Hello everyone. I'm back. This took me a bit longer than I had hoped because I've been sick(and still am). But don't worry, as far as I know, germs cannot be transferred across the internet. Yet. Dun dun dun...
Once again, constructive criticism is appreciated, as well as any corrections on the British english.
So now, without further ado, I present you with Chapter 2. Prepare for a lot of angst towards the end.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor do I make any money off of anything.
"Sherlock! I got some more milk! A thank you would be appreciated!" John Watson called as he entered the flat. Earlier that morning he had discovered that one of Sherlock's mold cultures had gotten too close to the milk. After scolding his irresponsible flatmate, John had decided that he might as well pick up some groceries anyway.
Now, as there was no reply; he hadn't really expected one, he made his way to the kitchen. He placed the milk in the fridge, this time making sure all the petri dishes of various molds were pushed to the opposite side.
With a sigh, he glanced around the living room looking once more to see if he had missed the detective curled up somewhere. He hadn't.
John gave a quick search of the rest of the flat and came to the conclusion that Sherlock had left unannounced. Again.
Though he supposed he should be grateful for the time alone to actually get stuff done for once, without a self-proclaimed sociopath stealing his laptop, making dangerous chemical explosions, or attempting to poison the neighbor's cat again; John couldn't help the feeling of dread that settled in the bottom of his stomach at the thought of Sherlock in possible danger.
"Relax, John," the doctor told himself, figuring no one was around to hear, "Sherlock goes out alone all the time and he's always fine."
Except the time when he almost got himself killed by knocking on a serial killer's door without bothering to ask anyone for backup.
"That was one time, and I lectured him long enough that something must have gotten into that thick skull of his. I'm sure that if he needs help he'll text me," John finished the thought by glancing at the skull that Sherlock kept on the mantle. The skull stared back at him.
"Talking to a bloody skull! People are right, I am starting to lose it." John glared at the skull, as if it was the skull's fault that the man had started talking to it.
With a sigh, John walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea to soothe his nerves. He got out a cup, carefully checking it for any hazards and was pleasantly surprised to find it clean. He then reached for the tea.
Upon opening the box, he was confused to see a suspicious white powder intermixed with the dark tea leaves. Frowning, John sniffed experimentally at the powder and was immediately sent reeling backwards at the strong, chemical smell.
"Sherlock!" John cursed his flat mate. Trust Sherlock to ruin the tea. The one thing that kept John sane.
Now unable to have a cuppa, John angrily made his way back to the living room. He sat down and grabbed his laptop, opening up his blog and glaring needlessly at the screen.
After a few minutes, the anger began to recede, leaving behind that same feeling that something was about to go wrong. With a sigh, he finally decided to text Sherlock. Just to ease his mind.
Where are you? -JW
He then sat back to wait for a reply. He would be waiting for a long time.
When John's mobile finally buzzed, it startled him.
"Finally you decide you need my help" he muttered to himself as he glanced at the screen.
Hello John. It looks like Sherlock won't be coming home tonight. He's a bit tied up. Don't worry though, I'll take good care of him. -M
John paled. They hadn't heard anything since the message that had aired over every screen. In fact, he was beginning to hope that it had been a hoax. But now, there was no denying it. Moriarty was back, and he had Sherlock.
John closed his eyes, slowly breathing in and out. Think calm. Breathe in...and out...
When he opened his eyes, he knew what to do.
Looking back down at his phone, he sent a quick text to Mycroft.
Help. Sherlock has been kidnapped by Moriarty -JW
Almost immediately, there was a response.
There will be a car in front of your flat in 15 minutes. -MH
John sighed, Mycroft should be able to take care of it.
John watched anxiously out of the window as the car pulled up to the abandoned warehouse. This was it. This was where Sherlock was being held. He only hoped they weren't too late.
About twenty MI6 agents got out of the following vehicles. John insisted that he go in with them. Mycroft knew better than to refuse.
Though he insisted on coming with, John understood that these were professionals and allowed them to lead the way through the building. They scanned the whole layout, finding no one. Not a trace to indicate Moriarty had been there.
John was beginning to lose hope when an agent called that he had found a stairwell to a basement floor. They walk cautiously down the steps. At the bottom was a heavy metal door. It was locked.
John felt his heart hammer in his chest from the suspense as the agents instructed him to stand back. After a few experimental kicks, the lead agent called back for someone to get a battering ram.
It seemed as though hours passed before the man returned with a hydraulic battering ram, when in reality it was only a couple of minutes. The agents were quick and efficient as they set up the tool, aiming it just below the door latch.
Thud.
The ram hit the door.
Thud. Crack.
The door began to give way.
Thud.
One more time…
Thud. Bang.
The door flew open.
John got his first glance inside the room. A figure slumped motionless, tied to a chair. John felt his heart skip a beat. Before the others could move, the doctor was rushing into the room, towards the unconscious man.
As he neared the man, John gasped with horror, Sherlock was still, too still. He stopped in front of the limp detective, fingers reaching out for a pulse.
When he felt none, John turned, horrified, to the agents.
"He doesn't have a pulse! Help me get him untied!" John said, attempting to remain professionally unattached and failing miserably.
One agent pulled out a knife, using it to cut the ropes securing the detective, while the others called for paramedics.
John caught the detective as he slumped to the ground. He laid him down gently and frantically began CPR.
Everything else faded away as he focused on reviving Sherlock. 1...2...3...4...5...6...
People rushed around him, voices blending together into white noise. 13...14...15...16...17...18...
Somebody asked him if he needed help. He didn't respond. 25...26...27...28...29...30...
Breathe...Come on Sherlock...Breathe!
1...2...3...4...5...6... Repeat pattern until victim becomes responsive.
19...20...21...22...23...24... John lost count of how long he had been doing CPR.
"John," a hand rested on his shoulder. Breathe...breathe...
"John!" The voice was louder now. 1...2...3...4...5...6...
"John! Stop!" No! He couldn't stop. 7...8...9..10-
"It's no use, John." Hands were pulling him back now. He stared at the owner of the voice. "We're too late John, he's gone,"
Mycroft said.
"No," his voice croaked, and he became aware of the tears streaked down his face.
"I'm sorry John," Mycroft's face, which had always been emotionless in the most emotional of situations, was beginning to show signs that his calm facade was breaking.
John turned back to Sherlock's body, staring as if by pure will alone he could bring the man back. He knew in his brain that it was impossible, but his heart kept hoping that maybe if they just waited, Sherlock would take a breath.
He can't be dead. It's another trick, it has to be! Sherlock's gonna wake up and scold me for falling for it any minute.
John continued to stare, oblivious to the others as they began to leave. Oblivious to Mycroft, as he turned away from everyone to wipe away a single tear. Even as the paramedics came and took away the body, John continued to stare at the spot, hoping he would wake up to find it was all a dream.
Eventually he was led away, and was vaguely aware of someone wrapping something around his shoulders.
He barely noticed as he was gently shoved into a cab, and stared blankly out the window as the streets flashed by.
As the cab stopped, he subconsciously recognized the place, and required no extra encouragement to stumble his way up the stairs.
Arriving at his destination, he collapsed onto his bed and fell into a deep, uneasy sleep.
Urgh! John! I'm so sorry for doing this to you! *sniffle* But it must be done for the sake of the plot.
Please let me know what you think in the Review box.