Chapter 9:When The Evening Crashes On Us~
The whip chastised the fire inside of John, like an afflicted demon, all day as he was forced to listen to it whilst he tended the sick children.
At night, he smuggled them out 5 at a time.
He knew this might be executing the plan faster than Sherlock said they should. But an idea was beginning to form in the back of Captain Watson's mind.
The enemy had supplied him with fire arms. Loaded fire arms.
Fire arms that he had the children take with them ,when he took them home. Had them hide them in a shallow cache ,they dug under a tree at the edge of their village.
A nasty idea had formed in Captain Watson's mind. And the men and teenage boys of the village( and some of the girls) were starting to catch on,and knowing smiles were spreading on their faces.
But the idea of over-throwing the Bosses ,with an organizied resistance of towns-people ,John himself leading the operation, did not finally hit home, until he got back to the basement of the orphanage-church in which Sherlock was captive.
He just wanted in. Just wanted to see after him. He had more water for him. And soon, soon he could smuggle him out of here too, and dress his wounds...
He only had a handful of kids left, 4 boys, and Mercy. And then, then he could lead his rag-tag rebels in, and smoke these guys out...
He'd even saved a gun for Sherlock. A smaller one in the semi-automatic family. He was thinking he could chamber it, reload it,and just let Sherlock hold down the trigger whenever he needed to. Being that Sherlock was probably too weak now to even chamber a revolver.
Still the thought of arming Sherlock, enabling him to fight back , gave John a sense of purpose that gave him the strength to drag himself to the basement window.
He peered in, trying to get the lay of the inside, to form a plan of sneaking in.
When he saw...what was being done, and it froze him as solid as a million years of stone.
Sherlock hanging from the cieling, arms suspended over him, barely standing on tip toes . Actively having a vicious seizure,caused by some kind of drug,and way beyond the bounds of even natural epileptic episodes, clothes having been lit on fire.
Something exploded inside of John's heart, something like a supernova of the Light inside him,and evening crashed down ,like a wall of stone.
Something animal awoke in John, a ferocity, like the bursting stars within him, a desperation greater than that of the Damned.
He didn't remember how he ended up coming through the tiny window he was peering into. But he rolled on the floor , in the broken glass, through the gas the wicked tormentor had sprayed everywhere.
He himself was laying in the floor, with a bottle of gin as large as his fat leg, laughing like a hyena at his living Guy Fawkes.
John didn't remember picking up the shovel,or knocking the guy out cold. Didn't remember cracking open the box in the wall,and pulling out the fire-extinguisher.
Whatever hybrid drug this guy had used,it must have reacted to heat, because as Sherlock started to cool down, his seizure began to ease up.
John remembered very well cutting him down. Remembered insisting that he put his arm around his neck,
"John, what?!"
"You asked me to trust you,Sherlock. Well, now I'm gonna need you to trust me, ok? So far, I've done what you said, but I've decided to pick up the pace. I have an idea, and I have people to help me...And the last 5 kids are coming with us, -I'm springing you out of here tonight!"
For once Sherlock didn't argue. But he looked at John with worried eyes...
"You're sure?"
"I'm a soldier ,Sherlock. I know what I'm doing. Why don't you take a night off, you've done more than your fare share..."
Sherlock nodded, eyes yet haunted, and then his face twisted in agony,at being moved when he was so damaged...
"That's no good, here..."
John wasn't sure how he swept him off his feet, folding his legs up under him. In another life, someone would have had something to say about how John carried Sherlock out of the front door of an old romantic-looking church, like a bride. And once upon a time, John might have cared. But now the light inside him had turned into something more fierce than hell fire. And those accusing, mocking tongues, and rumors,and newspapers ,were galaxies away, burned and smoking out ,in the wake of the end of his Universe, as he blew it to shards of supernovas, lighting his way into the dark.
For all the demolition of his soul,and shattering of his heart, John could only smile...and let the Evening come crashing down...