A/N: Whoa damn, people. I've been channeling some serious angstiness for this chapter. Thanks a lot to Revella for egging me on and letting me bounce ideas off of her (be they crappy or not). And for those who asked me what the timeline for this fic is in relation to the shows: This fic would take over from the middle of The Reichenbach Fall. Everything up to where Jim comes over and has tea with Sherlock happens. After the tea part, then my fic picks up. So there.
By the time John returned home, it was late. Very. He'd already had a bad day in the clinic, an argument with his best friend…and had revealed a secret that was never meant to come forth- even to himself. That last part had deflated his anger quickly as he walked the darkened streets of London. It was less a revelation than an acceptance of what had already developed. Unacknowledged feelings that led down paths neither had trod before, though in differing ways for each of them. And he had to figure, Sherlock's path was steeper and more twisted than his own. This would not be something the detective welcomed, John was sure of it. Though there had been gestures and actions from both sides that bespoke of the more-than-platonic existence they shared now, he had to face the reality that was Sherlock Holmes: an impenetrable fortress of mental acuity and sharp words. If the man had ever loved before, then there was no evidence to support it. Though it wasn't as if the man had absolutely no feelings at all, given his obvious alternating affection and annoyance with Mrs. Hudson. But that was merely affection, fondness. And it was rarely allowed to see the light of day. Of deeper, stronger emotions, there was no evidence. Not a trace. And if his relationship with Mycroft was any example of the family he had been born in to, brought up in…then that could be John's unfortunate answer.
He had considered Sherlock's actions over the last week or so, and also the ones witnessed tonight. He had examined them from every possible angle he could conceive of, almost to obsession. It was crushing to admit your love to another, and then have nothing returned. True, he hadn't stayed long enough for Sherlock to respond to his admission, but the look of surprise on those aristocratic features had shown him at least that it hadn't even occurred to the other man before that. "I'm an idiot," he muttered as he climbed the stairs. He stole a glance upwards, noting that the door above was open…and that he had shut it when he had left. Had Mrs. Hudson come by? No, she would've shut the door on her way out. Not like Sherlock… Had Sherlock gone out then? He pondered a moment. No. Even for him, leaving the door to the flat open while both of them were gone was a bit out of character. So what then?
He couldn't explain the feeling that began to settle within his bones as he gained the top of the stairs. It was an eerie premonition of things to come. Like the moment before you started falling, when you just realized that your footing had given away. And he stood there, peering through the opening, wondering at this oddity. Nerves, he reasoned, and passed through the doorway and into the living area. His feet carried him perhaps five paces into the room before his hands went numb, and the feeling resolved itself into full-throttle fear. Not the fear for one's life, but the fear for another's.
The flat was calm. Peaceful. Undisturbed. Terrifying. He forced himself to take it slowly, breathe, and focus on his surroundings. All of the furniture, knickknacks, and other household items were as they should be. The windows were closed. Nothing was disturbed. And yet, the room itself was disturbing him. His eyes finally fell to the floor, and his heart skipped, skipped, hurt…. There was something on the floor. A piece of paper? Trash? A note? He walked quickly over and identified it as an old-style Polaroid, which he bent down and then brought up to eye level. His mind could barely process what he saw as his vision dimmed around the scene depicted there: Sherlock, lying face down on the floor with his head turned sideways toward the camera, eyes closed. It was unclear whether he was dead or unconscious, but John suspected the former, for now, as he studied the features of the picture's second subject…James Moriarty stared winsomely up at him, his face held down level with the detective's, grinning widely in this old-fashioned version of a selfie.
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"I'm not afraid of you, James. Killing me would get you nowhere; it's illogical; so you won't. You'd have nothing to occupy your time, then. No nemesis to play with, to taunt." The air was cool, but still, as he spoke. The detective could barely raise his enfeebled arm to gesture in dismissal of the threat the other man posed. Damn the insufferable bastard and his strength-robbing cocktail! Sherlock lay helpless on the mattress he had been deposited on, able to talk, able to think (albeit slowly), but too weak to even roll over. He must have finally passed out before, in the chair, from the drugs' influence, because when he next gained awareness of his surroundings, he found himself horizontal in a small, shadowy, and blank room. His shirt was gone, having apparently been removed at some point while he was being relocated; ostensibly for the placement of the IV he now had.
There were restraints on his wrists and ankles, but they were slack, allowing for a good deal of movement. All planned meticulously in correlation with his weakened state, no doubt, because there was no way he could make good use of the loosened bonds. His focus shifted to the more proximal. Moriarty lay stretched out alongside him, only scant inches between their torsos, crisp Westwood hugging his slight frame as he reached up to stroke the detective's face while finally responding to the other man's statements. "Oh, Sherlock," Jim hummed as he nuzzled into the soft, dark curls. "I won't be your end," he breathed onto the ear lobe in front of him before giving it a teasing nip. "I'll break you down. Take you apart." He shifted up to his side so that he was propped on his elbow looking down into Sherlock's confused gaze. "I won't be your ending, Sherlock," he smiled as he leaned far over, touching their noses together. "But we will be your beginning."
Jim rolled off of the mattress and walked over to the bedside table. It was dim in the room, everything bathed in grays, except for the blue light shining from the screen of the IV pump as it relentlessly trickled the hypnotics and other vile chemicals into the detective's body. The shorter man smiled as he rummaged through a container on the table, smiling as he found what he sought. He turned to look down at Sherlock as he explained, "I'm going to try a little teensy something else on you this once. Want to know what it is?" The detective's now steel-gray eyes met his with an emotionless gaze, as if he couldn't bothered to wonder at Jim's silly games. It affected the consulting criminal not at all, though, as he proceeded with his tutelage. "There's some good bits in here, Sherlock," he teased. "Some very little amounts of ecstasy and other, hmmmm, stimulants, of a sort…." Those steel eyes blinked once, the only hint that the words had been absorbed. Though outwardly cold to the world, inside Sherlock's mind, he fought desperately. The drug combinations Jim was hinting at were designed for maximum loss of inhibitory factors in the brain. It was all about altering his mood, his basic principles, so as to allow…what? But we will be your beginning, Sherlock heard replayed in his head. And in that moment, all that was at stake fell into his focus. What better way to defeat Sherlock than to convert him? Alter him chemically and then add psycho-suggestive elements…. Oh….no. And Sherlock felt fear pour into him. Pure, cold, and hard, like the bedrock at the base of a glacier. Baskerville's momentary fear couldn't relate, couldn't compare, to this. With Baskerville, it was an outside, unknown entity stimulating the fear. Now, he knew exactly what he was facing, what he was afraid of: himself. Because he knew just what he was capable of…..and it scared him more now than it had scared Mycroft when they were younger…..
He started as he felt the initial burn and sting of the new 'medicines' added to his current infusion. Jim smiled and laid the empty syringe down, crawling back in bed beside the detective. Heat swelled up within his body as the drugs reached his heart and spread their fiery influence to throughout his periphery. He felt as if he were rising off of the mattress, though that was impossible with his restraints. He fought to keep perspective of his actual reality and not give in to the new one attempting to superimpose itself on him. But, oh, it was hard! Sherlock's eyes rolled back, fluttering closed as Jim's hand was suddenly roaming across his bared abdomen, the well-manicured nails scoring lightly. Every sense was heightened. Every nerve burning with a fire that both cleansed and tortured. No! He tried thinking of Mrs. Hudson and her God-awful blouses and worrying remarks. He thought of Lestrade and his propensity for teeth picking and making that little clicking noise. He even thought of Anderson and his, his…self…..but even that was of little success in staving off the thing, the beast, that was growing and rising within his chest like the scream of a thousand dead things. A result of the drugs, sure, but as real to him in this time and place as his own blood and bone.
He gulped in a large breath as Jim shifted himself once more against his side, and he felt the proof of the man's arousal. Even fully clothed, it was still a violation. Or was it? Yes. Yes, it most definitely is! However, it felt so good… No! No, it doesn't! But, if he even could pull away…would he? He'd like to think so. His mind seemed to be flitting from one sensation to the next. And as those cool fingers made a quick teasing dip in, and back out, from under the front of the detective's slacks, he felt his arms try to reach out of their own accord to the source of his stimulation. And Jim noticed, smiling lazily. He pulled even closer alongside the detective, nipping at his neck and whispering, "Pieces, Sherlock. Like London Bridge. Falling down, down, down." He licked his way from the shoulder to the base of the throat, "I will break you into pieces. I will watch you fall apart, in my hands." His voice deepened, "By my hands."
And Sherlock struggled to find purchase on the slope that led down to this crucial temptation of knowledge coupled with ultimate power and physical excesses. No rules, except those you made yourself. Ideal, for one such as he. And yet…and yet…there was something… The other man had started kissing down his jawline, simultaneously running a hand along a thigh, each stroke coming teasingly closer to the groin. Little sparks felt like they were following those hands on his trousers. What was it?! It was there, so close. His drug-addled brain made connections too slowly. But in the end, they did still make them….. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. John.
He struggled, weakly, but still enough to alert Moriarty to his brief return of awareness. "Oh well," Jim drawled, halting his actions. "Guess we'll have to continue working on you after all. But that's alright. I've got the best chemists in the world working for just, this, purpose, right now. So it won't be long. Be right back." He pushed off the bed and left the room briefly, returning with a small baggy of IV fluid that had a cloudy, slightly turbid look to it. He deftly hung it, spiked the bag, primed the tubing, and connected it in to the secondary port on Sherlock's IV. He gave a half grin, dropping the length of the tubing after finishing, and began programming the machine as he spoke. "We'll try a bit of this for about a half hour, see what happens. Do scream if it's too much." He leaned down closer over the detective, saying slowly, huskily, "I would so love to hear you scream, Sherlock."
The detective didn't bother watching the other man leave the room, closing his eyes almost immediately after those last words had left Jim's lips. He had to hurry. All of his efforts of resistance were refocused inward. Sherlock sank far down into his mind palace, its buildings and myriad thousands of rooms spread out before him, searching through its solace and escape from the darkness of the small room he had been locked into. His body may lie secured to a bed, but his mind at least was still free to roam. For now. Although, who knew how long that would last? Already, he could feel the effects of the new medicine flowing into his veins through the IV secured to his wrist; even this far down into his memories, it burned. Jim had as much as promised that he would keep him permanently semi-sedated and weak with either hypnotics, insulin, or otherwise. For an undetermined length of time. He had no idea what other torments of mental design might be in store for him. But he could imagine... Sometimes, his burgeoning brilliance was not such a boon; because he knew James Moriarty. Had deduced him. And felt he was intimately aware of what the man was capable of. In this knowledge, he was not gladdened. He felt a rush of lightheadedness sweep over him. Must hurry, he urged himself as he sought deeper within the recesses of his mind.
He fell through level after level of blindingly intricate mazes of memory and light, seeking, seeking… And there, he found him. John. His John. His favorite memory of him at least: brown woolen jumper, bluejeans, and sturdy work boots. Lifelike and responsive in every way. And it was for this he had searched, for he had hidden him deeply already, even unto making it difficult for himself to locate the memory. He paused, observing the likeness of the doctor he had created in his mind. Perfect. Everything. Perfect. From the slightly tanned coloring, the weathered appearance from too many days in the sun of Afghanistan, and the careworn look to his eyes that he only shared with Sherlock. Relief flooded through the detective that he was still there. The doctor stood in a cleared away area of almost-nothingness, a gray sky all around and above him. The rooms and buildings of the mind palace remained stationary in the backdrop, seeming frozen in a time all their own. The detective approached slowly, speaking as he did.
"John." The seeming ghost of John Watson turned toward his voice, and the younger man advanced, lifting and placing his hands lightly upon those strong, dependable shoulders. "I've got to do something, John. And you've got to let me." The doctor looked puzzled and tried to speak, but Sherlock wouldn't allow it. "No. Please. Let me tell you this." He stopped, looking at the ground between their feet, searching for the words. Powerful words. Painful words. Here, in the safety of his mental fortress, he could fear no judgments for his actions. His sentiments. Here, where everything was by his rules, and by his will. He looked back up into the specter's eyes, seeing the warmth reflected back at him. So real. So reassuring. So John. It would be missed. He would be missed. Greatly. He continued, finally finding his courage as he glanced at the landscape wavering around him. The drugs were taking firmer hold.
"I don't have much time, John. He's trapped me. He's really got me this time. Take away my intelligence, and what have you? Just a man. A troubled man, in an impossible situation." He cleared his throat, feeling his eyes begin to sting. "And this man must choose a course of action." His eyes found John's once more, and steel entered his voice. "You will find me. I have no doubts. But it will take time. Time I don't have. Jim is clever. Oh, is he clever. He knows just how to beat me; to get to me." A sick, macabre grin tore his face as he looked away for a second, "I could almost convince myself we were made for each other, he and I." And then his eyes swung back to John's, lightning forming within their almost azure depths. "Except that there's you. And you, John, disprove that theory." He sighed. "You keep me grounded. Human." Another deep breath with a pause. "And so I must make a choice. One that I will not be able to live with long after; but I shall live longer than if I were to keep fighting at this. Fighting him. And it will give you time." His hands ran slowly down the doctor's arms, who glanced down in surprise to see this gesture of affection from the self-proclaimed sociopath. The long, artful fingers came down to rest on John's wrists, enveloping them.
"I must put you away. Somewhere safe. Protected. Where even I can't find you." Sherlock looked up at the blank slate sky, the backdrop around them warping slowly into a maelstrom, the tops of buildings twisted and pulled towards the center of which. Wind picked up around them, fluttering through their hair and clothing. "He means to take everything from me. And that means his task is very simple. He must only take you from me, John." A pause as he calmed the swelling emotion within himself. "Through drugs, or shock therapy, or mental destabilization. It matters not how he does it. He will win eventually, if I continue to fight him. The transport that bears me can only take so much before capitulating." Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed, allowing the thin ribbon of tears that had formed to flow forth and down his cheeks, and he reached a hand up to John's face, drawing a thumb down the other man's cheek. "I shall hide you where he'll never be able to reach you," he whispered. "And when you find me...finally...try not to judge me too harshly for my actions, whatever they may be. Know that I…will not be myself, as you know me." He drew a ragged breath, an almost-sob, "I may not recognize you when next we meet. But I will recognize the good in you." His heart clenched tightly within him, the pain exquisite. "And that, I hope, will keep you protected, keep you safe..…from me," he finished pitifully. His voice dropped to a whisper that only he could hear, spoken more to himself, "And I…..I will simply be waiting for you to wake me up from this nightmare." He took John's hand slowly, gently, feeling like death had crept inside of his soul…..and led him into the darkness.