A/N
So. Here we are again: part two of our favorite duo's struggle. No slash here, just a lot of drama.
But never fear, dear reader! Fluff next chapter. Huzzah! But for now, have some Sebastian and his evil schemes.
Thanks again to MTCrazy17 for her marvelous portrayal as John and Seb.
Check her out, she's got some nice fics to rifle through as well as the raw conversation for this story.
Inside the basement of the Co-op, John struggled to retain his composure. Moran was cleaning the barrel of a Browning L9A1 as if it were a precious gem. Usually the man had a sniper to care for, but with the closeness of this kill he wouldn't need it. John simply watched as the man groomed the pistol, eye completely fixated on it.
Every so often, a text would come in from Sherlock. The latest read:
Wherever you go, I follow.
-SH
Tears clouded the soldier's eyes as he tried his best to conceal a heartbroken smile. He didn't know what to believe at this point; he knew Sherlock was coming for him, that he'd be a while before he would be able to turn up, and that he had probably contacted Lestrade. But would the crazy detective honestly follow him to beyond the grave? He doubted it. Painfully, he typed up a new message.
Sherlock. No. Please. I can't
let you die.
He glanced up to see Moran turned toward him, full attention now on John and the cell phone. As fast as he could, he finished his reply.
Shit Shit SHIT He's turned to
me. I've got to go. Wish me
luck, mate.
-JW
John hissed as Sebastian grabbed the soldier's arm, attempting to pry the phone from his iron-tight grasp. But Moran had quite a bit of strength, and soon enough John was whimpering in pain as the man's clutch tightened around his wrist. Watson brought a knee into Moran's groin and, like that, he was freed. He ran towards the back of the room to find nothing more than a wall with a tiny window looking out to the sidewalk. John sure as hell wasn't going to fit through that, let alone be able to reach it by himself. Instead, he turned around to see his captor getting to his feet.
Sebastian leapt at him like a hungry lion pouncing upon a weak antelope. He knocked John to the ground with all his weight, hooking the doctor in the side of the face with a forceful punch. John reeled from the pain radiating throughout his jaw, releasing the phone from his grasp as he writhed beneath the gunman.
"Good boy," Sebastian whispered as John curled into a fetal position, clutching his jaw desperately.
Moran flipped through the most recent text messages. All from Sherlock Holmes. Of course.
Hold on, John. Hold on.
-SH
For me.
-SH
John? Are you still there?
-SH
No, sorry. The doctor isn't
in at the moment. Please
try again later or leave a
message.
-SM
The man smirked as he received the response he'd been waiting for.
Moran…
-SH
Oh hello, Mr. Holmes.
Missing your little soldier
ant yet?
-SM
Sherlock spat as he read the text from Sebastian. The worm had gotten hold of John's phone, which meant one of two things: 1. John was injured and losing consciousness somewhere in the basement. Or 2. John had already been shot and killed. Judging by Moran's choice of words, the former was far more likely; neither possibility could be ruled out yet, though.
Funny. I didn't expect
you to be the kidnapping
kind. More of the trigger-
happy gunman kind.
-SH
Oh yes, still trigger-happy.
But with Moriarty gone, well…
I can get bored too, y'know.
I've even got m'self a new saying:
"An apple a day gets the doctor
taken away."
-SM
Clever. Stupid. I'm not impressed.
-SH
Aw. Well sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I
care not. All I care about is getting
even. An eye for an eye, yea? You
killed my Boss. I kill your pet.
-SM
Sherlock hated negotiating with psychopaths. Honestly, he should have pulled the trigger back in France, even if he would've been incarcerated for a few years. At least John would have been safe; then Sherlock could have called him up and asked for bail and explained everything from the safety of a prison cell. He shook the thoughts from his head, ignoring stares from Donavin and Anderson as they passed by. Sherlock jeered at them before responding to Sebastian.
Why not kill me instead? Let John
suffer the same pains you've
suffered?
-SH
He hoped Moran would take the bait; unfortunately the man seemed intent on killing John.
Oh no… I want to make this poetic.
What better way to kill you than
killing your 'heart'?
-SM
I've never been one for poetry.
Though I admire the creativity of
your plan. Half-baked, but creative
nonetheless.
-SH
Searching for Lestrade, Sherlock shouted "Have we found the damn entry point yet?" These Yarders were horrible at finding even a window in the side of a building. How are any of them employed?
Again, I care not. Either way, your
loyal pup will be dead by morning.
You may try to come rescue him,
but that won't end very well.
-SM
No? What makes you say that?
-SH
The very moment you walk in is
the very moment I pull the trigger.
He's a strong one – I'll give you that.
Still trying to come at me. Hah! So much
anger in those eyes. He really cares
about you, huh? Pity.
-SM
"Sherlock! We found a good vantage point, 'round back." Lestrade jogged towards the consulting detective, only to turn around and lead him to the window around the other side of the building. "It's a great shot. Least, it was. 'til John stood up. We shoot, we'll hit him first. No doubt 'bout that."
"Worry not. I've got a plan. I need to speak with your gunman." Sherlock pounded away at the keyboard, hoping he could execute this flawlessly. Moran would need to be overconfident in himself if this were to work.
Very well. I suppose I've no choice
but to listen to you for now.
-SH
He was brought face-to-face with a wide-eyed marksman; young, just out of schooling, been trained for nine months by some higher-up. This was his second mission on his own. He wore a solemn face, but couldn't conceal the smile in his eyes. I hope this one will be a good shot. "How are you with a gun?"
"Brilliant, sir. Toppa m' class."
"And how well can you remember instructions?"
"Same way, sir. Brilliantly." He gave Sherlock a nod as he said this.
"Marvelous. Well I need to brief you on some things. Should only take a minute." Sherlock updated both the gunner and the detective inspector on the plan before looking at his phone to Sebastian's reply.
Indeed you will. But I will let you speak
to him one last time. I've got him on a
leash like a good pup. Tell me, Mr. Holmes,
do you want to speak to your dog before
I put him to sleep?
-SM
Fucking arse. John isn't a dog. I will make you suffer for everything you've done.
Of course I do. Let me talk to him.
-SH
One moment, Mr. Holmes.
-SM
Not a minute later, Sherlock's phone rang . He answered with a hint of wariness to his voice. "John?"
From the other end came a weak sound, shaking and scratchy, as if he'd been choked earlier. "Sh-Sherlock?"
Sherlock's tone became firm and commanding. "John, listen to me. Do not speak. Do not move. Do not do anything unless I tell you to do so. Lestrade has most of Scotland Yard down here with me; they've found a small window for the basement on the west wall, directly behind you. Do not look to it. Do not search for it. I want you to look straight at Moran. Allow him to think I'm saying my final words to you."
"Alright…" the response was ragged. "I… Trust…you, Sherlock… m'sorry… for all this…" his voice broke slightly and breathing became noticeably labored.
"Breathe, John. You're going to be fine." His voice was still strict, yet he made sure to try to be as soothing for the soldier as possible. "I promised I would come for you." He heard a small sob on the other end of the line. "It seems we've got a good line of sight on Moran; a gun's trained on him, albeit the gunman is nowhere near as accustomed to stressful situations as you are, but he'll do fine. Now listen: Do you remember our keyword, John? Yes or no."
"I…m'a bit fuzzy… wha- sorry. Been hit in… in the head a… a few times. Barely remember my… name… right now." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lack of discipline in the soldier. He'd said 'yes or no', not 'tell me everything you're thinking at the moment.'
"You know it, my dear Watson. When I utter those two words, you hit the floor and throw your hands over your neck for protection. Same situation as with the Woman."
"…mmmmoyeah. Remember… barely… the woman, eh? How… eh no… I un.. understand. M'good."
Concussion or not, John was quite unbearable in this state. "Stay with me, John. We're almost done here. You've got to react as quickly as possible. Pull yourself together as best you can. Now listen, john. Really listen. Close your eyes. Find all the negative emotion. Destroy them one by one: pain, fear, dizziness, anxiety, anger. Just breathe and tell me when you're ready to get out of that basement."
Through the ensuing silence, Sherlock heard John pull himself together, falling back into the steely mold of a soldier. He could hear a shift in the air as his body language completely changed from weak and vulnerable to cold and stoic. Watson cleared his throat before speaking in a steady voice. "I'm ready."
Sherlock smiled at John's re-composure, happy to hear his soldier with wits about him. Without hesitation, he gave the keyword, prompting John to hit the deck before the Yarder gunman would take his shot. "Vatican Cameos."