The darkened room was bleak at best. Bare walls. No furniture, save a mattress. Nothing but grey walls. There was no point in adding life to the room, though. No point in pretending.
Everything would be over soon, though. And Sherlock will have completed the most selfless act he's ever done for anyone.
For John.
Oh, John. How many times that name has crossed his mind: As he plotted, as he schemed, as he murdered. Everything. For him.
Sherlock exasperated a sigh, causing his body to slump even farther down the cement wall and deeper into his bare mattress. The coils stabbed at his body relentlessly, but he hardly noticed anymore. No point in getting it fixed, he'd be out of this hell-hole soon.
He was thinking about John more and more these days. The eve of his ultimate goal was tangible. He was so close to finishing this: all of this. Just one more hit. Just one more plan. Just one more body.
Just Moran.
If only John knew. Things would be so much simpler then.
What was John's life these days? Surely he'd found a woman by now. Someone small and petite: perfect for cocooning in his arms. Rounded and supple: curves that were simply made to be squeezed. Small hands: soft, running up and down his back, quelling the tremors that wracked his frame when he startled awake in the middle of the night from the nightmares. Long, flowing hair: there would be more than enough for running his fingers through, for grip.
Yes. She would be perfect. Stable. Reliable. Normal. If John deserved anything, he deserved that.
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, letting the oxygen and nitrogen fill his lungs. He held it in as the carbon dioxide slowly began to burn through his torso. He relished in the pain. Anything to take away from the war his treacherous body and mind were waging on his heart.
He opened his eyes to see the morning light streaking through window over his shoulder. Sherlock watched the dust particles whip and dash through the barren room. Keeping his eye on just one of them proved nearly impossible for Sherlock, but he managed to follow one through its perilous journey, spiraling until it plummeted into his palm. Even Sherlock's flawless vision couldn't make out the speck as it blended into his flesh.
The bones of his knuckles and wrists jutted from his skin at an angle that he was sure weren't natural. John would chastise him for not taking better care of himself.
"Sherlock… you need to eat. The body isn't meant to survive on one meal every three days. You may think it's just transport, but it's so much more than that. You're so much more than that." He sighed and looked Sherlock in the eye with a hint of pity. "You're doing more bad than you know."
When the world finally began tilting, Sherlock reluctantly let the air out of his lungs.
Right. Time to get to it.
He pushed himself off the mattress and set out with a determined strength in his gate.
Sirens. Blaring. Screaming.
Lights. Bright lights. Blinding.
Pain. Searing pain. Bursting behind his eyes. Opening his eyes was a bad idea.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" A voice. Distant. To his left? Spite. Why?
Arms: no good. Lead. Weightless. Non-existent.
Thump. Rattling. Moving? They were moving?
The smell of cleanliness. Clanking of metal. Crinkling of plastic. Medical supplies.
Thump. Rattling. Ambulance?
Hands moving. Swiftly: efficiently. Probing. Pinching. Poking. Prodding.
"Man up." Anger.
"His poor mother." Disgust.
"Selfish bastard." Rage.
Why?
Heartbeats erratic. Racing. Flying. Soaring.
Need to move. Get up. Run. Far. Fast. Away.
Heart beating. Ribs breaking. Bursting through.
THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.
Eyelids heavy. Unsustainable. Numbness. Everywhere. All at once. Slipping slowly. Splendid stupor.
Oh.
"Oh no you don't!"
"Son of a bitch."
"Selfish bastard."
"Live."
"Live!"
"LIVE!"
Thump… thump… … thumpthump… … … thumpthump… … … thump… … … … thump.
Sherlock knew tracking Moran would be hard: difficult even. But this? This is something he was completely unprepared for: though, he'd never admit to saying that. Moran was obviously a product of Moriarty.
Six months. That's the minimum time Sherlock had given himself to stay underground. No phone calls. No internet access. No check-ups. No contact. Period.
It was the longest six months of his life.
He'd made contact with a member of his homeless network and set to recreating his identity. A hair cut, some dye, a quick boxing match with a man twice his size to add some color to his face, a fresh batch of well-used, well-soiled linens, and Mycroft would have had a hard time telling him apart from the rest of the impoverished community: the perfect cover. Sherlock seemed to be the only person to realize the full potential of the homeless community.
Living the life of a homeless person was just as boring as he'd expected; sitting around took up a large portion of his time; sleeping, it seemed, topped the chart on social activities; and scrounging for food was more of a necessity than he'd anticipated. He hardly ate as it were, but only if he was yelled at by John. However, the quality and quantity of food he was able to get his hands on these days was scarce, even for Sherlock. He began to miss those cooked, daily meals.
The homeless network stretched farther than he could have ever hoped to imagine. Within the first month, he's made his way to France through bartering information and trading favors. By the second month, he'd made it into Germany and established the mindless job as a stable boy. Being covered in horse excrement did wonders for keeping inquiring minds away from his striking eyes.
But it was when Sherlock had gotten to Scotland, nearly a year and a half later that the light at the end of the tunnel began to peek into his vision. It was there that Sherlock would make Moran's grave and bury every ounce of significance the man had.
The shop door jingled, signaling his boss to groan dramatically as he heaved himself out of his chair (which echoed his groan), waddling through the swinging door that separated the shop from the bloody backroom.
Sherlock quietly mopped up the butcher's most recent sacrifice when his ears caught the voice. He'd heard it before, through clipped voicemails and crackling audio feeds, but never in person. And it made his blood boil.
The door swung back and forth on its hinge, revealing the man at the counter with each passing second until it finally settled and Sherlock saw him through the porthole.
Sebastian Moran.
Sherlock's vision suddenly became astonishingly clear.
To say he was in pain was a bit of an understatement. John's brain felt like it was being pushed, prodded, squeezed, pulled, and bullied into every corner of his skull.
As if on cue, his stomach lurched with vigor, sending stabbing pain through his abdomen. It felt like a lead weight had been dropped in it, demanding his attention.
He almost missed the whispers in the room. A slight turn of his neck to better hear them sent even more pain coursing through his body and he let out an audible gasp. The voices stopped and everything was silent. Then, there was a flurry of shuffling, footsteps (curtains closing?), and a hurried, "Get the doctor" before John could feel the presence of another human being over him.
"John." It was not a question. The voice sounded a bit bored and not an ounce of concern.
"John." More firmly this time.
He opened his eyes slowly: slits to keep his eyes from being assaulted. The room was quite dim (so the curtains had been closed), so he had no problem adjusting to the light.
The man in front of him was sharp, in every sense of the word: his cheekbones, nose, chin, and everything in between jutted in every direction. His face probably whistled if he moved it too fast. The man wore a stylish, yet functional pin-striped suit made of some kind of material John was sure he's have a hard time pronouncing, with a handsome tie (was that a silk?). His hair was strictly professional, almost to the point of perfection. There wasn't hair out of place. He couldn't see the man's shoes, but he would bet his paycheck that he could pick his teeth from the reflection on them.
The man peered down at him with what some people might call a smile, but to John, looked more like he was constipated and trying very hard to clench his bowels. The man lounged back in the chair beside John's bed like he owned the place (did he?), fiddling with an umbrella handle, and smirking down at John.
He chuckled softly before saying, "Welcome back to the real world, John Watson."