and we both know it.
SH
He texted Mycroft, too.
Alteration of your plan might be about to commence.
SH
The moments he waited for the reply were agonizing.
Somebody must have taken pity on John, as when he woke up, he was sitting upright, clothed. He heard bustle outside, and familiar voices. He couldn't see as his eyes were so swollen. He only guessed that Jim had his henchmen bringing some other defenseless victim in. He heard Jim's singsongy voice saying something about having what he wanted. He was picked up, and thrown into the back of some sort of vehicle. The next thing he heard was Sherlock's voice throwing abuse at whoever it was that had moved him. He felt more arms around him. It was very difficult for him to guess where he was, as he kept passing in and out of consciousness. All he could guess is that Mycroft had given himself in. The last thing he wanted.
"Sherlock," He breathed. "Please don't tell me he did it." But he was told to 'shh' and he passed back out.
"Get your filthy paws off of him," Sherlock had snarled before his hands were bound.
"Ooh, touched a nerve," cooed Jim. "Of course, putting a bag over your head would be much too...common. So I'm rather afraid I'm going to have to have Sebastian knock you out."
Sherlock didn't even try to dodge Sebastian's fist as it hurtled toward his head. What was the point? John was safe. Mycroft was safe. It didn't matter what happened to him now. Everyone Sherlock cared about was safe. Then oblivion took him as the shock of fist on skull sent ripples through his brain.
Queued from Sherlock's blog:
I'm sorry, Mycroft. You know it was necessary.
If I don't make it back, don't tell Mother how I died. You know it would hurt her. I don't want to do to her what she did to us. Just tell her it was on a case and protecting someone I cared about as well as the nation.
John, if you're reading this, then I apologize to you as well. I never meant for you to be hurt. I didn't realize how much danger I've put you in. Don't stop living. Go on with your life.
I have to do this for everyone's sake. I can't think about it any more or I may not have the courage to surrender myself to Moriarty.
I hope this isn't goodbye, but if it is, don't throw your lives away out of a misguided revenge fantasy. Between the two of you-John and Mycroft-I know you will be able to find him and stop him.
Between John and Harry:
John: I've just got out of the hospital, I'm all stitched up, my lip looks horrendous.
I've just read Sherlock's blog, and I can't find Mycroft, so it looks like I'm going to have to find Moriarty myself.
Lestrade can't help either, because yet again, I can't get hold of him.
Harry, if you read this, reply to it at once.
-JW.
Harry: John, thank god! What's going on? I've been out all night worried sick!
John: Moriarty decided it would be fun to capture me again. It was the worst experience of my life. Even worse than the army.
The ransom for my release was Mycroft, but then Sherlock gave himself up. Read his blog.. I'm in 'shock' according to the hospital.
I don't know why I can't get hold of anyone, but me and you need to go and find him, I'm terrified that he's going to get himself killed…
Harry: Oh I know, Sherlock kept me a little updated whilst he was still around. I'll do anything at all to help you, John, I owe you. And we need to stick together. I was an ass to you before.
John: We're siblings. All is forgiven, all the time. Don't worry about it.
I've sent Moriarty a text from Sherlock's phone that was left at the flat, so all we need to do is wait. And try and work out where he is.
Harry: I'm still going to help you, no matter what. Do you want me to stay here for now?
John: Yes. We have a text back, by the way.
John, to Mycroft:
John: It was incredibly noble for you to offer to save my life, Mycroft. I'm forever grateful. The only problem is, your brother has now given himself over. Any time you wish to contact me would help, I understand you're busy..
textto unknownI found Sherlock's phone, and I'm assuming by the texts that this is Moriarty. Just so you know, I'm coming to find Sherlock. And when I find you, I am personally going to kill you.-John Watson. FromSherlock Holmes
Aww, so touchingly loyal. Although, it's not really a question of you finding me, is it? It's a question of how badly do you want your boyfriend traumatised. -M
"He's so sweet," Moriarty said to Sherlock as he regained consciousness. Instantly, Sherlock was trying to look for any clues as to their location. He couldn't. He felt weak and soon realized why. He'd lost far too much blood than was healthy.
"I can see why you like having him around. You need him to be your unconditional fan."
Sherlock shivered. It was cold in here and he was wearing very little; only his underwear and the handcuffs with which both his hands and feet were bound. He was lightheaded and very sick to his stomach.
"This…I'm disappointed. This sort of thing…far below your…capabilities." He had a hard time saying what he was thinking, but he was fairly sure he'd gotten his message out. It was true. If Moriarty had resorted to petty kidnappings, he'd gone down in the world, in Sherlock's eye.
"Ooh, Sherlock Holmes, high-and-mighty. It's interesting how little it took to get you to come here." His dark eyes sparkled with glee. "And now I get to have my way with you," he practically sang.
textto unknown He's not as soft as you may think. If he's hurt anywhere near the extent I am, I will personally murder you.
Don't worry, Johnny boy. I won't hurt him nearly like I hurt you. -M
"Oh, this is glorious!" Moriarty was practically dancing with glee. "Although, I really ought to inform you of the rules of my little game. For every time your soldier boy threatens me, I get to hurt you."
Sherlock glared. He was regaining some of his strength now. "Do what you like. Murder me. Torture me. Scar or brand or whatever. It won't stop them from finding you."
Moriarty grimaced. A playful grimace, one that didn't actually mean he was in any sort of pain. "No, no, I don't think you understand. Your pet got a physical torture, and ohh, I did enjoy that, but for you, something different. Something a bit more…elegant." He switched on the radio to an eighties station. Greatest hits. "I do so love the eighties. The best thing is that the songs keep coming up time and time again. I know how much you love music. Consider it something to remember our little game by."
Sherlock steeled himself as he felt his underwear slip down. He'd known what was coming. He was as prepared as anyone could be. But he wasn't prepared for Moriarty holding his face, forcing Sherlock's gaze to his own as Moran invaded him. Moriarty's eyes flickered with voyeuristic glee as the torment began.
From Moriarty, ten days later:
So happy to hear you're making a full recovery. Hope you've had a wonderful Christmas. I know I have. I really am enjoying my present. –M
I don't even know what to say to you. You disgust me. I will find him by tonight.-JW
John had been searching for days on end. His christmas had been the worst of his life, despite how much Harry tried to make it special.
The texts he'd been getting had been a huge torment, and had pushed him to do insane things.
Insane, Moriarty-like things.
He woke with a start. Another bad dream. He dreamed night after night that Sherlock was being hurt, and it unnerved him.
"Let us go." A muffled voice called out, and his eyes snapped to the corner of the room. Two men and a middle aged woman had been tied up there. But it was no mistake, he knew what he was doing.
"Dear, what was it?" He sighed as he pulled off the womans gag, "Hoyeeting? Yes. That was it. You all know why you're here. You work for him, and I know this because I've seen you following me and Sherlock. Which means you have something to do with this. Now I'll ask you, nicely. Could you please tell me where Sherlock Holmes is being kept?"
The woman laughed. "No. We would be killed. Why would I want to risk my life?"
'Fine.' John thought. "Okay then." John pulled his gun from his top drawer. "If you don't tell me, you're risking your life, so do it." The woman was screeching. One of the men was biting at his gag trying to get it off, so John pulled it.
"Anything to add?" John snarled.
"The old Shipping docks, there are warehouses there. If you don't believe me then you can take my car to go and find him."
The man had beads of sweat coming from his forehead.
"Well, I was going to anyway. Just so you know, if I return and he is not with me, I'll shoot you all in the head. If he is, then you are free to go. I know you won't go to the police, I have too much on you for that."
He re-gagged the two hostages and walked out. He quickly changed in another room, and ran out of the door into the street.
The car was sitting in China town, and he knew what it looked like. The thing about Moriarty was, he always had spies there. So he had to go to it when it was early. It was about 3am, so that was early enough.
He finally got to the car. A nice expensive black one. Not really inconspicuous but it'd have to do for transport. He couldn't risk having a taxi driver taking him there, besides it was far too early to call one.
He slid into the car, he didn't have his license anymore, but cars couldn't have changed that much. Before he started it up, he pulled out Sherlock's mobile and sent a text.
tounknown
Game's over. -JW
fromSherlock Holmes
Darkness. Pain. Violation. Fear.
Sherlock's body told him it had been somewhere between one week and two since he'd sacrificed himself for John's safety. Christmas had passed and the new year, if it hadn't already arrived, was soon to follow. Not too long after that would be his birthday.
If he survived.
His mind had long since formed a pattern of blacking out in protection whenever Moriarty got the giggles. Now Sherlock looked up as Moriarty swore.
"Not bad, your Johnny-boy. He seems to think the game is over. He's not quite right." Moriarty looked to Sebastian. "Remember old Mrs. Mendeza?" Sebastian grinned. Sherlock had no idea what they were doing, and by this point, didn't really care. He hadn't eaten at all the whole time, and only given water twice. They hadn't let him sleep. If it wasn't Sebastian doing the dirty deeds, then it was some other minion. Sherlock had little physical strength left to resist when Moran tied a rope around his bare chest, under his arms, and hoisted him thirty feet into the air, only the bag that had been tied around his waist to protect what dignity he had left.
The rope dug into him, but there was nothing he could do. He was too exhausted and at any rate, if he tried to escape, he'd plunge to certain injury on the concrete floor below. But it hurt. The pressure on his ribs was excruciating, and as Moriarty and his associates had vacated the premises (except for the security camera), there was no one to hear Sherlock's feebly muttered pleas for relief, let alone see his tears.
The empty streets had nobody to stop him. He sped down the roads, toward the docks. It was cold inside the car, John shivered. He couldn't imagine how cold Sherlock must be. He had a bag with him, containing Sherlocks warmest clothes. John's gun was in his coat, he could feel it pressing against his chest. He passed about seven warehouses, probably all connected. It was going to take time to find Sherlock, but he was going to.
tounknown
I'm right here. -JW
fromSherlock Holmes
Sherlock heard his phone chime from sixty feet away. Thirty feet down and some to the side. He couldn't read it. But he knew it was probably John. The ropes were beginning to bruise him and he did his best to shift, but any movement at all was difficult.
It was also getting harder to breathe. Just a few more minutes, though, and John would be here. And if not John, then Mycroft or Lestrade or some other law enforcement or medical team. He just had to hold on, no matter how much it hurt. Bruises on bruises. Rope fibers in cuts. He felt like he was drowning from the pressure on his chest.
But even if John found the specific warehouse he was in, would he think to look toward the ceiling for Sherlock? Or would he stick to two-dimensional searching?
John decided to play a game of chance. Warehouse four. That was the one he could hear the laughter from. He shifted in, holding his gun, loaded. Two henchmen bolted round the corner of the big, grey, dusty room. Two loud and deafening bangs, and John walked on.
He could hear a strangled screaming, coming from somewhere in the room. There was nobody there. Obviously, Moriarty had moved out, but somebody still needed help. But where were they?
"John…" It was a strangled cry. Sherlock gasped. Every breath was painful, as there was essentially a hundred-pound-plus weight on his chest being applied to a rope of one inch diameter. He twisted in agony.
"John!" He tried again. "Up! Look up!" His gasps for breath were becoming harder, and he struggled against his bonds, just to try to relieve some of the pressure. Seeing John had infused him with a bit more energy, but was it a dying spurt of adrenaline?
"Please," he choked out. "John—" He had neither the energy nor the breath for words, having used it up in his attempt to get John to hear him. So he went limp again. Still conscious, but only just.
There was a ladder nearby, but it was obviously too small. Moriarty wasn't going to make this easier, at all. John climbed up and pulled at the rope, but this made it tighter. He had to loosen it.
He stepped down and ran back to the car, he took out the crowbar that Harry had put in there for her own safety a few days ago. He sprinted back, Sherlock was unconscious by the looks of it.
He stepped up the ladder and tried to snap the rope with the crowbar. It wasn't working well, but it would have to do. Sherlock moaned as if it was pure agony. Every so often he'd pass out and then regain consciousness. The rope finally snapped, and Sherlock dropped. John managed to grab onto his arm.
"Come on, we need to get to a hospital." He gasped as he held him. "I was so worried." He carried him out to the car and sat him in the back with 2 blankets over him. "I can't dress you, your wounds need medical attention. Hospital or do you want me to do it?"
Sherlock flinched at John's touch. He breathed delightful gulps of air in for a few minutes before he could speak. He was only just coming out of the tunnel of enforced oblivion when they got to the car.
"The…" He breathed heavily. "Hospital. They'll take photos…court case…"
He was shaking and weak, understandably, but at least he could breathe again. He pulled the blankets tight around him. He wanted to sleep. There was an eerie disconnect between his mind and body, like he just sort of wasn't there physically, and he was staring out through the eyes of someone else. His mind couldn't cope with what his body had been through.
"Thank you…" he mumbled before drifting off into a far more pleasant sleep than he'd been allowed to touch over the past ten days.
It had been a long few days. Sherlock was eating as he usually did, and sleeping more often. His wounds weren't healing so easily, but John tended to them everyday.
"Hello." John walked in with a tray laden with soup and bread. "It's not much, try and eat something." Sherlock shook his head. He was back to normal, physically. John was worried about the mental effects the whole ordeal had inflicted. "I needed to ask, although I know you'll probably tell me to piss off…" He gulped, "Do you want to talk about what happened? I feel as if.. I won't sleep until I know."
Sherlock's eyes went from the distant stare they had been inclined towards of late and turned to settle on John. How could he possibly explain that Moran had dressed—very convincingly—as John before violating him? How could he begin to express the trauma inflicted every time Moriarty had kissed him on the nose—John's private gesture? The ten days he'd spent in Moriarty's clutches had been among the worst in his life. He understood the need to discuss his experiences, but he wanted to blank it from his mind. Now he could not look at John without seeing Moran's leer somewhere in his mind. But it was stupid. John was John, Moran was Moran. They would never be the same person. (His mind whispered that just as Moriarty was Sherlock's equal/opposite, the monster he could become if things went wrong, so too was Moran the opposite side of John's coin…)
Slowly, cautiously, for John's sake, he spoke, albeit falteringly. "He tried—he took what makes us—he used our private life against me. Our methods—he corrupted our private—our private gestures. He—um—I'm sorry, John, I can't—it—the blackest days of my life. But at least they were mine and not yours. I'm not sure—I don't think you would have survived. Not, at least, with sanity intact." He shuddered, fighting tears. He mustn't let John see him like that again. It was horrible last time. And he certainly didn't want John to know that a part of his mind was screaming for oblivion—a stupid, irrational part he wasn't going to listen to, but it was a part of him nonetheless. He tried to smile comfortingly, but it went wrong and ended up more like the desperate look a lost five-year-old gives a policeman, a pleading look, one that screamed for help.
Excerpt from Sherlock's private blog:
Apologies for vagueness; I haven't slept soundly in too long and need to get this out before I have a complete meltdown
Every time he walks away, I see the man who tried to be him; not out of love, but of sadism. Mine is shorter, of course, but in all other aspects, the image is perfect. It hurts because I can't separate my vision of both military men. I doubt if I'll ever be able to.
And when he touches me with those skilled doctor's hands, trying to heal my physical wounds, he's frightened for me. I can feel it in the tremble and the unusual gentleness. He thinks I'm fragile at heart—that beneath my diamond exterior lies a heart of glass.
He's right. The glass is splintered and there's very little to keep it from utterly shattering. Even the diamond is cracked.
The little things I thought were private to us were stolen. Our song. Our kiss. Our intimate acts. I don't know if I can
I'll never be able to think of us the same way, not now that Moriarty and his
I only take comfort in the fact that it is not John who has suffered in this way. He's had enough tragedy in his life. He didn't need this one.
John's reply:
I'm going to kill them both. No wonder you hate to be around me, after what they did.
Sherlock's reply:
It wasn't only my memories of you they stole. If he chose, they also had a very convincing Myc
I can't
I think I'm going mad, John.
Are you going to hunt them down quite literally?
"I'm going to kill him, one day." John felt a boiling hatred bubbling under his skin. Moriarty's name made him wretch and flinch. He was disgusting, mentally unstable, sick, strange, perverted and over all cruel. The fact that he'd used John against Sherlock made him even more angry. Now Sherlock would never look at John the same, and it made him sick. All because of a sick, sadistic kink.
"He'll get what he deserves, and that Moran, too. They did things to me that are quite unspeakable, I know you wouldn't want to hear, so I shan't.. explain." John thought back to when Jim had wore a coat quite similar to Sherlock's before he.. violated him. He'd never blamed it on Sherlock, of course, but he'd never looked at that coat the same. He could only imagine how sick Sherlock felt every single time he looked at him, and it made him want to rip Jim's flesh from his bones whilst he was still alive, still screaming for mercy.
"This whole experience has changed me." John muttered quietly. "I feel quite… cold. That's the only thing I can think of. I feel cold, right down to my bones. I want his blood on my hands, not for what he did to me, but for what he did to you. You must feel disgusted when you look at me, because of him."
Sherlock realized this, too, was part of Moriarty's plan to psychologically ruin them. He breathed slowly and deliberately after he felt himself blacking out with horror when he heard John speak. He couldn't think of anything except how utterly John was turning into Moran—a willing, even eager, murderer. The thought was like a further crack in his already shattering soul.
"John," he said as sharply as he could. "Don't say—" He swallowed hard. "Don't be—" Don't turn into them, he couldn't say. Despite his controlled effort, the look of sinister determination on John's face caused Sherlock to begin hyperventilating. All the coldness of Moran's eyes had seeped through to John's. He no longer saw the John he knew and cared about. The more he looked at John, the more he saw Moran. In his face. In his eyes. In his body language. Sherlock yearned desperately to get back to Baker Street. Maybe there, the familiar could halt or even reverse the transformation into what they were becoming—a homicidally vengeful ex-soldier and a man staring into the abyss of complete madness.
"If we—if we go home, maybe—maybe we can—"
He couldn't speak coherently anymore. He couldn't think coherently, either, for that matter. All he could do was feel, and the only feelings he felt were pain and fear.
From Sherlock's blog:
Oh. It's my birthday.
He had me longer than I thought.
All I want this year is sanity for both John and myself.
I doubt I'm going to get it.
John:
Happy Birthday, love. I got you a present, if you still want it?
Sherlock:
Of course. Why wouldn't I? Maybe it will help.
From John's blog:
(a photograph of Sherlock, sitting upright in bed, delirious, terrified and calling for John)
He's been like this for the past few days.
From Sherlock's blog:
the nightmares
oh God the nightmares
in my nightmares Moran is John or John is Moran; Moran has stolen John's body
once he's finished invading me he rips my chest open with his fingernails and takes out my heart and hands it to Moriarty
and of course I'm dying and it feels so strange to have no heartbeat
except there it is in his hand and he's looking at it like he's hungry
"you were right. love is a dangerous weakness. and you fell into the trap of emotions and now you're dying"
and I want to scream but I can't breathe because I'm dead
and then just for kicks, Moran in John's body rapes me again
please help
Sherlock looked.. worried. He didn't look at John, not like he used to. John kept patting Sherlock's knee, and smiling at him. It wasn't the same. John felt so angry, so lost… "I love you." John whispered in Sherlock's ear, as he walked out of the door. He couldn't feel anything to anyone but Sherlock.
The place where he was had been totally arranged by Mycroft, so it had all the medical necessities but it was not at all like a hospital. It wasn't nice, though. It still felt somewhat official. He just wanted to go home. Tomorrow, tomorrow they would leave.
When they got home, the first thing Sherlock had done was head up to his room. His body language had made it clear that for a few hours at least, John was to stay out.
For a while, all he did was run his fingers over his things in an attempt to ground himself. He'd read about the effects of such severe torture, but thought he wouldn't be subject to it in the same way. That one event left him feeling like a shadow. He wasn't the Sherlock Holmes who had fearlessly fought off a seven-foot assassin. He wasn't the Sherlock Holmes who could be persuaded to have Christmas parties. He certainly wasn't the Sherlock Holmes who'd stolen an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. He felt like that person didn't exist any more. He was an ashy imprint of what he used to be.
Grief and anguish was something he wasn't used to feeling. He wanted the warmth of his bed, but he knew that wasn't going to be enough. Then he stepped on the loose floorboard and it creaked.
Yes.
He lifted the board and took out what he needed—a syringe, tourniquet, and everything else he needed to get very, very high. After he'd mixed the solution and tied off his arm, he typed but hadn't sent a text to John:
Require you urgently. I can't stop myself.
SH
He hesitated to send it. In his current state, there was a chance John would get the wrong message—he wasn't attempting suicide, he was just trying to escape. He stared at his phone before sliding the needle into his muscle and pressing the plunger in.
He felt the tingle of the cocaine as it started to work. He removed the tourniquet, too late for further internal debate, and only then did he press send on the text that would bring John to help him.
John had come in the house when Sherlock had texted him. He heard gasping from upstairs. This was never a good sign.
"I'm ba- What the fuck…" Sherlock was slumped on the floor, gasping for air.
"What have you done?" John cried out as he picked him up and dragged him onto the bed. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He couldn't. He couldn't of done this. It wasn't possible.
"What have you taken? I can't save you unless I know!" John sobbed, the most scared he had ever been. "Please, Sherlock." His tears were splashing onto Sherlock's face, and for once in his life, John Watson felt alone and completely helpless.
Sherlock gasped. He'd miscalculated the amount of cocaine he'd injected and he was in serious danger. His heart was racing wildly and he felt like his head was going to explode from the increase in blood pressure.
"Co—too much—cocaine—" He'd gone with the needle to forget his experience, but he couldn't breathe and it was reminding him of when he was hanging from the ceiling. "Tried—forget—have to forget—don't want to die—help—"
He was overdosing. And he was panicking. He felt the vomit rise in his throat and his muscles begin to contract into a seizure. Any minute now he could haemorrhage. His one escape route had betrayed him. Now he had to fight to remain conscious at all costs, because if he didn't, he might never wake up. He grabbed John's jumper tightly, silently pleading him not to leave until the paramedics which he assumed John was about to call would arrive. A moan of terror verging on a scream accompanied the stomach fluids as he seized.
John had already called the paramedics when Sherlock passed out.
"You promised me you'd stop!" John cried out, helplessly. "They'll be here any minute, please, hold on." He was becoming hysterical, he could lose Sherlock forever, and this time it was by his own hand.
The paramedics came in and moved Sherlock, and told John he was too hysterical to be looking after him. They carted him away, and John had to follow behind in a car. He imagined the state of Sherlock's heart, the state of his breathing, and he began to panic.
When they got to the hospital, the first thing that happened was a small blanket was placed around John's shoulders. They asked him medical questions, and Sherlock's date of birth.. He had to tell them that it was his birthday, he had to tell them all the emotional trauma, and that he'd taken copious amounts of Cocaine. He lied to them and said it was an accident and not a suicide attempt, because he didn't know what happened. They made John wait, they made him stay away, not knowing, for once in his life, what was going on.
At 7:39 AM, they lost him for three minutes. Sherlock was clinically dead. But more than one of the medical personnel, including the attending emergency doctor, were a fan of John's blog and weren't going to let the detective die.
Light. No. He'd heard about the light of a near-death experience. He wasn't superstitious, but he refused to give up. He refused to go to it. No. He wasn't going to die. He heard buzzing. Electricity in his brain as they tried to revive him? Probably. (But wouldn't it be easier just to go into that sweet abyss?) No! He couldn't do that. He couldn't surrender. Behind him was darkness. (The light whispered of comfort and happiness in a way he hadn't known since he was a toddler…) Between him and the blackness behind him was a pit of chaos—life. For an instant more, he took in his surroundings before leaping headlong back into the chaos.
At 7:42 AM, just as they were on the verge of declaring time of death, the heart monitor beeped—Sherlock Holmes was alive again.
John heard the shouting and the screaming. Nothing was going in. Sherlock was going to die, in his eyes. He was going to lose the only person he ever.. loved. He was going to be alone, again.
It must have been around 8:00 PM before they let him see Sherlock. They warned how he would look frail, but he always did. John stumbled into the room.
Sherlock was sleeping, or appeared to be. His breathing was shallow and his body looked broken, so much more than before.
John knew what he had to do, for Sherlock's own good. He had to leave. He had to go back to Baker Street and pick up his things, he had to leave. He had to, he simply did. But no. No matter how much he thought about it, the frail man in the bed kept him in his seat, without being conscious.
Everything seemed to be an ongoing battle. It was worth it, though. The little personal things kept them sewn together, but.. Moriarty. He'd ruined them. He'd made Sherlock hate John. He'd slowly unpicked everything they'd worked so hard for. John slid down into the large pink chair next to his bed. Yet again he was going to sit next to him and pretend that it wasn't killing him. Sherlock stirred for about a second, but it was his body sorting itself out. John held onto his hand, and told him how much he loved him, although it'd be no use. Even if he was conscious, Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran had ruined any inkling of a feeling that Sherlock posessed, for nothing but fun.
"John." Sherlock said it before he'd gained much of a hint of consciousness. Four days he'd been nothing but a body, his mind blanked into total blackness. Then, as his mind jumbled the attic of his brain around into some sort of semblance, he slowly opened his eyes. He started at first; the physical contact bringing back sensations of trauma, but felt the rough kindness and realized who it was. He smiled weakly. Even despite the turmoil of the past month, somehow he felt oddly calm. Maybe it was because of John. Maybe his near-death experience had sorted his brain back to its priorities. Who knew? Already his mind was reading John's body language and other signs. He could tell that John was contemplating doing something he didn't want to do. Sherlock gulped as his throat was dry. He wanted to ask what John's internal battle was, but figured it was neither the time nor place, and besides, if it was causing him this much trouble there was only one thing it could have been.
"Stay," he croaked, more a command than a plea. "I need you." His voice wasn't working well enough to finish the thought: if you leave, than all I have are memories of a John that was never you. All I will have is Moran.
John looked up. Sherlock was awake and smiling, weakly. "Stay, I need you." He'd said. Never before had he admitted it, and it was all that John had needed to hear.
"I didn't really want to go." He held onto his hand, and grinned up at him. He looked so frail, so much more that usual. John began to yawn, and it wasn't long before the past four days caught up with him, and he dropped off in the chair.
For once, his dreams weren't filled of gunshots and screams.
Sherlock felt, for the first time in month, not happy exactly, but fulfilled. He was going to be fine.
