Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

- W.H Auden

There was something incredibly depressing about being one of two people left still drinking in a pub at almost midnight on a Wednesday. When he had first arrived the place had been pulsing with life and John had had to shout his order across the bar to be heard over the loud roaring of an enthusiastic stag party and the several dozen chattering patrons. Because of the incessant noise John had kept his phone clasped tightly against his palm so that he could feel if it vibrated, in case someone rang or texted him.

But almost six hours had passed and the stag party had moved on to an afterhours club and the – now half drunken – patrons had slowly trickled out until only John and a man wearing a green felt suit and a yellow straw hat were left chugging down pints like they were glasses of water.

His phone was lying face up on the bar and even though he knew that no one had called or texted he still kept checking the screen.

"Girlfriend?"

John looked up from the foamy remnants of his pint and saw the bartender looking at him reflectively.

"Sorry?"

"You haven't stopped checking your phone since you got here. I've only see guys do that when they've had an argument with their girlfriend and are waiting to see if they've been forgiven yet. So... what did you do?"

John drained the last of his drink before he shook it at the bartender, "It's not my girlfriend," John slurred slightly, "it's my mate. I had a fight with my mate because he wouldn't stop playing his violin so I smashed it... I smashed his violin which is just... so completely..."

The bartender took the glass from John's hand.

"I smashed his violin." John said again, "You can't smash Sherlock's violin, that's like..." John buried his head in his hands, "He's not going to call, he's probably still in the front room picking up pieces of John."

"What?" The bartender asked as he placed a refilled pint of Guinness in front of John.

"John." John moaned, "He named his violin John, after me and I smashed it because he keeps calling Irene Adler by her first name. And now I'm going to have to move out and start living with Harry."

"Harry?"

"My sister. My alcoholic, self centred, narcissistic sister who is probably sitting in some pub just as drunk as I am." John said as he stared at his pint glumly.

"I don't want to move in with Harry, we never got along, we're worse than Sherlock and Mycroft."

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock's older brother!" John snapped, "What is it with you and the questions? Aren't bartenders supposed to just shut up and serve drinks at exorbitant prices?"

The bartender put up his hands in a sign of mock surrender,

"I was just trying to help – because you look like you're about to throw yourself off a roof."

John laughed,

"That might actually work you know, because he's crazy and maybe the only way you can get through to crazy people is by doing something so completely and utterly stupid." John slurred as he took a sip of his Guinness, "I live with a crazy person, he's certifiable, he has a bee hive on the roof... a fucking bee hive! He doesn't think that I know but I do but I didn't say anything because there's no reasoning with a crazy person. I mean, what could you say? "Please Sherlock, please don't keep bees on the roof" to which he would reply, "Well where do you propose I put them John?"

Suddenly John's phone buzzed and he reached for it so fast that he knocked over his pint, soaking the table top in alcohol. John scanned his inbox and saw that he had a new message... from Mycroft. It simply read:

You broke his violin?

John thrust the phone roughly into his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair, "He's never going to forgive me."

The bartender was silent while he began mopping up the spilled Guinness – which was dripping onto John's rain dampened jeans.

"So this mate?" the bartender said as he soaked up the alcohol with a dirty bar rag, "Is he a special mate?"

John looked up and saw the bartender smiling at him slightly,

"I'm not gay." John said as he placed his hands flat on the bar, "I'm not gay, I like women, I enjoy having sex with women_ no, I love having sex with women." John said, his voice getting progressively louder.

"Alright mate." The bartender said.

"No it's not alright mate, the problem is my mate because there are... because I want to..."

"You want to have sex with him?"

"No!" John said and he slammed his palms against the bar. He shook his head to reiterate his point, "He is the most irritating human being that I have ever met. He shows a complete lack of regard for me and my privacy and my sanity. He rarely cooks and when he does his usual motivation is because he wants to drug me with something or carryout an experiment or see what explosive diarrhoea does to a person. He texts me when I'm at work asking me to hand him a pen, or a tissue or to make him a cup of tea. He forces me to go on cases with him and then bitches about me blogging about them. He has set fire to the kitchen twenty-three times and he used to hide his cocaine in a human skull that he keeps on the mantel piece."

John scrubbed his face with his hands,

"I should hate him but I don't. I should want to have a normal, healthy, sane relationship but I don't. I want him. I want Sherlock Holmes in ways that I don't even understand and that's just crazy because I'm not gay and Sherlock doesn't do sex or relationships or... anything other than solve cases and work and being the world's most irritating consulting detective and flatmate."

The bartender blinked at John,

"I think you've had enough. Do you want me to call you a cab? There are a couple of decent hotels on the main road; they're cheap but not disgusting."

John shook his head as he got to his feet, wobbling slightly,

"I'm going home, I'm going home to 221B Baker Street and I'm going to have a conversation with my mate."

"Whoa," the bartender said as he placed his hand on John's shoulder, "You don't want to do that."

"I do, I need to."

"You're drunk and emotional and you'll regret it in the morning."

"I've already fucked up everything anyway," John said as he took out his wallet and handed the bartender a hand full of fivers, "It's not like I can make it worse."

"You can always make it worse... hey mate... you can always make it worse." The bartender called after John as he shrugged his arms into his coat – which was still slightly damp and cold – he stumbled off his stool and walked back out into the freezing night air.

His breath fogged out before him and John pulled his coat tighter around his trembling body. He'd been in damp clothing for too long and that combined with the ice cold winter air was causing him to feel slightly feverish.

John stumbled his way down an alley, bracing his hand against the brick wall by his side. It was good that he was drunk, he was always able to express his feelings better when more alcohol was pumping through his veins than blood. He would talk to Sherlock; he'd find a way to get Sherlock to forgive him. They'd been through worse; they'd fought before and exploded at each other and John had stormed off, gotten drunk and then returned late at night like nothing had happened.

Sherlock had drugged him and incapacitated him; he'd strapped him to a bomb and put him in the sights of a psychopathic criminal master mind... And John had forgiven him every time – with little complaint and...

John stopped walking. He should say all that to Sherlock. He should say it now, he couldn't wait until he got home because he was drunk and he knew that he was going to forget. He was just going to ring him now because drunken phone calls were always a good idea.

John pulled out his phone, the copious amount of alcohol in his system made the words on the screen wobble slightly but he was still able to select Sherlock's name from his list of contacts.

He placed the phone to his ear and listened to it ring.

"Come on Sherlock." John muttered as the phone went to voicemail. He tried again, mentally and verbally willing Sherlock to pick up.

On the third try instead of going to voicemail John heard Sherlock's disembodied voice,

"I'm not in the mood to talk right now John_"

"I know, I know, but please just listen to me, listen... listen... listen_"

"Yes John, that's exactly what I'm doing. I have ears and listening is generally known to be a relatively passive process."

"I need to say something."

"I gathered that_"

"Shut up for a minute and let me speak."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment,

"Have you been drinking?"

"Yes," John said as he tried to take a step forward but ended up stumbling and resting his shoulder against the brick wall, "But that's not the point, the point is that I'm sorry. Jesus, Sherlock I'm really, really sorry about smashing John like I did. And I don't know anything about violins but if you tell me what to get then I'll buy you another John, I'll buy you a better John."

"John," Sherlock said, his voice sounding slightly amused, "Do you have any idea what you're saying?"

"Of course, I might be drunk but I know what I'm saying... Sherlock..." John pressed his head against the cold wet brick of the wall and sucked in a lungful of freezing cold air, "Sherlock there's something that I want to say and I don't really know how to say it because I don't really know how I feel but I have to say something because it's driving me insane – and that's the main reason why I lashed out at you."

They were both silent and John took in another shuddering breath before he said,

"Please don't hate me for saying this but Sherlock I think that I might be... I think that I want to_"

Something that felt like a bee sting stabbed at John's neck. It hurt and he was about to reach up to feel the area of abused skin but he quickly realised that he couldn't. He couldn't move but he could feel warmth spreading from his neck and down his spine.

"Shhh_" he tried to say but his speech came out so slurred that he couldn't even pronounce his name. "Shheer_"

"John, are you alright?" John heard Sherlock ask.

He felt his knees begin to tremble and he knew that he was about to fall to the ground. A large, pale hand slid around his waist and splayed fingers stretched across his abdomen. He stared at it for a long moment, not quite sure what it was that he was looking at. He tried to touch the hand but his own weren't capable of moving.

"I'll take that." A quiet, cold voice whispered against his ear.

Icy fingers pried the phone from his hand and John could no long hear Sherlock's voice. His legs finally gave out and the person behind him held him up by hooking his arm around his waist. Slowly, John could feel himself being lowered towards the dirty, rain soaked ground. He was laid down face first so that his lips and nose were kissing the floor, he could taste the filth in his mouth and smell it in his nostrils.

He couldn't move his body, no matter how hard he tried. He simply had to lie there and listen to the voice above him speak down the phone to Sherlock,

"Mr Holmes, I have to say that I'm a little disappointed. I thought that our first conversation would have happened face to face. But then again I thought that you would have found me by now."

John felt a hard shoe slide beneath his ribs and slowly flip him onto his back.

The only part of John that could move was his eyes and as he lay there on the hard cold ground his eyes scanned the man in front of him.

He was deathly pale; the skin of his face and hands was almost a blinding shade of white. He had heterochromia, and John could see even in the dim light, that he had one blue eye and one that looked almost black. His hair was short and blonde, his lips thin, his frame slight and almost fragile looking. He stared down at John with a sort of deviant hunger that made John's heart rate spike.

"I thought that you were smarter than this," the man said as he slid one of his shoes up the length of the inside of John's leg, "I sent you a very clear message, in fact, it was embarrassingly easy to decipher. It was one step shy of just giving you a map with a cross marking the spot where you could find me."

Sherlock must have said something because the man smiled unnervingly at John,

"I'm still holding out hope. After all, I now have a double incentive for you considering I have your woman and your pet." The man's eyes travelled over John's body, lingering on a few choice places,

"I must say, he's rather pretty." The man said as he lowered himself onto the ground and straddled John's hips. The weight of the man's body pressing against him made John feel sick and he desperately wanted to get away.

"He's a pretty little pet, scared at the moment, but pretty none the less." His ice cold fingers traced John's lips, "Does he come running when you call?"

John could just make out the deep rumble of Sherlock's voice down the line but he couldn't work out what he was saying.

"I've injected him with a strong paralytic, he's totally helpless, I could do anything to him right now and he couldn't even scream. Usually I like to hear them scream but there's something rather thrilling about watching all their fear leak out of their eyes." The man said as he locked eyes with John, "He has such pretty eyes, not quite as pretty as yours Mr Holmes, but then I have a weakness for blue eyed boys. What colour are yours John? I can't quite tell, it's too dark..." the man said as he leaned in closer to John's face, so close that John could feel his breath on his lips.

"But he's a brave one, not willing to show me just how petrified he really is. Are you frightened Mr Holmes? I can't see your eyes but I think I can detect a slight tremor in your voice. Are you worried that I'm going to hurt him?"

Suddenly the man straightened up and placed one of his hands on John's abdomen, pressing down hard enough to make John internally cry out in pain.

"I've left you enough clues but because I'm a generous man I'll leave you one more." The man said as he reached behind him and pulled out a piece of heavy looking rectangular plastic. John didn't realise what it was until the man pressed a button and a long, thin blade flicked out. The man held up the blade to the light and turned it over in his hand to make it glint.

"One final clue Mr Holmes." The man said before he turned his body slightly and began to carve something into the brick wall beside John. The sound of the metal grinding against the brick seemed to link directly to John's pulse and with every scratch on the brick, his heart sped up.

"Would you like to speak to him? Relay some last words of solace or any declarations you would like to get off your chest?" The man asked absently, his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration as he continued to carve something into the wall.

"He wants to speak to you." The man said as he held out the phone to John and then smiled when John couldn't move to take it, "I'm sorry Mr Holmes, John doesn't seem capable of coming to the phone right now. Is there a message you would like for me to pass on to him?"

The man stopped carving and turned to stare at John,

"He says that he'll see you soon." The man said before he ended the called and slid it into his pocket.

John felt tears burn his eyes and blur his vision. He so desperately wanted to hear Sherlock say that out loud, to hear his assurance that he was coming for him, that he would find him before this man did to him what he had done to all those women that he'd left naked and mutilated in some desolate field. He wanted Sherlock – the Sherlock Holmes – to tell him that he wasn't going to die like this, at the hands of a mad man.

"Hey now." The man said as his cold fingers brushed away the tears in John's eyes, "Don't cry. I want you to see this." And then John felt the man's weight leave his hips and then he felt himself being dragged across the ground. A hand slid beneath his head and forced it up slightly so he could see what the man had carved into the brick wall. It was the initials "JW".

The man rested John's head back on the ground and John just stared up at the black, starless sky. He gave up fighting the tears and simply let them roll down the sides of his face. It was all he could do, he couldn't speak or move or make any sort of sound... but he could cry.

It wasn't the first time in his life that he thought that he was about to die, but it was the first time that he had felt this disempowered. He didn't want to die like this, to be just another clue in Sherlock's case, another pawn pushed around in a game being played by men much smarter than he.

This wasn't how he was supposed to die. He was Captain John Hamish Watson; he had served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, had been deployed in Afghanistan, was a trauma surgeon, a general practitioner of medicine and had saved the lives of hundreds of civilians and soldiers. He was important and this was not going to be the way that he died.

He refused to die like this.

"Don't worry," the man said as he came back into John's line of sight, "I promise it won't hurt a bit."

And then he slid a needle into John's neck and the world began to grow dark. John kept his eyes open for as long as he could, just staring up at that dark London sky wishing that he could see the stars.

As John began to fade and the world grew darker and colder around him he thought he could hear Sherlock's voice in his mind telling him that he'd see him soon.

John, Sherlock's voice rang out clear and strong inside John's head, I'll see you soon.

I'll see you soon.

I'll... see you... soon.

I'll...

And then the world went black.