-Back by popular demand ;) Enjoy.-
A Message for Sherlock Holmes
He couldn't let John see this. It was bad enough Mrs. Hudson had to in her not-a-house-keeper-just-a-concerned-friend-that-wants-to-help tea making. He stared only for another moment, photographing the scene and storing it in his mind.
Nothing else in the flat was disturbed. He checked John's laptop, his room and his own violin just in case. The last thing he needed was for the doctor to find something to bring everything back in his attempt to get well.
"Sherlock, what's happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sounding terrified.
"A very twisted soul with nothing better to do decided to harm everything good in this black world," he said simply, tugging his gloves on and yanking the blade from the wall, catching the dog tags in the process.
"And by that you mean…Dr. Watson?" She said softly. The genius shut his eyes, nodding once.
"Yes. I mean John," he said quietly. "I need to talk to my brother."
"I'll put the kettle on." Still the only thing she could think to do.
7:16 a.m.
I need your help.
7:17 a.m. (Mycroft)
Need another clearance pass to ruin my name with?
7:17 a.m.
No. I need you to find someone that I need to kill.
7:19 a.m. (Mycroft)
…
7:19 a.m.
Would I bother talking to you if I didn't absolutely need your help? I'll beg if I have to. It's important.
7:24 a.m. (Mycroft)
Who and why?
7:24 a.m.
He hurt John, Mycroft.
7:25 (Mycroft)
Tell me what I can do.
"You know, I'm not sure why you wear the dad jumpers all the time," Jim remarked as John raggedly gasped for air. He set to slicing him up again, listening to him scream, noting that he would have to apply more tape soon, what with all the moisture leaking from his eyes lowering the quality of the adhesive. "You've got a hot little body here, doctor."
More screaming, shaking and pleading. "I'd bet Sherlock would simply faint if he saw you wearing something tighter than a thrift shop sweater that once belonged to a husky father of three."
John shut his eyes, whimpering when he felt hands on his stomach, feeling, testing, probing. "Muscular too. Looks like that Afghanistan tour did you some good."
He tried to distance himself from the horror, from him, thinking of Sherlock. His arms, his touch, his kiss, his—
"NO!" He jumped, feeling the blade at his throat. "No, John, you don't get to hide from me by thinking about your little fuck boy."
The psychotic brought the knife down in a shallow jab to finish the ellipses, eliciting a sharp cry from John, falling back into tears.
"Oh wait, that's right…" he ventured, giggling. "He fucks you, doesn't he?" He cried, ignoring him. "God, you just give me so much to work with!" He laughed, his face serious less than a second later. "LOOK AT ME!"
John cried out, opening his eyes at the demand, so afraid. Jim smiled pleasantly, turning the knife over in his hands. "Tell me, doctor, does he fuck you? Does he throw you against a wall and make you beg for him? Huh? I'll bet he does. I'll bet you like it, too, don't you? You like it when he fucks you so hard you can't stand the next morning, DON'T YOU?"
He stared at him, shaking all over, in enough pain to blind him. Moriarty lashed out, slicing his arm, pain erupting from the spot, making the doctor scream again. "ANSWER ME, OR I'LL GUT YOU RIGHT HERE!"
"YES!" John screamed, nodding. Jim laughed, running his fingers over his cheek, laughing when he shrunk away.
"Such a good little soldier…" He cooed, ripping his dog tags from his neck. John whimpered, eyes trained on them. "I think everyone should know how good of a soldier you are, don't you?" He wandered back to the table filled with devices. He picked up the blow torch, sparking it to life and carefully heating the metal.
John shook so hard the chains made music above his head, teeth vibrating together, his naked body slicked with sweat and blood, so cold. He shook his head, pleading.
"Aw, aren't you cute?" The villain chuckled. "Scared little thing. Can't wait 'til Sherlock gets a look at you." He hooked the tag onto a thin metal rod, still heating as he came toward him. John struggled, fruitlessly trying to get away, his sobs loud and stifled by the gag.
"NO, NOHOH!" He begged. "PLEHEASE, NO!"
"Now don't squirm, or it'll be crooked," he scolded.
"NO! SHERLOOOOOOCK!"
The detective stepped into the room, rubbing his temples, slipping the phone into his pocket. He sat beside John, rubbing his forehead, thumbing his cheek, the bruises a constant reminder of what he'd done.
"I'm sorry, John," he breathed. "I'm sorry for everything he's done to you. It's my fault he hurt you." John sighed softly.
He leaned into his touch, most likely being haunted by a storm of nightmares. His face was ashen, skin hot and clammy. He trembled slightly, even under the comforters, cold.
Fever, the genius thought sadly, touching him gently. "Mrs. Hudson?" He called, testing to see if she was still occupying the flat or not. She poked her head in a moment later. "Medicine, please. For his fever." She nodded and left.
"John," he whispered, kissing his forehead. "John, wake up." He shook him lightly. "Wake up now."
His eyes snapped open, shaking slightly, eyes bloodshot when he looked at him.
"I just need to get you some medicine and break that fever," he said gently.
"Sherlock," he croaked, coughing lightly.
"Shh, relax—"
"N-no, Sherlock," he offered him his arm, lips shaking. He frowned, wishing more than anything that he could take the pain and fear from his sweet face. He gently took his arm, rolling back his sleeve.
Track marks, so small he hadn't worried about them, his attention mainly taken by the words that had been carved into his skin. "He drugged you…" He breathed. "Is that how he got you so weak?" He nodded, lips trembling. He fell against Sherlock's chest, not speaking, letting Sherlock's long, wiry arms envelop him. "Shh…hush, hush." He rocked him, doing his best to convey that he wasn't alone. "I won't let go unless you ask me to," he swore.
"Thank you," he whispered, eyes closed.
"Do you have any ideas as to what he gave you?" He whispered. John shook his head.
"Maybe GHB," he whispered. "I don't know. I can't stop shaking…"
Sherlock closed his eyes, kissing his hair. "I know, I know, John. It'll pass, I promise. It's just withdrawal symptoms, you'll be fine." John clutched the fabric of his shirt so tight his fingers hurt, knuckles white.
Mrs. Hudson bustled in with pills and a glass of water, which John accepted graciously, swallowing fresh sobs when his hand shook so hard Sherlock had to steady the cup for him. The land-lady said nothing. She simply smiled gently, patting his shoulder and nodding to Sherlock before leaving with tears in her eyes.
"It hurts," he breathed. "Everything hurts, Sherlock. I just want it to stop!"
"I know," he assured. "I know. That'll pass as well, John. The pain is only temporary."
And it's my fault, he added silently, knowing John would only lie to him and tell him otherwise. Every solitary ounce of pain he's experiencing is my fault. I might as well have put that needle in his arm myself, cut those words into his skin, using the one thing he had to keep him strong and sure and twisted it into a nightmare he may have to live with for the rest of his life. I did this. These tears, this pain, this fear, this agony, all my doing. I'm responsible and he's cuddling me like I'm the only thing keeping him sane. God, John, why do you hold me so highly?
"Stop it," he said suddenly. He stared at him.
"Stop what?"
"Stop blaming yourself for what he did. It's not your fault," he pleaded. "Just don't, Sherlock."
"But it is my fault. He hurt you to get to me. How is it not my fault, John?" He asked, desperate for an answer, for reprieve.
"Because I said it isn't, now will you please just…just hold me."
Another jab to a bruised heart. It was so much easier when he didn't feel anything for anyone. Then along comes John and all he wanted was to be near him, to kiss him. He'd never had the urge to kiss anyone before and, and this sweet, peaceful man turns his world upside down. It's romantic, if you think about it. It's also what put him here.
John slept again, fitfully, the withdrawals taking a massive toll on his body, causing agony every time he moved. His fever scored and raged on, setting his skin ablaze without end. He shook with chills and tremors, having to take off the sweater and his undershirt once they were soaking wet, leaving Sherlock to sit beside the bed, fingers steeped, staring at the bandages, counting scars.
6:49 p.m. (Lestrade)
We found it.
6:49 p.m.
I need to be alone with it.
6:50 p.m. (Lestrade)
I'm not sure that's a good idea.
6:51 p.m.
Either I'm alone or I'll take it from you without you even noticing.
6:53 p.m. (Lestrade)
Fine. Anderson's done with it.
6:53
That idiot won't find a damn thing. I'll be there shortly.
He leaned over to John, dabbing his face again with the cool cloth before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Sleep, John. Sleep and you'll never know I was gone."
He slipped away, notifying Mrs. Hudson on his way out, dread and anxiety slowly creeping in to take over his senses.
"Where?" Was all he said, not making eye contact with the detective-inspector.
"Back here."
He led him to a back office often used for storage, away from the rest of the bull pen and rabble. A laptop sat on the table, humming softly with life, unaware of the contents it held. So easy to be a machine.
Sometimes I wish I could be that again…
"Leave," he ordered, seating himself in front of it. Lestrade left with a worried, fleeting look, knowing what was to follow wouldn't be pretty.
The consultant hit the play button and sat back.
The camera was set from above, giving a landscape look at the old building in front of him.
John hung unconscious on the wall diagonal from its position, a table about ten feet from him piled with horrendous looking tools and devices. Sherlock's chest tightened. The picture itself was crystal clear other than the hindrances black and white offered, leaving John far enough to see all of him, but close enough to capture every expression that would pass his features.
The soldier woke with a start, gasping awake, looking around frantically, confused. He groaned, glancing up at the head injury and the blood that had long-since dried. He shivered a little, becoming aware of the frigid air and his lack of clothing.
"He looks so small," Sherlock whispered.
John swallowed, staring down at his body, only clad in his undershirt and pants. His eyes ascended to the chains holding his already aching wrists. He fought, pulled at them, lifting himself up at one point in an effort to bend or break them.
"Don't," he said to nothing, as if John could hear him.
"Damn," John spat, breathing hard, clouds of fog forming from his labored breathing.
A door burst open out of sight, basking him in an artificial glow before a figure stood in the way. Sherlock knew who he was before he spoke.
"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeere's JOHNNY!" The criminal cackled.
Sherlock took a breath, and proceeded to watch everything.
Every
single
minute.
Tbc…