Sherlock had spent much of his adult life not caring what time it was. He was rarely bothered what day of the week or what month it was even. But today... today, he was looking at his watch over and over again. He glanced at his phone, frowning at the time on there too.
7.36pm.
19.36h.
24 minutes to 8.
24 minutes until...
"Sherlock?"
John's voice was quiet, deliberately so; hesitant.
Sherlock blinked but remained silent. He looked at his watch again.
7.37.
John faltered for a moment, visibly wrestling with indecision. Stay or go? Speak or not? Even without looking at him, Sherlock could tell he was frowning before he turned on his heels and disappeared into the kitchen.
The whosh of water filling the kettle.
The click of the switch.
The soft rumble of water beginning to boil.
The clink of a tea cup.
No, two tea cups.
Tea bags.
The whirr of the fridge as John retrieved the milk.
Sherlock listened to every click, whirr and clink, drinking them up as if they were the last sounds he would ever hear. Even in the deafening silence of 221B, the sounds seemed soft; muted; dull in his head. Drowned out by the rush of blood and adrenaline coursing through him.
Nerves, Sherlock thought. He continued to sit in a trance-like state until John re-entered with two teas.
He placed both down on the coffee table and made the unusual move of taking a seat on the sofa next to Sherlock. The detective mindlessly lifted the teacup without turning to look at his flatmate.
John audibly swallowed before speaking again.
"Sherlock?" he began, taking a drink of his own hot tea, "Is everything OK?"
For a split second, John was sure he had seen something on the detective's face. A fleeting emotion. A slight twitch. Sentiment? John's frown deepened and he took a moment to steel himself to probe further.
"Sherlock. I know you've been spending quite a bit of time with your brother lately." John paused a second, seeing that flash of something again before continuing, "Is this just your brother getting under your skin again, or is there something going on that I should know about?"
Sherlock took a long drink of his tea and leaned forwards to replace the cup on the table. He licked his lips and momentarily closed his eyes, trying to still the pounding in his chest and the roar in his ears.
He had never spoken to anybody about their family history. Nobody. Not even those ghastly therapists that Mummy had arranged for them after their father's 'untimely and sudden' passing. No one knew. Not even Lestrade despite his involvement with the family on and off for the past ten years, since he first appeared at the Holmes residence. Lestrade had become the closest thing that Sherlock and Mycroft had to a friend at times, pulling Sherlock from a crack house and into Mycroft's care when the younger man had hit rock bottom. But not even Gregory Lestrade knew the depths of the Holmes brothers' problems.
Sherlock turned slowly to look at John. His flatmate; his colleague; his blogger; his friend. In that split second, he was torn. He had a strong desire to keep everything between himself and Mycroft. Self-preservation and that of his brother. Their family secrets involved his older brother as much as himself, and Sherlock felt in no position to discuss even parts of it, with anyone, without his brother's prior approval.
On the other hand, sat there, in that room, with probably the only person in the world who Sherlock had ever considered to be his true friend; a man who would kill for him; who would risk his life for him and for whom Sherlock had discovered he would not hesitate to do the same; a good man; an honest man; John Hamish Watson; his friend, he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge; a strong and desperate need to share everything.
He bit down on his bottom lip in an effort to hold back the words that threatened to spill forth from his mouth and glanced down once more at his watch.
7.46pm. The car would be here soon.
The car that Jim Moriarty was sending for Sherlock.
To take him god-knows-where to do god-knows-what.
Sherlock had tried to pretend that he was OK with this. He had reassured his brother over and over.
"I can handle this, Mycroft." he said, his voice waivering only slightly, "It cannot be worse than before. At least I have an idea of what to expect now. And it cannot be worse than going to prison, can it?" Sherlock was adamant, and Mycroft knew that they had little choice in the matter.
Jim always got what he wanted, and the Holmes family were in no position to argue with his demands.
Sherlock had tried and failed to delete what he could remember of the events that had happened ten years ago. He had tried locking it away in his mind palace - the abuse, his father's death, Jerry, Mycroft's desolation and what he could remember about what happened with Jim. He had tried piling it all into one room and locking it away, but something always spilled out; leaked around the doorframe, out of the keyhole, wrapping its black, oily tendrils around the door handle and letting it all spill back out again, flooding his mind with memories and feelings.
His solution, for a long time, was cocaine. The absolute relief that he got from the drug potency that Jim had introduced him to was all that kept him from going completely crazy for several years. He isolated himself from everyone and everything and plunged himself into a dark world of endless highs in a bid to escape.
Finally, after being pulled, emaciated and almost dying, from a crack house by Lestrade on a drugs bust, Mycroft forcibly had him admitted to a rehab centre and slowly, he began to get clean and find alternative methods of coping.
He had little doubt that Jim Moriarty planned to seduce him with promises of the peace and relief he had previously found in the drugs, and he suspected that there would be no discussion about it; no options; no choice. It would happen and Jim would carry out whatever unspeakable plans he had in place.
Afterwards, Sherlock knew he would have to fight harder than every to resist being drawn back into drugs again.
He just hoped that his alternative coping methods were enough.
Sherlock felt the sofa cushion shift as John shrugged and stood up, crossing to his armchair.
"I'm here if you decide you do need to tell me, Sherlock." he said, his voice sounding exasperated; reasonably enough, Sherlock thought. "I just thought that maybe... maybe I could help."
Sherlock raised his head and looked over at John, giving him a forced, but he hoped at last partly-convincing smile and a short nod. He checked his watch again. 7.59pm.
He stood and crossed to the window, just in time to see a sleek black towncar pull up, not unlike those Mycroft used.
John got back up and peered around Sherlock to look out of the window.
"Mycroft's again?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Sherlock's eyes darted to the side, briefly looking at John who was still staring down at the car in the street below.
"Better not keep him waiting, eh?" the doctor quipped with a quick wink and a nudge with his elbow.
Sherlock climbed into the towncar, giving one last look up at 221B's living room window to see John giving him a jovial wave. He rolled his eyes in response, trying to seem like everything was normal, but inside, his stomach was turning somersaults.
As he pulled the door closed behind him, a voice from the other side of the car startled him.
"Mr Holmes, I presume?" the man was well-spoken but heavy set. Someone who could definitely have 'convinced' Sherlock to come along, if he had been inclined to put up a fight. As it was, there was little point. Sherlock was resigned to his fate.
"You presume correctly." he answered flatly, deliberately turning away from the man and looking out of the window as the car pulled away.
"Right." the voice continued. "Well, Mr Holmes, I am sorry to have to do this..."
Sebastian Moran leant across the back seat of the car and, in one swift move, slid a needle into an exposed area of Sherlock's long neck.
"Sweet dreams, Mr Holmes."