It's a pretty short chapter, but here it is nonetheless!
4 weeks later
"No, I won't tell you that happened at the meeting!" you say into your phone. You just got back to your flat after your very first meeting with the cabinet, where the Prime Minister Harry Tweed made you a member. Next month, you receive your Nobel Peace Prize, and last week you received a knighthood and one hundred thousand pounds from the Queen herself.
As soon as you got home, you had called your boyfriend, Sherlock. The two of you began your relationship while you were still in the hospital, the day after you kissed him in the hallway.
You go to your room, still chatting with him on the phone. You need to change out of your pencil skirt, blouse, heels and blazer before you flip a cap. You miss when you could wear sweaters and pants at the Parliament building, instead of having to wear a skirt and blazer to the cabinet meetings.
You also have a lot more private paperwork. No assistants to do it for you; every project you have to work alone on.
"I have a lot of paperwork to do tonight, what about you?" you ask while removing your shoes.
"This case is proving difficult, I'll bring my nicotine patches. I wish I could smoke around you."
"My lungs don't like the added stress, remember?" you tease. Smoke, smog or steamy air makes it difficult for your right lung to function. Running is greatly frowned upon, but you do it anyways out of impatience when going from room to room.
"Right. Should I bring dinner?"
"You eat?" you tease.
"I meant for you, the patches will hold me over."
"Okay, come over anytime. Just pick me up a salad from the deli, nothing messy."
Sherlock arrives half an hour later at 6:00, coffee in one hand and a salad in a clear plastic box in the other.
Your work is already spread out all over the living room floor, with you in the center of it. Sherlock leans over and hands you your dinner, planting a kiss on the top of your head, before removing his coat and flopping himself down on your couch and slapping four nicotine patches on his arms. He removes his blazer, leaving him in his dark purple shirt that isn't buttoned up all the way and his black trousers. He's well dressed in comparison to you–blue jeans and an Oxford University sweatshirt (that you borrowed from Sherlock after a night at his flat), your hair pulled into a half-assed bun.
You're halfway done at 8:00, and Sherlock still remains on the couch, muttering to himself, and sometimes asking you basic geography questions about Liverpool.
At 9:45, you finish your paperwork, so you put it all into your briefcase and climb onto the couch next to Sherlock. You lie down next to him, draping your right arm over his body.
"You are very distracting."
"Good." You murmur, breathing his scent in. He lifts his arm up to wrap around you, so as to make you more comfortable. You snuggle in closer to Sherlock, tucking your head under his chin. The narrow couch proves to be quite easy for two people to lie on, even if you are lying practically on top of him.
Just as you get comfortable, a creak down the hall makes you and Sherlock jolt up on the couch.
"I'm sure it's just the building settling." You reassure him, and yourself.
"This building doesn't settle, it's built at a higher elevation with a concrete foundation. It was only built last year, not long enough for it to begin to settle; my conclusion? There is something down the hall."
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you're scaring me."
Sherlock ignores you, and slides his body out from under yours to go down the hallway adjacent to the living room. You try to grab his arm to stop him, but he shakes you off. You watch nervously as he goes down the hall slowly, stepping quietly. He turns his body toward your bedroom. A look of shock blankets his face as an arm trust a gun against his right shoulder, the tiny sound of a silencer clicking, followed by a spray of blood from his left shoulder.
You try to scream as Sherlock falls to the ground, but a black bag covers your vision, and the smell of chemicals lulls you to sleep.
-.-.-.-.-
"The Russians did a bad job of killing you two." A strange voice says, as you wake up. You lie next to Sherlock's body, warm but covered in blood. He's barely conscious.
"Sherlock!" you crawl over to his right side to try and address his bullet wound. You rip off a part of your sweatshirt, wrapping it into a thick, flat shape. As you press it onto the would, Sherlock cries out in agony, but the pressure seems to stop the bloodflow.
"There there, shh, we're going to fix you up, okay?" you use your left hand to stroke his cheek, wet with tears and sweat. You wonder how long you have been asleep. "Just stay calm, you're okay."
"So, the great Sherlock Holmes has to be consoled by a coma patient?" the unfamiliar voice rings around the small, dark room. The walls are painted black, with no windows or doors at all. The floor is solid concrete (except for the pooling blood under Sherlock's body), and the ceiling isn't visible, it's so dark. The only light source available is a small lamp that sits on the floor. The voice seems to be coming from an above speaker system.
You ignore the man's voice, and notice a lot of blood coming from Sherlock's left leg.
"Sherlock, hey, I need you to hold this here, okay?" you pick up his left hand to put on the compress. He barely nods. He's so weak, you worry. You move his hair of his face, and rip more of your sleeve off to compress on his other bullet wound.
"She sure is a keeper, isn't she Sherly?"
"Would you shut up?" you yell at the ceiling.
"Wrong choice of words, Ms. Calder." The voice is angry this time. The walls shift closer.
"What the hell is this? Who are you? You are dealing with a member of the British Government, and in holding me hostage you are now made an enemy of the state!"
"Sherlock may have mentioned me. I'm his best friend."
"Moriarty." Sherlock's weak voice is barely audible. You move over to his upper body, and use your unripped sleeve to wipe the sweat off his face.
"Aww, Sherly, I wanted her to figure it out for herself!" The voice starts out soft and playful, then turns into an angry shout. A gunshot rings from above, resulting in a spray of blood from Sherlock's right thigh, and a loud, low-pitched scream from Sherlock's mouth as he writhes in pain. The walls shift closer.
"What do you want!" you scream, and rip off more of your sweatshirt to press on the new wound.
"I told Sherlock I would burn the heart out of him, so that is exactly what I'm going to do. Torture him, then make him watch you die. He'll be unable to save the only woman he has ever loved."
"Have you ever listened to yourself? You're s serial psychopath. There's no point for you to keep doing this!"
Sherlock's body starts to shake, as he turns extremely pale.
"He's going into shock! Let us go!" you hold Sherlock down by the chest, wishing that you had some medical experience.
"Say please."
"Please!" you roll your eyes.
"Say 'Pretty please, Mr. Moriarty!'"
"PRETTY PLEASE, MR. MORIARTY!" you yell. The walls fall outward, to reveal that you are in the basement of an abandoned warehouse. Beyond the now fallen walls, sitting on the floor next to another lamp, is Sherlock's cell phone. You run for it, and immediately call John.
"Sherlock? You've been gone for fifteen hours, where are you?"
"John, it's me, Sophie. Moriarty has us in a warehouse, I don't know where. Sherlock's hurt, and he's going into shock."
"I'll ask Mycroft to triangulate your signal. Get him as warm as possible, and make sure to keep pressing on his wounds in they're still bleeding."
"He has 3 gunshot wounds!"
"Shit. Just do your best." John hangs up to call Mycroft, and you pocket the phone to run back to Sherlock. You take off your sweatshirt and lay it over his chest. His shoulder has stopped bleeding, but both his leg wounds still are.
"Sherlock, look at me. I want you to stay with me. I'm not going to leave you, so don't leave me." You press on the wounds. Your hands and wrists are covered in his blood, as well as your jeans. Sherlock's breaths are uneven, and he moans in pain at the pressure you're putting on his wounds.
"Just breathe. Breathe!" you demand. Tears start falling down your face in heavy drops. He's lost a lot of blood, and the chance of him surviving are slim.
Sirens sound from outside, and the footsteps of many people sound from the above level.
"Sherlock, they're here. You're going to be okay." You stroke his face. His eyes land on you.
"I love you."
His eyes close.