Notes: Since the last couple chapters were pretty short, here's a long treat for ya'll. The longest chapter yet, in fact. Thanks for all the love! Also, to the Guest regarding the injuries comment: I'm trying to keep track best I can. If I miss anything please let me know.
Dead Is the New Sexy
CHAPTER 7
Greg Lestrade stared at the practically naked woman in Sherlock's chair, arms through the sleeves of the Belstaff, front completely open. Irene Adler stared back at Greg Lestrade.
"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. Where's Sherlock?" he commanded, lowering his gun.
Dollivan and the rest of them waited downstairs, Lestrade going up first to face whatever 221B contained. This fair woman with dark hair and dazzling makeup was nothing close to what he expected. Nor was the exploded apple on the wall or more bullet holes from last night or Sherlock's boredom. Also, the paper tornado that seemed to have whipped through the apartment. 221B was a disaster, in short.
"Yes, I know, we talked on the phone. How should I know?" Irene answered, picking up a mirror from the table and applying more scarlett lipstick.
"On the presumption you were here last night, you know who took Sherlock," he strapped his gun back into its holster. He didn't see this woman as a threat.
"Yes, Detective Inspector, I was here," she smiled. "Don't you have friends waiting downstairs?"
"They can wait," Lestrade responded cautiously.
Irene Adler stood up, exposing more of her round breasts and front-side. "Pity. I usually like an audience." Pulling out a phone from Sherlock's coat pocket, she began typing as if Lestrade wasn't even in the room.
"They can come up, if you want," his eyebrows furrowed. This chick is a piece of work. "May I ask your name?"
"You can call me Dominatrix."
Dear God, what kind of people is Sherlock getting into? Something sick in his mind click. She's naked. Wearing Sherlock's coat. Oh Jesus… "Are you and Sherlock involved romantically?"
She glanced up from her typing and scoffed, then returned to her task.
"I can either question you here, or drag you to Scotland Yard. Are you and Sherlock involved romantically?"
"Technically, I have Right to Counsel and Right to Silence, officer," she paused, giving Lestrade a 'look.' However, she continued, "I ask him out to dinner. He turns me down. Except for last night. But that was a meeting with the Consulting Criminal, special occasion I guess."
"Consulting criminal?" Lestrade repeated in question. Of all his years of being a detective, this was one of the most outlandish encounters he'd ever experienced.
"You've met. In a way."
"You're not going to tell me his name, are you?"
"Of course I'll give you the bastard's name. On one condition. Scotland Yard provides me with protection from said person."
Lestrade sighed. He barely managed to get a case open for John, and now Sherlock's missing. He was understaffed as it was. Now he'd have to sacrifice officers to this "Dominatrix." What a morning.
However, this was his only lead for Sherlock and John.
"Deal," Lestrade nodded.
"Excellent, shall we head down to Scotland Yard?" she began buttoning the grand coat.
"Tell me a name first."
"Oh of course," she lit a cigarette from a box on the desk. "James Moriarty."
Greg contained himself from pounding his head on the wall and instead let out a provocative string of curses. Bastard, indeed.
/
Eyebrows furrowed, eyes desperately blinking, he struggled to focus on realty. John's vision danced with stars, and his body was screaming for rest. But he knew he had to fix this. Fix Sherlock. Pull yourself together, dammit Watson. Through the blur, he focused on the meager supplies given to him. Antiseptic, gauze, a needle and thread. Afghanistan all over again. Fan-fucking-tastic.
Somehow managing to drag his reluctant body over to the detective, his hands opened and closed in fists, as he desperately tried to free his shaking fingers of quivers.
"John. How hurt are you?" Sherlock asked in a hushed whisper, one of the rare occasions genuine care laced his baritone voice.
John stared at those brilliant blue eyes, looking for answers. Sherlock always had an escape plan. But now, they were going to rot here. In the hands of James Moriarty. In the concrete room of hell.
Speak of the devil, Moriarty left for some phone calls, leaving John and Sherlock under the supervision of 'Johnson.'
"I'm not gonna lie Sherlock," John gasped, trembling hands opening the bottle of antiseptic. "This is gonna hurt."
Pouring the liquid over Sherlock's thigh bullet hole, John ignored Sherlock hissing through a clenched jaw. "At least he's letting you treat it," Sherlock coughed, trying to regain control of the pain.
"I don't know what I can do. Look at me Sherlock. How much help do you think I am?" John clenched his eyes shut for a second, warding away unconsciousness.
Sherlock looked at John, truly observed. Cut from a knife, it would seem, covered in dried blood on his shoulder. Bump on his forehead indicating concussion. Sensitive ribs, so probably cracked or broken or both. Knee swelled up to the size of a baseball. John's skin littered in an array of different bruise colors. The doctor needed a doctor. But underneath the dirt, grime, injuries, Sherlock still saw the army doctor and soldier he trusted with his bloody life.
He bit his lip. "John, I-" Should he say he had a plan? Lie that Lestrade and the entire badass force of Scotland Yard were coming? No, John would see his bullshit. He always could. "I-I trust you, Doctor. C'mon. Give me that antiseptic, I'll work on your shoulder."
With a glance at the local Idiots, John handed over the antiseptic to Sherlock's tied hands. Despite the zip-ties, Sherlock had better control of his hands than John. Violinist's hands. They were still and calm as he held the bottle. "Sorry," he muttered, when the sizzling medicine hit John's shoulder and Sherlock watched him grimace.
The Idiots seemed unconcerned with Sherlock treating John's wounds, so he continued.
While inspecting John's head through matted blonde hair, the doctor questioned, "Is a bullet still in your shoulder?"
Sherlock must've been in some sort of shock, because he couldn't remember the shot for a second. Then the feeling of thunder and lighting tearing through his skin returned to mind. Mycroft's voice filled his head, from the time Mary shot him. "What's behind you?"
"The metal chair," he answered his Mind Palace.
"If the bullet passed through, what would you of heard?"
"A loud noise from the bullet reverberating from the chair."
"But you didn't, so what does that mean, you stupid, stupid-"
"Yes. Yes, it's still inside," Sherlock said aloud, cutting off Mind Palace Mycroft.
"I-I can't," John said softly.
"What?" Sherlock stopped feeling his head for a second to meet his eyes.
"I can't get it out," he admitted, showing his trembling hands.
Sherlock swallowed. "Don't worry, I'm fine. You, on the other hand."
"Sherlock, just tell me - is Sheryl okay? Moriarty threatened her."
Sherlock felt a wave of guilt flood over him. Mary. He'd never called her. "Stupid, stupid, selfish little boy," Mind Palace Mycroft criticized.
"They're safe," Sherlock nodded. Why didn't I call Lestrade? Tell Scotland Yard to protect her? Fuck.
"What if I die? What if fucking Moriarty kills me?" John asked, a conviction in his voice Sherlock was unfamiliar with. "What if I never raise my child?"
Sherlock froze. His human emotions weren't developed. He didn't know too much about family or fatherly affection. Not until this very second. Not until this very moment, when realization burned his heart. This was what burned him, watching John in pain like this. Not the physical kind, the emotional kind. The kind Sherlock couldn't comprehend. Moriarty finally found the secret to burning Sherlock Holmes's heart. John Watson. It always had been. Now, it hit him like a train. I made a vow. He knew he'd never let Moriarty touch precious Sheryl. But by being careless, now he couldn't guarantee Sheryl or Mary's safety. John didn't need to know that.
"John, I made a vow at your wedding. And I will keep it. Do you really think I'll let Moriarty touch your family?"
A faint smile glimmered on John's face, as he concentrated on wrapping Sherlock's gunshot wounds with gauze. "Then what's the plan, Sherlock Holmes?"
"Getting you out of here."
Moriarty ended his call right then, re-entering the room, observing his prisoners. "Not bad, Dr. Watson."
"Burn me," Sherlock rose himself to full height, putting his weight on his left leg.
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "To burn you, Sherlock Holmes, I have to burn the person who gave you a heart," he whistled and pointed to John.
"No you don't," Sherlock answered. "To burn someone, you only need the person in question. Which in this case, is me, hello. You let John go to the police, and I cooperate with anything you want."
"Anything?" Moriarty laughed. "You're begging."
"I'm making a simple deal."
"I thought you realized I don't stick to deals."
Sherlock approached Moriarty's personal space, and grabbed a box of cigarettes from James's coat pocket. Pulling one out, he asked, "Do you have a lighter?"
With a twisted smile, Moriarty lit Sherlock's cigarette. "Those will kill you, you know."
"They haven't yet. The past has proven I'm rather indestructible," he let a puff of smoke billow into his enemy's face. "This is your one chance, my one offer, for you to test that theory. Refuse, and I break out of here, bringing you down with me."
"I made you commit suicide, and you still test my patience."
"And your theory of a permanent destination failed," Sherlock hissed.
Moriarty twitched.
"So, new hypothesis. If you can't kill me, how are you going to break me?" Sherlock's voice had no emotion. This was his one shot to save John. If Moriarty refused, he would escape, even if it would be messy and bloody.
With pursed lips, Moriarty's gaze switched from John then back to Sherlock. "I hope you know Greg Lestrade's number by heart."
"Naturally," Sherlock strode back towards the center of the room. Moriarty pulled out his mobile, and Sherlock ranted off the number.
The phone only rang once before the inspector answered, "Lestrade."
"Hello Detective Inspector," Moriarty's accented voice sounded crafty. "I have a gift for you. London Eye. One hour." He ended the call. "Come along Dr. Watson. We have an appointment. You," he pointed to Idiot B, "duct tape Mr. Holmes here to his chair. The rest of you get Watson into the car."
Sherlock didn't even struggle as he stepped on his cigarette then lowered himself into the metal chair. Idiots A and C came over, one starting on thoroughly duct-taping his legs to the chair. Idiot A clipped the zip-ties, pulling his arms through the slats on the chair. He suppressed a groan of pain as the position yanked on his bullet hole in his shoulder. He recognized the feel of cool metal as handcuffs were attached. Idiot C started applying duct tape to his torso. Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes. "That's a little much, don't you think?" Sherlock scoffed. So these were some of Moriarty's pawns, in this twisted game of chess.
Idiot B was struggling to keep John on his feet. Sherlock's attention was drawn to this situation, as a limp John was dragged out the door and out of sight. He'd finally lost consciousness. For the best, probably. Sherlock's jaw tightened. Lestrade better take damn good care of him.
John was gone. Sherlock was alone. A twinge of fear pecked at his mind. This is for the best, he reminded himself. John needed medical assistance, much more than anything Sherlock could provide in this hellhole. But somehow he always felt braver, with the doctor by his side. The doctor who called the police before they did something too stupid, and carried a gun, or occasionally a tire lever.
Now Sherlock was on his own.
Idiot A finished his job with a piece of duct tape over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock literally rolled his eyes at this. With an approving nod from Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal left the room. Sherlock knew Moriarty wouldn't go to London Eye himself, instead observe the drop-off from black and white, grainy footage from hacked security cameras.
With his mouth muted, Sherlock traveled to his Mind Palace, attempting to escape the white hot pain of holes in his flesh. The Mind Palace could comfort him at times, like when he was shot before, and petted Redbeard. How he wished he could go to Redbeard right now and lock the door behind him, keeping his life problems from following him. But no; right now, he needed to think.
In his mind, every detail of the London Eye rolled out in his Palace to form the drop-off scenario. He stood on the outskirts in the shadows, familiar Belstaff saving him from the brisk London air. Everything played out in his mind like he was watching a stupid cop show on telly. Wearing a bulletproof vest, Lestrade paced back and forth in front of his dark silver police car - Dollivan, backup, and paramedics in the alley nearby. A black Mercedes approached, headlights off. The crowded tourist spot was filled with the oblivious public, not giving the scene a second glance. Lestrade stiffened when the car stopped, fingers twitching near his firearm. Idiot B stepped out of the vehicle, now dressed in a suit worth more than his scum life. Moriarty liked his representatives well-dressed. They nodded at each other, then Idiot B opened the backseat and gruffly pulled out battered, unconscious John. Lestrade rushed forward grabbing John from Idiot B's rough hands, as he "radio-in"ed for medical assistance. Idiot B would return to his dark vehicle and drive away. John would be rushed to the hospital, sirens screaming. As long as Moriarty kept his word.
"Hey! HEY!" Someone was shouting nearby.
The sharp pang of unknown fingers ripping the duct tape from his mouth snapped Sherlock back to realty; back to a rusty concrete room; back to hell. And his eyes met with the Devil's face.
"That was fast. No traffic?" Sherlock commented.
Moriarty smirked. "No traffic. John is in the hands of the daft police."
"Excellent. Shall we get started then?"
Moriarty shrugged. "I suppose. Smith, Thompsan, get creative," he waved his hand.
Idiots A and C, Thompsan and Smith respectively, approached Sherlock with sadistic smiles.
/
Mary held Sheryl in her arms, biting her lip and fighting tears. She wasn't one to cry. She wasn't one to get scared.
The person she cared about most in the world was missing. Sherlock hadn't answered her calls either. She'd considered stomping up the stairs of his apartment and giving the detective a piece of her mind, but with no idea what was going on she was aware 221B might be compromised. Usually Mary would be eager to throw herself into a dangerous case, teaming up with Sherlock to find her beloved John. But now she had Sheryl. And if something happened to her, who would Sheryl have? Therefore she lengthened her patience and prayed some half-hearted prayers; took it day by day, living the actions of a housewife. She busied herself with menial tasks of repeatedly dusting the house and caring for the baby. To be honest, Mary drove herself up the walls.
Lestrade answered her calls. The only one that picked up his phone in the last 24 hours, yet he never had news. Nevertheless, he'd speak his "We've got it under control" police BS, and she thanked him for the lies. But if this was Moriarty, Scotland Yard didn't stand a chance.
"Daddy will be home soon," she promised, cooing her daughter. It was the same thing she said almost every hour to the baby since John's disappearance. A comforting lie, like when people said "I'm sorry" for something they didn't do, or "It'll be okay." It never turned out okay.
Her phone rang in the distance, echoing in the living room. Giving Sheryl's sweet face a brief kiss, and heart jumping at her child's innocent smile, she placed her back in the crib.
Rushing to the living room, her heart sank when she saw DI Lestrade on the Caller ID. Taking a deep breath, she answered the phone, staring blindly out the window at the bleak London afternoon. "Hello?"
"We found him, Mary. How fast can you get to St. Barts?"
"Oh my God," her hand shot up to cover her mouth. "How is he?"
Lestrade hesitated, tiredness obvious in his usually comforting voice. "How fast can you get to St. Barts?"
"I-I um, the baby," she grabbed the keys to her car but froze. She didn't want to bring Sheryl to a giant building full of sickness.
"Shit. Uh, Dollivan! Go over to the Watsons so Mary can come here." A hushed conversation as Lestrade put his hand over the mouthpiece. "She's on her way. Do you trust her?"
"Yeah yeah of course," she said frazzled. "There's a key under the flower pot on the porch. I'll be right there."
She hated separating from Sheryl in dangerous times like these, but desperate time called for desperate measures. Plus she trusted Dollivan, and she needed John.
Speeding the whole way there, Mary drove in autopilot mode, mind racing about thoughts concerning the well-being of her husband. Lestrade sounded grave. This wasn't grumpy John with a few cuts and bruises. This was serious. ICU? Maybe. God, she was going to kill whoever got their hands on John.
She parked haphazardly near the hospital entrance and hopped out of the car, rushing through the double doors. The familiar scenery of a hospital greeted her, along with Greg Lestrade in the waiting room.
"Where is he?" she commanded.
Lines of stress and tiredness etched the detective inspector's face. "We attained him about three hours ago." Mary's mouth opened but Lestrade's hand cut her off. "I didn't call you earlier because he's been in surgery this whole time and I wanted you to be able to visit him as soon as we contacted you."
As much as she wished she'd been told a a soon as they located him, she was grateful for Lestrade waiting. "Which room?"
"Three-oh-seven. To the right," she jogged down the hall.
A brunette, round-faced nurse was exiting the room as she approached. "Are you family?" she asked.
"I'm his wife, along with being a certified nurse."
"Of course," she nodded, holding the door open for Mary.
Bracing herself, she stepped into the room. But nothing, nothing could've prepared her for this.
Paler than the over-washed hospital sheets, John lay more still than she believed possible. A bandage adorned his forehead, and his shoulder was wrapped with gauze, which continued down his ribcage and out of view. Underneath the sheets, it was obvious some full-leg, bulky, metal brace covered his right leg. Not only that, but bruises covered most of his arms. An IV and various other tubes were attached to him; machines beeped, reminding Mary that yes, John was alive, even if he didn't appear so. Her strong, chivalrous, daring, handsome, military man crumbled into this. It wasn't fair. It wasn't bloody fair. Tears dropped onto her blue blouse, and she couldn't stop them.
Mary didn't need medical training to know John was going to need serious recovery time.
It seemed like another world, this mess the newlyweds were caught in. Some continuous, inescapable nightmare. There was nothing Mary could do to help, except offer her heart and soul in support of John. She lowered herself into the chair by his bedside, unable to comprehend the state of the man she loved. Not allowing herself to believe it. Oh Jesus Christ, what did we do to deserve this?
Mary grasped John's cold hand, feeling for a pulse. The last thing she had to believe in. He's going to be okay.
The tears fell harder than the London rain on the window.
"I love you, John Watson."
/
More Notes: As always, reviews = updates! And they make me happy. (: Also, if you're enjoying this, please go check out my other fanfic, Miss Holmes, about Sherlock's badass sister. Available on my profile.