~ Requiem ~
A happy face. Smiling.
John stared.
"No." He said, but the small word was muffled by the blood in his mouth and the mask smothering his face. "No."
"It would have been quite inane, Doctor, had I simply let the both of you break free, when we had just had such a delightful meeting, wouldn't you agree?"
Moriarty leaned into him, over him. His pale face was smeared with blood, deep wounds lined half of his face, hinting that he had, indeed, tried to run from the bomb. John felt a delicate flutter of triumph, Moriarty was just as human, just as vulnerable as any man.
But it was gone as quickly as it came.
Blood bubbled at his lip.
Moriarty gazed at him a while longer, not saying anything, barely moving. His features were curled into an expression of inquisitiveness, but it seemed somehow a façade, his eyes were taking on a faraway look and his jaw was trembling.
John rolled his eyes down to look at the other man's shirt, his suit jacket had been stripped off him and his white shirt was stained red, the color blossoming even wider as they spoke. That flicker of triumph flitted through him once more.
Clearly, Moriarty had sustained injuries not unlike his own, although, John's chances of survival were dwindling with each passing second that his wounds remained untreated.
He gasped awkwardly as his lungs heaved.
It seemed to break Moriarty's daze, and he leaned back, his back drooping to rest against the ambulance wall. His wounds had not been tended, either. And it occurred to John, then, that maybe these men were not paramedics at all, and that the ambulance was simply a ruse.
It seemed somehow laughable, considering that both he and Moriarty were wounded, that the man who appeared to have answers for everything, was lacking in medical care. Indeed, John felt a chuckle rising from the depths of his ravaged body, billowing upward until it sputtered at his mouth, spraying the oxygen mask a bright red.
"You do appear quite injured, John. I apologize for the lack of medical presence, but I am, at this stage, more occupied by the idea of safely returning to our ideal location." Moriarty mused aloud, "With Sherlock on his way to the hospital, we can spend a little more time together. Just you and me."
John felt his eyes flutter, but steeled himself, he didn't want to fall asleep around this man. He was dangerous. Deadly.
"You have nothing to fear, John, I wouldn't have kept you alive until now, only to kill you while you slept. That would be quite senseless."
John mumbled something.
"Ah, and what about dear Sherlock? Hmm? Yes, I suppose you would be worried about him, you two seem to have a….strong relationship."
John watched Moriarty's lips curl at that, as if he were unhappy that Sherlock and he were friends. John supposed the man was jealous, that he wanted the famous Sherlock Holmes all to himself.
Moriarty seemed to shiver, he stared at John as he slumped more heavily against the wall, and it was John's last thought, as he felt himself sinking into that red sand again, that perhaps Moriarty was a little more insane than he cared to admit.
~OO~
"Don't you think they would have been here by now?" Sherlock asked of Lestrade as they sat in one of the rooms in the hospital. Lestrade shifted from foot to foot, his eyes darting around the crowd and the hospital staff.
"Maybe, maybe they're stuck in traffic." He said, trying to placate the man.
"Don't be a fool- ow, will you stop that?" Sherlock glared at the nurse stitching his temple, her expression was bleak, but she did not seem put off.
"We were just blown up by Moriarty, the chances of this being purely coincidental are minute." Sherlock retorted again. He winced as the needle passed through his skin, but he had declined any pain killers, wanting to keep his mind focussed entirely without the fuzz of a narcotic to mess it up.
In the end he grew too restless, and lept from the bed, pacing the room as Lestrade quickly apologized to the nurse and ushered her out. Closing the door, he effectively cut them off from all hospital sounds.
Sherlock gave a little twitch of his fingers, steepling them under his bottom lip as he thought.
"What's all this, Sherlock? You know who blew you up? Then why the devil didn't you say so?" Lestrade asked, his patience wearing thin.
Sherlock gave a big, gusty sigh. He tolerated Lestrade because he was lenient, because he was better than those other idiots. Something ticked in his mind, then, and he slowed his hasty pacing. He looked to the other man.
"Did you find anyone there, at the pool?"
"No, no one but the two of you, why? Sherlock, why?" Lestrade huffed as Sherlock made his way to the door, but one of his legs seemed to buckle and his arms windmilled crazily to keep him upright. Lestrade gripped his coat, still damp, and hauled him back over to the bed, depositing him onto it before the other man could complain.
Lestrade then hurried to the door, stuck his head out, and called to a passing nurse. She and another came in without another word.
They smiled politely at him and Sherlock, who was still by the bed, sulking like a child. The taller of the two nurses, a young man with a pleasant smile and knowing eyes, moved forward until he stood in front of Sherlock.
"Could you possibly...give him something for the pain?" Lestrade muttered to the nurses, raising an eyebrow pointedly.
"I heard that, Lestrade. And I do not want anything for the pain. You hear me?" Sherlock said loudly.
But the female nurse had already moved over beside the bed and was reaching for his arm. He jerked it back.
"And what, precisely, do you think you're doing?"He hissed, but the male nurse had gently grabbed his arm and the needle was plunged into the vein. He fought it. Desperately wanted to remain awake and aware. But the pull was irresistible.
He felt his lashes flutter.
"John," He slurred. "Find John."
And then he was falling back. His head hitting the thin mattress beneath him and sinking into it, through it. His face was smothered by the blankets and his hands swallowed, Sherlock gasped but found his lungs startlingly empty.
His sleep was unnatural and boring, leaving a sour taste dancing over his tongue.
~OO~
John's hand clenched in the red sand.
Moriarty was plucking at his stained shirt, as if he were hot. And indeed, beads of perspiration were gathering on his pale forehead and rolling down his temple, his cheeks. But, John thought silently, it was bloody freezing in the ambulance.
He blinked up at the ambulance ceiling. He could not see out of the darkened windows, but he did not want to look at those blurred shadows crouched around him, their eyes hooded, leaking a kind of bleak, unemotional feralness that set his teeth on edge.
John could feel the hollow sun above his head, warming the gun his hands.
When he blinked, Moriarty was hovering above him, a strange twist setting his mouth to one side and his eyes looked on with an emptiness and a distant sheen. John wondered if Moriarty was thinking anything at all.
Anything at all.
And then he twitched, eyes shifting restlessly down to meet John's somewhat agonized stare with something akin to distaste.
The other man breathed out a low breath and John felt it feather his face. Moriarty raised one blood stained finger and touched it to John's forehead, between his eyebrows.
"Go to sleep."Moriarty said, and John was falling back into that familiar place that was neither life nor death, but represented both.
~OO~
Sherlock dreamed of running.
Alone.
Chasing something he could not quite fathom.
~OO~
He trembled as he stood before them, his uniform discoloured, a dirty kind of crimson that covered him from head to toes. His shoulder throbbed in time to the beating of his heart.
Thump
Tha-thump
Thump
Tha-thump
He listened to it, silently, for a time. He knew he could not hold back the horror that danced across his face, it widened his eyes and tipped his mouth, gaping.
"Can't you smell that, John? It smells like burning toast." Sherlock was saying. "Did you leave it in too long again?"
John stuttered at Sherlock's conversational tone.
"S-sorry, I couldn't get the toaster t-to work."
Sherlock was standing in the red sand. Sarah's hand in his. And, although Sherlock seemed unharmed, whole, Sarah was no more than a walking corpse. She had no face. Her head was a mass of bloody pulp and meat, neck torn away to revealing the glistening white of her spine.
A line of crimson rolled down her shoulder, her arm, wrist. Pale. A shudder.
Shiver.
The droplet slid over their entwined hands, leaving an almost tear track like line over their fingers before falling, like a small ruby crystal, to the sand at their bare feet.
John felt his hands grip on the gun loosen and he looked down to see it falling from his fingers. His foot twitched and then jumped forward.
"Beautiful, aren't they John?" His gaze slid to the smartly dressed man now beside him. Moriarty was watching Sherlock and Sarah, his head cocked to one side.
John felt his body mimicking, beyond control, to do the same.
He cringed as the strap of his pack dug into his neck.
"They make a perfect couple. We shouldn't split them up." Moriarty's voice rose and dipped as he spoke, but the gloating tone remained throughout. His body flickered and suddenly he was looking at John. John found his head turning the same way, so that he was staring off into the bomb dented desert.
He felt his body fold, knees quivering as he bent and, with one hand, scooped up his gun. When he stood, he was facing Sherlock and Sarah again. He felt like a puppet. Subject to Moriarty's will. It hurt when he moved, was forced to move, as if his muscles were still and unyielding and Moriarty was pushing and pulling them.
The gun rotated in his hands so that it was focussed on Sherlock. His finger was placed delicately on the trigger.
Doves flew high above. In circles. Like vultures.
Sarah's faceless head turned up to look at them. Sightless but still seeing.
John wanted to be sick.
"Moriarty."He gasped through an aching throat and teeth. "What are you doing?"
"I'm not doing anything, Johnny-boy. You are!" Moriarty said, laughing as though it were simple.
"N-no. No!" He fought the push on his index finger, but it was no use. The trigger depressed beneath his fingertip and the bullets sprayed in a horrific arch of back gnats.
John realised he was screaming. Low in his throat because Moriarty was keeping his teeth firmly clench. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other man holding his empty hands out, the same as he was.
Sherlock and Sarah shattered as the bullets hit them. Pieces of their body falling like fragments of a mirror to the sand. All John could hear was his own harsh breathing in his ears as he shrank away from his own hands and fought not to cry.
The doves overhead were flying fasting, their beady eyes gazing at the scene below them with an almost human-like fascination. And then they darted, because the shards of Sherlock and Sarah had exploded into a mass of blood red moths. Leathery wings fluttering as they climbed the air, only to find themselves ripped to shreds by the doves.
John felt his hands quiver.
"You don't want to be alone, either, do you John?" Moriarty asked.
John felt the gun rise a moment before he knew what was going to happen. He fought it, he really did. At least, he thought he did. It was hard to think when his eyes were burning with tears. The acidic little droplets gliding down his reddened cheeks and his chin.
The gun was hot against his temple.
John squeezed his eyes shut and let out a whimper.
The sounds changed.
John blinked as the world around him faded. No doves. No red sand. No Sherlock.
A dull beeping and the slow tap of fingers. He rolled his head, and blinked owlishly. The lighting was dim, John could bare make out the figures several meters away. A woman, by the looks of it, hovering over the still figure of Moriarty.
John felt a growl building low in his throat, but pushed it back down.
He used the other man's lack of attention to survey the room. His situation. Small room. Three hospital beds, machines and a whole other load of medical equipment that his drug befuddled mind did not particularly care about at that moment. There was a door, but it was blank, and offered no answers.
John looked again to Moriarty. He had his shirt off, and John could clearly see the deep, ugly gashes running over his stomach and lower chest. They oozed blood. The woman was stitching his face, her fingers trembling as she pushed the needle through the flesh of his cheek before pulling it out again.
Moriarty was watching her with unblinking eyes, flinching ever so slightly.
John felt fuzzy. His head was stuffed with cotton wool and his limbs felt tied down. He wriggled his fingers and breathed out a sigh of relief. His breath caught in his chest, tugging painfully. He didn't know what was going on in his body, but he was sure it wasn't good.
"Ah! Johnny boy, how nice of you to join us! We've been waiting quite some time for you." Moriarty cried in what John thought was mock joy.
Moriarty pounced on him like a cat on a mouse. His bloodied face creasing into a smirk when he saw John shrink away from him. He looked pale in the bad lighting, his features sunk into darkness, yet with his teeth glowing a brilliant white.
"Come now, John, don't be fretting! We'll get to know each other soon enough." Moriarty said.
He cocked his head to one side, and when he spoke next, it was to the woman.
"Clean him up, Jane, I don't want him looking like this for Sherlock." His eyes zoomed back onto John. "I'm sure Sherlock would appreciate that. Hmm?"
And then he was gone, walking out of the room with a casual lope as if he weren't shirtless or bleeding. John watched him go with a kind of apprehension. He wondered whether he was going to die now.
But the woman approached cautiously, drawing his attention to her. She gave him a pitiful attempt for a smile and, although she was one of Moriarty's people, he pitied her.
"'ello." He mumbled, feeling his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.
The woman brought a cup to his lips and he gratefully sucked the luke-warm water down. She then busied herself with papers, checking his IV and taking his temperature. He let her do this, before moving to touch her arm to draw her attention.
"How long have I been here?" He asked.
"Almost six hours. Your surgery took longer than anticipated, although I suspect it won't take you long to recover." She replied quietly.
John sank back against the pillow, chewing on that little tid bit of information. Six hours? It couldn't possibly have been six hours, wouldn't he have noticed the hours passing? He should have...
"I'm going to give you another dose of morphine so I can clean you're wounds." The woman said, and before he could inject, she was plunging the needle into his IV line.
John tried to keep his eyes open, but the cool swirl of the sedative made quick work of shutting his body down and he found the strength to fight wanning.
~OO~
Just as John slept, Sherlock woke.
He had the most dreadful headache. He really did. He wondered if John would bring him a cup of tea, maybe some toast. Although, to honest, he wasn't very hungry. But John always made him eat...
Sherlock gasped, lurching upright as he remembered. Remembered Moriarty and remembered the bomb.
He ran the point of his tongue over his lower lip, thinking.
He wasn't wearing his cloths, no, instead he seemed to be dressed in an uncomfortable pair of scrubs, the likes of which he had no doubt would billow up at the back.
Making a mental note to reprimand the nurse who had so undressed him, Sherlock yanked back the covers of the bed and staggered to his feet, ignoring how cold he suddenly was and how much the room seemed to sway around him.
He had to find John. If he had his phone, he could contact Moriarty, maybe he could see what this was all about. But a quick inspection of the room revealed he had no phone, they seemed to have disappeared along with his clothes. Shock gave a deep growl and hurried to the door just as Donavon and Lestrade entered. They looked at him in surprise. Sherlock could even see the word 'freak' forming on Donavon's lips.
"No time for niceties, Donavon, I've got a John to save and a villain to ruin." Sherlock hissed and made a gallant effort to thread his way between them.
Lestrade caught his arm and held him fast. He looked at Sherlock hard, until the taller man returned the stare.
"No. Sherlock. You're going to go back and sit on that bed, now." He prompted when the taller man did not move.
But Sherlock would have none of hit. He leaned in close and hissed into Lestrade's face, teeth on edge and with a strange glint in his eyes. Lestrade didn't back down, although he found he wanted to. Desperately. He supposed he'd never really seen Sherlock this angry.
"To Moriarty this is all a game, John is a toy, a plaything, Moriarty won't bat an eyelash had he wanted to kill him." He narrowed his eyes and began to pace the room. Ten steps forward, nine back. Nine steps forward, ten back. "Where is my mobile?"
He watched Lestrade and Donavon glance surreptitiously at each other. Anger fluttered through his mind, his body, his heart.
"Where is it?"
"It's in evidence. What's it to you?" Donavon said uncertainly.
Sherlock dove between them again. Lestrade was, once again, prepared. He steered Sherlock gently back to the bed and forced him to sit down. "You have a concussion, Sherlock. You need to stay here."
"Since when have I listened to you? John is, at this very moment, in the hands of a madmen, I need to get him back. Unless you want his death on your hands?" Sherlock glared at him threateningly.
Lestrade was silent for a time, staring back at Sherlock as he thought. And then he sighed, seeming to deflate, and Sherlock pushed to his feet again.
An hour later Sherlock was once more in possession of his phone. He held it greedily, quick to open the message flashing across the screen. When he saw it, he froze.
"What is it?" Lestrade was asking, but he sounded far away, unimportant.
Sherlock stared at John's face. Slack and pale. Alseep. He looked small and fragile, like a child, and Sherlock found it suddenly hard to breathe. A large bruise had spread across one third of John's face, puffing up one of his eyes and slanting his lips. His hair had been neatly smoothed to one side, and, Sherlock noted, that hand was still pressed to one side of John's face.
There was a small, plain ring on that hand, but that was the only distinguishable feature.
Sherlock read the time the photo had been sent, two hours ago. And then he saw the message beneath.
He's mine now, my dear. But perhaps I'm willing to share.
Was this chapter okay? Or am I going too slow?
And phew, finished exams! Huzzah!
Now I'll have to get through year 12 next year and then
I'm free!
How are you doing?
-Alerix Slynn