DISCLAIMER: The show, the characters and so on and so forth all belong to the lovely BBC.
Warnings: Violence and slash, little bit of language, none of it NSFW explicit - I don't think so, anyway. Johnlock, lightly implied Mystrade.
I don't know what on earth I've done to make 68 of you - dear god, 68 - add this to your story alerts but I sincerely hope from the bottom of my heart I make it worth it for you. Feel free to drop me a line, one and all, and tell me what you're thinking of the story so far. Thank you so much as always for your continued support in writing this fic. And yes, I am aware that steelier probably isn't a word, but it's half two in the morning. Please have mercy! :P
John directs all of his fears about Sherlock's safety, extensive army training and not unsubstantial irritation at being referred to as 'Johnny boy' towards keeping his expression at a carefully schooled blank as he responds. He fails to catch the bite in his voice, though, which betrays him as he snaps,
'A pretty pissed off John Watson, if you really want to know.'
Something close to amazement flashes across Moriarty's face in the lamplight before he breaks into peals of laughter, spinning around on his heels in the middle of the empty street. John sneaks a glance at the impassive faces of the soldiers who are still maintaining their grip on him and wonders how long they must have spent in the company of this lunatic to be so unresponsive to his exuberant displays.
'Oh, temper temper, Johnny boy! The pet bites back!'
John keeps himself from rolling with eyes with extreme difficulty. He's already regretting the anger he's let slip in his words. He wants more than anything to give into the potent mix of fury and fear he feels roiling inside him and have at the man, but he knows he can't afford to. A year ago, maybe, he would have, but spending months on the run has done things for him. Being constantly hunted, constantly looking over his own shoulder has given him a sense of his own relative powerlessness. He's acutely aware that if he wants anything approaching an advantage in a situation as hopeless as this, he doesn't have the luxury of indulging his temper. Moriarty wants him angry, hence the inane words and provoking tone; wants him confused and muddled and blinded by rage. So he plays it cool with a bland tone and words that bely his fear and anger.
'Okay, Mr Moriarty, so you've got me now. What are you going to do with me?'
In a flash, Moriarty's gleeful expression becomes mock-serious.
'Oh no, soldier boy. That would be telling.' He wags a finger derisively. 'I've got serious plans for you and your little boyfriend, though. You two have undermined my system with your little fugitive relationship,' here, he spits the word as though it were poison, 'for long enough now. You've had your fun. Ever wondered what happened to Gregory Lestrade? What happened to Mycroft Holmes? You're about to find out. You and Mr Holmes, when we catch him. And that's only a matter of time.'
John's fists clench automatically at the sound of Sherlock's name, but he forces himself to stay calm, relaxing into the grip of the soldiers. As far as possible, he's not going to play Moriarty's game, so he continues to keep his voice calm and offhand and hopes it's as infuriating to Moriarty as he thinks it is.
'Have fun catching him. Legs like a bloody giraffe; it's always difficult for me to keep up. You might have better luck, but,' he grimaces dramatically, 'I really doubt it.'
Much better than anger, he thinks with a touch of hysterical glee, watching the absurd enjoyment drain from Moriarty's face to be replaced by something steelier. The man regards him in silence for a second, and then turns swiftly on his heel, removing a slim phone from his pocket and beginning to punch in numbers. He's seven feet away from John before he gestures in their general direction without looking back and the accompanying command is chillingly direct.
'You know where to take him, boys.'
Instantly, the pressure of the soldiers' hands increases on John's shoulders and arms, digging into his bruises, and the men begin to tow him towards the dark gaping mouth of the black van.
John struggles the whole way – of course he does – but it's futile. He's handcuffed and strapped into the van in less than a minute, stripped of his bag and his gun. The men manhandling him barely seem to notice his attempts to fight his way free, although John notes with pride that his earlier rebelliousness has had some effect – one is limping, another has a broken nose and two are sporting brilliant black eyes from their earlier skirmish.
The pride is apparent for only a few seconds, though, before it's replaced by a steadily growing fear that gnaws in his gut. He'd been able to quash it down with his feigned nonchalance during his conversation with Moriarty but the perilousness of his current situation is enforced by the ominous slamming of the rear doors and he begins to quietly panic in earnest when the engine revs and the van sets off. He's not Sherlock. He's got no idea where they're going, what's going to happen to him or where Sherlock even is now. He can't deal with Moriarty. The most he could do was keep from showing his fear and anger to the madman, and even that served little practical importance – only to keep his head clear and irritate Moriarty. Either way, it hasn't made a blind bit of difference in that he's still speeding towards some unknown doom.
His one glint of hope is Sherlock.
John knows that he would tear the world down brick by brick to get Sherlock safe and he's reasonably confident in his assertion that Sherlock would do the same for him – although with infinitely more subtlety and genius, but that's always the way with Sherlock.
Even if – he forces himself to think the words – even if Sherlock doesn't come for him before whatever happens to him happens, he's still got faith in the man's ability to run and hide and disappear. The thought is a balm to him. Whatever happens, he can reassure himself with the thought that Sherlock is out there somewhere, safe, surviving and very much alive.
But Jesus Christ he's scared.
It's been months. Months, and he hasn't heard a single thing about Lestrade or Mycroft, or Mrs Turner's married ones, or even the famous ones like Stephen Fry, Gok Wan and Alan Carr. Nobody has. People just disappear after the initial arrest, and they don't turn up again, not in the flesh or in newspaper print. After a while, people just stopped talking about the people who got taken by the party, like they never existed. Sitting in the black van, John knows the same will happen to him and he feels panic rising in the back of his throat. He's itching to clap a hand over his mouth as he does when he feels he just can't handle the fear, but he's loath to display any kind of weakness in front of these Say No bullies.
So instead, he thinks of Sherlock. The way it feels to kiss him in the dark of the night. Sherlock's warm hands running through his hair to calm him down after a nightmare. The way he can feel Sherlock's laugh running through him when they're talking pressed up close against each other, so close he can almost pretend he's an extension of Sherlock himself.
He holds onto the last image he has of Sherlock; the man's darkened outline on an empty street, hand to chest, eyes wide and fearful and fixed on John. John hardens his resolve and clenches his fist, holding it up to his heart. He imagines Sherlock's kiss ghosting his own palm.
The afterimage of Sherlock's affection settles into his bones, glowing inside him – a talisman he'll carry with him wherever the van takes him, to give him strength. Like a safe harbour, like Baker Street. Like the feeling of home.
Next time: John's destination is revealed. While there, he finds an old friend.
Please, as always, don't hesitate to message me with any complaints or issues. I'm also grateful to everyone who leaves comments; your reviews, especially ones with constructive criticism, are invaluable to helping me improve my work and inspiring me to keep going even when it's two thirty-two in the morning.