A/N; I want to apologize for not updating in ages. My muse took a little leave of absence for a bit, but he's back now and better than ever *cue BAMF music*. Hopefully this extra long chapter will make up for the wait. If you want someone to thank for the return of my muse, thank Rainy-Days-And-Daydreams, who helped by listening to me ramble on about my many problems and bombarded me with amazing, inspirational Johnlock fanart :D
As always, thanks to all my followers, favoriters, reviewers, and readers. You guys are all awesome. *hands out chocolate peanut butter cookies of amazingness*
Ta,
Anonymoustache
Sherlock woke up to blackness.
"Don't worry. Your eyes are completely fine, I promise."
Blindfold, then.
He tried to speak, but there was a gag crudely stuffed in his mouth. His head was pounding, eliciting a groan from the weak detective.
"It'll stop hurting in a little bit."
Who was this voice?
"Hello, Mr. Holmes. Bet you can't deduce who I am."
He was right. For once in his life, Sherlock had no ideas whatsoever.
Why am I not working? What's wrong with me?
"Don't worry too much. Your eyes and touch have both been taken from you, not to mention the drugs that are probably still in your system; it's no wonder that you can't tell who I am." The voice paused for a few moments.
Sherlock coughed through the gag, becoming aware that his throat hurt.
"You were screaming for a while. Guess the drug gives nightmares…didn't know that 'til now."
Who is this?
Damn it, Holmes, why can't you figure this out?
Sherlock struggled against his bonds, trying in vain to loosen them.
"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you." The voice paused dramatically. "Bad things happen to people who try to escape me."
Think, Sherlock, think.
What happened before this?
"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. You're not going to eat…you're going to burn. I'm going to burn the heart out of you."
Sherlock gasped.
"That's right, Mr. Holmes. I'm a friend of Mr. Moriarty's."
The blindfold was suddenly ripped off his face. Light flooded his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Finally, everything came into focus.
He was in a surprisingly normal looking bedroom, tied to a chair in the corner. In front of him stood a single man, tall and stern-looking.
Blonde, blue eyes, at least six feet, about one hundred and sixty pounds (mostly muscle, he noted as he looked up and down the man's figure). Military marksman, dishonorable discharge for…killing a fellow soldier?
Colonel Sebastian Moran.
"Finally figured it out, have you?" Moran smirked. "Thought you'd get there eventually."
He pulled the gag out of Sherlock's mouth. "Go on, then, Mr. Holmes. Impress me with your superior intellect." He said it mockingly, as though he was assured of Sherlock's failure.
Sherlock took a breath and began to list his deductions. "Dishonorable discharge from the military? One can't find many of those nowadays. Given your age, height, weight, and other basic details I could narrow it down to a few men."
Moran looked amused. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. Though I'm not sure if you're as good as they say you are."
Sherlock's eyes darkened as he stared malevolently at the marksman. "I'm only just beginning, Mr. Moran."
Moran looked slightly unsettled. He turned his back and began to pace the room. "Continue."
"It's quite simple, actually. I knew from the moment I heard that phrase you uttered outside my room that this was something to do with Moriarty." Sherlock coughed. His throat was still sore.
"Moriarty, as I'm sure you know, doesn't have many henchmen who are as close to him as you were."
Moran stiffened. "What are you suggesting, Holmes?" he growled.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I'm not suggesting, I'm stating." He continued. "Now, why would Moriarty want you around? Because you were a good shot? Or something more?"
Moran stood stock still for a few moments, then smirked. He began to pace again. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. You've finally found out my little secret." A faraway look appeared in his eyes. "Yes, Jim Moriarty and I were lovers."
Moran turned to face Sherlock, a hollow look in his eyes. "Until you killed him, Mr. Holmes."
He turned and stared out the small window opposite them. He paused for a few moments, then spoke. "The day I got the news was the worst day of my life." He whipped around and glared fiercely at Sherlock. "That day, I vowed to avenge him, and end the bastard who killed my lover."
Moran leaned in close. "And guess what, Mr. Holmes? You were the one on that roof. The one who pushed Jim Moriarty off." He cackled softly. "You're that bastard."
Sherlock's head spun.
Moran thinks it was me who threw Moriarty off the roof.
Even though it was John.
Somewhere, deep in Sherlock's mind, a logical voice told him to explain to Moran who had really killed his beloved.
But he couldn't betray John, could he?
He could hear Mycroft's voice in his head.
Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Remember that.
Sherlock took a deep breath.
I don't care anymore.
Sherlock looked up at Moran and opened his mouth.
"Yes, I pushed him off that roof." Sherlock spat. "And now the world is free of a criminal who could have ruined everything."
Moran's hand lashed out and Sherlock felt the sting of a hard slap on his cheek. The sniper grabbed him by the front of his hospital-issued tee shirt and violently lifted him into the air, chair and all. "Don't ever say something like that in front of me again, or I can promise you a long, painful death."
"I thought that's what I was getting anyways," Sherlock said in his best bored voice.
Moran shrugged. "More painful than is planned, that is," he said in a careless voice laced with an underlying tone of malice.
Sherlock tried not to shiver.
Moran clapped his hands together, composure regained. "Well, must be off. Guns to clean, people to snipe. I should be back in a few days." He headed for the door. "I'll send a little note to that brother of yours and his pet inspector for you, shall I? Maybe a video conference."
And with that Moran was gone.
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as he remembered Moran's last words.
"I'll send a little note to that brother of yours and his pet inspector for you, shall I?"
He must not know about John.
That, at least, was something.
Greg knocked gently on the door, Molly and John right behind him.
"Mickey?" he asked in a soft voice. "Can we come in?"
"Enter," said the ever-imperious voice of Mycroft Holmes.
The three of them shuffled into the room, gathering around Mycroft's bed. Greg took the chair closest, pushing it right up next to Mycroft, and took the man's hand in his.
"How're you feeling, Mickey?" Greg asked anxiously. "Do you need anything?"
Mycroft shook his hand out of Greg's and gave him a cold look. "I'm perfectly fine, Gregory. Do stop being so clingy and worried." He folded his hands together and looked around at them as Greg's jaw went slack. "I assume you have a reason for being here."
John looked over at Greg, who was staring down at his feet, obviously not wanting to talk any more. John spoke. "Mycroft, Sherlock's been…well, he's been taken."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, I am well aware of the activities that you and Sherlock have been up to at late. Practically the whole hospital knows you two are intimately involved."
John blushed deeply as Molly giggled nervously. "That's not really what I meant."
"Though they are shagging," Greg spoke up, trying to clarify as well as lighten the mood.
Mycroft shot Greg a freezing glare. "Hilarious, Inspector," he said icily.
Greg's eyes went wide with hurt and surprise at the use of his formal title. "Mycroft, what's wrong? Good god, you're acting like you don't even…like we're not…" he broke off awkwardly.
"Gregory, this is neither the time nor place to discuss our relationship. Please try and behave appropriately." John and Molly both cringed at the words and the look they brought to Greg's face. Mycroft turned to them. "John, please continue. What did you mean?"
"Sherlock's been kidnapped, again. We've confirmed that the man behind it is Moriarty's former lover…a Sebastian Moran." John stated firmly. "We came to ask you if you had ever heard of him."
Mycroft sucked in a breath and nodded. "Ah, yes. I am well acquainted with Mr. Moran's story."
John nodded. "Could…do you feel well enough to tell us?"
"I'm afraid there's not much to tell, Dr. Watson. Bright young man, strong, smart, and a brilliant marksman. However, six months into his service, he shot and killed a fellow soldier. He wasn't imprisoned because of lack of evidence, but he was given dishonorable discharge. A few months after his discharge, he disappeared from all records and seemed to have left the face of the earth."
John raised his eyebrows. "And now we know where the bastard's been all these years." He looked around at the others. "With Moriarty."
Mycroft nodded. "I always wondered what ever happened to him. He had one of the best marksman scores I've seen in a long time." He sighed. "If only it could have been used for good."
John nodded. Silence filled the room for a few moments. Then, John stood up, Molly right behind. "Molly and I'll try to find something to give us a clue where he might have gone. Does Sherlock still have his phone?"
Mycroft tilted his head. "I'm not sure. It might be in his room." His Blackberry buzzed on the nightstand and he picked it up, sliding it open. Without looking up, he spoke. "Anthea will help you."
Greg stood up. "I'll go with you," he said woodenly. He turned to Mycroft. "L-let me know if you need anything?"
Mycroft didn't respond. "John, Molly," he said by way of a goodbye.
Greg's eyes widened, then he looked down at the floor in sad acceptance and shoved past John and Molly, heading down the hallway. His face was blank as he passed, eyes sad.
If John hadn't been mistaken, there was a small tear sliding its way down his cheek.