Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny ;)
It's been a little while since the last update, so apologies for that. No, I haven't forgot about this one, I'm still writing. But to be fair, this chapter is massive and counts for about two chapters in one, so I reckon that makes up for the wait :P
Plus, thank you to DollyFreckles who has drawn a really gorgeous picture based off the line 'I thought you weren't coming back'. She's also on DeviantArt :)
WARNING: This is the chapter crammed full of violence, drug abuse, bad language, torture and the like. If you are a younger reader or do not like reading that kind of thing, I suggest you skip it.
Enjoy.
Talking, just simple talking... it had never been so terrifying.
He could feel his breath racing in and out of his lungs, too shallow to do any good. He clenched his jaw, fixed his eyes on a spot on the flaking wall, removed himself. He did it in the same way that a biologist smoothly runs a scalpel down the belly of a frog to get to the intricacies of its insides. He stood in the great hall of his mind palace, at the top of the marble stairs, looked down at the elaborate, decorative banister. As he reached out to touch it, trying to ground himself in his own mind, the world flinched away from him and reality brought itself home with a flash of pain and light - Moriarty's fist had sunk into his stomach.
"I said STOP ignoring me," the other man snarled through clenched teeth. His face was just inches away from Sherlock's own, his smirk gleaming in the half-light. "I won't be ignored, I won't. Now you look me in the eye. In the EYE, Sherlock."
He hated it when Moriarty said his name. It was as if the word was tainted every time he used it, smeared with dirt, stained with something Sherlock wouldn't be able to scrub out. He squinted into the consulting criminal's face, the world swimming before his eyes.
"Stop running away. This, right here, right now, this could be one of the last few seconds of your life."
Moriarty had something in his hand, something that hadn't been there before, something that grinned in the light. Sherlock's mind recognized it slowly - a gun. A very familiar gun, the same make as John's. Moriarty put the cold barrel to Sherlock's temple, pushed a lock of his hair back.
"Imagine if I killed you now. I want you to tell me what you'd regret. What would you miss the most..."
Sherlock was still trying to focus. His neck was throbbing violently. He tried to record his own symptoms, tried to figure out just what had been in the syringe Moriarty had plunged into his neck without warning. He could no longer tell if it had happened an hour ago or five minutes ago. Which was irritating - he liked to keep track of the time. His body kept trying to panic, kept straining to sweat and shake, but he forced his limbs into submission, kept his lips pressed shut. It took a great deal of concentration. And Moriarty didn't seem to like that.
"I said LOOK AT ME."
The gun rammed under Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock suppressed a grunt, looked Moriarty in the eye with great difficulty.
"What exactly are you expecting me to say?" he said, forcing the words between stiff lips.
"Say? Nothing, nothing at all... I'm expecting you to scream."
Sherlock stared into that dark, twisted face and lifted his chin. He felt as if he was standing at a crossroads, two paths open to him. He was sure that they would both lead to the same, ugly end, but that didn't mean he was going to take the easy one. He wet his dry lips. "You first."
"What did he want?"
Sherlock's fingers traced the rim of his glass. "He didn't want anything. He wanted to talk. He wanted me to tell him about myself. Answer questions. Random questions."
He managed to work out from the light coming through the window of the office that he had been in captivity for around two days. Sometimes the persistent, deep ache of hunger sent pangs through his stomach, and his arms constantly roared with pain from being twisted up above his head, but he payed little attention to the sensations. He knew his own limits, and he hadn't reached them yet. Until he neared that danger zone, he would be keeping his attention on more important issues. For example, Moriarty's return with a second, larger man - one of the ones who had drugged his coffee and shoved him into the car - as the hours inched towards midday. The larger man stepped forwards, unrolling a strip of black cloth. Blindfold. Instantly, Sherlock felt his skin prickle and his mouth turn dry. His sight was one of the senses he depended on the most, aside from his sense of smell. Removing it would be worse than stripping him naked. As the rough fabric was tied behind his head he felt a stab of panic, lashed out with one leg. His movement was smooth and well-aimed, and the large man staggered backwards, yelping loudly, doubling over his crotch. Moriarty's gleeful peals of laughter echoed through the room.
The larger man was not quite as amused.
Sherlock bit back a cry as the meaty fist connected with his face, pounded again and again until the detective could see stars, could see the whole god-damn solar system John was so keen on drilling him on. When the stars receded again he was spitting coppery blood, gasping for breath, his weight dragging on the bonds around his wrists.
"Out of the shot, Fletcher, out... I can't have you ruining the shot of my gorgeous boy here."
Shot? He heard the soft click of buttons - mobile. Mobile phone. So Moriarty was going to take a photo of him and send it to... well, who was there to send it to? Lestrade? Mycroft? Or... He swallowed hard, tried to wipe some of the blood off with his shoulder, simply ended up coughing.
"Smiiiiiiiiile."
Sherlock wanted to say something clever, wanted to spout some witty comeback, but all his mind could think of was the sheer humiliation of being seen in this state. This state, this single image of himself blindfolded, restrained, beaten, revealed him to be a fake. Revealed him to be not, as so many of them seemed to think him, a genius, but an ordinary man pretending to be somebody fantastic. A fake. A cardboard cut out, that could so very easily catch fire if he would just make a mistake. Moriarty had a way of expertly extracting those mistakes and blowing them up like balloons.
"Oh, yeah, love the camera..."
He turned his face away. He sensed the larger man - Fletcher - moving in close on his right and stiffened, waiting until the man began to reach out before bringing his knee up sharply. Again his attack found its mark, and again Fletcher yelled. Loud.
"Careful, Sherlock," Moriarty drawled from across the room, a faceless voice drifting through the dark. "Fletcher gets pissed off rather quickly."
The blow came on his jaw, and his head snapped back against the wall behind him. For a few blissful seconds, everything dropped away. He thought maybe he had just dreamed the whole thing... but then it all came back with an ungraceful lurch, and he realized that this was the first time in a long, long time that he had wished for his brother to find him.
Moriarty talked for a while, but Sherlock kept his mouth shut, and eventually he heard the creak of floorboards as the consulting criminal wandered away, tapping away on his mobile. He hated the fact that Moriarty was so calm, so at home. Sherlock knew that his own relaxed exterior had already cracked, and the fact that Moriarty had beaten him on those grounds too was like a knife in his gut. Fletcher threatened him for a while, played with his rifle, but Sherlock ignored him. Fletcher had the voice of a man who had few intellectual capabilities, and therefore Sherlock considered him unimportant in his current situation. Moriarty had clearly brought him along as extra muscle, and a muscle that would be flexed at its master's command. So Sherlock shut his eyes beneath the blindfold and listened to the sounds of the building until Fletcher got bored and slunk off into the corridor to have a cigarette. Sherlock listened for roads, people, ships, anything... anything at all...
He didn't sleep as another night passed, but somehow Moriarty still managed to surprise him. One moment he was alone in the room attempting to pinpoint his location, having surmised the age and purpose of the building he was in, and the next a cold hand was on his skin and the sting of a needle was sliding into his neck. He flinched violently, tried to lash out, but Moriarty wasn't as predictable as Fletcher. The needle came free empty. Sherlock inched away as far as he could, even after he heard Moriarty saunter across the room to the desk and sit down on it.
"Sleep well, sexy? No, of course you didn't. Neither did I. If you could see yourself... it's a rather distracting picture, if you know what I me-ean."
Sherlock tried to take a breath, but it evaporated in his throat. The drug seemed to be working much faster than it had the day before. Already he could feel sweat on his back, on his upper lip. He licked his lips, tasting flecks of dried blood. His prolonged blindness was as infuriating as an itch he couldn't reach, as frustratingly persistent as a cut on the roof of his mouth. And it was getting worse with every second. He didn't know what it was, but this drug was absolute hell. He stood there against the wall, horribly aware of the sweat soaking into his shirt and the shivers beginning to role over his body, the sounds creeping into his ears warped and disproportionate to their sources. The ground seemed to be bucking, the wall trembling behind him. His stomach lurched, and he suppressed a rush of nausea, teetered on the brink of losing control, clawed his way back at the last second. His hands closed over the bonds around his wrists, suddenly desperate for something solid. He could feel himself starting to panic as the room span, a fairground ride with the lights switched off, he could feel the fear mounting...
"You know your pet?"
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
"What's his name... Joe? John. John?"
Scrape. Scraaaaaape. Scrape.
"Don't tell me - you've brought me all this way and gone to all this effort because you want to know whether John would go to dinner with you. Apologies - psychopaths aren't his type." His words were too fast, too breathless. He swallowed hard, tried to regulate them, but his throat was dry as sandpaper and everything was shaking, everything was melting, his skin was on fire and then it was cold... Moriarty meanwhile... Moriarty was so, so relaxed. Which only served to be more terrifying.
"No, no, of course not... It's just, he's very quiet, isn't he?"
Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He tried to snort. "What?"
Scrape. Scrrraaaaaape.
"He's very quiet," Moriarty repeated innocently. "I mean, you know how you make those delicious little sounds when Fletchy hit you? Well, he doesn't make any of those. Army training, perhaps."
Sherlock did laugh then, but it came out wrong. It rang out in the still, still air and was swallowed up in silence at once. He would give anything in that moment to be able to see Moriarty's face, to see the little twitches and shadows that lay a lie bare.
Scrape.
"I don't believe you."
"He's like a dog, isn't he? That's it." Moriarty didn't seem to have heard him. "Little doggy, following you around to the ends of the earth..."
"I don't..."
"Fletcher said it was hilarious, watching him trying to sneak in here. I gotta say, I thought he'd last longer though. Few hours with Fletch and he was all over the walls, like a big, bloody painting..."
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
"Stop it. STOP IT." Sherlock didn't know if he was talking about John or that infuriating, spine-chilling sound. That sound he couldn't for the life of him concentrate hard enough to work out what it was. His minds eye assaulted him with images of John, John bleeding, John screaming, John dying...
"Oh, no, Sherlock, don't be so weak. You don't need him, he holds you back, you know it. I've done you a favor."
"I don't believe you!" The words tore from his throat, louder and shriller than he had intended, and he hurriedly bit his lip. He no longer knew which way was up, and his body kept trying to retch. He helplessly snatched for control, tried to slow down his own breathing.
Scraaaaape.
"Temper, temper... Are you scared?"
"What?"
"Right now, are you afraid, Sherlock? Can you feel it chipping at you?"
Scrape. Scrape.
"John's not dead."
Scraaape. Scrape. Scrape.
"Prove it. Come oooooon. Prove it."
Thick droplets of sweat were rolling down his back, down his face. He sucked in a gulp of air, tried to remove himself to his mind palace. He stood, swaying, at the top of the marble steps, trying to squint through the haze of darkness before his eyes, trying to construct it all properly... and all he could see was blood. Blood pooling around his feet and cascading down the steps in a scarlet waterfall, blood rushing down the walls, blood trickling over the windows and turning the very air bright, bright crimson. A cold hand slipped through his hair, brushed his face, a forehead pressed against his own.
"What's the matter? Am I ruining something for you? Have I BROKEN YOU, Sherlock? Was it really that EAAA-ASY?"
And now he couldn't leave, he couldn't get out, couldn't get back to reality. He stood, rooted to the spot at the top of those marble stairs he had worked so very hard on imagining to perfection, he watched his palace burning, and Moriarty remained directly in front of him, so close, too close, invading every aspect of himself...
Sherlock's voice trailed off and he shut his eyes tightly, pressed his steepled fingers against his lips. He was trembling, pulling in deep breaths through his nose. John, already on the edge of his seat, inched a little closer. He wanted to make some kind of contact, but he knew better than to draw attention to the fact that Sherlock was finding this hard. In fact, 'hard' was an understatement. Sherlock was laying himself open, revealing all his weaknesses. He settled instead for reaching out and pulling the blanket aside, checking the ugly scrape on Sherlock's side. His flatmate flinched at his touch, but then collected himself and lowered his hands slowly, watched with dull eyes as John ran a thumb gingerly over the wound.
"That drug," John said softly. "Did you ever find out what it was? I mean, if it had any long term effects-"
"Moriarty's got tabs on all the latest drug networks." Sherlock replied quietly, monotonously, as if he had already turned the thoughts over a hundred times in his head. "The effects were similar to LSD, only extremely accelerated... I doubt this one's even selling yet."
"All the same, we should take a look at your blood."
"My blood's fine. The drug took six hours to wear off after each administration, I kept track. Any trace will be gone by now anyway."
John shot him a raised eyebrow. "It doesn't have to be at the hospital, we could do it here easily enough. You could do it yourself. Just to be sure, you know?"
Sherlock's shoulders heaved in a sigh of resignation. John noted that his flatmate was deliberately avoiding John's gaze, his ears slightly red, and carefully replaced the blanket.
"It's okay, Sherlock," he said, leaning back in his chair. "It's normal - it's human - to feel emotional in that kind of-"
"I was not emotional," Sherlock ground out, glaring up at him. "I was drugged, John. I was drugged."
He repeated it, as if he was convincing himself more than anyone else. John simply nodded, happy to let the topic go for now. Sherlock shifted on the sofa, ran a hand over his broken ribs with a tired wince. John caught a glimpse of the burn on his forearm and couldn't help but wonder what kind of terrible mood Moriarty had been in when he had inflicted that. A brief silence stretched between them, like the breath before a plunge.
Moriarty stayed longer that time. And the scraping continued steadily, insistently, horrifically... it burned itself into Sherlock's ears, filled his whole head, stunted every useful thought that tried to form. As the drug took hold, Sherlock found it harder and harder to pay attention to what Moriarty was saying. The consulting criminal took a few calls, texted some people, had a heated argument with one of his criminal branches. He would play with the buttons of Sherlock's shirt as he talked, sometimes trace his cheekbones with an icy thumb. And when he finally left, yawning and singing to himself in a high voice, Sherlock could still hear it.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scraaaaaaaaape.
Tears were trying to force themselves out of his eyes, tears of sheer frustration, tears that blazed with humiliation. That was the last memory he had before his mind betrayed him. The next thing he knew he was waking up some time later, groaning in agony has his legs took his weight again and took the strain off his burning arms. He'd lost it. He'd lost the time. And now he couldn't see to work out what it was from the light. For a fraction of a second he panicked; then he gave himself a mental slap and began to rub his head against his arm, teeth gritted, trying to wriggle out of the blindfold. It was tied tightly, and the strip of cloth wasn't wide enough to slide off easily, but after a long, long time the knot began to work loose, and then finally it dropped down around his neck and bright early morning light hit him. He blinked, squinted, cast a quick glance around the room. He was alone. On the floor at his feet lay an empty syringe and needle, and he suppressed a shudder at the sight of it.
The day passed slowly, each minute dragging. He spent it rubbing his wrists together, trying to loosen the ropes around them, trying to get free. The knot was expertly tied, but Sherlock set every other thought aside and focused. It wasn't easy. Moriarty's words from the day before - at least he thought it must have been the day before - were scorched into his head. He was certain, now that the drug had worn off, that John was not dead at all, that Moriarty had fabricated the story to make him panic. But it made no sense for John to be dead. If John had been here, Moriarty would have brought him up and killed him right there in front of his arch nemesis. That was Moriarty's style. So John couldn't be dead. At least, that was one of the few thoughts that kept Sherlock's mind ticking over.
The sun passed across the window, its long shafts trailing across the dry floor. The light began to darken, the evening drew in. And as the sun sank below the horizon, the ropes came free and Sherlock slid down the wall and crumpled at the bottom of it, letting out a hoarse yell as his arms dropped down, as his shoulders seared. He closed his eyes, keeping as still as he could, allowing the blood to return gradually to his fingertips. He twitched his hands, shook off the bonds. His movements were heavy and clumsy. His body was trying to sleep but he ignored its pleas and heaved himself to his feet, staggering across the room to the window. He pressed his face to the glass. Yes. He had been right. Northbank, Bere Street if his assumptions were accurate. Which meant that he was in an abandoned factory near the Thames, number... yes, number fourteen, it had to be. With a rush of savage triumph, he turned and made for the door. And as he reached it, Fletcher appeared, his gun raised, a yellow-toothed grin spreading across his face. Sherlock ground to a halt, groaning in despair. He didn't bother to lift his hands. Fletcher strode forwards, caught him by the back of his collar, and dragged him across the room to the chair behind the desk, the barrel of his gun digging into the side of Sherlock's neck. He threw his inmate down and stepped back, the gun leveled at his head.
"Where you goin?"
Sherlock stared back at him, wordless, furious at himself for letting such an opportunity slip away. If he'd just taken a second, just planned it out properly, he could be climbing down a fire escape at that very moment.
"Ya know," Fletcher said, running his fingers over his gun. "Mr. Moriarty Sir is gone away. Won't be back for a while, he said. So I could do what I wanted. Whatever I wanted."
Sherlock let himself snigger. The motion hurt his arms, but he was too tired to care. He was beginning to feel dizzy from hunger, his head spinning a little. But he laughed all the same, and Fletcher's eyes narrowed.
"Oi. Oi!"
"Go on, then," Sherlock smirked. "You do whatever you want to me. You flay my skin off and pull out my eyes. Just make sure you can explain to Moriarty why you ruined his fun when he get's back."
Fletcher's grin vanished, and Sherlock met his gaze.
"Go on. I dare you."
Fletcher turned his back, crossed the room and picked up the ropes Sherlock had just shaken off. Sherlock eyed them as the large man returned.
"When did you become 'Mr. Moriarty Sir's lapdog, then?"
"Shut your mouth."
"Long term prison sentences, three, I think, low achiever in school, failure as a builder, and you've been divorced twice... oh, and accused of domestic violence, I see, lovely... do forgive me, I'd like to know a little more but I can't be bothered to waste the energy."
Fletcher's eyebrows were jerking furiously at his scathing tone, validating Sherlock's statements as each jumped from his lips. Fletcher lifted his gun again, his lips peeling back from his crooked teeth.
"You little-"
"Of course, we don't really need any of that, do we? Doesn't take a genius to look at your face and see that you have an IQ of around two. Or is it naught point five?"
The butt of the gun came down on his face, and as he plunged into the pit of unconsciousness he felt the blows continue.
"You're an idiot."
A hint of a smile graced Sherlock's lips. "I couldn't stop myself."
"I bet you couldn't. I'm surprised he didn't break your face."
"Not that night."
He struggled back to consciousness to find himself on the ground, his hands tied behind his back. It took him a long time to force himself into a sitting position, partly because he blacked out every time he was halfway there and partly because he felt like throwing up. He slouched against the wall, staring up at the window before him. He had no idea what time it was, what day it was... he squinted dazedly around the room, and saw Fletcher sitting in the desk chair, his gun across his lap. He smirked, winced as the expression sent a spasm of pain through his cheek. A flicker of satisfaction crossed Fletcher's face.
"Not so smug now?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, considered going to sleep. He heard the shriek of the chair's legs as Fletcher rose, cracked his eyes open to see the man standing over him, the gun cradled in his arms.
"Come on, tell me the name of my mother. Tell me my whole childhood. Figure out where I'm going to shoot you from the mud on my shoes."
"Where's Moriarty?"
Fletcher just grinned. "He's not back. Just you an' me."
Sherlock let his gaze slide out of focus. Fletcher had the air of a terrier that had been shut up for too long, a rottweiler looking to pick a fight. He could see what was about to happen laid out clear as a map before him, a smooth, inevitable chain of events. Whatever he said, whatever he did in the next few minutes, Fletcher was going to get angry. He considered going to his mind palace but the idea shriveled away almost at once - after his last experience in it, he wasn't sure he wanted to go back. He turned his attention instead to his face, which was throbbing violently.
"Well?"
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard floor. "Well what?" he asked irritably. "If you have nothing remotely interesting to say, I don't want to hear it."
"You're one snarky little shit, aren't you?"
Sherlock cast his eyes skywards. "My god, you're boring..."
Fletcher's jaw worked, his hand tightened on his gun. "Just... Just give me one reason..."
"I could give you a hundred. Shall we start with how you almost killed your first wife?"
And there it was - that twitch at the corner of Fletcher's mouth that signaled him giving in. He moved surprisingly fast for such a large man; in a split second he had Sherlock by the throat and was hurling him into the center of the room, tossing his gun aside. His massive boot connected with Sherlock's ribs once, twice, three times - and Sherlock flinched away from the experience. He was too exhausted, too dizzy to keep up the mental barrier, and the pain returned with a sudden lurch that had him lashing out in any way he could, black dots dancing before his eyes. He managed to deal a sharp, sudden blow to Fletcher's shin; the other man cried out, and then swore loudly and seized Sherlock by the collar, dragged him up off the floor. Sherlock shut his eyes as spit flew into his face.
"You want to do this the hard way? Do ya?"
Sherlock couldn't see. Fletcher let him go and he landed hard on his front, listened as Fletcher's footsteps crossed the room and then returned. Sherlock caught up a handful of sawdust from the floor, pretended to be struggling to get up - which wasn't at all difficult - and then as Fletcher stopped behind him whipped around and let the sawdust fly -
Only to find the cold, hard edge of a crowbar slamming into his head. The world exploded in a wave of shattering shards of darkness and he felt the floor against his head, his reeling, stammering, stalling head... he withdrew from himself, saw at once what had happened, saw himself turning too early and meeting Fletcher's blow head on. There was hot blood dribbling into his eye. He rolled heavily over onto his side, and then screamed as the crowbar came down again on his ribs. The agony stabbed through him in sickening waves as the crowbar impacted with his body again and again and again and anatomy of the human body 101, structure of the rib cage, adapted to cover the most vulnerable organs from harm, stomach and kidneys just out of this protective casing and therefore dangerously easy to damage, self defense often employed the technique of attacking the kidneys to deter attackers -
CRACK.
The sudden sound tore through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present with a terrible thud and he could have sworn he felt his ribs give way beneath Fletcher's blows. He heard himself screaming distantly, felt the heat of tears in his eyes... He realized dimly that Fletcher had stopped and forced his eyes open, struggling to catch his breath, a hideous pain invading every gasp of air he tried to gulp down. He saw Fletcher standing tall over his shuddering body, saw those meaty hands tearing off the black leather belt with the bronze buckle and reaching out. Sherlock's eyes dropped closed, too heavy to hold open -
A chill had settled over John's limbs, a chill that ate into his heart and made his voice catch in his throat. He kept his eyes on Sherlock, searching for a hint of confirmation in those pale eyes. "Sherlock... he didn't..."
"No, he didn't. Moriarty came in. He was angry."
The gunshots peppered the air, and through the mist Sherlock was vaguely aware of Fletcher's massive body hitting the floor nearby.
"No, no, NO. Poor baby, just can't get the staff. NO. Stupid, STUPID."
Everything hurt so much. Pain rolled over him in thick waves, turned his limbs to trembling sticks of lead. He dimly recognized another thunder of gunshots, closer this time, and then a clatter as Moriarty dropped the gun. Sherlock pried his eyelids open, coughing and wheezing, the taste of blood sour and sharp in the back of his throat. Moriarty's face wavered above him.
"You're my boy toy, aren't you?" Moriarty wiped the blood from Sherlock's temple with a silk handkerchief. Sherlock tried to twitch away from his grip but nausea reared up in his throat. He retched but his stomach was empty, and instead he just tasted bile, which in turn made him feel even worse.
"You don't want that ugly brute, do you? Don't you worry."
Moriarty's finger pushed his chin up, and Sherlock found himself looking up into those twin pools of dark, dark eyes. Moriarty's lips twitched into a grin.
"You're so, so mine."
"Ow." Sherlock broke off, shooting John a glare.
"Sorry."
John's fingers probed the red swelling around the stab wound. It had gone down a lot since he had first attended to it, although some of the fluid was still seeping from the edge of it. He added a little more iodine, taped some gauze down, and then secured a loose bandage. Sherlock winced and wriggled and muttered. John checked his watch, and then offered him some more of the antibiotics. Sherlock gulped them down with a grimace.
"Was this... was this near the end?"
God, he wanted it to be. He wanted Sherlock to tell him that this was the final chapter of the torment. Sherlock raised and lowered his good shoulder in a weary shrug.
"It must have been."
Moriarty passed in and out of the room. He didn't need to worry about Sherlock escaping - the detective couldn't even bear to roll over. His ribs roared with an agony he had never felt before, his head swung with great bouts of sickness that had him shuddering and choking. He could hear Moriarty wandering around downstairs, and at one point the rumble of machinery vibrated through the floor. Moriarty came wandering back upstairs, giggling loudly, his footsteps light on the floorboards. Sherlock barely even realized he was there until he was pressing something against his arm. He heard himself screaming, a raw, animal sound that tore from him like a knife, struggled desperately to get free.
"Are you listening to me? I said doesn't - he - look - better - now?"
The smell of burning flesh assaulted Sherlock's senses. He finally managed to twist away, curling around his injured arm, gasping, whimpering, tears of pain flickering from the corners of his eyes. Moriarty's hand came down on him, pulled his head to the side, scrabbled at his eyes.
"Look, look! Isn't that better?"
Sherlock squinted through the blurry fog of pain. He saw Fletcher, body riddled with bullet wounds, eyes blank and staring. He saw the thick, gleaming streams of blood spreading across the floor. He saw the skin of the large man's face, skin that was burned black, sizzling, blistering, drawn in a pattern that made two letters. JM. From forehead to cheek to chin. JM. Sherlock shut his eyes.
"Just for you," Moriarty murmured, stroking his neck. "Especially for you."
Sherlock felt the needle sink into his skin and couldn't suppress a groan, his whole body tensing in anticipation of the fear that was about to come trickling through him. Moriarty wiped at the area with his handkerchief, carefully, intently. Sherlock tried to roll away, the smell of burning skin rancid in his nose, but Moriarty held onto him. The consulting criminal didn't need to use much force - Sherlock didn't have enough strength left to fight him off.
"You know what I want? You must be wondering. What's all this about, hmm? Why's Jim doing it all?"
Lips brushed against his ear and he flinched, then made a desperate scramble to get away as he realized just how close Moriarty was to him. He hated people invading his personal space at the best of times, but in this situation it was hell. Moriarty's vice-like grip closed over his shoulder.
"I want to see you squirm, Sherlock, I want to see you lose it. I want you to know just how thin the line between us is. You're going to go mad here, Sherlock. Mad, mad, MAD."
The anxiety was taking hold, and Moriarty's words blasted through Sherlock's head like great billowing jets of fire.
Sherlock's voice faltered for a moment, his eyes gazing off into some other world that John couldn't see or reach. His pale skin stood out against his dark, curly hair like ivory, like bone. John watched his thin face tremble, watched his chest lift in a deep breath. The cool, pale green eyes seemed faded, dull, as if Sherlock had forgotten how to use them. All too aware of the lump rising in his own throat, John quickly linked his fingers together and rested his hands against his mouth, elbows on his knees, hoping that Sherlock was too engrossed in his memories to notice. Sherlock ran his tongue across his lips, closed his eyes in a long blink, took a sip from his glass of water. His fingers left cloudy imprints along the side of the glass.
Hours later, the drug was still blazing in his veins - he could almost feel it surging through him, tainting his blood like ink. The ground jumped and shuddered as he struggled to lift himself from the floor, blinking violently, his arms shaking. Everything was spinning, everything was splitting into two... All he wanted to do was run, run as fast and hard as he could and never look back. His whole body was protesting wildly at every movement he made, a fresh pain throbbing on his hip where Moriarty had kicked him for trying to move away too many times. He kneaded his forehead with his fingers, squinted up at the door. He could just see Moriarty stepping out into the corridor, his voice echoing as he called for his companion. His pale blue shirt shimmered silkily in the light of the setting sun. His shirt... It took Sherlock a long few moments to make that essential deduction. Sherlock span around on his knees, suppressing a groan as the whole world tilted. His eyes fell on Moriarty's jacket, thrown carelessly over the desk. It was almost to easy, almost a miracle. He glanced over his shoulder, but the doorway was empty.
He didn't know where Moriarty had gone, and he didn't care. It was his one chance. Without wasting a second longer, he scrambled across the room on jellied legs and heaved himself up to his feet, pawing through the jacket with numb fingers. He fumbled for the phone, tore it from the inside pocket. He didn't need to pause and construct a plan - he only had one emergency contact. His fingers flew over the mobile, the resulting text garbled and half nonsense. A creak from across the room froze his thumbs, and he looked up sharply, blinking hard as blood trickled past his eye.
Moriarty stood in the doorway, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. His face was rigid with a cold, snarling fury. His eyes shone with that insane gleam magnified tenfold, drilling holes through Sherlock's head. For a fraction of a second that yawned like an eternity, consulting criminal and consulting detective stared at one another.
Then Sherlock hit 'send'.
A scream of primal rage filled the room and Moriarty's fists balled in Sherlock's torn shirt, shoving him back against the desk. Sherlock's ribs punished him for the impact, and he heard himself gasping, his vision faltering. Moriarty's contorted face flickered inches away from his own, his eyes wild, his grip in Sherlock's collar so tight that Sherlock could hardly take a breath.
"You called for help? NO! You were SUPPOSED to do it ALONE! You've RUINED EVERYTHING!"
He saw a flash of silver, recognized that expensive letter opener clutched in one of Moriarty's hands. He saw it arc upwards and then thrust down. Hard.
Sherlock screamed. Moriarty was screaming too, and then he was whispering, fast and hard against Sherlock's cheek. His words stammered through Sherlock's spinning head.
"I will find you... you and I... my side... the same... find you..."
By the time he fought his way back to reality he was alone, slumped against the desk on the floor, reflexively clutching his shoulder, sobs lurching from his mouth. A fiery agony blazed beneath his palm, blood pumping violently against his skin and spreading through his shirt. He couldn't breathe.
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
He struggled to keep the pressure on his shoulder, struggled to think straight. He had to keep pressure. Had to stop the bleeding. Oh shit. He forced his gaze upwards, realized with surprise that he was alone. Moriarty was gone. He ran his halting gaze over the room, confirming the fact, unable to understand it. His eyes fell on Fletcher's still body, thrown across the room and now lying by the window face-down. His stomach heaved and he began to claw his shirt off with difficulty, wincing and gasping, unable to contain the tears that sparked from his eyes when he moved his shoulder too suddenly. He finally managed to tear free of the shirt, tore off a few strips with his teeth, began to wrap them around his shoulder as best he could.
MOVE MOVE MOVE.
His brain howled at him to go faster, and his fingers failed to grip the strips of cloth he was trying to secure around his arm. He established a pathetic excuse for a knot and then reached for the desk, grabbed it with his good arm, dragged his faltering body upwards. He supported himself on it, squinting around the room, checking for Moriarty one last time. No sign. He remembered the text he had sent and prayed with everything he had that John had received it. If John was alive.
No. Of course John was alive. He had to be alive.
Drawing on whatever energy he had left, he hurled himself towards the door. He could feel his own blood dribbling steadily down his chest, his hands slippery with the stuff, the crimson liquid staining his trousers as it ran down his side. His feet tripped over themselves as he neared the door and he threw himself against the doorway to prevent a rapid trip to the ground. The collision sent great waves of agony crackling through his side and he struggled to hold back a scream. The smell of blood was thick in the air, exhaustion shaking in his limbs. He couldn't do it. He couldn't hope to make it out alone, he was going to pass out... He forced in a few deep breaths, tried to get some oxygen into his brain, tried to make himself think. Then he began to move again.
He made it out of the room, leaning heavily on the wall, half aware of the bloody trail he was leaving behind him on the paint. Darkness flashed before his eyes, assaulted his vision in great, swooping blasts that had him stumbling and swaying. He could just about make out a dank corridor, a few doors dotted around, a set of metal stairs leading down to what he presumed would be the factory's main hall. He reached the top of the stairs, felt the metal banister beneath his hand, gripped it. He took the first step, then the next... and then his legs gave out. His body gave in, his knees buckled, and he sank down onto the stairs with a whimper of agony. He clutched the banister, the metal ice against his burning face. He could no longer see. His body screamed with pulses of pain, rushes of vertigo... He felt his eyes close, felt his grip on the banister come loose. John had never got the text. Nobody knew where he was. He had never thought he would die like this, in the belly of a decaying factory, Moriarty's touch smeared over his skin. Alone. Well, he'd always expected to die alone...
The sirens fumbled through the haze in his head some time later. At first, he thought Moriarty had come back and was starting up the machines. But then he recognized the shriek of tyres, the call of horns, the shouts of people echoing through the building. Sucking in as deep a breath as he could manage, he lifted his head from the rungs of the banister, squinted through the dark. The beam of a torch hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. In that one moment, he could have sworn to take back every jibe he had ever taken at the police force. He could have apologized a thousand times over to the criminal investigation team, even to Anderson. He could have gone down on his knees and kissed Lestrade's shoes. Because, despite everything he had said, everything they had ever jeered at him over, it was Sally Donovan's face that made his whole body tremble with relief and his heart lurch with gratitude. He managed a crooked, bloody smile as she stopped dead at the foot of the stairs, her torch a beacon in the darkness, her eyes wide with unrestrained horror.
"About time," he said hoarsely.
And then Lestrade was there, and the paramedics were shoving their way up the stairs, and for the first time in his life Sherlock let go and did exactly what they told him to do without protest. Until Moriarty's words drummed themselves back into his head.
"I will find you. If it's the last thing I do, Sherlock, you and I... you'll see my side... the two of us are the same... And I - will - find - you."
The story seemed to drain whatever strength Sherlock had been running on; his eyelids were drooping, his face was white and his hands were shaking like leaves as he rubbed his jaw. John spoke to him, and he nodded, but he doubted Sherlock had actually understood anything he had said. Murmuring mindless words of comfort, he took the glass of water from Sherlock's lax grip and put a hand on his back, gently pushed him down, rearranged the pillow behind his head, dragged the blanket up and tucked it around his shoulders. Sherlock's eyes were already closed by the time John had put the water on the floor.
John's mind was still roving over the story Sherlock had just told him, the injuries suddenly blurred with Moriarty's fingers, the impossible mental trauma, the fact that he'd have to check the stab wound once more in a couple of hours, the note on the table from Mrs. Hudson he still had not read, the mess of medical appliances spread on the floor around him... He dropped into the armchair, heaving a sigh, rubbing his stinging eyes. It was as if he had lived the whole thing alongside Sherlock, gone through every stab of pain, every surge of fear. He felt exhausted just from hearing it... and no wonder Sherlock had wanted to get out of the hospital, no wonder he had wanted to get home and hide as soon as he could.
"I will find you..."
The words seemed to hang in the air above them. John felt a shudder run down his spine, looked across at Sherlock. His flat mate was as good as unconscious, burrowed beneath the blanket, his mop of dark hair almost obscuring his face. John could still see those bruises, the split lip.
In his time in Afghanistan, John Watson had seen a lot of brutality. He had seen bodies broken beyond repair, he had seen men in pieces. And yet he had kept his poker face, he had remained the strong, sturdy rock, despite the horrors and the bloodshed and the monstrosity of war. Somehow, all of that paled to insignificance compared with how he felt now. Perhaps it was because Sherlock made up most of his world now - unbelievable, arrogant, sarcastic Sherlock and his frenzied cases and his ridiculous lifestyle. Perhaps it was because Sherlock was supposed to be the strong one here, was supposed to be the one with an answer for everything.
Whatever the reason, John fell asleep with eyes that burned with hot, salty tears and a tight throat, and with Sherlock's hand resting on his arm, John's sleeve caught up between his fingers. Sherlock wouldn't know how to hear it if he tried to say it aloud. So John spent that night with that small contact cemented between them, showing in the best way that he could that everything was going to be alright, that he was going to fix it all, that Moriarty was never going to touch Sherlock again.
And that, no matter how many tantrums, no matter how many arguments, John was not going anywhere. No matter what, he was always, always going to come back.
Fluffy ending to make up for the angst ;)
Hope you all enjoyed it, reviews are very welcome.
SUPRNTRAL LVR.