A Message for Sherlock Holmes
Dizzy, scared and so cold. The drugs tore through his system, leaving him more defenseless than he already was. The dark room covered him in a cold, damp blackness, images swimming through. Horrible visions of war and bloodshed, screaming faces of people he couldn't save. He shuddered, turning away from them, shaking his head and begging them to go away.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry… Please, don't hurt me!" He begged, shrinking away, the blood on his exposed skin only making the chill worse. He hid from the shadows, his dizzied state bringing his hallucinations to life.
A face came through the darkness, a face that didn't spark fear or pain, but longing and desperate need.
"Sherlock?" He whimpered. "Sherlock, please, help me!" He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't do anything. "Sh-Sherlock, please. I-I'm cold, everything hurts, please… Help me." Still nothing. He stepped closer, his dark clothes keeping him mostly invisible against the black backdrop. "Sherlock," he was crying now. "Please, I'm scared. Take me home, please. I just want to go home." He backed away, leaving him freezing, naked, terrified and in so much pain. "No, no! Sherlock, don't leave me!" He disappeared as quickly as he came, fading away. "Sherlock!" He sobbed. "Don't go! Please, come back!" Nothing. Dark. Dank. Alone. He cried into his arm, hiding his face, so scared. He wouldn't stop shaking, his heart constantly pounding, images swimming in front of his eyes.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind that were so desperately trying to break through his medical knowledge told him that he'd been given too much of this drug.
Not that it mattered now. He was too afraid, too busy focusing on not letting the pain and cold drive him mad to pay much attention to that. The loneliness in his heart was too much to handle as well. Sherlock was all he wanted, all he needed. He would be just fine if only…
"Sherlock, come back. Please, I want to go home, please…"
Hours of hell passed where horrors plagued his mind and invaded his senses, using the drug as their gateway to do so. Prayers for a savior, for Sherlock to take him away from this place whispered constantly, fruitless and wasted efforts. He tried focusing on memories of him, things that made him happy about the detective but found it impossible. His mind failed so miserably at the feat.
He cried out when the door opened again, a familiar figure skipping through the light.
"And how are we today, Johnny boy?" He asked happily. John kept his eyes closed, remnant tears not yet dry on his cheeks. Jim suddenly struck out, striking his damaged backside with a loud slap. John squealed in pain, writhing hopelessly in the restraints. "Yep, still too cute," he chuckled. "I hope you liked the little present I gave you. Has that worn off yet?" John shivered, giving a small nod. "Fun night, wasn't it?"
"No more," he begged. "Please." Jim laughed.
"Honey, we're just getting started!" He said excitedly. "So tell me, doctor…" He snapped impatiently. John whimpered as he was taken away, hauled back to the chains that held him upright. He sighed when he pulled his pants up, giving him his dignity back. "I forgot to ask you, why on earth does Sherlock have this thing?" He said, twirling the riding crop once before setting it down. "It's not like he uses it for sex, does he?"
"That's none of your business," he growled, his voice too weak to sound threatening.
"Bow let's think a moment, John. You're half-naked, tied up and completely at my mercy. I think everything about you, or Sherlock for that matter, has officially been made my business. So what does he use it for?"
"Experiments," he breathed, shutting his eyes, weary.
"That's right. Of course, because he's so smart, isn't he? So interesting. Is that why you like him so much?" John was silent, eyes closed. "C'mon, John," he said softly, sparking a blow torch from the table, heating an iron rod in his hand. "Tell me, out of all these women you've had, why Sherlock Holmes?"
He's gentle. He's brilliant, he's gorgeous and he makes me feel…
No, he wasn't about to tell him that. It didn't matter, why did he need to know? No, no…
"Tell me," he warned. "Tell me or I'll have to hurt you again." John watched the glow of the metal, metal that would sear and melt his skin.
"I just, I just do." Jim sighed, shaking his head.
"I'm starting to wonder if you enjoy this."
John shrieked when the fire poker came in contact with his bare flesh, a sizzling sound filling the room. "NO! AHHN!"
"I told you," Jim shrugged, twisting the object into his skin before pulling away. The doctor gasped raggedly, tears of pain in his eyes. "Now go on," Jim urged, smirking. "Why do you love Sherlock?"
"He was there," he breathed, teeth grinding. "He was there when I was alone."
"Now we're getting somewhere." He jabbed him with the scorching instrument; more screams from its victim, making it harder for him to keep his tears at bay. "Why else?"
"He-he makes me smile- GUHN!"
"You can do better than that!" He challenged.
"Please," he gasped before he was screaming again, the acrid smell of burning flesh filling his nostrils gagging him.
"Come on…" He urged, twisting it into his bicep. John shut his eyes, trembling from pain and cold, taking heaving gulps for air when the poker was taken away.
"What do you want me to say?" He shivered. "No, no, wait, WAIT!" More shrieking tearing at his throat.
"Just ANSWER THE QUESTION!" The villain bellowed, ripping it away. He was shuddering, tears so close to falling, body pulsating with pain.
"Wh-when I saw him for the first time I wanted to be with him…f-forever. I w-wanted him in my life and I didn't kn-know why for awhile. I-I can't be without him now, I c-can't. I don't know when it h-happened or how but one d-day I looked at him and I…I knew I l-loved him."
Silence fell, save for John's labored breaths and the quiet sizzle of the fire poker heating up again.
"Good enough." A beat later Jim burned him again, grinning wildly.
"NO! PLEHEASE! I DID WHAT YOU SAID! I DID WHAT YOU SAID, PLEASE!" He screamed.
"And when did I say answering my question would make it stop?" He asked, pushing it into his inner thigh.
"STOP! OH GOD, PLEASE!" He screamed, shuddering, tears on his cheeks, acrid bile rising to his throat that he quickly swallowed, writhing in desperation to get away, his flesh still burning horribly under the treatment, cold air like knives against the preexisting wounds.
"Come on, beg for him," Moriarty dared. "You know you want to" He sobbed harshly, screaming again, pleading hopelessly. "Say it. Go on, call him."
"SHERLOOOCK!" He shrieked, voice coarse. "SHERLOCK PLEASE HELP ME! MAKE HIM STOP! SHERLOCK!"
"Alright, that's enough."
John fell limp in the chains, unable to support himself, slicked in sweat, blood and tears, trembling, whimpering softly. He heard something tear before something was slapped over his lips, silencing him.
"Don't worry, John, I'm helping you. Maybe if you can't talk you'll stop talking to people that aren't there. He'll never hear you, never find you. Not until I allow him too."
John cried out when the needle went into his arm, shaking his head, pleading with his eyes. "Now, on with the fun!"
The doctor woke with a start, gasping, pain overcoming him almost instantly and sending him back into the sheets. His hands clambered through the darkness, desperate to find Sherlock.
"Shh," a voice said through the black. Familiar, gentle, loving hands touched his cheeks. "I've got you, John. I'm here."
John buried his fevered face in his chest, clinging to him as tight as he could. "Sh-Sherlock."
"Right here. It's okay, he can't hurt you anymore," he whispered, kissing his temple.
"Sorry I woke you," he whispered.
"Never slept, darling. You have nightmares every night without this kind of trauma. I wasn't about to let you go through this alone. I won't leave you." John looked up at him, seeing his swollen eyes even in this darkness. He'd been crying.
"Sherlock," he whispered, touching his cheek.
"I'm okay," he said firmly. "I'm fine."
"Why do you think he did this?" He whispered. Sherlock frowned.
"You know why he did it."
"I know what he told me, that's all," he mumbled. Sherlock rubbed the back of his head, holding him possessively, kissing his forehead.
"It's a warning to stay away. He's planning something big soon and wants me to stay out of it. He knows hurting you will not only cause me to stop, but injure me as well. Seeing you in pain hurts me more than anything else. It's just another threat," he explained.
John frowned, staring at him. "Hurt you? How can I hurt you?" Sherlock sighed, shaking his head.
"Isn't it obvious? I love you, John. I've never cared for another living soul as much as I care for you. He knows that. Taking you away from me will break me." He finally met his gaze right as John was leaning toward him, softly, chastely, pressing their lips together. Sherlock held him tighter, cradling his face, soothing him to sleep.
"I love you too," the doctor whispered. Sherlock smiled a little.
"Go to sleep, John," he said gently.
"Don't make me," he begged, an edge of overwhelming fear in his voice. "Please." Sherlock's heart clenched. "I can't take the nightmares, Sherlock, I can't. I can't keep remembering what he did, please."
"Shh, shh, easy…" He said, caressing his face. "Shh…just close your eyes and listen to my voice." John obliged without hesitation, still willing and ready to trust Sherlock without question. "I want you to breathe very slowly, alright? With me, in…out…in…and out…in…out…" He continued the pattern until John was totally relaxed. "I want you to think of something that makes you feel peaceful, something that makes you feel totally at ease, that makes you happy."
"Staying in with you," he breathed. Another jab to Sherlock's heart.
"Right, perfect," he said, voice clear and unfazed. "That's what we're doing right now. No case, no interruptions just you blogging and laughing while I watch crap telly and yell at the screen." John smiled, eyes still closed.
"And this is when you ask me if I want to go to dinner even though-"
"I'm not hungry," he nodded, smiling back. "Just keep breathing, keeping thinking about that. In…out…in…" It didn't take long for John to drift off again, peaceful, free of nightmares, content. "I've got you John. Just stay here with me."
His phone buzzed on the table; a text from Mycroft.
2:46 a.m. (Mycroft)
We found the man that helped him.
2:46 a.m.
Where?
2:47 a.m. (Mycroft)
You know where.
He sighed, staring at his phone for a moment, looking between it and John.
"I won't be long," he assured, carefully lying John down, prying him from his arms. "Shh, shh, I'll be back, John. I promise." A soft kiss on his forehead before he was rushing downstairs, fiery, boiling rage welling in his stomach and rising to his eyes.
Blood would be shed tonight.
"He said he would only speak to you," Mycroft explained, hand positioned carefully on the doorknob.
"Did he say why?" He asked softly.
"No." Sherlock stared at the door. "Are you sure you can do this?"
"Yes," he said truthfully. "But if you expect me to go in there with a promise that I won't kill him then I might as well leave now."
"I don't," he said, still calm, collected, Mycroft. "I wouldn't have called you here otherwise. I know you better, little brother." He stepped back, giving him permission to go inside.
Sherlock took a breath, and entered.
The man's size alone was impressive. His posture, clothing and everything else about him proved that he was anything but, hardly had the intellect to be a petty criminal, let alone someone working with a mastermind. He glanced at Sherlock as he approached. "'Bout time," he said, voice low, gravelly.
The detective sat across from him, expression blank.
"You have something to say to me?"
"Bit odd he wanted me to take Dr. Watson and not you, eh?"
"He knew what taking John would do."
"Made you squirm, di'n't it?" He asked, smirking a little. "Knowin' all the unholy things he was doin' to the good doctor, eh?"
"What is the point of this?"
"Why do you think he did this?" He said, ignoring him again.
"He's planning something, something soon that he wants me to stay out of."
The man started to laugh, shaking his head. "So clever, aren't ya?"
"What is the point of all of this?" He demanded, angry.
"I'm only supposed to do what he told me to," he explained.
"What he told you to. What did he tell you to do? Where is he?"
"D'ya know how they got me here?" He challenged, eyeing Sherlock, grinning. "I just walked right in, mate. Why do ya think I did that then?" Sherlock didn't answer, the blood draining from his face. "You an' I both know where he is, don't we, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock stood, running for the door. "TELL DR. WATSON I SAID HELLO!"
His cackles echoed down the hall after him as Sherlock ran as fast as he could, knowing he would never get to Baker Street in time.