Runaway Home

Chp 7

Ok, ignore any grammatical mistakes for now, I'm tired and decided to post this before editing. God help you if you're trying to read this.

Sod this.

Not a particularly elegant phrase, but John felt it fit the mood in a number of ways. For one, there's not much else one can say when they've discovered that they willingly walked into the cab of a murdering psychopath at two thirty in the morning. Then there was the irony, the utter fucking irony. He'd runaway from home so his father couldn't kill him, so that this strange old man could? Sod this. He refused to let himself die tonight; he'd worked too hard for this new life to loose it now.

Sherlock wouldn't sleep long and then he'd come for John…he shouldn't have been sleeping at all. The detective never slept while he was on a case, so why was he tonight? Why was it underneath John for that matter? Did he even realize the societal implications of sleeping with another man, snuggled up on a couch, people would talk. Worse was that he hadn't minded it, he had liked it even. God, here he was in the back of a serial killer's car and he was worried about if he liked snuggling with his flat mate or not? He had to get his priorities straight.

The car pulled into a university parking lot and John gulped audibly. He wasn't sure what was next, he wasn't sure what to expect. All he knew is that there was some sort of pill involved. His heart started racing as the cabby stepped out of the taxi and started to make his way around to John's door. When the door opened John looked wide eyed up at the older man who waved a gun in his face. His blood was running cold in his veins and for a second he wasn't sure he could even get up on his feet. The cabby pushed the gun closer to the boy's face and that was enough of an incentive to get his feet back on line.

Walking into the building and into the empty class room felt like a death march, which was appropriate. He was being led to the room he would probably be killed in. The cabby motioned for him to take a seat across from him at one of the empty tables. John's hands were trembling now so he held them out of the older man's line of sight, he didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Well this is mighty unfortunate for you mate, isn't it?"

The cabby said after an agonizingly long minute. John wasn't sure how to respond, because, yeah it was, wasn't it?

"Thought it'd been Sherlock Holmes I'd been talking to, what were you thinking sending that text? How'd you even get the number?"

Of course. Sherlock borrowed his phone. That explained a hell of a lot. This guy was responding to whatever message the detective had sent him, not just texting John out of the blue, which made way more sense.

"It was. You were talking to Sherlock Holmes."

John growled out. Not sure if he was angrier at the detective or himself. Why did Sherlock have to use his stuff all the time? What was wrong with his phone? But still, why did John just have to blindly walk into dangerous situations all the time? You'd think a boy of his intelligence would have realized something was amiss, but no.

"What? No, don't tell me that the famous Sherlock Holmes is some bloody teenager."

The man spit out with a vicious leer.

"I'm not him…he's my flat mate. Obviously he used my phone to message you…I thought you were someone else…"

John trails off, slightly embarrassed admitting his utter cock up to his killer.

"What kind of boy hops into a cab at two thirty in the morning because a text told him to, one who's number he didn't even recognize? If I'm to believe Mr. Holmes hasn't shown it to you…are you rent boy or something?"

The murderer asked out of pure curiosity. No sarcasm, not a hint of jest, just pure unbridled curiosity. John's hand's balled into fists.

"I'm not a bloody rent boy! I refuse to die today without convincing at least one person in this gigantic city that I am not in fact a sodding rent boy, and no, I am not shagging Sherlock Holmes! I don't even know if I'd want to, to be honest, I'm a bit confused about it and him in general. That's not the point though! The point is I'm just a normal kid from a small town who happens to live with an older guy and hop into cabs at odd hours of the night and not a bloody rent boy!"

John shouted at the older man who looked taken back. He soon recovered though and nodded his head with consent.

"Fine…can I ask you a question?"

John eyed the man suspiciously.

"Is this part of the trick?"

The cabbie's face contorted ferociously.

"It's not a trick. It's a game of logic and strategy. But no, we're not there yet. This is more of a…personal question."

There was no doubt that he was a frail ball of nerves at this point, just sparks of anger and terror going off in his mind. However he didn't want the killer to see that, so he did his best to appear calm. John eased a little bit though, this was good he thought, perhaps he could buy himself some time. He was carefully optimistic and tried to hide this fact from his murderer with an eye roll.

"Sure I suppose, what would you like to know?"

The man's face lit up in a way that made John very uneasy.

"What's he like? I proper genius I know, I've learned as much from his fan, but what's he like? I was really rather hoping to have a chat with him, but something tells me he won't be so willing once I've killed his flat mate."

John was thrown off guard by that one, and more than a little panicked about the topic of his inevitable demise being mentioned so nonchalantly. He wanted to know what the detective was like? That was odd. And Sherlock had a fan? Who becomes a fan of a consulting detective? Other than their teenage flat mates that is…He had to answer it though, he couldn't spare the time.

"He's a bloody horror. He knows your whole life story just by looking at you and he's not afraid of announcing all the graphic details. He doesn't do the laundry, or the hoovering, or any cleaning really. He doesn't have any manners. Oh, and he's oddly fascinated by bees…other than that, there's not much I'm sure I understand well enough to explain."

You wouldn't think that being too honest with the man that was about to kill you was really a good idea. You would think that the best course of action would be to make up an interesting story to prolong the questioning. John wasn't one for making up stories though, he was a terrible liar. Besides, someone ought to know some of his less fond thoughts about the detective, and really at this point, his options were limited.

"Well, he's a complicated man, not likely you'd understand. You're just a boy and not a very bright one either…did I have him confused? Was he thrown off at all?"

The man continued on sounding just a bit eager for John's response. John smirked.

"No, as always he was five steps ahead of everyone…including you."

The boy stated smugly and if he was honest, just a bit proudly. He didn't have to worry about lying on that one either, Sherlock was the brightest of them all, and he never doubted it. The older man didn't look as pleased and his grimace soon wiped the smile off of the blonde's face.

"I doubt that. Bet he hadn't worked out how I do it, did he?"

The cabbie's voice was rigid but laced with what John could only assume was disappointment.

"I wouldn't know, he didn't really discuss it with me. I'm sure it's all quite clever."

John said with an exuberance of sarcasm which he'd picked up from the detective. The killer reached into his pockets and pulled out two bottles, each with one speckled pill.

"Well, let me give you a demonstration."

John's stomach dropped, this was not going so well, Sherlock wasn't there yet and he didn't appear to be showing up any time soon. The man placed the two bottles on the table and pushed one to rest directly in front of John.

"Now…tell me which one has the poison, boy? Pick which ever one you think is safe, then you take it, and I take whatever one is left."

John studied the pills, they were identical as far as he could tell, he doubted even Sherlock could spot a difference between the two. He picked up the one in front of him to observe it more closely, as if the answer were hidden inside. There was no way of knowing, so John decided he'd quell some other curiosities first.

"Wait, before I take this…can I ask you a question?"

The boy questioned sternly. For a moment all the killer did was stare, but after a while he motioned for John to proceed.

"Why are you doing this? And what does it have to do with Sherlock, or any of those people?"

John asked earnestly because he really couldn't die without knowing. He couldn't die not understanding why it'd happened, or what was waiting for Sherlock once he did.

"Well…I suppose telling a dead man your secrets won't hold much penalty…let's just say that fan of Sherlock's made me an offer too tempting to pass up. These murders are all some sort of game to him, to observe Sherlock. Each one I leave for the detective, the more money will be left to my kid's when I pass."

The old man explained with a sense of accomplishment, John furrowed his brow in response.

"Who is this 'fan'?"

That he really just had to know. Who was this person that was so obsessed with his flat mate? He didn't like the idea of this psychopath taking in interest in Sherlock, not one bit.

"Not at liberty to discuss it I'm afraid."

"Please, I'm about to be dead soon, you might as well."

John offered up hopefully. The man smiled quickly before looking about himself.

"His name is…Moriarty. That's all I can tell you I'm afraid."

John nodded, it was better then nothing. He returned his gaze to the bottle in his hand which trembled. He wasn't ready to die, but he hadn't much choice. The gun hadn't left the man's side, and he knew what it was for. He'd shoot John if he didn't just take the pill. Slowly John unscrewed the top and watched as the older man did the same. His heart was beating heavily and his hands were sweating tremendously, but he made no move to stop. He would be brave, he'd not go out with a whimper.