Chapter 7: Age Cannot Wither

John Watson couldn't remember a time before now when he was this stressed out.

He was worried for his best friend, flatmate, and colleague, Sherlock Holmes, who he'd seen captured thirteen days ago. Thirteen. An unlucky number. John didn't think he could make it through another hour, never mind a day, a week, without knowing what was happening to Sherlock, if he was okay. Because the last thing the consulting criminal would do was sit down and have tea with Sherlock!

Breathe, John. Breathe.

John cared. That's what he did. He cared when no one else did. He cared for Harry when his parents gave up on her. He cared for wounded soldiers in wartime. He cared for himself for a little while. Then, he cared for Sherlock. Sherlock needed care, no matter how much he shook it off or protested against it. He was always getting into trouble in one way or another.

If John had knew that Sherlock would be captured at the end of that day thirteen days ago, he would've forced Sherlock to stay inside the flat. It would've been impossible, John knew. Serial murders were something that Sherlock enjoyed immensely. His massive intellect could fold around the facts, solving each one with relative ease, maybe even finding a connection between them. He was amazing to watch when he was in his "zone," and John didn't hold a grudge at being dragged along, no, not at all.

John thought and decided that, if he had known Sherlock would be captured by Moriarty and imprisoned for thirteen days, he would've insisted Sherlock finish the entire plate of four slices of toast. As it was, three and a half slices were left over when Sherlock dragged him out the door. Sherlock had barely even swallowed the last bit before hailing a cab and jumping right into the case. John felt like a horrible doctor, and an even more horrible friend, for not making Sherlock eat more, or just take care of himself more in general.

But Sherlock was stubborn. There was little that could be done about that.

John remembered where Sherlock had tracked the murderer to; some outdoor pool closed for the season, abandoned, or something like that. The plants were poorly tended, there were some assorted dead animals floating in the water, more bugs than John dared count, more health code violations than he wanted to think about. He was too busy following the great coat, anyway, eyes always on his friend, watching him carefully.

Sherlock had stopped, so suddenly that John nearly bumped into him, and stared. There was Moriarty, smiling fiendishly like some devil out from the deepest pit of hell. John clenched his revolver in his pocket, but Sherlock held his hand out, a motion that communicated quite clearly: don't. It was these kinds of commands from Sherlock that made John feel he'd gained telepathy: he could hear Sherlock's voice clearly in his head. Don't, John. So John didn't. Against his better judgment, but still.

Moriarty cackled. "So! So, so, so, Sherlock," he advanced, a spring in his step, "you finally solved my little puzzle. Was it amusing? Did you have fun dancing for me?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Give it up, Moriarty. There are thousands of Yardies waiting outside, waiting for my signal."

What was the signal? Sherlock was bluffing, and John knew it, but the voice was calm and cool and confident, like always. John could feel Sherlock's emotions vibrating out from his body like an aura. He wasn't afraid.

Moriarty chuckled and dusted his suit with his hands. "Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," Sherlock narrowed his eyes even further, if that was possible, his expression souring like he'd just sucked on a lemon for an hour. "You're lying. You'll come with me, Sherlock. Oh yes, you will." He purred, looking at his nails. "If you don't, I'll do something very nasty."

A hard, deep, baritone laugh echoed throughout the closed pool. "What? Kill me?"

"Oh, no, no, never. Not yet." Moriarty seemed to be thinking, his hands clasped in front of him. Then, he thrust them into the pocket of his pants. "Because I am going to kill you. But not yet. No. I'm going to make you suffer first. Won't that be fun?" And he giggled, reminding John of a small child talking about plans for a play-date.

Sherlock wet his lips. "Just you try."

"Oh, I will!" Moriarty giggled. "And it will be the best time of my life! Now, come, Sherlock!" And he whistled, beckoning with his finger, as if calling a dog.

Sherlock refused and stood where he was, straight and tall and powerful and imposing.

Moriarty frowned, lifted his hand, and snapped it.

Snipers. John saw the lights on Sherlock, Sherlock saw the lights on John. Those little, deadly red dots that would spell sudden death for the two of them. Neither man panicked, but John caught a hint of worry in Sherlock's ice blue eyes as he turned back around to face Moriarty again. "This is between you and me," he hissed. "Leave John out of this!"

Moriarty smiled. "Your choice, Sherlock. Obey me…or your sweet little pet dies."

Sherlock didn't even hesitate before raising his hands above his head. "I surrender."

John couldn't stop himself from crying out: "No, Sherlock—!" But Sherlock turned, his eyes calm, his lips pressed in a firm line. John once again heard the voice of his best friend loud and clear in his head. Did the man really have some sort of telepathy and neglected to tell John about it?

John, it's okay. Your life is important. Stay calm. Don't worry. I'll be just fine.

John blinked, swallowed, nodded. Sherlock smiled, inclined his head, and willingly complied, allowing Moriarty to hold his hands behind him. John thought he'd never seen Sherlock so elegant and at peace as he'd been then, his back straight, proud head complete with dark curls held high. John waited until his friend was out of sight and then turned and called Greg Lestrade on his mobile, to report what had happened.

Now, in the present, John was pacing up and down, waiting for a call from Lestrade, from Sherlock, from anyone. He needed clues, needed to know his friend was safe. The police had picked up some clues as to Moriarty's possible hide-away.

We're so close, John thought. Hold on, Sherlock. Just hold on.

Just then, John's mobile buzzed in his hand and he picked it up.

"Hello? Greg?"