Most people seem to be ok with John's release, judging from all the positive reviews I've had. Thanks so much to everyone who commented; I spent ages working on the last chapter so I was a bit anxious about it.
A gold star for everyone who gets the nod to the Hitchhiker's Guide in this chapter. Bonus points to anyone who spots the really really subtle Red Dwarf reference too.
SHSHSHSHSHSH
Narcolepsy
John woke slowly, head fuzzy with the after-effects of too much sleep. He attempted to pry his eyes open, but found them bleary and crusted over. He also had the dry mouth and headache that suggested dehydration; even in his disorientated state, he recognised the feeling.
Sedatives… What happened? Who drugged me? And why do I ache all over?
He attempted to lift his right hand to rub at his eyes… and the combination of the Velcro restraint attaching his wrist to the bed rail and a sharp pain in his knuckles brought it all flooding back.
The memory of my fist ploughing into Moriarty's cheek may well be one of the best ones I'll ever have. The way he spun round and hit the floor like a mere man, instead of the all-powerful supervillan he wants people to believe he is. I wish Sherlock could have seen that; he would've loved it.
Hmm… don't think I've got any boxer's fractures. Pity my muscles aren't back up to full strength yet after the poisoning; I would've liked to put a bit more power into it, with the awkward position I was punching from. Probably only soft tissue damage, but I might have bruised the cheekbone.
Shame his henchmen managed to bundle into the room so fast. If there's one thing Moriarty needs, it's a good kicking. Oh, and a really world class psychiatrist.
The goons certainly weren't trying to be gentle; I've got bruises on my bruises. Gave as good as I got, though, before one of them got in a lucky hit to my bad shoulder. Hurt like getting shot again; after that, all I remember is one of them stabbing me with a syringe before it all went black.
Even if Moriarty decides to take some kind of painful revenge, it was worth it. As long as it's on me, and not Sherlock.
Oh, God: Sherlock. Sitting in a cell, while Sally and Anderson look smug and celebrate because they 'always knew…' The stupid, narrow-minded, arrogant sods; just because he's not like them they think he must be evil, even when all he does is help people. And poor Lestrade, who believed in him, will be lucky if he keeps his job.
Sherlock won't survive five minutes in prison. He'll either tell some axe murderer his wife's cheating on him with the milkman and get himself stabbed with a sharpened toothbrush or go totally round the bend because there's no work and his brain's rotting. He might even… No. Not even going to contemplate that.
I want to go home, to severed heads in the fridge and no milk and the sound of a violin being tortured until 4am and ridiculous chases across London after serial killers and that special warm kind of silence that comes after a long case…
But just like when I got back from Afghanistan, when I get out of here, home won't be there any more.
Sherlock won't be there any more.
SHSHSHSHSHSH
A nurse came in to check him over for any negative reaction to the sedative; she'd only been gone a few minutes when Moriarty himself whirled into the room, clutching a tie in each hand.
"Johnny!" he trilled, as if nothing had happened. "I sooo need your help; I have a date with Sherlock tonight and…"
"A date?" John interrupted. "You've just had him done for murder! What are you going to do, turn up in his cell with a takeaway?"
"Don't be ridiculous; Mycroft fabricated enough evidence to get the charges dropped within hours. Big Brother is always watching; and he's also very predictable when it comes to Sherlock. I'm certain he loathes being looked after," he added with distinct satisfaction.
Sherlock's… free?
When I next see Mycroft, I am going to shake his hand. At least someone's been keeping an eye on his idiot of a brother while I've been stuck here; and Sherlock would never even consider saying thank you himself.
"I've got us a reservation at this little French place. It's very swish; bit pricey, but Sherlock's worth it, isn't he?" His tone was just a bit too smug, and dripping with saccharine.
Is he actually… showing off? Trying to make me jealous, by taking Sherlock to some posh restaurant, when we usually eat for free somewhere he's owed a favour? He really is a nutter. Sherlock doesn't eat enough to keep a cat alive; and he certainly doesn't care how much anything costs.
"So, I need to look my absolute best. Tell me; which do you think? Navy blue, or Imperial purple?" He held each up to his throat in turn, to show him the effect.
"You must be desperate, if you're asking me," John commented. "I'm hardly the height of fashion."
"But you know what Sherlock likes; and it's him I need to impress. He does wear a lot of blue; it brings out his eyes beautifully, but I wore it to the pool, so he might think I'm repeating myself. The purple feels a bit too dark, like it'll get lost in the mood lighting. You know how changeable I am; I just can't make up my mind."
"Shame you had Connie Prince murdered," he replied coldly. "I'm sure she could've told you exactly what to wear."
"Come on, John; I didn't have her murdered. I just gave Raoul a little assistance in not getting caught; it's hardly the same thing. Just tell me which one he'll like… pretty please?" He wheedled.
"Sherlock couldn't care less what you wear, Jim. You might as well toss a coin."
"I never leave anything to mere chance." He looked revolted by the concept.
"I'll bear that in mind. How's your face feeling? Looks a bit puffy."
Moriarty's eyes went cold. "Plastered with men's makeup, thanks to you, Doctor," he bit out.
"Any time," John acknowledged dryly. "Hurts like hell, I imagine?"
"You wish," the master criminal informed him with contempt. "The cheekbone is barely even bruised; certainly far less so than you are after that foolish little display."
"I'll be sure to try harder next time."
"You just keep telling yourself that." He sighed, reverting back to his favoured excessively camp persona. "Well, I think I'm going to have to go with the purple. Dear Sherlock does so loathe repetition, and I don't want us to spend the whole of dinner arguing." He tossed the blue tie casually into the corner of the room and looped the purple one loosely around his neck.
"Good luck," John told him, unable to contain a smile. Sherlock can argue with the wall; there is no way a conversation between them can be anything but verbal warfare.
Moriarty's answering grin sobered the doctor instantly; it positively radiated malice, even before he dipped a hand into the pocket of his designer suit and produced another syringe.
"Thank you," he purred. "I'll pass him your very warmest regards."
John tugged ineffectually at the restraints securing him to the bed, struggling desperately despite the aches in his body and the sharp stabbing pain that shot through his re-injured left shoulder with every movement.
Oh, no, not again; what is it with Moriarty and needles? At this rate, I'm going to develop a phobia. Yet another psychological condition I could do without.
"Repeating yourself again, Moriarty?" He asked scathingly.
"Not exactly," he replied casually, reaching for John's IV line as he uncapped the hypodermic. "You know how it is on a date, Johnny; good food, fine champagne, stimulating conversation… I just don't want you to wait up." He injected the clear fluid into the plastic tubing with distinct satisfaction, leaning over his helpless captive to whisper a particularly disturbing parting shot.
"After all, you never know where it could lead, do you? Sweet dreams."
The last thought John remembered crossing his mind before the black fog of sedation overcame him was an anguished one.
Oh, God, Sherlock… be careful…
SHSHSHSHSHSH
When John awoke, it was to a very different set of surroundings. In fact, he was feeling a distinct sense of déjà vu.
He was, unless this was some weird dream or hallucination caused by the drugs he'd been given, sitting in the back of a black cab, driving through the streets of London at night. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn when he set out for Sarah's before the pool incident; even his favourite leather jacket had been returned.
The last time I woke up like this, I already had a bomb strapped to my torso. There is no way this can possibly be good.
"Awake at last, are you?" The cabbie commented cheerfully. "Let me know if you feel queasy; I'd rather not have to have the cab cleaned, even though your mates gave me that nice tip."
"Mates?" John managed, attempting to get his brain up to speed.
"Yeah; they explained about that spiked drink you got by accident. Best if you just get home and sleep it off; same thing happened to my brother in law on his stag night. Well, with Barry it wasn't so much an accident as the best man getting pissed and deciding it would be funny to knock him out and handcuff him to the top deck of the night bus. Had to be cut loose with an angle grinder; and we never did find out what happened to his shoes."
"What… where did you pick me up? Did you get a good look at them?"
"Well… not really. They were both big blokes, but the light wasn't that good… it was outside a pub on Ottoman Road. They gave me a hundred quid up front to see you safe to Baker Street; said your flatmate would be there to help you in. We're only about ten minutes away."
Either this is another cabbie on Moriarty's books who happens to be a good liar, or they drove me to a pub and paid an innocent one not to mind when they stuffed an unconscious man in the back. Either way, I can't attack him while he's driving.
Hang on, he said they told him Sherlock would be in… was that just to convince him to take me or will he really be there?
It's only been… what, two weeks? But it feels like forever since we were last in the same room.
Well, I say room; it was the pool… Flickering light and red laser sights and the smell of chlorine and Moriarty's smile and Sherlock's fear and oh god, I couldn't move…
"Good job you woke up, really," The driver interrupted John's flashback cheerfully. "What was the number again? Two hundred and something?"
"Two twenty one B," John answered, distractedly, checking all of his own pockets to see what, if anything, Moriarty had left him with.
Keys… good job, don't want to give Mrs Hudson a heart attack… loose change, half a packet of mints… wallet, still with very little actual money in it, but all my bank cards and driving licence are there. Oyster card… receipts… fluff…
Last of all, he checked the inside pocket of the jacket, which he never used, and stilled in shock as he found something that felt very much like…
My phone… He gave me back my phone! I can ring Sherlock!
Suddenly his fingers felt unbearably clumsy as he fumbled for the power button, hope flaring in his chest…
Which was abruptly snuffed out by the irritating chirp that signalled the phone was out of battery.
John gritted his teeth against the frankly frightening level of profanity attempting to escape from his mouth.
The smug, self satisfied little bastard… Bugger Sherlock; when I get my hands on him Moriarty's going to wish he'd never been born. And I am going to get my hands on him… oh, yes…
But in the mean time, I have to wait until I can get to the flat and plug my phone in before I ring anyone. Come to think of it, where the bloody hell is my phone charger anyway? Sherlock nicks my phone so often he's taken to leaving it in the living room. Last time I had to go looking for it, the damn thing turned up under a pile of old newspapers and a stuffed badger.
"This it, then, mate? The cabbie called back.
"Um… Yes; just here on the right."
"You want me to ring the bell, so your flatmate can give you a hand?"
"No; no, I'm fine. I'll be fine."
"If you're sure," the cabbie capitulated cheerfully, unlocking the rear door for him. "Night, then; hope you feel better soon."
"Me, too," John commented, as he levered himself out of the cab with a wince. His bruises had stiffened up while he was out cold and his shoulder was throbbing; whatever Moriarty had given him, it wasn't any kind of painkiller.
He staggered over to his front door and despite the urgency of the situation, it took a couple of tries to get it open. For a moment he thought Mrs Hudson had changed the locks.
He couldn't take the time to appreciate the familiar hallway, where he and Sherlock had once leaned shoulder to shoulder and giggled about Afghanistan and serial killers. Instead he concentrated on getting himself co-ordinated enough to stumble up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister as his weak right leg protested.
Stepping through the door to the living room, cluttered as always with the detritus of Sherlock's experiments, John Watson stopped for a deep breath.
The smell of home… musty old books and unidentified chemicals and unwashed socks with just a hint of decomposing flesh…
"Sherlock?" He called out. "Sherlock!"
With increasing desperation, John checked every room for some sign of his flatmate; he must have been there recently, judging by the mess, but Sherlock certainly wasn't present now.
Oh, gods; where is he? What's Moriarty doing to him?
As if in answer, John heard the front door slam shut and the familiar sound of impossibly long limbs bounding up the stairs. He turned to face the door, hardly daring to believe it…
Until it burst open, and Sherlock Holmes was standing before him.
The pair simply stared at one another for a long moment, each drinking in the sight of the other.
That look on Sherlock's face… I've never seen it before. He looks… uncertain, almost nervous.
His social skills aren't up to this. He's not sure what Moriarty told me or how much of it I believed, so he doesn't know what to say. Sherlock, for once, is waiting for a cue from me to tell him what to do.
And I know exactly the words he needs to hear.
John cleared his throat and broke the silence.
"So. Did you remember to get the milk, then? And the beans?"
The genuine, joyful smile of gratitude and affection that bloomed across Sherlock's usually austere features almost made it worth getting kidnapped.
SHSHSHSHSHSH
Well, what else could John say to reassure Sherlock? Hope you liked it.
