A/N: Hey all, so sorry for the delay in posting this one! I'm back for now, though, so I'm going to try and wrap up this story with the holidays so that I can start working on the second part. ;) Thanks to everyone who has stuck around! :D
Forever Avenge
a Star Trek/Sherlock crossover
VI
[Stardate 2016,9: London]
Never had John Watson seen a paper map of London so ferociously written upon in bright red ink. It was hardly discernible at this point, what streets were what and which intersections led onto which highways. It was apparent, though, upon glancing back and forth between his partner and the messy map that Sherlock was clearly seeing something that he was not, as usual. He dared not speak out in inquiry, though, knowing that the detective neither would wish for his silence to be broken nor would he bother responding to his partner's questioning. During the treacherously long cab ride back to 221B, the man did not utter a sound—has not, in fact, since leaving the most recent crime scene, the snowy backdrop of a highway suicide, drenched with sharp accents of crimson following the body of a young girl off the edge of a bridge down to her harsh, frozen death below, narrowly missing the Lester River in the fall. At first it was pegged as a suicide, until traces of pre-mortem sexual assault were found upon the body during the autopsy, linking it to a serial rapist that had been haunting the news every night for the past week. Hardly anyone bothered paying much mind to the brutalities of the defiler as of late, though, because of the blizzard that immediately hit London merely two days after the first victim was reputed. As predicted, it took all the way up until one of the nameless man's victims finally turned up dead for Lestrade to convince Sherlock to take on the case, despite his lover's vocal disapproval, of course. That was always something that struck a nerve in the doctor, having to hear about young women being violated in the most degrading way imaginable.
It was only their second day on this case and John was already corporally and emotionally drained.
At last the doctor gave up on trying to read Sherlock's mind, turning away from the map that the consulting detective continued to so fervently study to instead re-read the case reports for the first two rape victims, the two women that were kept alive to recount their horrifying experience. He walked away from the couch carrying the files, stopping in front of the frosty window as he read, the soundlessly falling snow casting shadows upon his downcast face.
Annabelle Maud, age twenty-two; found semi-conscious in an alleyway just three-and-a-half city blocks away from her place of work—
"Gold Star Memorial Bridge."
John immediately wrenched his face away from the case notes in his hands upon hearing Sherlock's voice for the first time in well over an hour and a half.
"That's where the next murder is going to happen?"
"Yes," Sherlock spoke with unhindered certainty, turning away from the map and folding his hands together behind his back upon facing John.
"Why that one, though?"
"Because at least half of that particular overpass will be closed down during the freeze tonight," Sherlock informed him, "Leaving the drop into the Thames from overhead near completely vacant from all cars or bystanders. This was the same reason he had utilized the Highway Sixty-One overpass for the previous murder the other night, to try to keep it concealed within the storm."
"So he doesn't want to get caught after all," John spoke, trying to understand. Sherlock frowned slightly.
"If he wanted to be caught so badly he would be in custody by now," The detective informed the doctor pointedly. "He may not be the most intelligent criminal, but he at least knows how not to get caught by the police."
"And yet you caught up with him in less than forty-eight hours," John muttered, to which his partner merely raised a brusque eyebrow towards.
"I am not the police."
"Obviously," John said, unable to hide the knowing grin that came into being upon seeing his confidant's mouth twitch in distaste towards hearing one of his trademark lines of acerbic taunt being used against him. "How long do we have until he makes his move, do you know?"
"Of course," Sherlock said haughtily, turning back towards the map as he pulled out his mobile phone to check the weather in London for the evening. "The temperature's already well below zero degrees Celsius; it will only take between two to three hours for the bridge to freeze completely over, and another four hours for the sand trucks to get out there"
"So he'll be out there by ten-thirty or so," John said, looking down at his own form to check the current time.
"Make it ten," Sherlock said, stowing his phone back into his pocket after sending a brief text message to Lestrade. "If there's anything I've deduced about Derek Andrews' habits thus far, it's that he is a sloppily impatient man, too eager to get to point B before properly analyzing every proper bit that could go wrong at point A."
"Hang on…" John said, staring at Sherlock. "How long have you known the rapist's identity?"
"Before you chastise me, John, know that I let Lestrade know his name approximately an hour ago, while you were still brooding in the cab ride here."
"I was not brooding—"
"John."
The former army doctor turned his back on his partner; he highly disliked being fulminated by a man that was still just barely discovering that yes, he did have the ability to be empathetic, that his heart and soul were in proper working condition even after so long being left to dry out in a logic-infested hibernation for most of the man's early life. He had yet to respond to John's confession of love, which was wholeheartedly given to the consulting detective a good six months into their relationship. Over six more months had passed since then and still Sherlock Holmes had not uttered those three simple but meaningful words to John, who longed to hear them more than the man could ever know. The man did nothing to dissuade John of his romantic intentions, did nothing to make him feel like he was merely going through the motions of being in a relationship. Everything was there except for his admittance of love, and though John was an understanding man when it came to the trickiness of his best friend and paramour, he sometimes only wished that the man would stop being so thick-headed when he had the amount of ingeniousness within him that he had proven to contain since the first day he spoke to him.
This moment in particular, however, was going to be one of those peculiar, tender moments in which Sherlock would show John just how human he had the ability to be, even if just for the doctor. Before he could fully fathom what was happening, John felt his partner's arms wrap affectionately around him, securing him within his familiar, consolatory grasp. The former army doctor sighed, tilting his head back as Sherlock leaned forward to plant a kiss upon the man's forehead.
"I know how this case is affecting you," he spoke softly, almost regretfully before squeezing John gently, releasing him before he could respond to the surprisingly emotionally-driven statement. John nodded, accepting the fact that any further affection was going to have to wait until the case was closed—which, according to the detective, would be sooner rather than later. He had done his job to calm his lover down significantly, anyway, and with a much clearer, more relaxed mindset, John set the case files in his hands down upon the coffee table and made to put his coat on, pulling his gloves on over his hands as he silently reviewed every brief thing Sherlock had just informed him of and making note of anything that required further clarification from the detective in the cab ride over to the Gold Star Memorial Bridge.
Sherlock and John but froze in the middle of prepping to go out into the cold upon hearing a sudden commotion downstairs. It began with a banging upon the door that came much harder than necessary, automatically suggesting the arrival of an unwelcome guest—which the two of them were far from unfamiliar with there at their flat. They could not hear who it was at the door when Mrs. Hudson opened it to let them in, though, due to the gusts that resounded into the entryway from the ferocity of the outside storm. That being said, both men immediately snapped into action upon hearing their landlady scream, her cries rapidly cut off by what could have only been a palm pressed forcefully against her face. A little vein visibly popped up over Sherlock's temple when the man silently clenched his jaw in rage. Revolver and pistol both at hand, John quickly followed the consulting detective as he swept towards the stairs, both of them approaching the sounds of shuffling feet and low men's voices with bated breath.
They paused and waited in the stairwell, breathing as silently as physically possible while listening carefully for any sort of sound to come from the lower flat. It was silent—disturbingly so—for a long minute, and then Sherlock's eyes widened slightly as he heard a distinctive click. Immediately he turned to grab John and pull him to the floor just as the doctor himself tackled him to the ground. Both of them were clearly at the same level of alert-ness as they scrambled to press themselves up against the wall, John leaning over towards the edge of the stairwell a bit to listen for any further forth-telling sounds. Upon hearing nothing but silence, he looked back over at Sherlock, his chest rising and falling quickly as adrenaline surged through his desensitized veins.
'You heard it, too,' Sherlock mouthed, meeting John's eyes as he nodded firmly.
'That was a phaser, not a revolver,' he mouthed back quickly, turning his head back towards the lower level, listening as sounds of movement once again began to permeate the silence. Sherlock also looked in that direction, wracking his brilliant mind for who could be invading Baker Street other than the Yard...and also who would have already upgraded to the still work-in-progress new photon phaser weapons, at that. That particular weapon's presence made him a bit uneasy; a gun wound he could deal with, or rather, he could deal with a gun in general. He knew the various designs and models, how their shooting habits were and how to avoid being shot and successfully disable the weapon should it be necessary to have that knowledge for a case. But a phaser was another story. Photon weaponry was a government specialty; hardly anybody in the public knew anything about the new phaser guns, including Sherlock Holmes.
Three—no, four men, two of them more athletically built than the others by the sounds of their footfalls; one of the two has Mrs. Hudson while the other one is the man casting shadows upon the wall before us—bearing the shape of a hand phaser, cocked and ready to fire at a moment's notice. Stifling familiarity is evident; they would have come towards us by now if they knew not of who we were. They know I am armed, just as well as they know John is with me, gun at hand as well. But who are they…?
Once the shadow upon the wall disappeared from their view, though, neither the doctor nor the detective had any way to tell what was occurring in their landlady's flat. John moved ever so slightly over to the left, keeping mostly covered by the railing of the stairs as he peered into the entryway, looking towards the door to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. Slowly—carefully—he lifted his gun up, cocking it, preparing to fire. He felt Sherlock's hand upon his shoulder as the detective pressed up behind him, looking over him towards the old woman's flat as well, listening carefully to attempt to hear what the men inside were speaking irritably softly to one another about.
"As soon as I shoot be ready," John whispered to his partner, licking his lips, refusing to look away from Mrs. Hudson's door. Adrenaline was pounding through his veins with a fervent ferocity only a soldier would have, and as Sherlock drew even closer to him, he could feel his heart pounding madly against his spine as well, fueling the determination within him greatly. The detective whispered lightly in agreement, lifting his own weapon up, gripping tightly at the hand gun.
A head appeared in the glass of the door; a shot resounded from the high-ceiling hallway they stood within; the figure dropped dead. Crimson blood and filthy grey brain matter splattered the glass framing of the door, and the brief, muffled shriek from Mrs. Hudson was cut off by the rapidity of angry approaching footfalls. Sherlock attempted to steep completely away from the doorway but John was quick to keep right in front of him. Both men met the dark faces of their unwelcome visitor's with uplifted, loaded weaponry. Neither one of their guns shook within their firm grasp.
"…Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" the tallest of the trio spoke, looking right into Sherlock's face, shirt slightly splattered with a bit of blood from his fallen comrade. The consulting detective narrowed his eyes.
"I have the distinct feeling that the pre-assumptions are not needed," he said in snarky reply, curling his long index finger threateningly around the trigger of his revolver as he examined the intruder. The man stood only mere centimeters shorter than himself, his auburn hair cut back at a professional length, which was making the detective's assumptions of some sort of government interference begin to look better and better by the second. In all three of the suited men's hands were identical, a chrome-like silver in color and smooth texture, its barrel considerably smaller and more compact than the handguns he and John held up to their faces. "Who sent you?"
"Do you really believe you are in a position to question us, Mr. Holmes?" the man spat back haughtily.
"Given the fact that both I and my flatmate are just as armed as the three of you are, it appears we have reached a sort of stalemate that is more than acceptable for people to ask and answer questions within," Sherlock reasoned straight-forwardly, not batting an eye.
"You're outnumbered," the man pointed out. "We could easily take the both of you out."
"You want to bet your lives on that?" John intercepted vocally, looking the man in the eye. "After having to watch your mate there get shot down like that, do you really want to try your luck?"
The leader of the three—the one who had been doing all of the talking thus far—turned and nodded at one of the larger cohorts, who re-entered Mrs. Hudson's flat. Sherlock and John both watched him go and heard Mrs. Hudson's feeble protests from the other room until they were abruptly silenced once more. Both of them gritted their teeth together in anger when he dragged her out of the kitchen, for she was bound with large, metallic cuffs and gagged to stifle any sounds of protest she could make. The detective's demeanor quickly turned from fury to homicidal, wanting nothing more than to put a bullet in all three of the men's brains.
"…I'll bet my life on that only if you both are willing to bet her life on it as well," the man stated menacingly, his light tenor voice laced with the reverbs of the spoken threat. Of course neither the doctor nor the detective moved, acknowledging the fact that they truly were caught between Scylla and Charybdis, watching and waiting for the intruder's next move. "Now, if we're going to talk, you'll both need to surrender your weapons first, of course. We can either do this diplomatically or by means of force, gentlemen."
Silence and stillness settled over the scene; John's expression was so harsh that he half-expected the glower that was painted upon his face to become permanently etched into his skin. "Who the Hell are you people, anyway?"
"Once again, we can talk when you drop the gun."
Silence. His patience visibly growing thin, the man turned and glanced at his co-worker who had Mrs. Hudson cowering by the back wall.
"Stun her."
"That won't be necessary!" Sherlock quickly bellowed, the desperation he was feeling as he tossed his revolver to the ground effectively hidden by the exacerbated rumble that emerged from within his chest as he spoke to the man. John's pistol followed just as a distinctive pew infiltrated the hall and Mrs. Hudson fell slackly down upon the floor. When the men made a move to run towards her, her gunner pointed his phaser at them, making them freeze mid-step. Now that they were defenseless against these mysterious weapons, John felt a dull, dreadful ache of unadulterated fear pervade into the pit of his stomach—and he hated the feeling nearly as much as he hated the well-dressed men standing before him and his partner.
"What was the purpose of that?" Sherlock demanded of the men through harshly gritted teeth.
"To get her to shut up," the man said with a shrug. "What does it matter? Neither of you will ever be able to see her again."
"If you hurt her—"
"You will never know about it."
"Who the Hell are you?!" both John and Sherlock yelled in unison, John clenching and unclenching his left hand as he felt the sudden need to kill impede upon his mind.
"So much for diplomacy," the man commented swiftly, extracting an identification card from within his suit pocket. "Dr. Arik Soong, genetic engineer of what will eventually be christened Section 31 by the up and rising United Federation of Planets."
"Up and rising?" John spoke in slight disbelief. "That's not right, the UN still has yet to vote on it, it can't be—"
"For all intents and purposes, the Federation has been enacted for about five years strong now, Dr. Watson."
"How do you know who we are?" Sherlock inquired, meeting the man's eyes with a stony glare.
"You'd be surprised how much we know about everyone, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Soong said, smiling darkly at the detective. "But you—we have taken it upon ourselves to be sure we knew absolutely everything we could about you…which was not hard, given the fact that both your obituary and the newspaper columns following your 'death' four years ago were very detailed."
"Somebody has been feeding you far more information that what was posted in the papers, though," John said, to which the malicious doctor simply raised an unamused eyebrow at him.
"We are a government organization, working both directly and indirectly for the Federation Council. If we require specific information, we have numerous, foolproof methods of gaining all that we require and more."
"Why is this beginning to sound more and more like a Mycroft sort of thing?" John wondered aloud with a grimace, knowing all too well just how much the elder Holmes loved to get involved with his and Sherlock's lives. Even as he said it, though, he glanced back at the stunned Mrs. Hudson, wondering if the man would sink so low as to allow their beloved landlady to get hurt just to get to them.
"They're with the Federation, not with Mycroft," Sherlock stated, not taking his calculating eyes off of Dr. Soong. "Mycroft has similar political views to your own, John; he always preferred the classic, 'for Queen and Country' standpoint over the extreme modernization of the United Federation of Planets."
"Which is why the man had to be dispatched as soon as possible," Dr. Soong piped up.
The hall grew very quiet after that statement, and even Sherlock visibly tensed at the mention of his brother either being harmed or killed. Not so much for the care of the man, of course, but more so over the fact that should these men succeed in taking him and John into their custody they would have no one working inside of the government on their side to bail them out of this one. John merely gulped in disbelief, wondering exactly what it meant that these people were able to get to Mycroft, the one Holmes that had always seemed outright untouchable to him. Suddenly, their fate was very unseemly and a bit terrifying without the British government there to back them up.
"You killed Mycroft Holmes," John said in a skeptical tone of voice, to which the man before him and Sherlock simply turned his chin up and looked over at his two companions.
"Pick up their weapons and cuff them," he ordered.
"You've yet to tell us where we're going, Dr. Soong," Sherlock pointed out, and John had to wonder over just how well the detective was able to keep his voice steady and authoritative, even in the bleak situation they found themselves in.
"Not both of you," the man that was securing his hands behind his back corrected Sherlock. He forced the taller man down onto his knees, earning him a significant look of hatred from the consulting detective.
"What?" Sherlock could not help but exclaim as he began to viciously fight against his captor up until the thicker man pointed his weapon at his head.
"Now, now, Dr. Thomas," Dr. Soong piped up, looking away from his assistant towards John as he too was lowered unto his knees, struggling fiercely against his binds until he felt the cool touch of the photon weapon's tip being forced up against the back of his head. "I think the former army doctor could prove to be a useful augment as well, don't you?"
"We could always use extras anyway, for experimental purposes," the man that secured John mentioned in a bit of a nasally tone of voice.
"Exactly," Dr. Soong agreed, turning back towards Dr. Thomas. "We've got Mr. Holmes here to touch base with the frailty—or, rather, lack thereof—of the genius mind. We could utilize his friend here to explore the opposite realms, regarding the empathies of the heart."
"I like it: 'the Mind and the Heart,'" John's gunman unknowingly recited his and Sherlock's private, unofficial title, earning him a foot to the groin. Sherlock watched in pride as his partner's captor stifled a cry and stumbled against the railing of the stairs, fuming in pain as he set his phaser to stun, just in case the doctor repeated his attack. After the most acidic false smile John could muster was shot in the unnamed man's direction, he turned back to look up at Dr. Soong and asked:
"That's what this is about? Capturing people to experiment upon them?"
"You mentioned the term 'augment,'" Sherlock spoke up, cocking his head in disapproving curiosity. "What precisely is being augmented in the experiments you mentioned?"
Dr. Arik Soong smiled a wide, vindictive smile laced with unparalleled pride before responding: "Anything and everything about a human being. We are, essentially, creating and producing an entire new species of super humans by genetically improving and mastering all aspects of the human body."
"Hmm," Sherlock replied. "How predictable; how many times in the past have genetic engineers attempted to do so and failed miserably?"
"This just sounds like something out of a bad graphic novel," John could not help but agree. "We've heard of these kinds of advancements being made on animals, but human beings? Preposterous, no one would allow that."
"These genetic experiments have been around for nearly a decade now, Dr. Watson," Dr. Soong replied automatically. "We have successfully created approximately one hundred and fifty fully functioning human augments here in our lab alone, with another four hundred humans being experimented upon and genetically re-engineered across the globe, completely hidden to the naked eye. This hidden study of superior eugenics has already been successfully applied worldwide; at the moment, we have more than enough augments created to completely take over the globe.
"So," Dr. Soong said, turning back to the detective, "It is not a question of whether or not we will succeed in upgrading you and Dr. Watson, here; it is merely a question of how powerful you both will be as an augment. Given the information I have upon your intelligence quotient, Sherlock Holmes…I have reason to believe that once altered, you will easily be the most prominent of our genetically-engineered species of human augments."
Their fate was sealed; John gaped with horror at the man smiling evilly before him, unable to mask the pure terror he was suddenly feeling. When he turned to look at his partner, he saw a similar look upon his face but could also tell that the man was surveying their surroundings in desperation for a glimpse of hope, for an escape. With their hands secured behind their backs and photon pistols pointed at their heads, though, even the brilliant consulting detective could not find a way out of the situation he and John were in.
This was to be the end of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
"No," John hissed in protest, as if he could hear what Sherlock had just thought. "No—this—this isn't happening!" With that last statement the soldier in him took over, his adrenaline pulsating throughout his entire being as he struggled to rise from his crouched position. The man behind him shoved his phaser even rougher into the back of his skull, successfully traumatizing the space between his parietal and occipital bones and causing John to wince back down onto the floor, dots protruding into his vision as he closed his eyes.
"Not another word, Doctor," his rival warned, just as the shorter man knocked his skull backwards with such great force that the man dropped his weapon. Ignoring the head rush associated with his disarmament, John leapt to his feet and made to ram the entirety of his weight straight into the man; he was halted immediately when a sharp, unexpected clenching feeling overtook his body and he fell limply onto the ground, stunned beyond comprehension.
"John!" Sherlock screamed, making to rise to his feet just as he too was hit by Dr. Thomas' phaser, falling unconscious onto the floor next to his friend. The three remaining conscious men in the room looked down at the doctor and the detective for a moment, and then Dr. Soong turned towards Dr. Thomas and ordered:
"Finish off the landlady and take care of hers and Dr. Yurii's body while we load them up, will you?"
Darkness surrounded him when Sherlock awoke from his unwanted blackout, making him truly wonder as to whether or not he was truly conscious. When he was able to feel the large cuffs digging uncomfortably into his back he quickly recalled what was going on, how he had passed out in the first place. The first thought to protrude into his rapid transpiring's were of his partner, and the doctor quickly overtook everything else. Immediately he racked his hazy memory to try and place where John would most likely be at the moment. His question was answered as quickly as it was silently asked, though, when he rolled over upon his side and felt a warm presence next to his body.
"You're awake," the familiar voice spoke, pervading the silence with his post-sleep hoarseness. Sherlock squinted in an effort to see just how close he was to John and essentially ended up giving up, acknowledging the fact that night had fallen, adding to the already dark backdrop of this trunk they were essentially stuffed into.
"Pretty roomy in here for a trunk," John commented, shifting slightly, also trying to find his flatmate in the dark. "Where are you…?"
"Hmph—here," Sherlock mumbled, turning about with some difficulty until he could feel John's warm breath against his cheek, his heaving chest pressed up against the doctor's. More than anything, with the horrid feeling of fear lacing his entirety, he wanted to have use of his arms so that he could hug his lover close to him, but just being near him at all helped to calm him down significantly, if only for a moment. It was a wonder John was able to speak so clearly amidst the terror he certainly had to be feeling as well.
"Good," John whispered, squirming a bit more against Sherlock, nuzzling his face into the detective's soft curls. After a small moment, silent other than their entwined, steady breaths, John asked: "Have you deduced where we're going yet?"
"We're in the back of a larger hovercraft of sorts," Sherlock began, "Which would explain both the small whirring noises coming from straight below us and the vastness of the trunk we're in. That sounds like a highway beneath us, which means we are probably leaving London right now. As for where the facility we are heading to is located…it's going to be difficult to tell given the fact that the blizzard is covering most of the scent from outside," he admitted grimly.
"Ah," John breathed, sighing softly as his frown deepened. "Well, at least we haven't been separated yet."
"'Yet' being the key word in that sentence."
"Yeah..."
Sherlock sniffed, his nose running a bit due to the cold. Though it was a small mercy, he found himself essentially quite grateful to have been abducted while he and John were at least wearing their winter coats, the scarf around his neck nearly as welcoming as his lover's presence.
"I didn't get to finish the case," he spoke up, to which John huffed in quiet amusement.
"You would be thinking about the bloody case at a time like this," he muttered in response, kissing what felt like his partner's forehead and allowing his lips to linger there.
"I just hate to leave my last case unfinished…"
John paused abruptly at his love's words. Suddenly, he could feel his chest clench and writhe in familiar denial and sadness—not for himself, but for the man lying right beside him. Nothing had seemed real yet, their situation still to unbelievable to him up until that point. After all, if Sherlock Holmes recognized the fact that this really was the end, that they were not going to be able to get out of this one, then it had to be true. Their fate was sealed.
"…Sherlock…"
"John," Sherlock whispered, his breath hitching ever so slightly on his partner's name. The detective found himself having to pause for a moment to regain his voice through the sob that threatened to escape past his lips. John heard the emotional altercation in his breathing and moved slightly to press his forehead against Sherlock's in an effort to wordlessly comfort him. Through this movement, even he could feel tears threatening to fall, but with a deep intake of breath he kept himself together for Sherlock, willing himself to be strong during his partner's rare and possibly very last moment of weakness. Sherlock took his time to think through what he knew he had to say to John, though, wanting the words to be perfectly clear as to just how heartfelt they truly were going to be, and how much he meant them. He sniffed again, this time his runny nose being caused by the tears quivering upon his eyelids, threatening to fall at any given second now.
"Before it's too late…I don't know what's going to happen to us, or what we will become after they are finished altering our genetics. All I know is that most likely we will no longer be ourselves, so I can't be sure whether…whether or not I'll ever recognize you or you me again."
"I'll recognize you," John murmured in desperation, trying his hardest not to panic. Just barely had he been able to allow his providence to leave the forefront of his mind; he did not want to think upon what horrors awaited him just yet. "I love you, dammit; they can't take that away from me—"
"John, please," Sherlock pleaded, his breath quivering as his tears fell from his crystalline eyes at last. "I will never forgive myself if I let you go without saying this to you, please..."
But he was crying too hard now, sobbing quietly. John swallowed roughly, his resistance against his own tears caving in on him fast. As he waited for Sherlock to catch his breath again, for him to calm down enough to tell him what he wanted so badly to say, he kissed his sniveling nose softly, gently brushing his own against the tip of his partner's, embracing the intimate contact while he still could. At last Sherlock caught his breath, and he stared straight into the darkness before him, meeting the place where he figured John's deep blue eyes would be as confessed meaningfully:
"I love you, John."
The wind whipping at the exterior of the unknown hovercraft they were currently stuck within ceased significantly in its extremity. Wherever their final destination was, apparently they had arrived there at last. Before he had to watch him be taken away, John pressed forward, meeting Sherlock's quivering lips in the frigid darkness, his mouth searching the smooth expanse of skin that was the detective's face before he managed to capture the man's familiar, perfect Cupid's bow. He could taste his tears, intermingled with his beloved's as they vainly shared this last kiss together, before they were forced to meet whatever untimely fate it was, to be made into a human augment. Sherlock whimpered softly through his sorrowing, moving as close as he could against John, deepening the kiss with an irrevocable need that he would never forget, despite what he had told John. If Dr. Soong maliciously insisted upon experimenting upon his mind, he would show him just how much his genius was the opposite of frail, how he could build a mental armament to protect his memory of John Watson from ever being unwantedly deleted. Even if John forgot who he was, he would remember his love for him.
They heard the footsteps approaching and stopped at the same time, John unfailingly placing a parting kiss to his partner's lips as he always did. Sherlock did not allow him to pull away too far, pressing his lips upon his cheek, silently promising to remember the doctor despite what he was to be turned into. As if he could hear Sherlock's solemn thoughts, John whispered with decided firmness in his voice despite the tears that continued to fall languidly down his dampened face: "They won't keep us stuck in a lab forever; once we're augmented, we'll be allowed to leave eventually. When that day comes, I swear to you, Sherlock, I'm going to find you. I've already had to go through the pain of losing you once…I'm not about to let these bastards take you away from me again."
The two of them outwardly flinched upon hearing the trunk being unlocked. With a soft sniffle, John kissed Sherlock one last time. He left his lips there, touching the consulting detective's until the door of the trunk swung open and they both turned their heads to face whatever torment awaited them.
-•-• •-•-
