Hello again! Fifth chapter of the fanfic, yay! This waiting was shorter than the last one. First of all, thank you for the sweet reviews and follows, you're all lovely. Second, thanks for still being here, reading this. You can't imagine how important that's for me. So, I'm doing a short introduction today. Just a warning before I go! Maybe you'll need a tissue... Or two. Things get angsty! Enjoy!

Chapter 5

He feels his eyes burning, the darkness of the room hiding his tears. By this time Sherlock will be aware of everything. For God's sake, please, Sherlock, do for once as I tell you he thinks, wishing the detective trusts him this time.

He has been avoiding weeping in front of anyone on the way... But the thought of not seeing those grey eyes again made it so hard not to cry. He holds his breath as new tears fall down. He has to do this to protect him. He doesn't cry because of the torture this is going to suppose for him or the sacrifice it really is. He cries because of the life he will never have. He had imagined proposing to Sherlock in so many different ways, all of them ending up in a big "yes" signed with a kiss. He had dreamt of them just walking down the street, holding hands. He wanted to grow old with the man he loved the most and die both at the same time. He thought they could even adopt and be a happy family. He saw the years running but neither of them getting tired of running their fingers over their bodies, feeling always like the first time they did. He cries because he now knows that this could have been possible. A life together. He had given his own to that mad detective of his: his days, his years, his secrets, his memories, his fears, his love... Everything. Just to let that tall man fulfil him entirely. He was Sherlock. Sherlock was him. They were one. They were one...

"Johnny boy! Daddy's here!" says a familiar voice, nearly singing the sentences. Gets closer to him and pouts, mocking on John. The ex-soldier doesn't look at him.

"Crying again? I thought in the army they deleted those actions from your vocabulary. It didn't work on you, it seems" he says, taking his chin with one hand, obliging him to look at Jim, Westwood suit combined with an empty gaze. "I bet he's crying like a baby, blaming me. You left him after fucking him, didn't you, pet?" he says, a disgusting smirk on his face. John's hands are shaking, trying to avoid the need to delete that smirk out of that face with a single punch and a few bullets. Jim goes away, sitting on one of the many chairs the room has, whistling at John.

"Come here, pet! I want to play with my new toy. Let's find out what Sherlock likes so much about you".

John gets up, like an automaton, blank expression. His tears are getting dry on his cheeks. He walks towards Jim, fighting internally trying not to shout or show any emotion that the bastard could enjoy with whatever he was going to do to him. Hi standing was military. His eyes... dead.

-OoOoO-

A punch on the living room table.

"For God's sake! Stop being a child for once and eat something. You aren't helping him with no eating!" Mycroft's voice sounds fearing, angry as a thunder.

Sherlock's smoking, laptop in front of him. He seems absent of the world, just worried about typing the correct codes to find any clue that could make him save John. His fingers seemed to work automatically. His eyes were red because of the lack of sleeping, his face paler than usual, his weight decreasing by moments.

"Don't make me switch it off" says Mycroft, not warning anymore.

He looks up at his older brother. "Have you got anything?"

"I've got my best men working on it day and night" he sighs and rubs his temples. "Not a single thing"

Sherlock looks at him, not showing any kind of emotion. He's just, after all, a man who's heart has been ripped out of him without permission.

"He's going to torture him. He'll be probably doing it now. And you pretend me to eat and sleep as if nothing happens?" His voice is a mere growl, sounding low and cutting.

Mycroft sighs as he tries to say "I'm not pretending anything, I just-" His words are interrupted by Sherlock's fist hitting the computer. He gets up, slowly, walking towards Mycroft, but not facing him.

"He's out there, God knows where, with a psychopath by his side, having him at his mercy. He's the most important person in my life and he has been obligated to live a hell of a life and beg me to not go after him, just to keep me safe. I have no clues or anything to start with. And you are shouting at me for not eating in three days instead of moving all the British bloody Government to help you find that man? Maybe you are the one acting like a child. Now, if you excuse me, I have to save a life" says, taking his coat.

Mycroft's hands are shaking in his umbrella at those words. He looks down and whispers: "I'm sorry"

Sherlock's not facing him, but his elder brother doesn't need to see his face to know he's crying. As his shoulders start moving uncontrollably and the sobs become quicker, the older man leaves the umbrella, letting it fall down to hold his brother's body, hugging him tight and making the way to the floor softer. His hands stroke his curls as the younger's face is buried in his chest, weeping incoherently, Sherlock's hand grabbing his shirt tightly, as when he was insulted at school and came home crying, looking for Mycroft to feel safe. A single tear runs down Mycroft's cheek at the sight of his brother, broken in his arms.

"I-I promise... I-I give you my word that we will find him. We're going to save him. I promise." says, his voice cracking. Sherlock's grip tightens, sobbing harder at his words. He thanks deeply an internally his brother for holding him once again. He just wants his John back...

-OoOoO-

Nights were the only peaceful moment of the day. His back seemed to hurt less, his sobs were more intimate, Sherlock seemed closer... The thought of having Sherlock by his side helps him, keeps him right, makes him survive for one more day. That dark haired man followed him into the dark every time he was forced into it. He closes his eyes and sees his figure, his hands cupping his cheeks, his soft lips against his...

His body aches and he hisses. The torture increases as days go by. His back and chest are marked with each of the agonies he has gone through every single day of his new life. As he does every night, he turns the lights off and, carefully, gets into the bed while, looking at the ceiling, talks. Talks about anything at all. He just needs to remind himself who he is, how he used to be before, how his voice sounds, how he acted when he talked with Sherlock... It makes the possibilities of going insane decrease.

"Do you know what I've thought? That, when we grow old and I become a grumpy old granddad and you become a still insufferable git who's bored and wants to go on adventure although his age doesn't allow him to, we could leave Baker Street, even leave London, and move to the countryside. All full of green, peace... Maybe you think it' a stupid and dull idea, but I'd love to do it. You could keep bees, like when you were a child. We could even have a dog, and call him whatever we want to. Gladstone. Redbeard. Who knows? And we'll have rows about not having taught him to pee outside when we discover he's done it in one of your experiments" he chuckles, sadly, at the thought. "You would blame me for that, for being such a permissive mother. And, if we have kids, our grandsons would come and see us at summer breaks, coming to play outside, filling the house with their laughs and happiness. And, when the winter comes, we could sit in front of the fireplace, together, watching crap telly or just being there, holding hands, happy with each other's presence... We could even make love, slowly, tenderly, having all the time of the world for us" his voice cracks at that last sentence, tears falling down once again, missing something that hasn't even happened... and that will never happen. "I won't be able to resist this for much longer, Sherlock. I'm getting weaker every day, and there will be a day when torture won't be enough for him." says, his breathing becoming less regular, his hands shaking. "Come and rescue me, please, Sherlock. Don't be late. I won't resist this for a long time..." He hides his face in his hands, giving up to his tears and loneliness, making the feel of having the detective close evaporate, coming back to reality.

He hits his head against the wall near the bed, angry at his thoughts. He was the one who told him, who begged him, not to come and save him. He is protecting Sherlock, and he will continue protecting him. His life doesn't matter. He's strong. He has to save his love. He has to fight until his breath stops and his heart aches, cries and dies. Although all the pain he would suffer, all the bad days, all those real nightmares... He knows that he would die with a smile on his lips. Because he would have known the love of his life, he would have fought for him and he would have saved him. He wouldn't have died without tasting his lips, or without saying how much he loved him. He would feel completed... He would die happy.

The door opens, suddenly, revealing the body of his captor. His stomach twitches at his mere presence.

"Get dressed and stop crying or I'll hit you again. We've got work to do."

-OoOoO-

He watches the video over and over, searching for a clue. A single clue on his face, on his talking, a secret code maybe... Anything. He has already memorised his words, how many tears he drops, in which second his shoulders begin to shake... He strokes softly the screen, trying to comfort him through the video, knowing it's a useless caress. His phone buzzes: unknown number calling.

"Hello?"

The phone nearly falls down as his jaw drops open, tears coming out without a warning. How could that be happening...?