(A/N: I felt bad about leaving you with that last chapter, so, being on a roll, I worked on the next chapter and … HAPPY HUMPDAY! Hope you enjoy this dose of BAMF!John. Plus something new! The story is drawing to a close. OnO Tis daunting. Don't forget to review.)
John kicked in the door with ease. Firmly planting his foot on the ground, John quickly scoped the hallway: Left, right, clear. With a flick of two fingers, John motioned for the three other men to spread out and check the rooms in the immediate vicinity.
They had been searching these lower levels for roundabout an hour now, the never-ending hallways creating a damp, musty maze. John was quickly losing whatever self-control he had left on reserve. Extended periods of stress tended to burn through John's patience. Well, that and having the man you love being taken by an insane drug dealer who most likely works for Moriarty, a voice in the back of John's head spoke up.
Hold on, 'man you love'? John thought, his brow furrowing. When did that conclusion get reached? He didn't have the strength to deny it any longer. John Watson definitely loves Sherlock Holmes. And this separation was killing him, bit by bit.
John was shaken from his musings by Lieutenant Mulder who quietly asked if John was okay. John nodded. Mulder gave him one more worried look before nodding himself. John bounced from foot to foot and tilted his head from side to side, popping his neck and relieving some of the tension built up there. He needed to focus. Keeping focus would save Sherlock.
Back in Captain Mode, John looked at his three fellow operatives and, upon receiving a negative from all of them, turned to lead them down another hall. They made their way systematically down each hall, checking the rooms four at a time, and just when they were about to make another left, a scream sounded.
John turned towards the noise, easily pinpointing its origin, but just as quickly realized that it wasn't Sherlock. Granted John hadn't ever heard him scream, and honestly hopes he'll never have to, but the pitch was still too high for it to conceivably be Sherlock. Not Sherlock, not my problem, Captain Watson thought. But, just as he was about to walk away, John paused. What if Sherlock is nearby? he wondered. And then he thought, It shouldn't matter. You're a doctor, you help people. It's your job. John turned on the spot again, looking back down the hallway.
Unable to find any answers in the darkness, John looked at the three men awaiting his orders. The two that John hadn't bothered to learn the names of watched him expectantly, obviously waiting for him to tell them to proceed towards the cry. But then his gaze focused on Lieutenant Mulder. He looked on without expectation or any visible opinion. All John could see in his eyes was acceptance and understanding. Their small exchange on the matter of John and Sherlock's relationship had obviously left an impression (A correct one, that voice whispered again) and Mulder was perfectly fine with John's next decision, biased or not.
Gritting his teeth and growling slightly, John turned sharply about-face and led the team towards the noise. The hallway was a straight shot that ended with a three-way split, each direction containing just one door. As they walked, the four men continued their practice of checking the rooms. Once they reached the intersection, one man went left, one went right, John went straight, and Lieutenant Mulder remained in the center as lookout.
John walked forward silently, his training automatically taking hold, and held his gun steady with the closed door. As he drew closer, John heard the soft murmur of a voice. Then he noted that the door was metal (not rusted, so specifically put in recently) and on it was one of the cliché slats that could open and close. Thankfully the handle was on the outside so, once John had reached the door, he was able to open it just a touch. Just enough to glance into the room. Just enough to see what was within.
Just enough to see Sherlock's bruised, broken, bloody body stretched out unconscious on the floor, a pool of blood collecting around his head.
Just enough to make John see red.
The second Sherlock froze, Phen knew he had done something wrong, but he didn't know what. He tried to make it better by telling Sherlock what he wanted to know, but it just made it worse. Sherlock had started to twitch, his mouth silently repeating something, and then, out of the blue, he pitched forward and knocked himself out.
Unable to help himself, Phen screamed. And that's when they knew something was wrong.
"Aw, Phen. Look what you've done," Stephen tutted, pursing his lips and slowly shaking his head. He stood just to the left of Sherlock, dressed in his usual pressed trousers, V-neck shirt, and black blazer. Stephen's gaze drifted up from Sherlock. "What do you think, Ruax?"
"I think Phen's made another bloody mess for us to clean up," Ruax growled from Sherlock's right. He was dressed as Phen currently was: loose, dark jeans and a white button-up with its sleeves rolled up to the elbow all covered in streaks of blood. Phen began to tremble and his eyes frantically moved from Stephen to Ruax and back a few times before resting on Sherlock.
Stephen gave a humorless laugh, throwing his head back. "And what should we do with our little tattletale here?" He turned to Phen, eyes glinting. "Our little blabbermouth." Stephen took a few steps forward and Phen scrambled back, eyes wide and trained one the man before him. "Our little whistleblower." Phen opened his mouth to make some sort of protest, but nothing came out.
"Leave the little shit alone, Stephen," Ruax sneered. "I'm more worried about Mr. Holmes here," he added, lightly kicking Sherlock's head. "Moriarty won't take him if he's dead." Ruax turned to Phen and pinned him with a glare. "You'd better not have killed him."
Phen wildly shook his head. "I-I didn't touch him." Both Stephen and Ruax shared looks before staring back down at Phen who was still curled against the far wall, just left of the door. "H-He… We just talked." Stephen casually arched an eyebrow. "RUAX IS THE ONE WHO BEAT HIM!" Phen forced out.
Both Stephen and Ruax physically flinched. During their entire existence, not once had Phen spoken louder than the average indoor-voice. Sure, he had screamed and cried and sobbed at all volumes, but not once had he raised his voice so. That was dangerous and both of them knew it, even if Phen didn't. Stephen and Ruax shared a look. They needed to reassert their control over Phen or chance disappearing.
"You know what," Ruax smirked, "I think Phen does need to face the repercussions of telling." He took a few steps towards Phen, surprised and worried when he didn't instantly draw back into himself.
Stephen noticed as well. "What should be do then? Tease him? Beat him? Torture him?" Stephen paused. "Put him in the dark again?" Phen flinched that time and Stephen and Ruax grinned simultaneously.
"I like the dark, Stephen," Ruax hissed menacingly. "What about you?"
"Definitely the dark," Stephen readily agreed. Phen had locked his arms about his legs that were drawn to his chest. And yet he still trembled. He couldn't do this. He couldn't face Stephen and Ruax. They would destroy him. They would put him away. And he wouldn't escape for years. Just like last time. But probably worse.
But then Phen peeked between his knees. In front of him, just past the approaching Stephen and Ruax, Sherlock lay, still as stone and bleeding enough to make Phen worry. Sherlock. The man had been kind; he had listened. Phen was sure it was just an act to get information (he may be a coward, but he wasn't stupid), but it still felt good to have an ear to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. Sherlock was probably the first person that had actually heard what Phen had said.
Well maybe not all he had said, but enough to make the connection with Joey. And enough to give reassuring smiles at the right times. Sherlock was there for Phen.
And now, Sherlock was hurt and needed him. Looking over Sherlock's still form once more, Phen came to a decision. He wouldn't let Stephen and Ruax push him around. Not anymore. Not when Sherlock Holmes needed his help.
Phen looked up at the two men approaching him, eyes hard and mind set. They obviously saw the resolution for they stilled and watched him warily. "Y-you," Phen paused, clearing his throat. "You are not going to do anything. This is my body, my mind, and I am sick of being nowhere." The more he spoke, the surer Phen was that he was doing the right thing. The stronger his voice became. "I have no need for you anymore: I can fend for myself." They both blinked sluggishly at him. "Didn't you hear me? I said to GO AWAY!" Phen finished with a yell and the two men flinched before disappearing.
Phen blinked a few times, too cautious to instantly believe they were vanquished. But they remained gone. Trying to keep the surge of hope in his chest at bay, Phen slowly closed his eyes and searched within himself. And that was all he found: himself. And it was glorious. But the victory was short lived. Not one second later, there was a loud bang quickly followed by a crash.
The heavy metal door flew open to reveal a short man clothed in formfitting black trousers, a black turtleneck, and he wore a black beanie. Phen noticed that he also wore Kevlar, had a pistol tucked in his waistband against his back, and carried a large gun. The man didn't even glance towards Phen as his eyes were trained on Sherlock. But who was he?
"John Watson!" The name popped, unexpected, into Phen's head and came, unbidden, out of his mouth.
John swallowed a yell. He couldn't alert anyone in the vicinity of their presence, no matter how much seeing Sherlock on the floor like that made his chest constrict. John blinked rapidly, taking deep breaths, or rather trying to as they came short and shallow instead. He turned and frantically waved for Mulders. Thankfully the man noticed John and went over quickly.
Unable to form a coherent sentence, John just pointed to the door and watched as the lieutenant looked for himself and saw his face twist in horror. Mulder looked down at John who was doubled over, bracing himself on his knees and inhaling and exhaling sharply. Thinking back to Sherlock's wounds, Mulder could tell that they didn't have time to follow protocol. The objective was to get Holmes the younger out a safely and quickly as possible. Protocol would slow things down.
Captain Watson glanced up at Lieutenant Mulder and again found no judgment in his gaze, just understanding. John blinked and Mulder nodded. Alright then, John thought as he nodded back, giving a small smile in thanks. He turned his gaze back to the door, quickly trying to determine the easiest way to open the large door without making too much noise. But that line of thinking was quickly destroyed when John heard a voice yell from within, "GO AWAY!"
Again, he didn't recognize the voice, but John was beyond caring at the moment. Without a second thought, John leveled the gun he was carrying with the lock, shot once, and then kicked the bloody door in. It swung open to reveal Sherlock in the same position as John had seen him in just moments ago. But now John could see how extensive Sherlock's injuries were and it chilled him to the bone.
He took a few cautious steps in, eyes trained solely on Sherlock's figure. John slipped into Doctor Mode, partially to help assess the injuries better and partially to alienate himself from the surge of emotions he felt; in Doctor Mode, Sherlock was just another patient. His eyes scanned up and down the man before him, noting each bruise, break, and cut visible, and quickly determining that he needed medical attention immediately.
Doctor Watson took another step towards the patient, getting ready to administer emergency first aid when someone called out, "John Watson!" Recognizing his name, and vaguely the voice, John turned to see a man sitting to the left of the door, his green eyes wide and hands firmly clapped over his mouth. Instantly John realized that this man was Stephen Morris: drug lord, focus of Mycroft's attention, and ultimate kidnapper of one Sherlock Holmes.
John looked the man up and down, noting his wide eyes and stained shirt. John turned back to Sherlock and took note of all lacerations; some were a day or two old, but most were fresh, just a few hours old. John's shoulders tensed and he took a few calculated deep breaths, clenching his hands till they shook from the effort and the knuckles were white. He slowly tilted his head to the side, carefully observing Morris out of the corner of his eye. The man seemed to pull back into himself slightly and that just fed John's anger.
"I-I didn't," the man stuttered. "It w-wasn't me." John closed his eyes, inhaling sharply and pursing his lips. "Sh-Sherlock–" Morris didn't say another word because John had promptly punched him.
Protocol be damned. Again.
"You aren't worthy to even think his name," John spat to the, now, unconscious man. Ignoring the drug lord's bleeding nose, John turned back to Sherlock and carefully rolled the man over onto his back. John physically flinched so hard he lost his footing and fell from a squat to flat on his bum. If Sherlock looked beaten from the back, he was completely obliterated on the front. His face was bruised, he had weeping wounds all over, and he had, by John's quick estimate, about one broken, two fractured, and four bruised ribs.
John simply sat there as the world around him spun off its axis. He just sat and stared at the man he loved so much it physically pained him when they were separated. His thoughts swam about his head, cloudy and unfocused and clogging up his other senses.
"Captain Watson. John. JOHN!" John flinched and looked up to see Lieutenant Mulder watching him with such sympathy in his eyes. John blinked and looked around, noticing the rest of the team. Mulder must have radioed them in, John thought absently. "Are you alright John?" Mulder asked quietly, squatting down next to the dazed man.
John blinked slowly. Shock. Loss of adrenaline. You're out of steam, his mind unhelpfully supplied. He sluggishly looked from Mulder to the rest of the team and then down to Sherlock. "Help him," John managed before passing out himself.
When John had initially signaled Mulder over, the Lieutenant instantly saw the desperation and fear and rage in his eyes and understood. When a man within shouted, Mulder watched as John forced his way in like an unstoppable force and understood. John's almost confession still fresh on his mind, Mulder gave the man time alone with Sherlock, excusing his absence by radioing in the rest of the team, and understood.
When he entered the room where Sherlock was chained to the wall and unconscious on the floor, Mulder found he hadn't understood as much as he'd thought. There was a second man laying unconscious on the floor with a bloody, and most likely broken, nose. Closer inspection revealed it to be Stephen Morris himself. Mulder then turned his attention to the younger Holmes and his doctor.
John looked far more broken and worn than he had minutes before. His eyes were wide and unfocused, tears flowing freely down his face. The man had obviously collapsed at the sight of Sherlock's state. Honestly it was enough to make Mulder feel a bit weak at the knees. But all this was understandable.
What Mulder didn't seem to be able to comprehend was why John wasn't helping Sherlock. The man had practically walked the whole of London looking for him. He threatened and ordered around the British Government for Sherlock. John H. Watson, Captain and doctor and blogger, had basically gone to the ends of the earth to find this man and ensure his safe return. So why wasn't he doing anything now?
A quick call of his name grabbed John's attention, but Mulder easily saw that John still wasn't completely there. And then he whispered, so tearful and broken, "Help him," and Mulder understood.
John had focused his energy on finding Sherlock. He didn't dare contemplate what had occurred during the five days that Sherlock had been in Morris's clutches. He didn't have the strength or energy to. So, in John's head, Sherlock had remained perfectly preserved as he was the last time John had seen him. But now John was faced with reality. Sherlock wasn't fine; he was beaten and broken and bleeding. And that just took all that was left in John.
So when John collapsed, Mulder easily caught him, half expecting it, before glaring up at the rest of the team.
"This is no time to be standing around," he barked. "You two, restrain Mr. Morris there. You three, unchain Mr. Holmes here and give him emergency first aid. The rest of you get to help carry these three out." Instantly there was motion and orders were being carried out. Mulder momentarily turned his gaze back to the man in his arms before looking over to the younger Holmes. You are much loved, he thought. Don't squander this man's devotion.
(A/N: I was contemplating whether to have smaller chapters, which probably means quicker updates but worse cliffhangers, or longer chapters, which means it takes longer and I'm more likely to get stuck but there's more meat. Either way there will be cliffhangers. Part of life, sorry. But then I realized, that it didn't matter. You guys will read it no matter what [a fact which still excites me to no end].
And then I thought, I have such loyal readers. I'll give them more per chapter. So I didn't stop at the first break like I wanted to. You're welcome. :3
Don't forget to review. Tis my go-go juice.)