Author's Note: I am so, so, SO terribly sorry for the long update wait! I just realized it has been over a month since I updated this. A FRICKEN MONTH. I am so sorry! With the holidays and work, there just hasn't been a whole lot of time for me to write! And being depressed really didn't help anything at all. But anyways, even though it is probably pretty badly written, here is Chapter Twelve! I hope you bear with me and keep reading! It really means the world to me and keeps me motivated to write more! Enjoy! 3
John closed his eyes tightly as Ian began to pace all around him. He silently prayed for this to be some sort of nightmare, that he would wake up soon to find himself safely in his bed and Sherlock right outside in the sitting room doing some sort of experiment or other. He prayed once he opened his eyes he would be transported to the very place he wanted to be.
"Now, what should we do with you John Watson?" the words oozed out of Ian's mouth, smooth and dripping with the excitement of choosing the best way to torture the army doctor. The very sound of those words made John almost sick to his stomache. He knew Ian already had everything planned out, that he was just toying with him to make him even more scared and desperate. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he knew that this was no nightmare. This was the cruel reality set out before him. If he disobeyed anything Ian told him, Sherlock would suffer. He was trapped.
"You can let me explain, Ian. You can listen to what actually happened back there, and realize whatever you think happened is untrue! I don't know what Moriarty told you, or what he made you believe, but trust me when I say that it is wrong." John responded, voice surprisingly calm depsite the frantic beating of his heart. Ian was no murderer. He was not anywhere close to a torturer. He was simply a traumatized, scared, and broken man who got his help from the wrong place. He hoped against hope that he wasn't too far gone to realize the truth when he saw it.
It took but a split second for Ian to suddenly whirl around and charge at John, stopping with a knife only a few inches from his throat.
"You are not to speak his name. He was a great man, a proper genius. He had you beaten! Squashed like the bug you are. He had Sherlock even worse, let me tell you."
"If he was a proper genius, how come he died? They found his body on the roof. He lost. He was beaten. In the end, Sherlock won. He's the one still standing." John retaliated, taking a sharp intak of breath as the knife was pressed ever closer to his neck, almost breaking skin now. "Please Ian, listen to me. He was no genius. He was a pyschopath, mentally unstable. He corrupted you, filled you with hate. He was using you. To get back at us."
"That's where you're wrong, Johnny Boy." the captor spat in his ear. "Moriarty lives. He lives through me. Sherlock thinks he's got everything figured out. He thinks he beat us, and got rid of the entire network of Morairty's followers. Well, he certainly isn't expecting this. He's not expecting me. He has no idea just how extensive this network of ours runs. We are going to finish what Moriarty started. He has already burned you both. We just have to finish you off. You say you won? You are far off the mark there."
John felt a cold hand on his shoulder, peircing right through his jumper, through his skin and down through to his very bones. He couldn't speak, could hardly breathe. Every part of him felt frozen in complete and utter terror. If he thought Moriarty was bad, Ian was proving to be much worse.
"Now, let's play a little game shall we? Let's play a game of Ian Says. You do everything I tell you, no questions asked. If you disobey...well you already know what's going to happen."
"Steps." John choked out, gripping the armrests of his chair tightly to keep from trembling.
"Ah, you are a good listener. Now let's play the first round. Ian says you are going to go back to your flat now, and not to tell Sherlock anything about what happened here tonight. Ian also says that when you arrive, you are going to recieve a message with specific instructions, so follow them carefully."
"Sherlock will figure out what you are doing. He can see right through people. Every lie, every truth, he notices it all." John spoke up, breathing coming in short bursts. "You don't have to do this. For the love of God, please don't do this!"
"Of course I do! I have been planning this for ages, why stop now? And don't worry about Sherlock, I have plans for him if he begins to become... bothersome."
"Don't you touch him! I swear if you so much as lay a hand on him-"
"I'm not going to hurt him. Not yet, anyway. But I can't say the same for you. Until next time, Johnny Boy."
With a flourish the knife at John's neck dissapeared along with it's owner, the door shutting with a loud thud behind him. Two of the men who apprehended him before reappeared and cleaned him up some from the injuries they gave him, most likey so Sherlock wouldn't notice. Carefully the wires were removed from his wrists and one of the guards held him firmly in place, weary of another attack. John let out a groan of pain as pressure was applied to his sprained arm.
"So sorry," the guardsman breathed wickedly, his rancid breath making John's eyes water a tad. He wanted to fight back. He wanted to show these idiotic bastards just who they were messing with. But all the fight was drained out of the doctor. Fear and guilt were the only things he could feel.
"What's wrong? Not gonna fight us again?" the other guard teased cruelly. "Ian's only just started with you. This is going to be too easy. You're already broken."
John said nothing as they dragged him to the awaiting black car and slammed the door shut. He made not a sound as he was swiftly carried back to 221B. He tiredly trudged up to the main door and stood there for a moment as the car drove away to who knew where. With a sound that seemed half sob, half sigh, he gently opened the door and walked into the main hallway. What greeted him there was the last thing he expected. A shrill scream pierced his ears the second the stairs to his flat were in view, making him jump into action. Someone was in danger.
"Mrs. Hudson?" he cried out as the elderly woman raced down the stairs, tears in her eyes, still screaming hysterically. She stopped a moment upon seeing him, but quickly she started up again.
"J-John? Oh my God I am seeing ghosts! OH MY GOD!" She screamed as she pushed past him and into her flat, slamming the door firmly shut behind her.
"What the..." John muttered to himself as he looked back up the staircase, seeing none other than a very confused and slightly shaken consulting detective standing at the top.
Sherlock awoke with a start, breathing heavily and a cold sweat drenching him. There was no noise to indicate that he had even had a nightmare; John would always thrash about and moan, sometimes even going as far as crying out in his sleep during such an event, but Sherlock was always silent. No one ever knew if he had one.
The consulting detective stayed perfectly still, closing his eyes tight to rid himself of the images that still flew through his mind. He pushed them into the dungeuns of his Mind Palace, locking them tight and far away from his conscious thinking. Unfortunately, as soon as he left they came back, visions black and red behind his eyes. He shivered underneath the covers, scanning the room for something, anything, to distract his mind from the horrors of his nightmare. His eyes settled on the pocket of his coat, which was hastily thrown on a nearby chair. The contents hidden inside seemed to beckon him, seemed to know just what was wrong. He could feel the itching start, from his toes spreading through his torso and up his arms to his fingers. Just one hit wouldn't hurt. It would take his mind off of the visions that kept haunting him, and it wouldn't be enough for John to notice unless he looked hard.
"If you feel any withdrawal, come to me. Don't go through it by yourself..."
John's voice entered his mind soft, caring, and concerned. Kind, sarcastic, perfect, braveheart John. A small smile spread across the detective's lips. The doctor was far too good for his own good. Especially when he was mixed up with people like Sherlock Holmes.
Why are you so good to me?
Sherlock couldn't answer his own silent question. The answer illuded him, just out of his reach of understanding. He could taste the smallest tidbit on the tip of his tounge, taunting him. He knew the answer was most likely obvious, and he would feel like an idiot once he figured it out. He bristled at the thought. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only and most brilliant consulting detective, was most definitely not an idiot. He would find out the answer, even if it killed him. He sighed and rested his head back onto his pillow, comforted by warm thoughts of his blogger. The itching persisted, the constant calling of the contents in his coat pocket becoming louder and louder until it threatened to burst through his ear drums. Withdrawal was starting, again.
"If you feel any withdrawal, come to me..."
John's voice entered his mind again, calm and assured. It was pretty late at night. He would be sound asleep, and God only knew how much he needed it. Sherlock had a chance to rest, now it should be John's turn. It was only fair. John had been through so much already. But Sherlock could feel himself slipping, his resolve to quit drugs wavering.
One possibility: Let John sleep. Let him heal and get better. Stay in room. Most likely end up doing drugs.
Another possibility: Go to John. Wake him up. He asked for it. And do what? Sit with him. Talk to him. Take mind off of drugs. Stay clean and sober. John happy for being confided in.
Without thinking much of it, he found himself standing by the chair. His ice blue eyes didn't leave his coat pocket. Seemingly in another world, Sherlock could feel his arm extending towards the drugs that would bring his mind peace, make everything ok again. No more confusion, no more nightmares. Just simple swirls of colors and soothing sounds. Escape.
"Come to me."
Sherlock's arm snapped back by his side, his eyes widening with slight horror. He couldn't do this. John needed him sober. Ian Hatfield could act any moment. He needed to be at the top of his game to keep them safe. He whirled around and stalked out of his room without a glance backwards. He wouldn't be beaten by drugs again. Not with John by his side. He slowly opened the door to his flatmate's bedroom and walked in silently.
"John." he called out into the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust. There was no answer from his blogger.
"John?" he called again, this time flipping the lightswitch. The room became flooded with harsh flourescent light, and to Sherlock's dismay it was empty.
Bed slightly mussed. Must have been laid in. Not very long, though.
No clothes in hamper. John didn't change into nightclothes.
Phone left on nightstand, charging. Left without phone? Not like John.
Tersely Sherlock left John's bedroom and entered the sitting room. The doctor was nowhere in sight. With a sigh he walked towards his chair, then noticing sharp white glowing in moonlight from the window. He quickly snatched it up, realizing it was a note from John.
Emergency at work. Not sure when I'll get back. If you wake up before I get home there should be some leftover toast or something you didn't finish eating earlier. Sorry. -JW
Sherlock examined the note, eyes narrowing. The writing was sloppy, and John's handwriting was almost always neat. He deduced the doctor must have been in quite a hurry if he forgot his phone and wrote the terse note sloppily. But John didn't work at the hospital anymore. Mycroft told him that much before he came back. John quit not too long after Sherlock had faked his death, too upset to focus on his work, apparently.
A noise caught his attention suddenly, and his head snapped up towards the door as it clicked and began to slowly slide open.
"John?" Sherlock called out expectantly, taking a step forwards. To his surprise, it wasn't John meeting him, but a very shocked and pale Mrs. Hudson.
"S-Sherlock?" she whispered, eyes wide with horror and fear.
"Well, hello Mrs. Hudson." he replied cautiously, taking a step towards his land lady. He paused when she took a step back.
"Y-You're dead...I know you are!" she shrieked, shaking her head back and fourth in disbelief.
"Not dead. Not quite." he tried to soothe the elderly woman, who was now shaking like a leaf.
"Y-You're a ghost? Oh my God I am talking to a ghost! My flat is haunted!"
"No, Mrs. Hudson, I'm not a-" Sherlock's irritated reply was cut off by her sharp and very high pitched scream as she raced down the stairs.
"Mrs. Hudson?" he heard a voice call out as her screaming stopped for a moment. With a flood of relief he realized it was John's voice.
The doctor here to save the day.
"J-John? Oh my God I am seeing ghosts! OH MY GOD!" Mrs. Hudson screamed again, this time not being silenced until the door to her flat slammed shut behind her.
Or perhaps not.
Sherlock made his way to the top of the stairs to find a shocked, confused, and slightly frightened John Watson staring back up at him.
