Sorry for the huge break again, guys. But I was on holiday in India and now somehow managed to contract something that resembles food poisoning. It could be malaria. Haven't figured it out yet. So I do have a rather good excuse. XD

CHAPTER 34

Presidential Suite

Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne, VIC

Australia

The sun was low over the city when the front door opened and Howell walked in to find the apartment eerily quiet. He paused and wondered if something had happened. Perhaps the doctor escaped.

Howell threw his hat onto the side table and didn't stop to pick it up when it bounced off. He strode into the living room and almost immediately tripped over a dress that was spread across the floor. He looked at it a moment longer as if he needed another moment to comprehend why there was a dress on the couch and everywhere else in the living room. In fact he was pretty sure that Sophie's entire wardrobe was spread across the lounge room.

Now slightly worried, Howell followed the dress trail, wincing slightly as he registered the fact that he had just called it the 'dress trail' and walked into the bedroom – to find the prisoner hanging off the window ledge and his wife trying to pull a man twice her weight back into the bedroom. He paused again and despite the fact that he thought he should probably help, the only thought going through his head was that he should not have asked for a window that opens twenty-two stories above ground.

Outside Police HQ

St Kilda

Melbourne, Victoria

Australia

Sherlock stared at the building and the ignored the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realised that they could not get John, not when half the assigned team had to be carried out of the building half dead from a chemical bomb that was set off in the equipment area. Lestrade and Sally stood to the right of him, eyeing the building with great trepidation, the gas masks they were wearing obscuring their eyes from view. But Sherlock knew they were communicating with each other, probably talking about what they were going to do with him, being so unpredictable. They were probably thinking that they needed to keep a close watch on him, especially tonight.

So while they were thinking all this, Sherlock turned around and walked away, the DI's wallet in his hand, skilfully taken after years of practise.

No one stopped him and he knew that the DI and his sergeant had not noticed that he was missing, and that it would take another ten minutes for the smoke that blew their way and currently obscured their vision to clear enough for them to realise he left.

Sherlock pulled the mask from his face and threw it away. Walking onto the street he spotted a yellow taxi and raised his hand. It pulled up to the curb, and Sherlock climbed in,

"Where to sir?" the driver asked,

"To the Sofitel Hotel," The words were spoken softly in that velvet voice and the driver was forced to stare at the man in his back seat, able to be seen in the rear view mirror, dark shirt rolled up at the sleeves, black hair ruffled as if caught in a gale. He looked a moment more before eyes that were a maelstrom themselves met his,

"Drive,"

Presidential Suite

Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne, Victoria

Australia

John sat on the chair and sighed as the handcuffs bit into his skin,

'Who told you to even talk to my wife?' Howell asked, staring the doctor down.

He had shoved Sophie out of the room, handing her his credit card, and telling her not to go over a million. Before she could do anything, his burly bodyguards took her out of the room, and the door sealed behind her, locking her out until Howell let her in.

Which doesn't give me a great chance to escape, John thought, shifting slightly, as his muscles were cramped from sitting in the same position for so long, "No one," John replied, deciding cooperation was his best bet right now. Howell took a drink from his flagon, which John suspected contained whiskey.

There was silence for a minute, in which John could only hear his own breathing.

"I've called James, he's coming here to deal with you," John froze. He tried to suppress the fear that tinged thoughts concerning Moriarty – not for himself, but for Sherlock.

"Great," he managed and Howell laughed,

"Great for him, not for you," he took another drink and straightened his tie, "So how did you end up on the window ledge anyway?" he asked and John raised an eyebrow,

'You're not concerned that I was with your wife in the bedroom?" John asked, thinking briefly that he must be masochistic for inciting these thoughts within Howell. The man chuckled,

"You're gay, what harm can you do?" he asked, and John felt like throwing his hands up in the air. He was not gay. He was bi. There was a difference.

Thankfully, he managed not to tell Howell this.

However, when the door opened and John, who was facing the door, saw who it was, he figured it may have been a better fate to be beaten up by Howell.

Moriarty strode into the room and walked over, 'I've heard you've been naughty, Johnny," he said and Howell rolled his eyes,

"Save it for later James," Howell said and Moriarty sighed,

"You never have any fun," the psychopath pouted and Howell got up,

"I'm leaving and finding my wife and taking her out, you have exactly eight hours to do what you will," Howell said, and turned around.

Midnight. I only need to manage until midnight.

Was the only thought running through John's head as Howell walked out.

"Well, Johnny," Moriarty turned his attention to the doctor who glared back with all the fury he could manage, 'It's just you and me now" Moriarty walked around the chair and ran a finger along John's shoulders, making the doctor shudder in disgust.

"Come now," Moriarty purred, 'Don't be like that," John kept his mouth shut. The nutcase walked around the front again and sat on the sofa in front of John, so that he was eyelevel with the doctor,

'You know what?" he asked, looking at John like he was the most interesting thing ever, "You know what I did?"

'I don't care," John replied but Moriarty continued as if he had not spoken,

"I sent Sherlock a little early Christmas present," the man's green eyes glinted in the light from the warm bulbs above them, 'You know what it was? Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out what John figured was a photo, judging by the fact that it was on photo paper.

"What is it?" he asked, his tone stating that he didn't really want to know. Moriarty sent a toothy grin his way,

"Take a look," he turned it around so John could see and the doctor would much rather have fallen off that window ledge earlier. It was the picture of him crucified, blood everywhere, pain in every part of his body.

"What?" John asked, having a feeling of what it meant but hoping that he was wrong,

"I know it's wrong to lie, Johnny, but…this is rather a special case," John stared at the man in front of him.

"Not even you…" John said, his heart going fast enough, he was sure, to go into cardiac arrest,

"Oooohh, John," Moriarty took a step back, "You think so good of me," he said and John could have cried. Sherlock would be…would be going through torture right now, especially as that image was looked so authentic.

"Sherlock…"

'Funny," Moriarty said, "how that could be the last word you speak."

Before John could react, Moriarty had a cloth over his face. The doctor struggled but the Irishman was too strong for him with his hands bound. His eyes watered and he begged himself to stay awake, but he knew that it was impossible. His eyes felt heavy and his breathing laboured, yet still he fought, desperate not to lose control, to stay awake. He needed to stay awake. He needed to be…awake.

The doctor blinked sluggishly as his thoughts slowed. He had to stay awake. Just…hold…on…

John was sure, as he slipped under, that he heard laugher, although that could have been his overactive imagination.

Then it all went black.

Outside the Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne

VIC

Australia

Sherlock stepped out of the car and it drove off, the driver completely unnerved by the waves of absolute anger that rolled off the man in the back of his taxi.

Sherlock strode into the hotel and didn't even notice the cold air that washed over him, or that he walked into several people as he barged through the front doors.

He ignored reception and walked to the hotel elevator. The consulting detective stepped in and pressed the button labelled twenty-one.

There is another level.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, as the lift ascended quickly through the building. The doors were barely open when he stepped out of the elevator.

He knew there had to be stairs and they had be something other than electronically activated, because if there was a fire, the entire electric system is shut down. His long legs allowed him to cross the floor quickly and he arrived at the end of the corridor, the long corridor empty, despite the early hour of the evening.

The consulting detective was examining a door that read: STAFF ONLY, not because he cared that the general public were not allowed in but because it seemed a little too easy to get onto the top floor. Deciding that John was worth the risk, he opened the door and was running up the smooth, cement stairs.

He was not even remotely tired when he reached the top and opened the fire door to a corridor that looked alike to the ones below it – with one difference – there was only one door and Sherlock could spot three different security systems from where he stood.

Carefully, he slid out of the door and calculated the camera's blind spot and hurried over, putting himself to the left of the alarmed double oak doors.

He examined them carefully. They were operated electronically, as there were no handles and no keyhole. Add the fact that there was a touchpad to the right of the door and there was no doubt that it was electronically activated.

Sherlock thought. He was sure that it was the only way into the room, but he couldn't waltz up and knock on the door. He frowned and then suddenly, an idea occurred to him.

There had to be a ventilation system. Whether or not there was air conditioning, there had to be ventilation, and as obvious an entry point as it might seem, it had to exist, because one could hardly do without oxygen.

The consulting detective looked up to track the movement of the camera and as soon as it did move, he moved as well.

In two strides he was at the fire escape doors and down the stairs.

He rushed down and arrived at the floor below. He stepped out and paused in the corridor.

I need a room.

Sherlock looked from door to the other, and chose the door on his left, numbered five hundred and sixty two in shining gold numbers.

He paused in front of the door, before trying the handle. As he suspected, it was open, and he walked into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The room was empty and the detective hurried over to the bed, above which, a vent that may just let him in stood.

Climbing onto the bed, his movements precise and calculated, Sherlock found he could reach the vent easily with his height.

He pulled the cover of the vent off and let it fall onto the soft bed below. Then, with barely any effort at all, he hoisted himself up into the ceiling vent, shuffling further in and pulling his legs up after him. Hoping he was going in the right general direction, he got on all fours and started crawling, making very little noise.

It took ten minutes to get to the above floor, and a lot of effort. Sherlock was sweating, his shirt soaked down the back as he flopped down into the vent, a floor above, covered in dust and cobwebs, his breathing uneven. He picked himself up and started crawling, his sense of direction perfect as he guided himself towards the room in which he was certain John was being held.

Finally, he reached a vent and looked into a room that was full of dresses and felt his heart stop.

There was Jim Moriarty, examining a dress, looking at dapper as always.

Sherlock didn't bother to be subtle.

In one movement, he kicked the vent out and dropped down, landing in a crouch, startling Jim enough to make the psychopath jump.

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed, his tone indicating joyous surprise. Sherlock didn't say anything as he stood, his eyes fixed on the man who was intent on ruining the only important thing in his life.

Moriarty moved forward, "Nice of you to drop in!" he said and Sherlock scowled as he laughed, "bad mood, Sherlock?" he asked,

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked and Moriarty pouted,

'I had hoped you were here to see me," he said.

Sherlock stood still. Moriarty held his gaze, the green eyes alight with happiness. Finally, he broke the silence,

'Alright," he said, his voice a whisper, 'I'll let you see John," he took a step backwards and Sherlock took a step forward,

'Just like that?" he asked and Moriarty smiled,

"Yes," he said, "Just like that,"

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Sherlock walked after him into the bedroom, and forced himself not to pause before entering. Preparing himself for the worst, Sherlock let his eyes fall onto the bed and for a moment, was confused, before it all made sense again, as a wave of relief washed over him, relief that John was okay, quickly followed by anger.

"You bastard," the words were quiet, but they resonated through the room. Moriarty's laugh echoed over them,

"You didn't think I'd hurt your toy, did you? Not without you present, anyway" Sherlock felt his heart clench at the words but didn't show it as Moriarty laughed as he moved towards John. He ran a hand through his hair, as a mother would with her child,

"Don't touch him," Sherlock growled and Moriarty chuckled,

'So protective, Sherlock" he said and Sherlock made to take a step forward, but as soon as he did, Moriarty had a gun pointed at John's chest.

"You didn't come just to see me, did you, Sherlock?" he asked, and Sherlock's brow furrowed. The mad man was serious, his mood changing in an instant and Sherlock sighed. Why did the only one with anywhere near as much brain power as him have to be crazy?

"Jim," Sherlock started, "Why don't we keep this between me and you?" he asked, keeping his voice level and quenching the need to strangle the man. He kept eye contact until the last minute,

"Let John go, he's too small for this game," Sherlock let his words register, "This game that you and I belong to," The gun moved slightly and Sherlock had a feeling that his words were working.

Sherlock took a step closer, using every last drop of his skill to keep all of Moriarty's attention on himself,

"We could have so much fun," he said, keeping his voice low, his eyes locked on his enemy's,

"Yes," Jim whispered, caught up in the world Sherlock described to him,

"Let him go," Sherlock repeated one more time, as he took another step forward. He lifted a hand slowly,

"Why don't you give me the gun, Jim?" he asked, "Then we can have a long talk," he held his fingers out, his porcelain skin seeming to glitter under the lights. Jim stared at him, and was about to hand the gun over when the door opened and Howell walked in,

"Jimmy!" he called and the moment was broken,

'What?" he snapped at the man who glared back as he replied,

"Cops. They're in the foyer. They have a warrant, and they're coming!" Jim looked to Sherlock, who kept his face expressionless. Moriarty stayed still, still looking at Sherlock, trying to decide,

'Damn it, Jim! We need to move!" Howell said, and Sherlock felt his heart sink as Jim backed away from the bed, gun still pointed at John, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

So close, Sherlock thought as the man backed away,

"JIM!" Howell yelled ad Jim walked to the door, still keeping the gun on John,

"It's too bad, Sherlock, it could have happened" he said, and Sherlock suddenly couldn't breathe as Moriarty looked at John. His words may have calmed Jim down, but it also may have given him a bad idea, "There's only one thing standing in the way," Moriarty said and Sherlock knew what he was going to do. Even as he leapt forward to stop Moriarty, he watched in growing horror, as if it were in slow motion, as Jim raised the gun, and his finger tightened on the trigger. There was nothing he could do except watch the gun flash and send the bullet straight at John.

Sherlock watched as Howell grabbed Jim's arm and dragged him from the room and all that was left in Sherlock's mind was the image of a smiling Moriarty.

There was a millisecond of silence, before Sherlock came back to himself.

With shaking hands, he climbed onto the bed and tried not to panic at the sight of so much blood.

"John," he whispered, trying to find the wound. His partner was silent as Sherlock threw the sheets off him. His heart dropped into his stomach as he realised John had been shot in the chest.

Bundling the sheets up, Sherlock placed them on the wound, applying pressure, watching John's face as a moan escaped his unconscious lips and the detective's vision grew blurry,

"Don't leave me yet, John," he said, trying not to think how the sheet was filling with blood, how John's breaths were getting harder.

"Please," A tear fell, as Sherlock crouched next to John, landing on his cheek. The consulting detective wiped it away with a bloody hand, leaving a smear across John's golden skin.

He let his palm rest against John's cheek, warm, soft, alive.

Don't die. I need you. I love you.

Never before had Sherlock paid attention to so many details.

John's every breath was like gold to him, making him take another breath himself.

John's every heartbeat, his pulse felt through his skin, made Sherlock want to do something ridiculous, like dance or sing.

As the sun shone through the window, setting over the Melbourne skyline, Sherlock realised he had never seen someone so gorgeous as the man dying in front of him.

And then John opened his golden eyes and Sherlock's heart stopped beating.

"John," he whispered and the doctor's eyes focused on the detective. He tried to say something but Sherlock shook his head,

"Don't talk," he said and John swallowed, wincing as the movement hurt, 'You're shot," Sherlock said, with his usual bluntness.

John could have laughed, if he'd had the energy. If it didn't hurt so much. If he didn't feel so tired.

"Sherlock," he managed and his voice was so quiet Sherlock might have missed it if he had breathed at that moment, and then he was crying for real,

'Don't talk, John," he said, "You need to not talk," he begged and ordered at the same time,

"Will," John's eyes were shining with unshed tears, unspoken words, and every breath was coming out shorter, as he attempted a sentence he needed to say.

Sherlock was gripping the blood soaked sheet that was acting as a bandage so hard his hand was hurting. His other was running through John's hair, ruffling to a point he knew John hated but he loved,

"You," John took a shuddering breath and another tear slid down Sherlock's cheek as he watched John struggle,

"You're going to kill yourself," Sherlock whispered, shaking, leaning down and resting his forehead on John's, their lips almost touching, feeling John's breath ghost against his cheek,

"Marry me?" John finally gasped out and Sherlock froze.

His entire world had come down to this spot. This hotel, this room, this bed.

He looked into John's eyes and knew John understood his answer. Those golden, golden eyes locked onto his and Sherlock felt the smile, the happiness.

And then they fluttered closed and it was as if all the light had disappeared.

The bedroom door banged open, and suddenly Lestrade was in the room, a paramedic behind him, with a stretcher and Sherlock was asked to leave.

Many times, in fact, but he couldn't. He could leave John. He had to be there. Always.

In moments, Lestrade was holding him, taking him away from John.

His John.

"Let me go! John!" he screamed, fighting with the DI, who bodily dragged him out of the room.

There were people everywhere, but Sherlock didn't care.

"JOHN!" he screamed again but Lestrade didn't let go, both his arms around the consulting detective

They were out in the corridor, and Lestrade led further down the corridor, almost carrying the man. He was saying something, but Sherlock wasn't listening.

The DI let go of Sherlock and pressed him against the wall, before he could run off again. He locked Sherlock in, by putting one arm on either side of the man,

"SHERLOCK!" he yelled and finally, the detective focused on Lestrade, the blur of everything that was not John coming into focus, his sharp mind taking in useless details, despite the fact that he did not care,

'He needs medical attention," Lestrade said, and that was when Sherlock realised the man was crying, "You think I want to be out here?" he said, "but inside, we're only getting in the way," his voice cracked and he broke eye contact to blink away the tears.

Sunlight was bouncing of the white wall and throwing their shadows down the corridor as people walked past, ignoring the two of them.

Sherlock stared at the DI, "'I can't leave him," he said, finally,

'You're not," Lestrade said, looking up, "You could never leave him, Sherlock," he said and that, if nothing else, made Sherlock see reason.

"He's going to be fine, right?" Sherlock asked, knowing that it was a pointless question but desperate for an answer. The DI looked at Sherlock, the man who had changed so much because of one person and wished he could give him the answer he wanted,

"He's John," he said finally, "he's a fighter,"

Sherlock looked up as the bedroom door opened and was running before he knew what he was doing, towards John's side, taking his hand in his.

His heart sank as he realised that the doctor was not breathing on his own.

"You have to pull through," he said as they walked towards the elevator, "You have to,"

Lestrade watched as the elevator door closed and prayed more fervently than he had ever done so before, for John to survive.

Outside, an eagle soared through the sky, circling the hotel as the lift descended and the sun disappeared behind a building.

Hopefully tomorrow would not bring sorrow.

Hehe…
Oops
Couldn't help myself.
Soooo…am I dead yet?

Aza
xoxo