John had many times found himself walking into a building where he didn't know what was going to happen; in the army, danger could be lurking around every corner and everything, even the seemingly harmless, could be a bomb. He had held his gun with confidence, not hesitating to shoot when he deemed necessary. The enemy was a faceless, foreign entity and with that thought it was easy to detach yourself and not feel like it was actual murder. It wasn't exactly nervousness that had always coursed through his veins in these situations, more like an adrenaline rush. His senses had always been heightened rather than working against him. He wished that he felt this way about his current situation but he didn't. This was nothing like those situations; this wasn't some unknown, deadly target on Afghanistan. The victim wasn't some unknown and the enemy was not faceless. His gun didn't hold as confident in his hand as it had on those missions and he knew his emotions were getting the better of him already and nothing had even happened yet. He didn't feel the confident adrenaline rush that the war had always created in him, the one that he was always looking for in his exploits with Sherlock; the one that he had not felt for so long. No….now he was just nervous…..almost paralyzingly so. Right now the unknown was not exciting; it was terrifying.
They stepped into the museum's foyer, darkness around them except for a small sliver of moon light that was slipping through the skylight in the ceiling, The room in front of them held a roped-off but empty hole, one that had once appeared to hold a dinosaur replica but not was void. John turned on the flashlight that he was glad to have thought to bring, as Mycroft and Lestrade did the same. John turned to them, fighting himself every move he made; his body screamed at him to flee but that was not an option. "I think we should split up" John whispered in the quiet of the empty building. "This place is huge….we'll cover more ground that way."
Lestrade and Mycroft nodded solemnly before they shown their flashlights down their chosen directions, walking slowly away from him. John wanted nothing about being alone right now, but he knew that he wanted to get out of here, sooner rather than later. John clutched the gun with one hand and the flashlight with the other, whiling himself to stop sweating as they slid in his hands. He crept slowly along a hallway, shinning his light all around looking for any clue that someone had been here recently, his ears trained for any small sound that would tell him that someone was still here.
John shown the light along the museum hallways, his light sometimes falling on emptiness and sometimes on cases that still held exhibits that had been left behind. It seemed like a creepy, terrifying place now but John knew this place had once been a happy destination for Sherlock, a place he' d once looked forward to coming to. John just hoped that it hadn't now become a place of terror for him.
John walked on carful feet, his breath caught in his chest for what seemed like forever. Nothing more threatening than a stuffed tiger came into view; every shadow made his hair bristle, every sound of his own steps echoing put him on edge but he could find nothing of importance. Nothing looked out of place and the longer that he looked, the more deflated he got at the prospects of anything changing. Maybe this had been a vain hope; maybe the watch had just been something that had brought back memories and he had wanted John to keep it for him. Maybe it wasn't a secret plea for help.
John plopped down on an elevated platform that led to a dusty exhibit of prehistoric figures, frustrated. He tried to not feel the mounting sense of panic that was trying to gather in his chest at the prospect that this might have all been for nothing. If that was so, then there was really nothing else he could do. Feeling utterly defeated, John put his face on his knees.
Quiet pressed on his ears, hurting them almost with the lack of sound that they were producing. Time stretched on for a long time, unticking, uncounted for a stretch before John heard something in the depressing silence. At first he thought that he was imagining it; he'd heard very little noise at all since he stepped into the museum. At some point in silence, your ears began to make up their own noises and he was sure that that was what had happened now. He lifted his head up and craned his neck, hopeful but doubting his sanity.
But it kept going, that small noise, until John was sure that it was real. Even if it wasn't, he'd be a mad man for not at least trying to follow it. John jumped up and began to walk as fast as he could without making sound toward the small noise; to his great surprise and joy, the noise began to get louder and louder the closer that he got to it. He could even discern what the noise was now; crying. Hope began to soar in his chest like no time he could ever remember when he was positive that he recognized that crying. It was a cry that he had heard many times over the past weeks, one he had learned to keep an ear out for day and night, dreading the sound but knowing it would inevitably come.
Soon John was giving no thought to the fact that he needed to be quiet, that he could be heard. He was recklessly running through the empty corridors of the museum, not caring that his footsteps were loud and could attract unwanted attention. He was almost there…..he could hear it…..feel it…..
John burst through the door of an open, empty exhibit room, dimly lit by the skylight overhead and a few candles. John's breath caught in his chest when his eyes fell to an empty platform and he saw him. Sherlock.
Sherlock was lying on the ground, his arms behind him tied to an old museum sign. His head was tilted to the side and he was crying. John couldn't have described the feelings that were coursing through him at that moment had he tried. Soaring happiness at finding him alive collided with surging anger at seeing Sherlock restrained. Relief made him go weak in the knees and yet he felt like crying; it was like every emotion he had ever felt was bottled into one and he didn't know how to react.
He was stuck in that emotional limbo, frozen from movement when Sherlock noticed him. He looked up and his sobs caught in his chest at once. "John?" he asked. His voice betrayed his uncertainty. He couldn't believe that John was here and maybe even wondered if he was imagining it.
John didn't hesitate; he rushed forward to Sherlock, feeling saddened the closer that he got, seeing how vulnerable he was. His skin was ghastly cold and pale; he was just wearing pyjama pants and no shirt and goose bumps were obvious along his skin. The doctor in John looked him over quickly, not seeing any injuries but knowing deep down the injuries that Sherlock was most likely to have would not be visible. John didn't pause before untying Sherlock's hands. Sherlock pulled back quickly from the bounds and collapsed against John weakly. John cradled Sherlock's head in his lap, as Sherlock's tear filled eyes gazed up at him. "I'm here, Sherlock….I'm here" John soothed him, brushing his hair out his eyes.
Sherlock sighed, content coming over him. "I knew you would come…..I knew you'd figure it out" he said, his words slow and calculated, each seeming to take a great weight from him. He shivered violently and the next second John was shedding his jumper and pulling it over Sherlock's head. Sherlock didn't fight it, didn't resist it; in fact he saw something he never expected to see at this moment; a trace of a smile. He put his arms around him, soaking in the warmth before his weak arms fell back from the small exertion. "I only found you because you were so clever" John said, pulling Sherlock even closer to himself. He could hardly believe that he was real; he felt like if he didn't hold onto him tight enough he would vanish. "I wish I got here sooner"
Sherlock's eyes fluttered tiredly; John didn't know if he was just tired, ill or if he had been drugged. Maybe a combination of all three. "You're here now….that's all that matters" Sherlock said, his words coming out agonizingly slow. His eyes shut permanently and John was sure that he had gone to sleep.
John knew what he really needed to do was get Sherlock out of here. He shook Sherlock and was glad to see his eyes open. He looked at John but didn't say anything. "Sherlock" John said softly. "We need to get out of here, okay? Will you be able to stand up and walk?" John hoped so; he couldn't carry Sherlock himself and he didn't want to have to call Mycroft or Lestrade, fearing he'd give them away but he would need help.
"Yeah…I think so" Sherlock said. "I'm just so…..tired" He was fighting to keep his eyes open.
"I know" John said softly. "We just have to get to the front door okay? Once we get to the car, you can sleep, okay? Mycroft and Lestrade will be glad to see you're fine"
Sherlock seemed surprised even through his fatigue. "They're here?" he asked.
"Yeah" John said. "Been looking for you too." He slid out from under Sherlock, standing up and taking Sherlock's hands, pulling him up. Sherlock leaned heavily on John, growing paler as he walked. John did his best to support most of Sherlock's weight but even so Sherlock didn't seem to be able to take it; he swayed and swerved and when they were almost to the door, he lost consciousness altogether. He fell against John like a heavy rag doll and John struggled to keep him from falling to the ground. He was preparing to set Sherlock on the ground and reach for his mobile when it happened.
John heard the shot the millisecond before he felt it; pain coursed through John's leg as Sherlock slid from his grasp and onto the floor. John fell to the ground beside Sherlock, clutching his leg. Pain radiated through his leg and he could feel the hot, wet blood begin to stain his pants. White hot pain stung at his eyes and he breathed deeply to prevent himself from passing out; that was the last thing that he needed right now. Once the pain went from desperate to manageable, John opened his eyes and let himself examine the wound. Blood was running from it freely but John was relieved that it had not hit an essential artery. John was so focused on the injury that he hadn't noticed the footsteps until they were right beside him.
"John…..I didn't think you were stupid…..this time I'm glad to see I was wrong"
John's stomach turned to ice water when he heard the familiar voice beside him. He didn't want to look but he knew that he had to. He saw the legs coming closer to him out of the corner of his eye and he looked up, feeling anger that he was now in such a position that he couldn't stand to face the bastard that had shot him. He didn't want to be looked down upon by him.
"You're the one who's an idiot" John retorted, looking up at Garret's leering face. "I told you to leave Sherlock alone…..you disregarded that piece of advice and I don't think it's going to work out too well for you"
Garret laughed cruelly, pacing around John and Sherlock. John's hand went instinctively to Sherlock, holding onto his arm and looking to make sure he was okay. This only seemed to make Garret laugh more. "John…..are you really going to threaten me? You're hardly in any position." He said, leering down at John. The pain was searing through John's leg but that didn't mean that he was powerless. Unfortunately for Garret, John had been shot before and he knew how to cope with the pain better than the average person.
John reached for his gun, which had, thankfully fallen under Sherlock that Garret had not spotted it and taken away from him. John pulled the gun out from under Sherlock's unconscious form and pointed it at Garret. "I'm not powerless…..and I will shoot you" John said with surety and defiance.
Garret raised his eyebrows, not seeming to feel the least but threatened. "Ah, he's armed" he said mockingly. "I better be scared….I might be, you know…..if I thought that you might actually do it…..but you won't"
"And why the hell do you think that?" John asked with malice. He had his doubts about killing him, for Sherlock's sake. But he was not about to let this maniac kill him.
"Because of Sherlock" Garret said, knowing exactly where his mind had traveled to. "You know it would kill him right? Think of what losing me did to him the first time?"
"That's because he loved you then….and you left him" John spat back. He hated even admitting Sherlock had loved this man who was now the reason he was lying on the ground, unwell and unconscious. The one who had come back to destroy his life again for the third time once he had begun to heal.
Garret gave him a skeptical look. "You don't think that Sherlock still cares for me?" he tapped his chin cynically. "Let me guess…..you think he's yours now, right?"
John looked at his hand clutching Sherlock's protectively. Sherlock wasn't his; he didn't think of Sherlock as something he owned like Garret did. But he knew Sherlock's affections had turned away from Garret; finally, at least partially. He didn't let go of Sherlock; that's exactly what Garret wanted. To know that somehow his taunts were upsetting John. "He's not mine. Unlike you, I don't view Sherlock as a piece of property I own" he seethed.
Garret laughed. "And you think I do? Well…..like I said before, you're stupid" he said. "I don't own Sherlock…..I care about him."
"You most certainly do not care about him" John said, anger filling him that he would dare to pretend he did. "You can't love someone and force yourself on them. When you love someone you don't do things to them that they don't want you doing to them. How can you call this love, you pervert? You conditioned Sherlock from the time he was a child so that he didn't know any better"
"Sherlock is an adult now" Garret said, motioning to Sherlock, "So you can stop playing the pervert card. Sherlock's a fully capable adult; I was not going to act on my feelings toward him. He's the one that came to me, you know"
"Yeah, for comfort you asshole" John said angrily, gritting his teeth from anger and the pain in his leg. "He thought you were his friend. He didn't plan on you drugging him and raping him"
"Oh yeah, I'm the one who's in the wrong here" Garret said sarcastically, refusing to take any responsibility for his actions. "I'm wrong to making a move on him after he came to my house, stayed for a whole week, all the while hanging all over me and refusing to leave his hands off me? What kind of idea was I supposed to get?"
John's eyes darted to Sherlock's unconscious form laying on the ground; it was a blessing in disguise that Sherlock was not conscious to witness this painful exchange. John knew that Garret was trying to bait him by shoving Sherlock's affection in his face….again. He supposed that Garret was trying to make him jealous, getting the wrong idea about him and Sherlock; not surprising considering his own messed up idea of relationships. John did feel something strong rise up in him at Garret's words. It wasn't jealously; if anything, it was guilt. Sherlock had obviously been very alone and needy and John hadn't been there. It had opened Sherlock up to a world of hurt, having exposed himself so deep only to be shattered into a million pieces. Whatever Sherlock had done with Garret, John didn't care. No matter what 'signals' he was sending off, it didn't excuse Garret's abuse.
"If you were so sure of Sherlock's wanting you, then why did you feel the need to restrain him?" John asked with a glare. "Obviously you didn't seem so sure of yourself"
Garret looked down haughtily at John. "I knew what Sherlock wanted" he said with a dark tone. "I just knew he might need some convincing…..might need to be reminded what his life was lacking"
"And I suppose that was you?" John asked with a dark bark of a laugh. Sherlock had been completely fine before Garret had stepped in and ruined his life yet again.
"Of course" Garret said arrogantly. "Me and Sherlock had a good relationship before I had to move away from him. I needed to remind him of that"
"You characterize a good relationship as one where it's okay to kidnap and force yourself upon someone?" John asked in desperate sarcasm, looking down at Sherlock. He wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock in even just the smallest ways, to let Sherlock know even subconsciously that he was still here. But he didn't; he kept his hands pressed to his wound, refusing to let his guard down.
"Don't be such a baby" Garret said, giving John an annoyed look. "I didn't force myself on him….he's fine"
John didn't buy it for a second; Garret had had Sherlock for two days and he didn't appear to be in the best state at all. "Am I supposed to believe that?" John asked. "Because I don't….not at all. You did the horrible things you did to him and you really expect me to believe that you kidnapped him now to not do the same? I'm not that stupid"
"You'll find that is the truth" Garret said, holding up his hands. "Honestly, John you're so dramatic"
John cursed. "Of course I'm bloody dramatic!" he said, his voice reaching hysterical levels. "After what you…..after…what you did….." John didn't want to show weakness but he found that he couldn't continue. He couldn't utter the terrible things Sherlock had told him, the nightmares he'd witnessed from Sherlock, the horrible acts that he'd seen captured in those photos. He hung his head and Garret circled him, giving a small chuckle.
"Aw….so he finally told you" Garret said condescendingly. "You had to hear about everything….though I hardly imagine Sherlock told you everything. He wouldn't want to make you too jealous"
Garret's gall and arrogance was making John's blood boil. "I'm not jealous" John said through clenched teeth. The mere idea that he could ever desire anything close to what Garret and Sherlock had was disgusting. John loved Sherlock on a real level and anything he experienced now was so far from jealously that it was ungodly Garret even pretended it was.
"Oh sure you're not" Garret said skeptically. He knelt down beside Sherlock as if to brush a strand out of his face; the moment that his hand touched Sherlock's face, a deep, feral growl issued from John. It sounded possessive and John knew instantly what Garret would think; that John was jealous, that he somehow thought he owned Sherlock. That he was his. But that wasn't at all what he thought; he just knew that Sherlock was his to protect, to keep safe from the one thing he hadn't been able to save him from…..twice now. John hated that he was in such a weak state; otherwise Garret would have a broken hand now. He didn't deserve to ever touch Sherlock again.
Garret pulled back from Sherlock with a wide smile. "Sounds pretty jealous to me" he said in amusement.
John's skin was on fire from the anger that was seeking to burst forth from him. "This is just a joke to you?" John asked angrily. "Your abuse of Sherlock is just some bloody joke to you" John looked at Sherlock who was stirring; he was glad when he didn't wake but stayed asleep.
Garret gave John a dark look. "I'm hardly joking" he said. His entire demeanor changed from taunting jest to dark danger. "You think I find it funny that you are poking your nose into my affairs when you have no damn business being here?"
"Sherlock is my business" John said giving Garret his most threatening look; he was beyond caring if Garret thought he had feelings for Sherlock that went beyond friendship. Let him think what he wanted but he was not going to sit there and pretend that Sherlock was not his to protect. "The second that you hurt Sherlock you made yourself my business"
For the first time since their conversation had begun, Garret pointed his gun back on John. John felt a cold chill run down his spine but he was not fearful; the look in Garret's eyes spoke of madman but John refused to let this end in his death. "You're in over your head, doctor Watson" he said in a hollow, dangerous tone. "You honestly think you care about Sherlock more than I do, that you have any right to interfere with our relationship when I've cared for him, known him, loved him since he was five years old. And you honestly have the audacity to pretend that your few years of being his flatmate is anything close to that?"
John paused; it was the first time Garret had actually said that he loved Sherlock. While John knew that Garret didn't really love Sherlock, he thought his admittance of his feelings might just be what John needed to convince himself out of this situation. "I don't pretend to have anything like what you and Sherlock have" John said in the least threatening voice he could produce. "But I do love him too…..and he's hurt. Please…if you care about him…..let him go. You want to be with him, then do this in a rational way"
John was hoping that there was some small speak of rationality in Garret, some small part of him that was not completely insane. That he would see what he was doing to Sherlock was hurting him and that he would care. The second that Garret spoke, John knew that it was a vain hope. "I don't think so" Garret said, his tone and look getting more dangerous by the second. "Because, you see…..you're in my way. You're standing in the way of Sherlock and I being together and I just can't allow that. He's mine and I can't allow you to even think for a second that I'm going to share"
John's head was spinning from the amount of blood he lost but he urged himself to act, to do something. He knew if he reached for his gun again, Garret would instantly shoot him. He was frozen, something he never did, something he hated himself for. He would look back later on this moment as a time that he had genuinely feared for his life; he'd had plenty of those in the course of his time in the army and his work with Sherlock but this time he had really believed that he might die at the hands of madman.
John looked up at Garret, refusing to show any semblance of fear as the gun pointed straight at his forehead. He gave Garret a smug look as he mustered his courage. "Good…..I don't plan on sharing either" he said looking up at him "Especially not with a pedophile"
Garret's face had all of one second to twist into a mask of anger before it happened; the events as they happened were so hard to take in that John would only understand what had happened later as he had a chance to take it all in. As they happened, the events appeared to be in fast motion. John was staring up at Garret when heard the gunshot mere feet from his head, making his ears ring. Garret's eyes went blank as he was thrown back, blood spraying across the room from the hole in between his eyes. As Garret fell to the ground, John's heart stopped in his chest; his head whipped around and saw his salvation in the last form that he would expect.
Mycroft stood a few feet behind him, wearing the most loathing and dangerous expression John had ever seen on him. He didn't say anything or even appear to acknowledge the dead man in front of him as he rushed over to Sherlock, kneeling beside his younger brother. "Is he alright?" Mycroft asked.
It was in this moment that John's opinion of Mycroft soared 100%; John came to realize that as much as he wanted Garret dead, Mycroft had wanted him dead for decades. He had watched as Garret had hurt and abused his little brother for years, he had held his brother's lifeless body when he had tried to commit suicide because of him. This whole time John had thought of Mycroft as detached and cold but the shaking of emotion in his voice when he asked about Sherlock and the way he looked at him now made John look at Mycroft completely different. He didn't see the emotionless annoying government head that he had come to know; he saw a man who was desperately concerned about his little brother.
John looked over to Garret's lifeless form, a surge of relief coursing through him; it was over…..it could finally be over. Sherlock couldn't be hurt anymore. It would no doubt take a long time for him to heal but Sherlock could now start on the long road to recovery with the assurance that this would never happen again. John's head swam as his adrenaline left him, the threat now gone. He looked down at Sherlock as he spoke. "I….I don't know" John said, shakily as he broken into a cold sweat, the loss of blood he had sustained beginning to take a toll on him. "I don't know how he is….." he kept one hand pressed to his own gaping wound while the other one reached for Sherlock's hand. "We should….get him to a hospital"
John heard the door open and glanced over to see Lestrade come in, his face a mask of worry, concern and disbelief. John's vision was going blurry and when Lestrade began to speak, John didn't hear him. His body was already falling beside Sherlock's, his eyes taking one glance at his unconscious friend before unconsciousness claimed him as well.