The Tell Tale Signs

by Alithe Cambre

John and Sherlock have a new case: an Edgar Allen Poe copycat. But when John becomes the victim, how does Sherlock react. This my just be the catlyst their relationship needed. Johnlock, M/M slash. Don't like? Don't read. Three Shot. Co-Authored with RK who does not have an account.

2. Chapter 2

Story: The Tell Tale Signs

Rating: M for explicit language and mature sex scenes (graphic)

Pairings: Johnlock, brief John/Moriarty/Sherlock threesome scene

Author: Alithe Serafina Cambre and RJK

Intended Length: 1-3 chapters, 5,000- 10,000 words

Chapter Two

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LAWRENCE KENNSINGTON III WAS pacing around the unconscious form that was hanging in the middle of the room. He ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair, muttering to himself. John Watson woke up slowly, prying his eyes open and ignoring the throbbing pain in the back of his neck and arms/shoulders. He immediately noticed that his wrists were bound with a thick rope and slung over a meat hook in the ceiling. In the corner of the warehouse room, he saw that there was a movie-esque set up of an old man's room. A ventilator and IV drip were there, as well as an oxygen cart. A cane was propped against the wall and a few floorboards were torn up.

John strained his ears and closed his eyes, faking unconsciousness as he tried to decipher the mutters of the mad-man in front of him. "But why? He's innocent, I can't kill him… he's certainly not innocent… soldiers are murderers… Smile mother, are you proud?"

Suddenly the kidnapper stopped pacing and his demeanor changed faster than a blink. A deep, guttural voice that John recognized poured out into the mutterings. "The first incision has to be precise, over the heart. Crack the ribs, remove the heart. Cut around the eye or gouge it out? Hmm… blood or no blood? Kill him first?" he muttered and laughed and John found it harder and harder to keep down his growing horror and fake unawareness. Thankfully the personality switched again and the voice once more sounded panicked and boyish.

"Oh god, my mum! Did I kill her? No, no, killed that bitch teacher… She failed me! Dyslexia! Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god! What am I doing? Text Sherlock!" he was silent for a beat and John cracked his eyes open to see that his captor had taken out his phone and was furiously typing away. The phone clicked shut and John closed his eyes once more. "Sister, brother, bile them cabbage down, down to the river to pray… Leave now and get help, Larry. Larry the third, can't even be first in names…" the voice changed once more.

"It's time to wake the soldier. Conscious for this… hurt more…" The man seemed to be talking directly to himself with the last comment rather than rambling to thin air like he had been. John tried not to tense as he heard the approaching footsteps. A cold bucket of water was thrown at him and he sputtered and gasped for air, his eyes open now. His kidnapper met his surprised gaze with a sinister looking smile paired with a glint of insanity in his blue eyes.

"Who- What?" John sputtered, acting confused. Anything to buy time… maybe if he could get the man talking he could stall. "Who are you? Why me? What do you want?"

"Me? Oh, I'm nobody- just an avid Edgar Allen Poe fan and dedicated student. Dyslexic teen hoping to become an author. You know, your average kid. But as for 'why you'… well, you'll do for my next murder. I can hear your heart. Drives me mad, you see? Sherlock Holmes' little protégé blogger/flat mate. HAVEYOUCOMETOSAVETHEDAY?" he screamed, letting loose a loud, maniac chuckle at the look of shock on John's face. "Well too late!" He took a cleaned scalpel from his pocket and poised it over his victim's ribcage, directly over the heart. John dared not breathe.

And then he screamed.

!

SHERLOCK WAS IN the police car, looking distantly out the window. He had gotten another text from the unknown number.

~The body is in the warehouse nearest Wales. Come and get your blogger. ~

John was dead. Lestrade had read the text over his shoulder and grabbed his wrist, pulling him into the patrol car.

"C'mon," he'd said to the catatonic detective. "Let's… Let's go find him before… before someone else." He finished his sentence quietly and Sherlock managed a nod.

!

JOHN WATSON HAD NEVER felt such pain. He wanted to pass out but forced himself to stay awake. His throat was raw from the screams that tore through it and his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth. Lawrence laughed as he cut deeper into the chest of his victim, blood gushing over his hands. But then, a miracle happened.

The maniac glint left the madman's eyes and he staggered back in horror. "MUMMY! He screamed. NONONONONO! FAILED! Soldiers are filth, murderers! Am I a soldier? Can I be a soldier? Mother do you approve? Cabbage carts kill the cabbage. Smile big when the flash come, Larry!" he rambled on and on, wiping his blood soaked hands onto his jeans as he rocked back and forth. "Claire! My Claire! Don't go, don't go, don't go!"

And just like that, the madman was back. He picked up the scalpel and lunged towards John, his aim to kill instead of torture. John squeezed his eyes shut.

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SHERLOCK STARED AT THE scene in horror.

John is alive.

John is alive.

John is alive.

John is alive.

John is alive.

John is going to die.

In slow motion, he saw the madman get up from the ground and pick up the surgical knife. He saw his blood-soaked best friend squeeze his eyes shut as the man lunged towards him.

And then he heard the gunshot. The madman crumpled to the ground with a thud and Sherlock spun to face Lestrade. The DI held his handgun up, the smoking tip pointed towards the murderer. It took all of Sherlock's considerable willpower not to hug the policeman. But other things took priority. He ran into the warehouse, drawing a sleek pocket knife from his coat and flicking it open when he reached his flat mate, cutting the rope that bound John's wrists together and catching the unsteady ex-soldier. John managed a weak grin.

"Was beginning to think you weren't coming, Sherly." He muttered into Sherlock's ear. Lestrade approached just as John collapsed into a dead faint and helped Sherlock catch him before he hit the ground. Together the two carried the limp form to the prop bed in the corner and laid john on the surprisingly springy mattress. Sherlock took off his jumper and began applying pressure to the wound in his flat mate's chest. Greg looked around nervously.

"I'll go get the emergency medical kit from the car and radio an ambulance." He dashed off, leaving John in his best friend's care. When Lestrade returned, he heard talking. He paused around the corner, listening. Apparently John had regained consciousness.

"…could have lost you, John! Why did you not see that he was a killer!?"

"Sherlock… he seemed… perfectly normal to me… if a bit enthusiastic… I think… he had MPD." John's words were sparse and labored. Lestrade had to stain to hear him.

"…John. I thought…" to Greg's utter astonishment, he heard Sherlock's voice crack. "I thought you were dead!" the next words come out muffled, as if Sherlock had buried his face into John's neck.

"Shhh, Sherlock. I'm… fine." Lestrade heard a muffled chuckle and Sherlock's now un-muffled voice.

"John… you're gushing blood." His words reminded Lestrade of the gauze and bottle of water he held in his hands and he decided to enter the "room". Sherlock and John turned their heads towards him and the two uninjured men began their rudimentary first aid. It wasn't long after they'd finished that they heard the sirens of an ambulance and all breathed a sigh nor relief.