Someone was shouting his name. The note of desperation in their voice made something gurgle inside of his stomach. He recognised the voice. It was usually associated with benign happiness, but now it was filled with hatred and anger. He didn't want to go in that direction. Why would anyone want to go near to a person who sounded so... Evil?
He stumbled over a thick tuft of grass as he clambered up the hill. His pyjama bottoms were sodden with the rain that hadn't quite dispersed from the atmosphere yet. The shouting was fading away. Good.
His hair was plastered to his head and he lazily pushed it out of his eyes, allowing him to squint across the hazy fields that lay before him. He knew that the green fields rolled on for miles, but a sharp wall of fog prevented him from seeing that far. There was a road though. He knew that there was a road. If he could just reach it...
"William!"
"Mycroft!"
He screamed.
"Holy shit!"
Sherlock wasn't sure whether it was his own screaming, or John's swearing which woke him up. But either way his eyes flashed open. "Sherlock! What the fuck?!"
John was staring at Sherlock, blue eyes the size of dinner plates as he gaped at him. Sherlock clenched his jaw and then opened it several times. He looked like a confused goldfish.
"I..." Sherlock started, standing up painfully. All of his limbs had fallen asleep too apparently.
He hadn't that dream in a long time. A really long time. It was slowly fading away from his mind, but the door remained open. A door to a dreadful place. Only, he couldn't shut it. He didn't know how.
"Sherlock? Are you okay?" John asked, the Belstaff had fallen off him now, and it lay bored on his lap.
"Yes." Sherlock said quickly, exaggerating the firmness. John shot him a look which clearly said 'I don't believe you'. So Sherlock tried to expand on his point. "There was a spider on me. I don't like spiders." He shrugged sitting back down, and John's expression relaxed somewhat.
They sat in silence for a while. Sherlock turning the dream over and over in his mind, while John tried to work out his next plan of action. Both of them felt slightly lost.
Sherlock, for one, hadn't had that dream for a while. At least two months. It was his recurring dream. Resurfacing from the gloomy depths and aggravating Sherlock's already burning curiosity.
Within the last few years, it had spread itself out. Two months was the longest he'd gone without seeing those fields; the shortest was less than twenty four hours.
He was always running. Always. Never looking back. That's what irked Sherlock the most. He wanted to know what he was running from, but the cry of 'William' always woke him up before he had chance.
A black car slowly rolled onto the car park, and Sherlock stood up, brushing the twigs away lazily. He knew that they wouldn't let him be gone long.
"Is that for you?" John asked, nodding towards the rather nice, slick vehicle. Sherlock nodded stiffly in reply.
The door opened and a man got out. John squinted, as it was difficult to make out defining features from the distance they were at. Nevertheless, the man was easily identifiable. It was the same man who had been at St Bart's. One of the men who was looking for Sherlock.
The moment Sherlock saw the man, his body went rigid. He moved swiftly, blocking John's view of the man.
"Sherlock? What're you-" John was interrupted as he craned his neck.
"Sherlock! Are you going to introduce us?" Sebastian called across the field. He was tossing something into the air and catching it. It looked like a tennis ball. Sherlock swore at his shoe.
"Go away, Sebastian." He spat. John could sense the crackling hostility between the two. He decided to stand up himself then. Sebastian was drawing closer, and the tennis ball was now easily recognisable as an apple.
"You must be John." Sebastian said, smiling while grabbing John's hand and wringing it. "That was some very nice coffee you made the other day." John's neck went pink. "And I'm awfully sorry to hear about your step father too..."
Sherlock's stance changed the moment he realised what Sebastian was about to say. John had literally learnt two hours ago of his step-fathers death. He didn't need a prick like Sebastian bringing it up.
Sebastian raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who didn't budge. John scooted around him.
"Yeah. It's a bit..." He hesitated "rubbish." He finished on a monotone. Sebastian smiled apologetically.
"Tell me, John..." Sebastian brought the apple to his mouth and bit into it. It crunched loudly. "What's your favourite animal?"
"My what?"
"Enough!" Sherlock roared. But Sebastian was ignoring him.
"I rather like Moles, myself... Very small, very cute-" he winked at Sherlock "easy to kill..."
There was a brief pause before Sherlock's fist met Sebastian's face.
Sebastian's head just turned slightly, as his tanned cheek slowly reddened.
"Now Sherlock... That wasn't nice."
Sherlock's brain was a storm of mixed emotions. He was extremely angry. Angry because what the hell was Sebastian doing? Annoyed, because Sebastian knew about Mr Jones's true business, which was something that he didn't understand or know yet. Despite the anger however, his brain was still wiring.
"You knew about that letter. You know about the 'mole'. You're SM! You sent it? You sent that letter?" Sherlock was on a tirade. "Why are you dragging John into this? He-" It was Sherlock's turn to receive the punch, and Sebastian delivered harder than Sherlock.
John yelled as he watched Sherlock fall to the floor, stand up again, then only to be head butted. He was unconscious.
John ran at Sebastian and kicked him in the knee. Sebastian somehow managed to deflect it though, catching John's leg with his own and then twisting it. John bit his tongue as he felt his knee cap twist.
"Don't. Breathe. A. Word." Sebastian snarled each individual letter. He then grabbed John's leg with his callus littered hands and twisted fiercely. It popped. Pain exploded throughout his leg, and he crumpled onto the floor, his other knee giving away.
Sebastian picked Sherlock up in a fire mans lift, and carried him across the field, whistling a God awful tune. John was shouting every word that flew into his brain. Some very unsavoury words were chosen.
As Sebastian heaved Sherlock into the back seat of the car, John began fumbling in his pockets, biting back the tears that had unwittingly escaped due to the pain soaring through his leg. He found the number he was looking for and pressed dial.
"John?"
"He's taken Sherlock. He said something and Sherlock got pissed off and punched him and now he's unconscious and he's taken him." John took in a great shuddering breath. His leg was stretched out in front of him.
"What? Calm down!" Mycroft ordered through the phone.
"He said your name! We both fell asleep and then I woke up and he started fidgeting in his sleep and then he said your name! Then he woke up."
"John, calm down."
"No I can't bloody calm down! He's dislocated my kneecap and I can't do anything and Sherlock's in danger. I know he is. Mycroft, you have to do something." John was sobbing blindly. It was all growing too much for him to handle. The pain, the prospect of Sherlock being in danger... It was too much.
"John." Mycroft said firmly. "Who dislocated your knee cap?"
John ran a shaking hand through his hair.
"Sebastian." He said finally. He was pretty certain Mycroft swore.
"We're coming to get you. Your phone is being tracked."
John thanked him, and then hung up. Praying to anyone who'd listen that Sherlock would be okay, and wondering how it had all gone so desperately wrong so dastardly quickly.
–
"How does your knee feel?" John rolled his eyes at the ridiculous question.
"Like my knee was dislocated and the popped back into place." He said cheerfully. The nurse just smiled at him.
"Well, you're being very brave."
John scowled. Being brave? What a ridiculous thing to say. How could he be the brave one? He'd cried, for God's sake. That wasn't bravery. Sixteen year old boys don't cry. If anyone was the brave one, it was Sherlock. Sherlock because he'd had to put up with that for seven years. Seven years ago John was a chubby nine year old with an obsession for Star Wars. When Sherlock was nine, he'd been ripped away from his family and brought into a strange new world. Therefore, Sherlock was the brave one.
Mycroft had been to see him. He (along with some other government officials who had turned up), told John that he would be spending the night in hospital. They said it was just to make sure that his knee was okay. Through John suspected differently. Otherwise, why would there be so many men strolling around in black suits? And this certainly wasn't a bog standard NHS Hospital either. This was a privately run; privately funded hospital. John could tell.
He was lying in a hospital bed. Bored out of his brain. He was pretty certain that if they gave him some crutches, he could quite happily hobble about.
"There's a man here to see you. A Mr Holmes?" The nurse said, smiling at him.
"Urm, yeah." John replied awkwardly. Not entirely sure what to say.
"He'll be here in a moment." Did this woman ever stop smiling? It was making John's head hurt. Not the mention the fact that she was a very pretty lady and he couldn't stop himself from blushing whenever she smiled. She had to stop.
John was completely relieved when she left, but then Mycroft entered and his brief second of non-awkward silence was over.
"John." He said, walking through the door and shutting it behind him. John didn't say anything as Mycroft pulled up a chair. "We've had some developments.." John decided to cut him off then.
"About Sherlock? Is he okay? I-" Mycroft held up a hand a John fell silent. "I want to know if he's okay." He finished quietly.
"As do I, John. But I have news about your step-father."
John frowned sadly. He wanted news about Sherlock. He didn't particularly care for a dead man. Especially a horrible dead man. He wanted to know about a brilliant, alive, teenager. But then he remembered what Sebastian had said. What Sherlock had said. Something about...
"Is this about the mole?" John asked. Mycroft's face went stony.
"How do you know...?"
"Well he wasn't going to be asking me what my favourite animal is? Was he? I may not be as observant as Sherlock but I can tell when somethings off. Anyway, Sherlock freaked when Sebastian brought it up. He was pretty tense already, but he flipped as soon as Sebastian started talking to me. I think he knows something." John explained.
"Your step-father was working in close ties with Moriarty and what he does. This mole, whoever he is, was going to take down both your step-father and Moriarty. I'm not sure whether Sherlock knows what Jim's profession is, but with the likes of Sebastian prowling around he's sure to have realised somethings going on. It's reasonable to presume that he worked something out about the mole, which is why he reacted when Sebastian turned up. He- he's starting to remember."
John gave him a questioning look, so Mycroft decided to elaborate.
"I think he's starting to piece things together." Mycroft supplied. "I've allowed myself to be spotted by Sherlock on several occasions, even before you got involved. Moriarty seems to have cottoned on to this, and I fear I have made the situation much worse for Sherlock as a result."
John blinked. That would explain why...
"He said your name. Earlier. I said on the phone?"
"I'm sorry John. You were blubbering so much I couldn't make out what you were saying." Mycroft apologised. John was certain that this was a rarity (for Mycroft to apologise), so he accepted it before continuing.
"Anyway. I woke up because I could feel..." He remembered how he'd woken up using Sherlock's legs for pillows. "He was shaking, in his sleep. Muttering a hell of a lot, too. He kept muttering William, over and over again. Until he suddenly shouted 'Mycroft', and woke himself up." John explained. Mycroft was frowning deeply.
"He said my name? He definitely said my name?" Mycroft questioned tentatively. John nodded firmly. "This changes a lot. It means he's starting to remember... John, this is good news. Very good news." Mycroft looked as though Christmas had come early upon learning that Sherlock had said his name. Like a parent when they first hear their child speak.
"It's coming. We're going to have to act. As soon as possible. The intel we've gathered isn't strong, but it's sufficient enough..." He stood up, grabbing his umbrella and pulling out his phone.
"Sorry," John said "what's coming?"
Mycroft turned around, his face had turned sorrowful again. He didn't say anything else before leaving the room, leaving a very confused John behind him.
If he wanted to find out what was going on, truly, without having Mycroft try to be dainty about it, then he would have to do it himself. He pulled out his phone, and called Greg.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Greg." John smiled at nothing in particular at hearing his friends voice.
"Jesus Christ?! Where are you?!" John almost laughed.
"Now, I don't want you to panic, but I need you to grab my stuff. Preferably, go to my house, ask to go to my room. Mum'll let you. If she won't, Harry will, and I need you to get all of books from my desk and bring them to me."
"Why can't you get them yourself?" Greg asked on the other end.
"Hospital." John said simply. He had to pull the phone away from his ear as Greg shouted into his phone.
"What the fuck? John! Why are you in hospital?"
"It's a really long story." John smiled sadly, running a hand through his hair.
"Tell it me when I get there." Greg said. "All the books, right?"
"Yep."
"Right. Which hospital?"
"That old posh one by the park."
"Alright. See you in about an hour." Greg hung up and John lay the phone to rest by his side. Surely Jim had given him those books for a reason? Not just because John liked reading? He'd been thinking about it as the doctors pushed his knee back into place, and the idea of a message being implanted into the books was addling him. He didn't quite know how the idea had formulated, but it was there nevertheless.
He knew it was a feeble attempt, but it was the best he could do in the situation he was in. He just prayed that whatever the books told him, they'd bring Sherlock back to safety.
How many times was he going to find himself waking up after Sebastian knocked him out? Because Sherlock wasn't sure he could tolerate much more of it.
"Where's John?" He said immediately, sitting upright and glaring at Jim, who was standing by the window.
Sherlock watched as Jim's shoulders loosened, and his head drooped. He sighed sadly. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to deal with Jim's performance. So he climbed out of the bed he'd been lying in and stood resolute. He was still wearing his suit.
"Where's John?" He asked again, more firmly this time. Anger was gripping to his every word. Still Jim didn't answer.
"You don't get to ask questions." Jim stated, still not facing Sherlock.
"That's stupid. I can ask all the questions I want." Sherlock retorted. He steeled him self before asking again. "Where's John?"
"Oh dear..." Jim shook his head, and Sherlock yelped as something seared his ankle.
"What the-" There it was again. "Are you electrocuting me?" Sherlock asked incredulously. And there it was again.
"The more you ask questions the more you get shocked." Jim teased, his Irish accented voice rising several octaves.
"But why?" He realised his mistake as soon as he said it. His ankle was tingling and slowly going numb.
Jim still hadn't turned to face him. Instead, he called to someone who Sherlock didn't know. They were alone in the room. Who was he... A red dot blinked in the corner of his eye. Of course. Cameras.
"Let's bring it up a notch, shall we?" Jim spoke as though he were suggesting they dance. Lifting up his arm and spinning has hand around to indicate turning a dial.
"You still haven't answered my question." Sherlock pointed out, careful to phrase it as a statement. Jim sighed. Everyone was sighing recently. Were they all so content with life?
"John's currently in a hospital somewhere getting his knee popped back into place."
"You dislocated his knee?!" Sherlock almost yelled, and he realised he'd asked a question the moment his ankle went numb. Wouldn't hurt anymore though, he supposed. He was already raising the leg, to avoid putting any pressure on it. God, did those shocks kill. Yet, the numbness meant more questions. He could tolerate it.
"Yep." Jim replied, popping the 'p'. "Well, not personally. Sebastian did though." He shrugged. "Hang on. I'm not supposed to be answering your questions... That's not how it works." Turning to face Sherlock and grinning wickedly.
Sherlock was straining hard to think. All of his attention was being diverted to the ankle situation.
"Okay then. Elaborate." Sherlock dead panned. Moriarty's eyebrows shot up. "That was a demand. Not a question."
"Zap him anyway for cockiness." Jim shrugged. Sherlock slammed his foot back to the ground as the electricity shot through it. Apparently the voltage had been raised. "And no. I don't take orders from you, you take orders from me. Disobey the orders and-" Sherlock's ankle vibrated horribly.
"I get zapped." The finished the sentence for him, panting slightly as his leg convulsed. Jim smirked. He waltzed around so that he was mere inches from Sherlock, who was pleading to be somewhere else and in a different situation. Why couldn't he be back at the park with John?
"Pets need to be trained." Jim shrugged matter-of-factly.
"I'm not your pet."
"Honey, you were my pet the moment I adopted you from Holmesville."
Sherlock blinked. Holmesville? Surely that wasn't a real place? He made a mental note to Google it. This was one the first things Jim had ever said about where Sherlock was before he was here. He wasn't going to forget about it.
"I'm still not agreeing to this." Sherlock seethed.
"No ones asking you to agree with it, Sherlock." He lightly stepped across the room towards Sherlock. Sherlock shut his eyes as Jim reached up and stroked Sherlock's hair.
"Stop." He snarled. He opened his eyes to find Jim smirking at him.
"You don't get to give the orders." Jim waggled his eyebrows, but backing away nonetheless, which Sherlock was completely grateful for. Had Jim always been like this?
"So now what?" Sherlock braced himself for the shock. "You're not going to manipulate me. What's changed? Why is this happening? What's John got to do with this?" His leg shook painfully as the voltage increased.
Jim just smiled a toothy smile. It made Sherlock's insides squirm uncomfortably.
"There's a war coming, Sherlock. And you're finally going to do what you were always supposed to do." Jim replied silkily. He strode past Sherlock, ruffling a the knot of black hair as he went, before pulling the door open and sliding gracefully through it.
So... What do you think? All feedback is welcome :)
