Here it finally is: the endgame. When it was over I was so sad about being finished that I wrote a short epilogue which I will upload later. Enjoy!
This time John found himself lying on the floor, handcuffed and with tied legs, but not tethered. He felt depleted and empty and cold. The adrenaline that had kept him going during the last torturing session was used up completely, replaced by a throbbing pain that seemed to come from every single muscle in his body.
For a while he just lay like that, listening for signs of Moran's presence. When he couldn't make out any, he continued to lie still anyway, trying to get some rest. Even opening his eyes seemed to require an unreasonable amount of strength. The checking of his stubble came almost automatically. Must be four days now. Sherlock, where are you?
When he finally opened his eyes, he got an impression of the room he was in now. It seemed to be old, with stone walls and sandy clay instead of a floor. It was shady without the lights on. Some cellar then. Something caught his eyes, a little red dot of light somewhere underneath the ceiling. A camera. No wonder Moran always appeared as soon as John regained consciousness.
He should be here any minute then, surely having noticed his captive's subtle movement. John nearly sighed. He knew he needed to be more alert than he was now, but it was so incredibly exhausting. Remembering his special training, he knew that this was the most dangerous part of any hostage situation – the aftermath of an adrenaline surge that was so vast that there was simply no energy left afterwards. But he needed to be at full attention soon, or he would die here after all.
The door on the other side of the room opened, and the lights were turned on. Nearly blinded, John closed his eyes again, only for a moment. Staying like that was so tempting. But when the steps came closer, he opened his eyes again, and, as always, soldiered on.
There was something in Moran's face he hadn't seen there before. The tall man placed something on a nearby table and approached him quickly. "You sure took your time to wake up, John!" he tutted, pulling the empty chair closer. Was he in some kind of a hurry? That could only mean that Sherlock was on his heels. Finally!
He placed himself in front of John, looking down on him, looming over him. One thing that must have connected Sherlock to him had surely been their marked preference for dramatic poses. Well, it wasn't as if John hadn't learnt anything from living with Sherlock, too. He closed his eyes again, sighing, hoping to appear even more tired and hopeless than he felt.
Again, Moran seemed to buy it. "It will soon be over, John" he promised. When he was ruthlessly yanked onto the chair, his glance fell on the object Moran had placed on the table: a gun. Moran might be running out of time, but he had also believed John's performance as Sherlock's deeply disappointed friend/more than friend.
So this would be their endgame.
John didn't struggle when he was tied to the chair, didn't try to break free at the crucial point where Moran had to loosen the hand-cuffs in order to tie John's arms to the chair, didn't take his chance to kick Moran right in the face when his legs were free for a moment before they, too, were tied to the chair. He knew he wouldn't make it out of this room by physical force.
He had a plan, though, and if it worked out the way he thought, if Moran had felt the way John imagined ... First, he needed to find that out. The rest would follow nearly automatically, especially because Moran was sure now that John had abandoned the idea of being an important part of Sherlock's life.
If John was wrong, at least there would not be too much time left to regret it.
"He still hasn't found you, after ten days" Moran stated matter-of-factly, staring down at John. "Do you really still think he's seriously looking for you?" Of course! But John slowly raised his head, then let it drop with exhaustion. "No!" he whispered. "That hurts, doesn't it?" Moran went on, smiling coldly. John looked at the gun now, openly, not flinching. Allowed Moran to meet his hopeless gaze.
" You know, he's not even in Italy any longer. Left the country when he lost interest in us." Us? That sounded good. Carefully, very carefully, John took command. "Do you know what hurt the most?" he asked his captor, his voice sounding small even in his own ears. Moran looked at him, mildly surprised. "What?" He had taken the bait. Good. "I really thought ..." He stopped in mid-sentence, one of his best performances. Swallowed, bit his lips, blinked. "I really thought he ... he loved me."
Shook his head in mock disbelief. Peered secretly at Moran's expression. Yes, there it was, just for a second. "How could I believe that? I mean ..." Another blink, another swallow. "... to think that someone like him could fall for someone like ... like me ..." He sighed deeply, stared into empty space for a second. Watched Moran's face from the corner of his eyes. Yes, it was definitely there. Moran knew exactly what John was only talking about. He had felt ithimself. Probably still did.
"But there were so many signs ..." John went on, as if talking to himself. Don't overact now, he told himself. Don't hasten anything. He was silent for a while, gave Moran time to think about his own feelings. Let him remember the bitter sting of rejection. It still hurt, didn't it?
"I told myself not to give in to the feeling," he continued then, looking as sad as possible. "But he was ... it was impossible not to fall for him. Do you know what I mean?" He held his breath for a second. Had this approach been too direct? But Moran bought it, took the bait again, didn't notice he was losing ground. "Yes, I know!" he admitted. Idiot!
"But there were so many little things, so many ..." John let his voice trail off again. Let's check the first one out. "His embraces ..." Well, it had been only the one so far, a few days ago in Madrid, but that's what he had learnt from being surrounded by Holmes' for so long: The best way to hide a lie was to wrap it up in truth. "I mean, they always felt so ..." He never finished the sentence, looking at Moran instead, trying to appear heart-broken. Moran's expression was easy to read. He had no idea how the embraces felt because he had never been embraced by Sherlock Holmes. Got you there!
John sighed loud and clear, drawing Moran's attention back to the present. Wondered how Moran could have missed the fact that John was in complete control of their talk now. Well, army training seemed to beat villainy. Still, he wouldn't mind Sherlock appearing any time soon, for fatigue and pain were taking their toll after all.
"I always pretended to be annoyed when he disturbed my dates, you know?" John carried on, fighting down a completely unwanted wave of nausea. Yes, this needed to be over soon! Fortunately it made him look only more wretched. "But in reality I've always hoped he just got into their way to have me completely for himself!" A statement that held a certain, if only small amount of truth. John was convinced that Sherlock had ruined a good deal of his dates to have John for himself, but only because he demanded John's help with catching a criminal, getting rid of Mycroft or fetching his mobile out of his pocket.
But something in Moran's face told him that this was the wrong topic to mention. Damn, what could he probably ... "He never wanted you, John! He just needed your work power or your time or just a dummy to talk to. Just like he did with me." Yeah, right, so that had been too obvious. "I know by now" John admitted. Think of something better!
He let his head drop a little, which caused another wave of dizziness. Looked at the gun again, just to buy some time. Then it came to his mind. "I mean ..." he started, closing his eyes for a moment, then looked at some spot next to Moran's face. "I know that everything Sherlock does is selfish and egocentric, but sometimes ..." He saw agreement in Moran's face. "... sometimes he did things ..."
The dizziness got worse, he honestly needed to take a break. "Unbearable, egoistic things" Moran chimed in, probably misreading John's pause, not noticing how he was helping his captive here. "Nice things" John corrected, avoiding Moran's glance now. Eyes down, like he had done a century ago, back at the hospital. "Like when he pretended to have a lead we needed to follow, chasing a cab, only to make me forget my psychosomatic limp."
That had indeed been surprisingly unselfish, John thought, and a little warm feeling spread inside of him. Don't show it! Moran shook his head: "No, John, all he wanted was a sidekick without handicap. That's the only reason he did that." Then the other man's expression became somewhat painful for a second. So he had realised by himself how he had just admitted that Sherlock wanted John, for whatever reason.
John remained silent again, not only to let Moran consider how Sherlock never wanted him, at least not the way Moran wanted to be wanted. It was also because John felt his own body start trembling a little. He was running out of strength, and very fast as well. If he lost consciousness now there would be another round of this game once he awoke again, and he knew that he would not be strong enough to win it then. No, he needed to finish it now, and soon.
"He stole an ashtray for me, once!" he told Moran when he felt that enough time had passed. "At Buckingham Palace. Only to make me laugh." And the most wonderful thing was that it wasn't a lie at all. He looked at his captor once more. Now it was about time ... He let a little fond smile spread across his face. It was genuine, no need to pretend here.
He noticed how Moran had paled. So he ventured on: "I had forgotten how good it felt to laugh before I met Sherlock." Another truth. "But you know the feeling: being with him is like your life has suddenly changed from black and white to colours." Yes, you know the feeling. And you miss it. "I never giggled that much as when I was with him." He cast another glance at Moran. So you never giggled together? Good to know.
The pain on Moran's face was obvious now. He seemed to follow exactly where John was leading him: to realise that what John and Sherlock were having was so much more than anything he ever had. A tear would be good now. Unable to cry on command, John tried to clench his broken fingers. Pain shot through him, making his eyes wet. Good.
"All those times he found excuses to touch me ..." John ventured on with another half-lie, fascinated by watching Moran's expression crumble more and more. Ignored the fact that he could no longer keep his own legs from trembling. Not much longer now! But he was nearly there anyway.
He kept silent for a while, giving Moran a chance to react to all he had heard so far. Clenched his broken fingers once more. Produced a single tear running down his bruised cheeks. And once more, Moran didn't get the fact that he was only helping John with his words: "Sherlock isn't capable of love, John. I know that. I know it!" Because if you admit that he is, you will also have to admit that he just didn't love you. "If he were, he wouldn't have made you believe he killed himself in front of your eyes!"
Thanks for the prompt. "He didn't!" John said quietly, with an absent voice, as if not aiming at pulling the rug out from under Moran. "What?" Now John looked up at Moran, holding his gaze steadily, only for a few seconds. "He told me all about his plan after we returned from Dartmoor. The night the camera in my room was broken." That brought him a sharp look from his captor. So Sherlock had been right, at least one of the unidentified cameras belonged to Moran.
"He told me all about it against Mycroft's wish." Truth. "Said it would break his heart if he would lose my love while saving my life." Lie. "No" Moran said. So John explained: "You took hold of my mobile, didn't you? Checked out all those texts Mary Morstan sent me? Don't tell me you weren't able to realise they were sent by Sherlock." Truth. "You must have noticed the call 'she' gave me just after the killer you sent to Madrid had failed." A shot in the dark. A good one, judging by the expression on Moran's face.
The pain and the exhaustion were completely forgotten now, all John concentrated on was dealing Moran the final blow. Only three more steps ... "Anyway, if he really loved me, he would have found me after ten days, right?" Only that you know that it has not been that long, and you surely also know he is looking for me right now. Why else would you've been in such a hurry when you came in? So this is not an argument against him loving me, and you know it ...
Again, John stared at the ground for a while, looking broken and hopeless, while Moran was surely trying to argue down the huge pile of alleged proofs. Two more blows, and this should be over. He forced another tear by moving his fingers. "I know I shouldn't have hoped for his love, but ..." John bit his lips thoughtfully, calculating. "I think it was the violin that convinced me."
"The violin?" Moran couldn't help but ask, his voice clearly shaken. He no longer tried to show any composure. John needed to concentrate to avoid grinning now. He knew he was about to win this game.
"In the beginning I thought it was coincidental" he explained, again giving his voice this faraway sound, as if talking to himself. "Whenever I had a nightmare, I would wake up to the tunes of Tchaikovsky." Truth. "But it wasn't coincidental. He was able to predict if I would have a nightmare or not by deducing I don't know what." Truth. "And when he saw the hints, he would stay awake for me and start playing at just the right moment." Truth. "I always thought that there was not a more selfless way to show me his love." Lie. One that Moran bought.
"But I'm sure he's done the same for you, hasn't he?" Lie. Moran was shaking. Everything he had clung to for decades in his twisted, psychotic mind was tumbling to dust.
And now, the final blow. "You know, there is only one thing that keeps me from cracking completely. Do you know what it is?" One last dramatic pause. One last tear. Moran's eyes were wide with horror now. Did he see it coming? Yes, most likely, and he didn't stop John from saying it. He knew he was lost.
John looked Moran directly in the eye now, all signs of weakness and doubt and being broken replaced by determined conviction: "I always understood that he wanted to become a good man. And I know that he relied on me to be his conscience. No matter how long we would have lived together, I would have never been allowed so close to his heart had I been a lesser man." Truth. He saw Moran's eyes losing their focus. "He couldn't have loved me had I been … I don't know … say, a cold blooded serial killer ..."
Moran reached for his gun.
Their deduction about the owner of the wine restaurant had been correct
(only Mycroft's deduction really, but no need to admit that, he's arrogant enough without me praising him)
and finally they were on a hot trail.
(won't find him too late, must be in time, won't find him mere minutes after Seb … no, won't allow that to happen, need to stop imagining John on a cold floor, eyes empty like Aurora Isleña's, stop that, his blood spilled around him, stop that, body broken, Seb next to him, smiling, don't think about it, John never smiling at me again, being gone for ever STOP THAT)
They had searched the empty farmhouse before
(opposite of Adigi's home, Seb shot him from the first floor of this building, first place I've looked on my own, returned here again with Mycroft the next day, clever of him to bring John here now, big building with large cellar and two rear buildings, plenty of hiding places, need to hurry up)
and had returned now to do so once more. They were sweeping the underground complex
(endless amount of passages connecting the main house to both of the rear buildings, footprint size 9Louis Vuitton means we found new trace of Seb's presence in hall, must be close, have to be close, being too late is unacceptable, won't lose John now, he's not dead, eyes not empty, body not limp, soul not gone, will find John in ...)
when a brutal gunshot burst the silence.
(NO!
no no no
Seb holding a gun against John's head, firing, John instantly slumping to the ground, like a puppet without strings, dead before he touches the ground, blood running out of the hole in his head, eyes wide open in surprise, gone.
Seb firing at John from over the room, hitting his heart, John's knees buckling, he slowly descends to the ground, reaching for the wound with his hands, presses them against the unstoppable flood, eyes wide in terror and pain, lying on the cold floor, dying slowly enough to wonder why I haven't rescued him, body shutting down, gone.
Seb firing at John from over the room, hitting his lung, John trying to breathe, world spinning around him, blood filling his lungs, drowning him, desperate breaths jolting his body, shaking with horror and pain, still fighting for his live even though he knows he is lost, arms reaching out with no aim, desperately trying to grasp someone who isn't there, dying slowly enough to wonder why I haven't rescued him, closes his eyes, gone.)
Sherlock broke into a fierce run,
(no oh no have been too slow, have thought too slowly, should have prevented it should have found him earlier shouldn't have called him from Madrid should have noticed the bath-room window should have ...)
following the echo of the shot, leaving Mycroft behind,
(will kill him will take his life with my own hands will make it slow and painful will watch his blood draining out of his dying body )
turned around one more corner
(Seb's face close to mine, hands around his throat, pressing, he's struggling but can't break free, his eyes filled with panic, his hands hitting my body, but pain doesn't matter, pressing stronger, so close I can feel his body shaking, fighting for his life but losing, tries to speak terrible sound, arms getting weaker, eyes losing focus, lips blue, arms and legs twitching falling to the ground, body slacking underneath mine, eyes dead, gone
Seb falling to the ground, poisoned, eyes wide in pain, body shaking with spasms, white foam running out of his open mouth, tries to breathe in vain, body helpless on the floor, barely twitching now, standing above him, watching him dying, his hands reaching out for me, silently begging for help, watching the light leaving his eyes slowly, slowly, the sound of his painful final breaths, a gargling, then silence, gone
Seb kneeling on the ground, gun against Seb's head, Seb begging for mercy, crying in fear, shaking, praying for forgiveness, me waiting, stretching that moment, enjoying the power over his life, ignoring his pleas, waiting to hurt him further, waiting to make him feel the terror John has felt, waiting to make him realise what he had done, then pulling the trigger, hitting the head, Seb's body collapsing against mine, holding him close, feeling his final spasms, his blood soaking my clothes, holding him until his body is cold, then throwing him away like garbage)
and saw -
(Oh!)
(…)
(…)
Then his brain slowly, slowly took in the entirely unexpected scene.
(Seb, lying on the floor, dead, gun besides his head, blood, empty eyes, traces of tears? And John sitting on a chair, alive! grinning, grinning!, no new wounds visible, smug grin, never thought he could actually look that smug, still tied to the chair, how did he ...)
Their eyes locked
(alive!)
and John's expression changed from smugness to relief.
(but not surprise, knew I would come, how could he have been so sure?)
"Sherlock" he said
(voice harsh, exhausted, will succumb to fatigue and pain within the next six minutes but he's alive)
"I hope you don't mind that I've started saving my life while waiting for you! Oh, hello Mycroft! Would one of you mind freeing me from this chair?"
When Mycroft approached John to do so,
(took in the scene faster than me, he will dwell upon that endlessly in the future, John's alive!)
Sherlock finally moved towards them, too. John rose from the chair
(completely miscalculating the amount of strength he has left, won't be able to stand on his own for more than five seconds, need to move closer)
and clumsily reeled directly into Sherlock's arms.
(need to place left arm here in order not to hurt broken ribs more than necessary, right arm here to stabilise body, careful with broken hand, kneel down slowly so John is nearly lying, keep his upper body and head slightly upright to prevent blood pressure from crashing, turn him around a little so I can see his face, support his head with my chest, check pulse, too fast due to shock, need to keep him warm)
In the background he heard Mycroft talking to someone on his mobile
(medical team, orders helicopter for transport, Stockholm or Rotterdam)
but didn't take his eyes off John, their gazes locked again.
(fighting to keep his eyes open, losing focus again and again, should get rest, need to tell him, don't want him to close eyes just yet, selfish! he's alive! his left hand clinging to my shirt, fist clenched, holding on)
"I knew you would come!" John mumbled, and Sherlock just nodded.
(strange lump in my throat, never mind, he knows what I want to say anyway and ... what is that? Mycroft's hand on my shoulder AGAIN, need to start reacting in a harsh way to that soon or he will do it again and again. Need to stop liking it!)
As if reading his mind, John smiled a little, then sobered and looked at his right hand that was carefully placed on his belly.
(scared, fully understanding the consequences of the physical torture he had faced, still trying to look not scared, is he trying to reassure me? Idiot!)
"You will be taken to Stockholm" Mycroft answered the unspoken question, "I've already arranged for the best hand-surgeon I know to take care of you!"
John nodded
(close to losing consciousness any moment now, eyelids fluttering, face pale, left hand slowly letting go of the shirt, descending onto his chest, should stop holding on now)
and looked at Sherlock again.
(needs to relax now, tired, deserves rest)
He tried to say something
(needs rest!)
and Sherlock finally regained his voice.
"John Watson" he said, not able to prevent the happiness from seeping into his voice, "apparently you have already talked one man into suicide. I'd recommend that you shut up now!"
(grins, as always, understands exactly how it was meant, his eyes finally closing, slowly succumbing to unconsciousness, head resting heavy against chest, body losing tension, head becoming heavier and heavier, facial muscles relax, breathing becomes calmer, body completely slack now, but he's alive and warm and breathing and alive)
Only when the paramedics approached him to take John to the helicopter did Sherlock realise he'd been comfortingly rocking his friend ever since he had passed out.
Thank you for reading, following, favouring and reviewing. A special thank you goes to my dearly loved betas who gave support, opinions and always the right amount of criticism.