"If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me."
― Saul Bellow
John snaps awake as quickly as if he'd been caught sleeping on the job. His head pounds with aching constancy, the soft skin at his temples damp. He needs to throw up. He can feel the bile churn and boil in his gut like someone's stoking coals in his stomach.
He keeps his eyes shut. Let whoever has him think he's still unconscious. Let him have time make sense of where he is and what's happened to him.
It's cold, wherever he is, which is a mercy considering he's out of that hot, stuffy boot of that godforsaken car. The collar of his shirt is soaked and smells of pungent dried sweat. His arms are numb, tied behind him to take advantage of his bad shoulder; that means they know about his injury, and therefore his history as a soldier. They know what they're dealing with. They also must know about Sherlock, they have to. John is fool's gold on his own, worthless, without Sherlock. He'd kept his head down for three years; if they'd wanted him on his own, they'd had their shot. No, this was about what he was to Sherlock, and that meant one person.
Moran.
It made enough sense, even if John had only remembered being taken. He remembers the smile that grew on his face as he typed a reply to Sherlock, along with the bubbling excitement that what they'd been waiting for to break them out of that weird orbit they'd been in around each other for weeks was about to happen—Sherlock was going to come home and John was going to tell him he loved him too, the mad genius, and then they'd have the shag to end all shags and they could finally just be happy.
Then he heard the chuckle behind him, low and deep and wrong, like scratching the needle on a record. He remembered thinking of course as he reached for the nearest weapon—a kitchen knife since he wasn't armed so early after waking up—and then…blackness.
Christ, his head hurts. He tries to self-diagnose as well as he can in his condition. His bet was on a nasty knock—his captors most likely cared that he was alive, not that he was unhurt, at least until they were done with him—or a slight concussion. Judging on how he'd been slipping in and out of consciousness, he thought the latter was more likely.
His shirt dragged behind him, snagging on the stone wall—
Stone wall?
John opens his eyes carefully, slowly, surveying the room.
Great.
He's in a fucking dungeon.
Sherlock is back in that burning hallway, the orange of the sunset charring the halls to the burnt black of night. Most of the Yard has gone home already, the open space of desks and cubicles leading to the half of interrogation rooms dotted with one or two stars of workaholics chasing leads and clues down with cheap coffee.
He stares out into the maze of brick and soot that smears London's face before turning to Lestrade.
"Ready?"
Sherlock nods.
The door closes behind him as he sits across from Moran, Lestrade hovering in the corner of the room.
"Miss me?" Moran grins.
"The same could be asked of you, as you called me here. So talk."
"What if I just wanted to do that, talk? What if I just wanted to prove the power I have over you? It's what, about 3:30 in the morning? You should be asleep in your bed—or John's, because you like the smell of him and you miss it like a dog misses a bitch in heat—but yet here you are."
A muscle in Sherlock's jaw clenches.
"And here I am."
Sherlock stares into Moran's unblinking gaze, both half-lidded with lack of sleep, yet forcing themselves to continue on out of spite for the other.
"Watson." Moran begins. "I bet you're wondering why I took him."
Sherlock scoffs.
"Of all the questions I have for you, that's one that has the most obvious answer. Because of his meaning to me."
"That's only part of it."
"And the rest?"
"I needed a doctor. He came…highly recommended."
"By whom?"
Moran grins. "Your brother." He stares at Sherlock's unmoving face. "You don't seem surprised."
"Mycroft hasn't been known for his loyalty to me with matters that concern Moriarty."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. He funded your trip around the world, didn't he? I bet Watson wasn't too keen on your globetrotting without him."
"He only helped if he got something in return. John didn't know."
"Of course I know that. I'm not stupid, and neither is Watson, although you can't tell by looking at him and he tends to get quite sentimental when you're concerned. I don't think he wanted to see you for what you really are. A coward. A liar. A thief."
"I suppose it's pointless to remind you that you are all these things too."
"And so was Jim. But John," Moran shakes his head. "There's a Queen-and-Country fellow through and through. Can't tell if you're the Queen or Country, though."
"He always said I could carry off a pair of heels and a dress."
"Yeah, I'll bet he did."
Sherlock's smile falls into a sharp frown.
"You will tell me what you've done to him."
"Why?"
"You summoned me here. You obviously had something to say."
"Yeah, I do, actually. Salt shakers."
"Pardon?"
"Salt shakers." Moran repeats. "Cruets. I'm sure you're familiar with them." He relaxes against his chair and looks up at Lestrade. "I'm done now, Detective. You can tuck me in now. Be sure not to scrimp on the bedtime story."
Lestrade says nothing, but unlocks Moran from the chair and leads him from the room.
Sherlock sits completely still for a moment, staring at the space Moran had occupied.
He stands, pushes his chair in, and walks out of the room.
Wordlessly, Sherlock strides past Lestrade, who's handed Moran to Donovan to take back to the holding cell, and into that Sisyphean pit of the late workers, mostly empty now in the hours between morning and breakfast. He makes it three steps to an unknown officer's desk before he snaps.
He feels himself grabbing items off the desk and throwing them wherever he cares to; stapler, loose paper, files of information, coffee mug inscribed with #1 Dad, photos of family, a box of tacks, everything flies to the floor with an almighty crash. He bangs his clenched fists on the desk when its swiped clean, as if it's personally wronged him by running out of things he can destroy.
"Sherlock, what the hell?"
He hears Lestrade chastise him, but he can't stop, like a car whose breaks have been cut. He moves on to the next desk, his blood roaring for something he can't have, for something he might never have, and he sends a desktop computer to the ground in a burst of sparks and loose wires.
The breath is suddenly knocked out him as he's tackled to the floor. He can smell Lestrade's aftershave; it's awfully pungent and reeks of a single parent who's just begun to date again.
He doesn't struggle as Lestrade hauls him to the interrogation room, now void of Moran but full of his smell—his vile, evil little presence that makes the bile churn in Sherlock's stomach.
When Lestrade asks him why, he can't answer. He's going to kill Mycroft. He's going to hurt him, make him feel John's pain, make him understand the look in Sherlock's eyes as he takes him apart.
He must have said some of this out loud, as he hears Lestrade distantly say why and Mycroft in the same span of time it takes his meagerly slow brain to complete a sentence.
Why why why
Because he can get his hands on Mycroft without the Yard being in his way. Because Mycroft is the next one most responsible for the unforgivable fact that John is not here after the dead man and the prisoner.
Lestrade lets him go and leads him down the hall so he can take him home. He says Sherlock needs rest. Rest. He can do that when he's dead, which, if John doesn't—that is to say if he's not—if the worst thing happens, Sherlock can rest much sooner than they think.
The halls are healing like bruises, the mottled purple and pale blues of dawn blooming on the white paint.
It's a new day.
John has a limited few left if Sherlock can't figure this out in time.
Sherlock stares out into the waking London for a brief moment, wondering where in all that grime and life John is. He wonders if he can see it from the view here. Maybe, when he finds John alive and whole like his best scenario entails (which is dwindling by the hour), he can take him back here and point it out.
He'll never know if he can. Not until he actually finds John.
He turns and walks down the hall, his shadow chasing the dawn behind him.