Chapter Nine:
"This isn't good."
"Oh well done, John. Your observations are second to none." Sherlock was pacing the flat anxiously, hands steepled in front of his face in a pose John could only describe as 'pondering face'.
"What do we do?" John asked, determined to get Sherlock to calm down. He wasn't taking this too well. To be honest, neither was John. It's always awkward when the man who wants to kill you was planning to do it in two weeks. Sherlock had explained everything at such a rapid pace that John had only just let things sink in, what he knew scared him, more than he was going to let Sherlock know.
"As of right now, nothing. There is nothing we can do. If he's going to make himself known in two weeks, then we shall deal with him then. It'll be impossible to find him now." Sherlock flopped onto the sofa next to John, a mess of lanky limbs and black hair. John nudged slowly closely until he could lean his head on Sherlocks shoulder.
A week passed quickly, Sherlock acting infuriatingly normal. Well, normal for Sherlock wasn't exactly normal, but John was still angered by how calmly Sherlock was acting. It made no sense. Inside, John was a trembling mess, if what Sherlock said was a hundred percent accurate, then John was going to die in a week. And from what he could see, Sherlock was doing nothing about it. But John trusted him, when the time came, he knew he'd be safe. He hoped he would be safe.
"We're going out." Sherlock announced, wet feet slapping against kitchen floor. John raised a brow, Sherlock was half naked, wearing only a towell to cover his… man parts. He was dripping wet, hair pressed against his flushed face. "Get dressed."
"I could say the same." John scoffed, gesturing to the luscious almost nakedness that was Sherlock.
"I'm about to. I just need to dry." He sat on the chair closest to him, covering the table and John's un-read newspaper in water.
"Sherlock!" John scolded and leapt from his chair. He prepared to shout at Sherlock, but Sherlock was smiling, lups pulled back from his teeth in a predatorily way. Deep lust clouded his eyes and John was finding it very hard not to get an impromptu erection. "Stop it."
"No."
"Sherlock Holmes…" No, no use. Sherlock stood up and walked over to John, he pressed their bodies close, water seeped through the thin material of John's shirt and cooled his skin. Warm moist lips touched John's hesitantly. Shrugging away all that hesitance, John clasped his fingers in Sherlock's drenched hair and forced his mouth open. He felt more than heard Sherlock's accompanying groan and he spread his legs and lifted Sherlocks towel to reveal Sherlock's already rock hard cock.
Safe to say that the rest of that morning passed with a blur of orgasm's and indescirable pleasure. Sherlock knew exactly where to tease John, nipping lightly at the base of his erection, sucking and biting the hollow of his neck and collarbone, John doubted there wasn't a part of him Sherlock didn't know how to make feel good.
It was around lunch when they stopped and they were lying on the tile floor of the kitchen, backs pressed up against the counter. Sherlocks damp towell was covering the lower half of their bodies. John began to shiver.
"The floor's cold. I'm going to get dressed." He pressed a quick kiss onto Sherlock's lips and was rewarded with a satisfied moan. He dashed, naked and freezing, up the stairs to his room, hoping Mrs Hudson wouldn't happen to poke her head round the staircase.
He threw on his favourite jumper and casual jeans, smoothing his messy hair briefly before heading back to Sherlock. He whistled as he walked but was halted by the sight of Sherlock, already dressed impeccably, tapping his foot impatiently by the window.
"What's wrong?" John asked, peering over Sherlocks shoulder to look too. From what he could see, there was nothing remarkable about Baker Street that day. But Sherlock seemed to think otherwise.
"That van, the black one. It's license plates been covered with duct tape."
"Probably some boy racer hiding from the police." John shrugged.
"Boy racer? With that van? I doubt it. They have those modified cars. This… is a criminal organisation."
"Lestrade would have called if he thought there was anything odd." John went to sit down, no longer bothering to stare at the 'mysterious' van.
"Hmm." Was Sherlocks blunt reply.
"Not everything has something to do with a case, you know."
"Hmm." Sherlock repeated.
"Your thinking about this too much."
"Am I?"
John was beginning to get frustrated, it was just a van! "Yes! Now, come here. I want to cuddle." Like a child, John outstretched his arms and sighed when Sherlock slipped into them, sitting on his lap. "Isn't that better?"
"No, not really."
"Sherlock!"
"It isn't! I know there's something funny about that van. I'm going to investigate." He leapt from John's lap violently and shrugged on his coat and scarf. "Coming?"
"Of course." John mumbed, wishing - not for the first time - that Sherlock was just a little bit more normal.
"See? Nothing wrong with it." John said triumphantly, standing on the pavement with folded arms while Sherlock crouched down to inspect the car's underside. "Can we go inside now? I'm cold."
"You can." Sherlock said, tapping various points. "I'm staying until-"
"Until what, Sherlock? It's. A. Van. That's all there is to it! I've accepted your other random quirks, but it's getting ridiculous! You don't have to examine everything that's slightly off with the world."
"But I do. When I don't, bad things happen. How do you know this van doesn't belong to Moriarty's henchmen?" Sherlock stood up, frowning, and walked over to John who instantly took a step back. "Just because you think it's just a van doesn't mean it is."
"Just because you think it's part of some elaborate mafia crime… thing, doesn't mean it is either!"
"But I'm usually right."
"You stubborn bastard!" John shouted, he stormed away, resisting the urge to comfort the tall man, who was now stood there with a rather cute hurt look on his face.
"John!"
"No!" John yelled without turning around.
"But, Moriarty! You can't go out alone!" John could hear Sherlock racing to catch up with him, so he span round, squared up to Sherlock and put his army face on. His eyes furrowed and burned, he made his shoulders broad and almost snarled. This time, it was Sherlock who stepped back. He hadn't seen John like this… full of raw anger and power. Waves of pure agression where rolling off of him, actually scaring the inscareable Holmes. It was mesmerising and made Sherlock love this little dangerous man even more.
"Don't. Don't you dare, tell me what to do right now. Moriarty won't come after me for another week, so shut the fuck up, and go home."
"Where will you go?"
"None of your damn business." With that, John walked away again, this time, he wasn't followed.
How stupid did Sherlock think he was? How stupid was Sherlock? If there was the slightest rumour of a gang or a crime happening anywhere near Baker Street, Lestrade would've called. If that van meant anything at all, why would it park right next to the house of the worlds only consulting detective? After the incident at the pool, criminals everywhere knew who Sherlock was. Was that man really that modest that he didn't know that?
John's rage continued until he realised he had no idea where he was.
"Bit not good…" It wasn't dark, so John wasn't scared. However he was slightly unnerved. It wasn't every day a fully grown man got lost in his home city, so he had to be somewhere close to a place he found recognisbable. Calming his breathing, he walked down the street until he came to a crossroads. Neither direction looked like they came to a main road of any kind, so John backtracked.
Even when going in the direction he just came in, he couldn't find anything to tell him where he was. "Great. Just what I need." He rooted around in his pockets for his cell. Calling Sherlock wasn't on his list of what he wanted to do, but it seemed the only reasonable option. He rummaged for ages, panicing when he realised he didn't have It. It was in the flat. On the coffee table. Still bleeping from that face book annoucement he couldn't be bothered to read."You look lost." A gruff voiced shouted. John span on the spot and a tall, burly, bald and scary looking bloke waved at him from across the street.
"Yeah, do you know where Baker Street is?" He called back.
The man nodded and crossed the road, his stride three times as large as John's. He grabbed John's shoulder with one hand and pointed with the other.
"See, where you gotta go is-"
He hadn't had time to react. The mans hand curled into a fist and punched him so hard he hit the curb in less than a second. He could feel the throbbing pain that told him his skull was fractured. He also felt a piece of rope winding around his throat. The man cursed as John struggled helplessly. The man tightened his grip and John's eyes rolled back into his head
It had been hours. John still hadn't returned. Sherlock tapped his foot on the floor impatiently. He was fine… he knew London quite well, if he was lost, he'd ask for directions. He was probably at the pub, with his friends.
What friends? Sherlock head asked. Because of you, John has no friends. You're a loner, and now he is too. Sherlock couldn't help but realise that was right. Sherlock was the freak, the loser, the sociopath, and he had drawn John in with his wild ways and mysterious personality. John was the kind of guy who'd be surrounded by people. If it wasn't for Sherlock. Impatiently and with an air of worry that he hated, he prepared to leave to look for his boyfriend. On his way out, his phone beeped. He looked quickly at the caller ID. Molly Hooper. What could she possibly want that was more important than this? Still walking, he read the text quickly.
He has me and John. Help. 412 Brookside.
Without another moment, Sherlock hailed a cab and called out the address.
John woke suddenly, wrenched from the most horrific nightmare, it was after he'd steadied his breathing that he realised where he was. Or, where he thought it was. It was damp, cold and pitch black. He was uncomfortable, his wrists and ankles hurt and his head and throat throbbed, then he remembered. A man in black, huge guy, muscles like a pro wrestler. He'd punched him, then when he realised John wasn't out for the count, he strangled him.
His vision slowly began to clear, the darkness melted into a yellowy kind of light, only one light bulb was on but it was dim and fading slowly. Taking a good look around, he noticed that it looked like a warehouse basement. He appeared to be directly in the center, sat on a chair. No, strapped tightly to a chair. The light bulb was directly above him, illuminating where he was sat in a golden circle.
"Help!" He called out, then winced. When he spoke, knives seemed to travel up his throat along with his voice. If he could have looked in a mirror he knew there would be a bright red band across his larynx, from the strangling. "Help! Down here!" He shouted again.
He knew that no one would come, it was a feeble effort to escape and he knew it. But after thirty seconds or so he heard footsteps, wet and heavy in front of him. They echoed loudly, pounding against his already sore head. He could see a figure, a black blur at the moment, but as it stepped slowly closer he saw that it was a man. Holding a small gun. Wearing… a trench coat?
"Sherlock!" John cried, relief washing through him, "Moriarty, I think, this was him wasn't it?" Instead of the deep sensual tones he expected in reply, he got a sob and a sniff.
"Sherlock?"
"Lestrade." The man croaked, Gregg Lestrade stepped into the light holding a similar gun to John's L9A1. John gasped and struggled against his bonds. "Sorry, John. That won't work. He did them himself." Lestrades hands shook as he raised the handgun level to John's face. He was crying, heavily. Nose red as if he had a cold, eyes streaming clear tears as if his body was expelling all it's water. "This is part of his game, I'm so sorry. He… He has my kids. All five of them. So-Sorry Doctor."
John almost felt relief. Almost. At least Lestrade wasn't in cohorts with Moriarty, that would have been too much for him to deal with. He was doing this for his children, it was almost understandable.
"Is there anyway I can convince you this is a bad idea?" John asked.
Lestrade nearly cracked a smile, "I know it is. But… I can't let them… I can't let him hurt them." John nodded, closing his head ans he heard Lestrade steady himself.
"Sherlock! No! No, no Sherlock not that! Oh come on!" John yelled from the living room. Sherlock just laughed and continued to throw heavy things down the stairs. "It's an experiment John!" Ah, that much used phrase. It seemed to be the excuse for everything, but whn Sherlock threw the last of the milk down the stairs, only for it to explode against the wall, John had stood up and headed into the kitchen to confront the consulting detective. He grabbed the mug - his favourite mug - out of Sherlocks hand and placed it on the table.
"No more. Stop it now, experiment on something else." John kissed his lover on the nose sweetly. Sherlock was so worried about Anthea's visit, she hadn't turned up yet and Sherlock was experimenting so often throughout the day that John feared for the flats life.
"Can I experiment on you?"
"No."
"Why?" Sherlock whined, stamping his foot like a child. John rolled his eyes and led Sherlock by the hand into the living room.
"Because last time you 'experimented' on me, I ended up almost falling from the roof of St Bartes." John recalled with a shudder.
"Yes but we weren't sexually involved with each other. I'm sure I could make this experiment very interesting…"
John remembered fondly what happened after that, the many uses of chocolate and strawberries made into a list only for Sherlock. He shuddered deliciously before remembering his situation.
Lestrade was still stood in front of him, still holding the gun, but not doing anything. He was looking at the corner he had appeared from only three minutes before.
"He's coming!" Lestrade began shaking violently, "So sorry, John."
As his finger closed around the trigger, John closed his eyes and bowed his head.
"No, no no. That's not the rules, Lestrade. We've been through this." A familiar sing-song voice danced out of the shadows, accompanied by the suited elegance that could only be described as the worlds only consulting criminal. John gasped and suddenly found it hard to breath, he'd known that Moriarty would find him, known that the moment he had been knocked out that Moriarty would have had something do with it. But it had finally sunk in, he was going to die.
"Wouldn't want anything happening to Johnny boy before it needs to." Moriarty walked over calmly, examining his fingernails with a curious expression.
"Sherlock will stop you." John croaked, voice hoarse from being strangled.
"No he won't. He can't. You see, it's all part of my new game. Awfully entertaining and all,killing his brother. But I'm bored now. It needed to be stepped up. My dear Sherlock is currently on the other side of London, saving someone who isn't you." He smiled, the grin lighting an evil glow in his dark eyes. "My date, funnily enough. Is that irony? I'm never to sure."
"Game? You'll lose, and you know it. You lost last time."
His smile widened, showing shark like teeth. "It was a draw. No one died. That's why I'm doing this, I promised I'd burn the heart out of him. I'm sure you realise that was my metaphor for you." He shoved his hands in his pockets, in the darkness, it looked as though the black suit wasn't there, John could only really see the white of his shirt and his head, it looked like he was a ghost, which was eerily close to the truth. Always there, never seen, prescense felt at all times. He led a fearful existence, inflicting pain upon those who deserved none, making a deal with him was just as bad as a deal with the devil. "Well, now I have you. All to myself. Sherlock will try and save Molly - my date - and then he'll try and come after you. I say try, he'll end up killing them both. Oh, don't look so shocked! It means you live! I'll only get Gregg here to kill you if he lives. See I can't have both of you running around London like Batman and Robin can I? It really puts a downer on my day when my criminals end up behind bars."
John said nothing, contemplating Moriarty's words. If Sherlock lived, he dies. If Sherlock dies, he lives. It was no kind of a life without Sherlock, John needed him, loved him. He'd kill himself if he survived this. Lestrade's muffled sobs echoed in the black, John closed his eyes and hoped for the best, remembering the times he'd had with his life partner. He knew that's what they were, what they'd always been, ever since that first meeting at Bartes. The rope on his wrists burned, the ropes around his ankles were making them twist into a painful position, but he had his mind free from pain. For his mind was the only place were he could be in peace with Sherlock in these final moments. He knew they were his last few hours. There was no way that Sherlock would die, none at all. RAMC John Watson was going to die.
A/N. Oh dear… John's situation isn't looking too bright. Quite upset really, I promised myself when I started writing I wouldn't do this, but hey. Things happen. Plus this is a lot better than the other idea I had for this.
Next Chapter: Does Sherlock live or die? Does John live or die? Do they both live? Do they both die? Ooh who knows? Well, apart from me. None of you…
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