Hey! I suspect you viewers-but-not-likers have seen His Last Vow? If not, well, don't read this until you have. Spoilers, sweetie!
Disclaimer: STILL don't own the Sherlock characters, but Andromeda, John Junior, Maeve Moriarty and Adeline are mine!
Trust me, I DO have everything planned out by this point, so umm don't worry too much about the "little" cliffhangers and unanswered questions.
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Chapter Seven
What Ever Happened To Sherlock Holmes?
Sherlock knew there was something up. It wasn't what he saw; it was what he didn't see.
Mary.
Where'd she go?
He'd taken Lestrade's cab to get her, and she didn't show. Curiosity sprang up inside him. John said she'd be here. How long had it been?
A policeman strode up to the car, communicator in hand. He tapped on the windowpane, and Sherlock rolled it down. He deduced that the man was one of violent nature; scars imprinted their own stories into the tanned face.
"Sir, you've been parked here for a while, may I ask of your business with the hospital?" The bobby's eyes stared right at Sherlock, but Sherlock could tell he wanted to look away.
"I was going to pick someone up," he replied, returning the gaze.
"Well, obviously they aren't here, sir. I advise you go home." The man ducked his head out of the window frame, expecting Sherlock to start the engine, but he didn't. "Sir, you need to leave. Now would be a good time. You've already been here four hours."
Four hours. Had he really? Now Sherlock popped his curly head out of the window. "Are you sure about that?"
"Sir, I will have to report you of suspicious behav-." The man's mouth was covered with a chloroform-coated handkerchief for the rest of that sentence.
The person behind him was a white blond man with deep-set black eyes and low cheekbones. Behind him, in the shadow of the building, was none other than James Moriarty.
The officer slumped to the ground, and his molester drugged him further, producing a syringe from the large pockets of his jeans. The drug was probably something that would fuzz his memories.
"Sherlock! Hello there, old friend." Moriarty stepped away from the wall.
"As far as I know, we were never got along that well." Sherlock turned the keys in the ignition.
"Sherlock! You just got here, why leave so soon?" The snake man looked somewhat upset for a moment.
"Apparently, I've been here four hours. And have you seen Mary?"
"FOUR hours? Oh boy, Sherlock, really? All to pick up little Miss Mary? I wonder what happened!"
Sherlock deduced that Jim had probably slashed the tires, and found he was right. A gust of air whined as it escaped the front right tire. He sighed, turning the keys again, and left the car.
"Sherlock, you've gotten boring. I've been keeping tabs on you, believe me. So, is solitary life suiting you?"
The detective searched his mind, but found it blank in the case of the last four hours.
"What have I been doing for the last few hours?" he inquired, remembering he had no coat pockets to shove his hands into.
"I deduce the answer is yes, then! I mean, come on, your first question you asked me was the location of a useless blonde." He grinned, popping gum into his mouth. He walked up to the taller man and chewed it and the words in his face. "I wonder how many of those you've met."
Sherlock stepped back, and then began to pace the pavement, hiding his alarm. He faked an inquisitive look at the criminal. "What was my first question supposed to be?" He clasped his hands behind him, keeping an eye on the murderer.
"Oh, you know! Stop messing with me!" The man looked down and shook his head disapprovingly.
"Alright then, how DID you do it?"
"How'd I do what?" the creepy grin popped up again. "Okay, okay. I'll stop." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "How about we play a game?"
"Oh?"
"You tell me how you survived, and I'll tell you how I did."
A pause. "Deal."
Mary Watson was tied up. Literally. Her mouth was gagged with a foul tasting rag, and it cut into the sides of her mouth. Saliva wet the inside of it and dried blood fluttered in her eyelashes. Something damp touched her ribs and she felt with her freed hands that it was her own blood. The baby inside her moved in protest of the ropes digging into her midsection.
"Did you miss me?" A slithery voice bounced off of the cold stone walls and seemed to smack into Mary's eardrums.
"Sherlock said you shot yourself in the brain! How… the hell… are you alive?" The last sentence barely escaped her lips as the rag was untied. The thick twine was damaging something in her, she was sure.
"Aww, how sweet. Little miss knocked up Mary, playing innocent are we? I know you've seen my broadcast." James Moriarty now stood over the smaller woman, and she could smell the peppermint gum that twiddled around amongst his teeth. "How is the baby, by the way?" He reached down and cupped his hand around her slightly protruding belly, and if Mary weren't held back, she would have slapped him across the face. Instead, she stared knives into the gray suit. "I'm here to finish what you and Charles Augustus Magnussen started."
"That… shouldn't… be… your… business." Nope, the bindings were too tight.
"I told Sherlock how I survived, you know. But I wouldn't tell you! You weren't even a part of the adorable detective's life back then!" He swiveled on his heels and folded his hands behind his back, staring at the bland gray wall opposite Mary. Of course, there was nothing remotely interesting there to stare at. He began talking again, something about John, (it always came back to him, didn't it?) but Mary Morstan-Watson heard none of it, because she blacked out.
The drugged and sleeping John up in the hospital slept, and part of his dream was realising that the blonde he had seen walking out of the hospital hadn't been his aunt at all. Merely someone made to look like her, so he wouldn't worry. Oh, he was frantic now. Although he hadn't been at his uncle's wedding, he really seemed to like Mary. Where was she? That brought him to the second portion of his slumber. He knew exactly where she was. Somehow, the drug allowed him to expand his senses to outside of his cell, even in sleep. The woman was gagged in a dark room, and how he wished he could comfort her.
Sherlock had been parked next to Saint Anne's for four hours straight, waiting for a woman who would not exit that building. What had he been doing? Moriarty had had his way with him. To keep the cold trapped and banging up against the windows, the detective had rolled them up. In the warmth of the heater, and the knock out gas fed through it, he had fallen asleep. His limp form had been taken out of the car, and placed on a stretcher. That was wheeled into a cleansed white room, where Moriarty's men had extracted all the information they needed.
The third part of John's sleep came with the actual dreaming, but those images are far too horrid for even this tale.