Oh, this is a terrible, terrible chapter. xD Forewarning, it is written horribly, but I am way too tired to care right now – and you guys deserve at least something from my absence of this fic. I'm so sorry its taking me so long. D By the time I'm done with softball in the afternoon after school (every day D) I'm dead beat and I spend my weekends trying to rejuvenate. Not to mention the projects.
OH. THOSE SCHOOL PROJECTS. HUH. THE ONES I SHOULD BE DOING RIGHT NOW.
BAH. NOT AS IMPORTANT.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter even a little bit. xD It isn't too bad until the second half, which I tried to – well, you'll see. xD
Dear John
Chapter Ten: Another Letter?
~oOo~
Third Person POV
A couple months had passed by and before either of them really knew it, the five month mark was hit. John was unable to do most things still – he was unable to pivot or do any strenuous activity, but his physical therapy was finally over and he wouldn't have to go run around the whole face of the earth just to get better. Sherlock was glad too; he was able to spend more time with John now that he could walk around normally, jog and run every once in a while.
On another note, John, for the first time in his life, was truly bored stiff. No – not Sherlock – he was the bored one. For some reason it felt insanely strange, but the only thing he was able to do with an over protective boyfriend and an injury was walk with him to cases and watch him deduce. Not that that wasn't stimulated – because Sherlock was always beautiful when he deduced – but he was one of those people who got a kick out of the chase in general. Which, of course, was strictly prohibited.
Why does god hate him? John thought vaguely as he poured a new cup of warm tea. He could hear the splashing of the warm liquid hit the cup and furthermore the liquids inside the cup, rendering him distracted from the recessed within his mind.
Shaking his head, he put the kettle down and picked up his tea, taking a tentative sip. He frowned, mouth burning as he put the cup down on the counter next to him. Even the tea had to make him wait. With nothing better to do the ex-soldier sat down on the chair and stared at his tea, waiting for it to cool enough to soothe his rapid thoughts.
Sherlock was out on a case at the moment that the doctor obviously wasn't able to get on. If he was brutally honest with himself, he was both worried and terrified that Sherlock would do something stupid without him there. Surprisingly, for a genius, he really was dumb at times.
"Idiot would probably ended up getting shot by Lestrade," John spoke to himself offhandedly, "not that I would blame him." The blonde man grinned to himself and took a sip of his tea again, glad that it was a little bit cooler than before and not making cells and saliva burn out inside his mouth like before. As John glanced around, foot bouncing up and down as he took in everything in their flat. His chair had been moved out of the way slightly; it was from when he had crutches, but since they both liked the position it was in better they decided to keep it, mostly because it was out of the way when they were walking, unlike before.
On the wall there were two new pictures. One of them John had taken, and one Sherlock had. It was clear who took which one, mostly because Sherlock took his in the mortuary while they were examining a dead body. Smiling at the memory, he gazed at the picture, realizing how happy Sherlock looked in the picture. Now, one would say that he didn't if they didn't know Sherlock well enough, because he wasn't smiling – but his face was buried in John's hair, blushing as he took what teens would call a 'selfie', then playing it off that he needed evidence of their relationship for something John didn't remember.
Sherlock's eyes twinkled in that picture, bright blue irises scintillating through a mess of dark curls and straight blonde tufts. He, personally, almost liked that one better than his. He remembered that exact moment they had taken that picture, it only being a week or two ago, and he couldn't help but print it off from a corner Walgreens and buy a frame for it to accompany the one he took two months prior.
"John," Sherlock called his lovers name after he had finished the deduction, now closing the small, long space from which the body was held. As John heard the click of the door closing shut, he replied.
"Yes?" He raised an eyebrow at the man, leaning on his uninjured leg as his brace moved a little on his leg. "Do you know who the killer is?" He said, figuring that while the door closed he had recalled a million or so things that pointed to their most recent murderer. Sherlock always did things like that, finding information out within a split second.
Sherlock scoffed. "Of course, John, don't be obtuse," he smiled at his friend and lover even as he received the insult, "Just stand right there, yeah?"
John, who was used to Sherlock's strange way of getting things across, simply nodded and raised an eyebrow, wondering what his lover was up to at the moment. Sherlock nodded, mostly to himself, and moved to stand behind the blonde, his IPhone raising up to take a camera shot back at them. John was momentarily stunned by this.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" He asked before Sherlock could take the picture. He didn't budge.
"It's for a case, John," Sherlock answered calmly, as if that were always the answer. Which, usually, it was.
The blonde soldier rolled his eyes and leaned back up against Sherlock. "You don't have a case right now, though," John queried softly, fighting off a small smile as he saw the beginnings of a blush appear on Sherlock's embarrassed face. Ah, so – no case.
Sherlock was obviously too adorable for words.
Sherlock, not answering for the moment, only buried his face in John's neck and took the picture – with John staring directly into the camera with a wide, happy grin, and Sherlock pouting petulantly. The dark-haired man dropped the phone to his side a second later.
"Of course there is, John. I simply haven't told you about it yet," Sherlock said as he rushed away, back to his room, before John could answer. He shook his head then as he stood in the middle of the parlor.
"Idiot," John scoffed affectionately to himself, "there obviously isn't a case," he shook his head and went to the kitchen to make himself a nice warm cup of tea. His grew cold.
A couple days later John glanced towards Sherlock's resting phone and saw that very same picture as the device's wallpaper.
He never heard about that case again.
John remembered this strikingly fondly. Sherlock didn't do things like this often, he was a lot more reserved when it came to his relationship with him. The younger man had only gotten a lot more emotional as of his…well, his torture, which, if John was to be vain, he kind of liked. Emotional Sherlock was a new side to his lover that he hadn't seen in a good long while.
Watson sighed and sipped on the tea that was previously next to him. He had a copy of the picture himself on his less-than-smart smart phone. Sherlock had gotten him a new Droid a while back and as he appreciated it, he was quite illiterate to things like that. He preferred military equipment to technology.
Just as John took his eyes away from the picture, he heard the flat's doorbell ring. Startled, John jumped, spilling a bit of his tea on himself in the process. A small hiss resonated through his lips as he put his tea cup down and stood.
John grumbled as he made his way to the door, briefly wondering who it was who would bother ringing the doorbell instead of just walking in. All their friends weren't that considerate.
The doorbell rang again a couple steps before John got to the door. He descended down the stairs that led to their flat as quiet as he could, continuing his descent to the door. The blonde rolled his eyes and opened the appliance once he got there, mouth opened to ask 'yes?' in a slightly annoyed tone, but before he did so, John realized there was no one there.
Odd, John thought to himself as he briefly glanced around. He saw nothing strange, but being he was both a soldier and a doctor, he settled for glancing around again. He looked up, and then side to side, before finally glancing down.
As he did so, John realized there was a small white envelope sitting on the top step to the flat. He bent down to pick it up. No address. Individually delivered, then. Even more strange. John regressed back inside and closed the door, tucking the note under his arm until he got back into his flat.
The doctor took careful steps back up into the parlor, opening the flat's door and closing it as quietly as it could. This could potentially be for Sherlock, but he was sure the consulting detective would mind all too much. It took a few more steps before John was safely placed back into his chair.
John untucked the envelope from his arm and stared at it, an eyebrow raised and his heart beating a little quicker than it should. What is this? John questioned himself as he analyzed it. It wasn't heavy, so it was obviously only a piece of paper. It wasn't a bill of any kind, and it wasn't proper, meaning someone wrote this and sent it to either him or Sherlock.
But who would write such? Anyone who wanted to get in contact with them would either come to their flat or call them. Mycroft came into picture for a moment, and then John remembered that Holmes's had a flair for being dramatic. No, if Mycroft wanted to talk to Sherlock he would visit and if he wanted to talk to him he would kidnap him.
So, not Mycroft.
John shook his head and mentally berated himself for not just opening the letter. That was his next choice, and it was what he did.
It was easy to tear open the letter. It wasn't closed correctly, so John had no trouble ripping it open and taking the tri-fold paper out of its confines. With a flick of his wrist and a twitch of his fingers, John opened the letter, ready to read what was on the white sheet.
There, in a small, jagged, scribbly print, John read these words:
Hello, John. You remember me? I remember you. I think it's time I came back out to play. I miss that beautiful body of yours – already claimed with my scars and my brandings.
I will get you back soon. And then I'll teach you not to disobey your master.
~ M.W.R
John Watson's blood ran cold for a moment and the only thing he could do was stare at the piece of paper holding those terrifying words with horror written all over his face. His breath quickened. His pupils dilated with fear. His hands began to shake again and everything on his body began to ache.
The blonde dropped the letter and watched it fall to the floor, thoughts and imaged flooding into his mind once more. Everything he had been trying too hard to forget came rushing back in and it took all that he had not to collapse off the chair onto the floor and scream bloody murder.
"Sherlock, oh god. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," John uttered past his lips as he stumbled up out of his chair, his mind running a million miles per second and his face contorted with a terrible distortion. The doctor blindly moved around, stumbling and rocking, messing things up as he went around the flat looking for his phone. He needed Sherlock. Where was Sherlock? He needed to call Sherlock?
John continued to tumble around. Through the kitchen, he messed up some of Sherlock's experiments, some vials and glasses dropping to the floor and falling. Through the parlor, his tea fell to the floor as he tried to shakily move it, purposely trying to stay as far away from the letter as he possibly could. All the way over to the room he and Sherlock shared – the lamp had been dropped to the floor and furthermore shattered.
Eventually John had blindly found the phone under his bed sheets. He didn't hesitate to call Sherlock.
As he put the phone to his ear weakly, he chanted as follows: "Please, Sherlock. Come on, pick up, please." It rang for a few moments, three, no, four rings, before the man finally picked up.
"Sherlock Holmes," came his lover's voice from the other line. John's breath elevated more and he could feel his pulse heighten with panic.
"Sherlock, oh, god, Sherlock," John cried through the receiver as he felt his breath catch and his mind short circuit. Eyes already moist and dripping, he continued, "Sherlock, please, I-I need, oh god, I'm so scared, Sherlock –."
Sherlock cut him off. "John, John, wait, stop. Listen to me. Relax. What's going on, love? What's the matter?" John tried to listen only to Sherlock's voice as he looked all around the room, as if eyes were already trained and staring at him with a leering expression. More recollections flashed through his mind and he fought to get his next words out.
"Sherlock, come home. I need – oh god, Sherlock, he's coming. Letter, he, he, he knows," John sobbed into the phone as he shook uncontrollably. "He's going to come. Sherlock, he's going to come take me back. He's coming. I don't want to go. I don't want to –."
"John, stop it. Listen to me. He's not going to get to you. I'm here. You're safe. I'm on my way back right now," Sherlock apparently pulled his phone away to tell Lestrade he was leaving. John didn't hear a response so that meant Sherlock was already coming, hopefully. "John, please, breathe for me baby. Are you okay? Stop thinking, John. Keep talking to me, okay?" Sherlock concerned voice drifted into his mind, and John slowly felt some fear go away.
However his whole body was still shaking and he felt as if a million eyes were still on him. "Sherlock, he contacted me. A-a letter – he said, oh god, he said he's going to take me back. H-He's going to teach me a lesson. I don't want to go back Sherlock, I don't –."
"He won't, John. I promise. He won't," Sherlock calm voice came back. "I'm on a taxi back. I'll be back in five, okay? Stay where you are and try to think about something else. Anything else. Think about me, okay? You'll be okay until I get back. I need to call Mycroft, okay? I'll be there in a moment,"
John listened to these words blindly and nodded. After a moment's silence he realized Sherlock couldn't see him and he replied with a shaky 'okay', before a following, 'hurry', then ending the call.
John dropped his phone on their bed and drew his knees up to his chest, suddenly feeling very violated. Master was coming back to get him. What if he got to him? What if the government wasn't enough? If Sherlock thought he was dead as long as he had – the man knew how to cover his tracks so well that…that John may never be found.
What if he wasn't found?
John sat in the silence of the bedroom, breath still shallow and eyes still wide, dripping, and petrified.
After a minute or so, he began to rock back and forth, trying to get his mind back to where he could think properly. It wasn't working very well. He needed Sherlock. Sherlock would make things better. He always did, right? No one could outsmart him. Not even Moriarty.
That was sort of comforting. John had the British Government on his side. But…that man…that man could do the impossible. John has seen it. Oh god, he was going to go back. He was going to have to – to become so dirty and vile again that – that he…
John whimpered and continued to rock back and forth impatiently. He couldn't think straight anymore; it was much like how he felt when he was captured. He was scared, restless, and overly violated. If John could stand properly he would go into the shower and never come out….
Minutes passed by slowly after that, but John poked his head out of his knees when he heard the loud slamming of a door and scurrying to where John was. John's gaze trained on the door, a little scared, as he heard Sherlock jogging to where he was.
Thump thump thump thump thump thump, came the quick steps, followed by their bedroom door being thrown open. John flinched as he saw Sherlock suddenly appear, panting and eyes wide and concerned. John met gazes with him and flinched, he could feel the gaze scrutinizing him already.
Don't look, I'm unclean, stop looking, please don't, I'm scared and unclean….John whispered in the back of his mind as he watched Sherlock rush to his side and wrap his arms around him, hugging him closely. The warmth startled him, and the blonde refrained from flinching back away from his lover.
"Shhh, John, its okay, its okay, you're fine…" Sherlock shushed as John wrapped his arms around the curly-haired man.
"Sherlock, I'm scared…." The blonde caved down, his strong arms wrapping around the consulting detective like a vice, trapping him in and keeping him there as long as possible. The back of his mind still said that being touched was dirtying Sherlock, that he was making him unclean and vile much like he was, but the feeling of another's arms wrapped around him gave him the chance to feel a little bit safer. John buried his face in his lovers neck then; sniffles resonated in the silence as he shook and wailed and sobbed into a piece of thin cloth that was already too damp for either of their liking.
"I know, John. I know. Please, it's okay, don't cry," the younger Holmes tried to comfort John, with little success. His lover still curved into him and sobbed helplessly, which made the blood in Sherlock's body boil with undeniable anger. Whoever captured his John and made him like this would pay – severely. They would wish they were dead by the time he was done with them. They would wish they had never lived in the first place – Sherlock would make damn sure of that.
But first, he needed to help John. Get him safe. If this man already knew where John lived, it was already a matter of time before he would go and try to collect the doctor. Which, by no means, would happen.
Sherlock pulled away from John, clenching his teeth as he continued to listen to the sobs of the older man. "John, listen to me, please. I need to inspect that letter. Where is it, John?"
John bowed his head and pulled away from Sherlock, reaching to wrap some blankets around his form to cover his aching, itchy body. "Floor. My chair. I c-can't…I don't want to touch it," the soldier admitted quietly, trying not to sound as broken as before. He needed to get in his right mind…he needed…he needed to be okay. Tears didn't help….
But they didn't stop flowing.
Sherlock nodded patiently. After a second, he crouched back down next to his huddled lover next to the bed and lifted his hand to wipe away some caked hair at his tanned forehead. John flinched away. "P-Please, don't touch me, I-I'm disgusting, I-I, oh god, I'm…." Sherlock clenched his teeth and forced John's struggling face to lock straight forward, angled downwards slightly to be able to see the dark-haired man as he spoke.
Vehemently, Sherlock replied. "No, John. Don't you dare. You are perfect, alright? You're beautiful and amazing and you are not disgusting!" He scolded the terrified man, causing John to jump. Immediately Sherlock's tone changed back to soothing. "I need to see it, John. Would you like to come with me?" He asked tentatively.
For a few moments, John didn't respond. He sniffed and glanced away. To be honest he didn't feel like moving right now – but he also didn't want to be alone while Sherlock went to go grab that…that thing. So, with a bashful glance and a sniffle, John nodded. He tightened his blankets around him, though, as he stood.
Sherlock moved out of the way for the shorter man to gather his bearings.
"Lean on me," Sherlock murmured after a second, realizing John wouldn't move on his own. The blonde did so without hesitance, trying to feel as safe as he had before again. "Are you alright?" The curly-haired man queried quickly as he took his first step, John following closely behind.
"No," John pulled on Sherlock clothing through the opening of his wrapped blankets, "but I need you here," he whispered, just as quietly, as they stepped out of his room.
The air around them shifted a few degrees colder. Obviously not realistically, but Sherlock could feel it as if it were real. Not missing a beat, he nodded, glancing out of the corner of his eye to make sure John wasn't going to disappear before him. "Just…the letter, and then we can go to sleep, right? Right?" John asked like a child as they stepped into the parlor. John didn't feel safe.
Sherlock nodded again. "Yes, we'll go to sleep. I promise."
"Okay. Letter then sleep."
"All right."
