A/N: I'm super sorry that it's been so long since I posted the last chapter, I never really mapped out this story so as my brain puts pieces together then the story comes together. I've also been busy with school and some other things. But I wanted most of this chapter to be about John so that was also my struggle and I wanted to give you guys a longer chapter but here you go I hope you like it. At this point the story is almost over and a second part will be coming out. Also as a side note this story is also available on Archive of Our Own if you want that format. But I really hope you guys like it, feedback helps me write faster.
The grass was green and soft under John's bare feet, his head tipped back in laughter at something ridiculous. He fell back in almost slow motion, a smile still plastered onto his face. He leaned his head to the side, coming face to face with Sherlock, he smiled wider, the situation seeming so perfect. John frowned slightly when the light no longer lit up Sherlock's features.
He sat up, turning around, suddenly finding himself in the morgue at Saint Barts. He frowned, wandering over to the examination table. He gasped at the sight, Sherlock, his face beaten and bloodied, all colour drained out of his features. John could suddenly feel tears pushing at his eyes, he choked back a sob.
"I'm so sorry John" the cold, distant voice of Mycroft said.
John gasped suddenly, flying up in bed. John sat for a moment, breathing heavily. He wiped the sweat off his face and took in the fact that yes indeed he was laying in a pool of his own sweat. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, slowly standing and making his way to the bathroom. He turned the cold water on in the sink, gripping the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles turned white. How'd he manage to fall asleep? He definitely hadn't meant to. He sighed, cupping his hands under the water before splashing it onto his warm face. It did little to calm him. He practiced the breathing exercises his therapist had taught him but it did nothing.
Rage suddenly enveloped him and he punched the mirror, cracking the glass and cutting his knuckles, but he didn't care. He stormed into the kitchen, throwing the cupboard doors open, taking out plates and glasses, throwing them across the room into the living room and listening to them smash against the wall behind Sherlock's chair. Once he'd smashed all the plates and glasses he let out a frustrated sigh, throwing himself down in his arm chair, letting out a strangled sob. He just wanted Sherlock home.
Sherlock cried out, blubbering like a small child.
"I'm sorry" Sherlock sobbed.
"You're lying!" Moriarty shouted, striking him again across his back with the thick leather belt. Sherlock let out another strangled sob. Moriarty moved around to the front of Sherlock and grabbed his chin, forcing his head up.
"You lied to me Sherlock"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry"
"Who is John Watson?"
"I don't know, I swear I don't know" Sherlock said, tears rolling down his cheeks and onto Moriarty's fingers.
"Then why did you speak of him?" Moriarty ground out, fury in his eyes.
"I don't know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" Moriarty threw his face, storming out of the room. Sherlock lay on his bed, sobbing uncontrollably, he was sorry, he really was. Sorry, sorry sorry, sorry for everything.
John was forced to go to the shooting range, Mycroft insisted and Mycroft insisted he go with.
"What the hell do I need gun training for? I know how to handle a gun." Mycroft sighed, leaning against the counter.
"Because, while you are well versed in gun managment I do believe you need a refresher course and judging by the amount of broken china in your flat and your scabbed knuckles I would guess that you have quite a lot of pent up anger." John clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists at his sides.
"I'm fine." John ground out between gritted teeth.
"Yes so I understand" Mycroft said, grabbing the targets from the man behind the counter. And heading out to the range, John following close behind him. The buzzer sounded as a go ahead and Mycroft walked out onto the field, placing the targets at 15 meters.
When he came back he stood next to John, watching him. John sighed, raising the hand gun up and aiming at the target, squeezing the trigger and hitting the target nearly dead center. John turned back to look at Mycroft, raising an eyebrow. Mycroft kept a stony expression of indifference and motioned for John to continue. John shot the other four bullets, all of them lodging in the target around the same spot.
Once John was finished the safety buzzer went off and Mycroft went out and retrieved the target that John had shot at. He and John stared at it closely, Mycroft nodded.
"Told you I was fine" John said, walking back inside.
They hadn't made any real progress in getting Sherlock out, not the way that Mycroft had promised. Mycroft had said two weeks but it had been closer to four at this point. Lord only knew what Sherlock was having to deal with. John clenched his fists at his sides, he sighed, leaning back in his arm chair. It wasn't fair, Mycroft said he would try John knew that Mycroft was a busy man and he knew that he had a lot of responsibilities but to John none of that mattered, all that mattered was getting Sherlock home. John wanted to hit Mycroft, wanted to wipe his smug expression off his face.
John had long since reached the point of exhaustion and was simply running off fumes at this point but he dreaded going to sleep for fear of the night terrors. He sighed, heaving himself up and out of his arm chair, heading to the bathroom. He reached into the shower and turned it on, letting the hot steam fill the small bathroom. He gripped the edge of the sink, peering into the cracked, broken mirror, he'd nearly forgotten that he'd broken it.
Unwarranted emotion suddenly crept in and John felt hot tears roll down his cheeks and down off his chin. He couldn't help it, he'd kept everything in for so long, letting himself only feel anger but now it didn't matter, nothing mattered but Sherlock and Sherlock wasn't here so it didn't mattered. John let the tears fall freely, let out a choked sob. God, what was happening?
Mycroft had explained to John that they were ready to make a move on Moriarty in order to retrieve Sherlock.
"I'm going with" John stated firmly.
Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. "How many times must I tell you, this is a delicate situation and we need experts going in."
"I'm not sitting on the sidelines waiting, I'm going with" Mycroft sighed again.
"I'll make arrangements for you" John saw Mycroft out before falling into his arm chair with an exhausted sigh. This was it, he was going to be getting Sherlock back.