A/N: Oh hay lovelies I'm sorry it has been so long since I've uploaded a chapter, I've totally been slacking and I'm so so sorry. But I'm back and I want to say thank you all for favouriting or following, even reviewing I love it. x
Sherlock's PoV
Sherlock saw the descent, saw John's mind close in on itself, saw death in his eyes but he wasn't dead not yet not if he could help it. He called Mycroft. No he didn't want to but John needed his help. John, John, John.The hospital was dreadful but he stayed, not touching him just watching, mind whirring. A fire started in his mind, it burned the gardens that surrounded his mind palace, he needed John back before he burned alive. Thoughts were scrambled, his vision blurred John's barely breathing body. . His mind teared fire ate up the entrance to his palace.. It was too late, the flames had already entered.. Blistering heat stung his eyes and burned trails down his cheeks. Tears. He was crying and it burned.
It almost felt like a joke, watching John in a coma it looked like he was sleeping, unbroken. The subtle beep of the many machines hooked to him, they had monitored John's brain and they had said he wasn't brain dead, that his brain was actively producing images. Night terrors. John was trapped in his own mind he had fell into the horrors of his past and he may never rise again.
John, I'm so sorry.
John's PoV
Here he was back inside the pit, he needed a way out and fast; Sherlock was on the surface alive. But he couldn't see past the glow of the candle light, the mist was thick and the smell of rotting flesh was heavy in the air. He could hear a soft clacking a brush against the sand that still littered the floor. It was cold, too cold. The air itself was practically ice but he didn't freeze, the clacking got louder. No, closer. He squeezed his eyes shut and he felt something brush his ankle, he bit down on his tongue to stop the scream. He could practically taste the rotting flesh, the smell had gotten so strong, he gagged and opened his eyes.
The thing was a hand, leftover black, rotted flesh speckled the bones and trailed up the arm bone. The head still had tendrils of hair left over, brown. The eye sockets were empty and the lower jaw clacked against the upper, trying to make words without a voice box. The empty eye sockets seemed to stare at him and the mouth smiled in such a way that was barely different from Irene Adler. The corpse had dragged itself halfway up John's legs before he kicked it away, it disappeared in a puff of smoke. He passed out.
Next came Jim Moriarty, stepping out of the shadows wielding knives as teeth and his hair was a wisp of trailing dark smoke, his eyes seemed like pits themselves, bearing no emotion. He was smiling, knives glinting in the candlelight. White smoke crawled up Jim's Westwood suit, curling around his body giving him an eerie look.
"Poor Johnny all alone in the pit without his beloved." He snickered.
"Well tick tock John fifty days. Fifty days and he can't be saved." Jim turned to sand, he passed out.
OvO
A breeze blew, brushing the sand into a pile. That pile grew, molding itself into a human shape, the red and white smoke concealing it from sight. That smoke vanished revealing Mycroft Holmes, wielding his black umbrella and three piece suit but something was different he had wings. Not the white fluffy type wings these ones were black and looked as if they would feel like leather. They had many designs etched into the wing itself, swirling patterns that seemed to move if you stared too long and the bottoms brushed the sand.
"Don't gawk John, it's impolite." His tone took the tone of a parent speaking to a child, typical.
"I do bear a message for you, and I'm rather disappointed that you haven't resurfaced by now. The doctors are ready to give up, but my impossible brother won't let them. Hasn't left your bedside and before you ask, yes he's been eating and sleeping." Mycroft looked thoughtful for a moment, wings fluttering.
"Forty days John Watson, forty days and time will stop." He stepped backwards into the shadows and was gone, John passed out.
OvO
No one came for awhile and John figured he ought to start to find a way out of the pit, but when he stood up his knees buckled and he fell on his arse in the sand. Rubbing is sore bum he tried again, slower and he stood, back straight. Picking up the candle he moved it in different directions, the light swallowed up darkness and revealed what was hidden. Tables, cluttered tables full of useless items, some bones, some books, some broken children's toys and one had a single item on it, an hourglass. He walked to the hourglass, the sand was almost half gone, he counted in his head.
Thirty days, Johnny, thirty days until he burns. Luke.
John grit his teeth and his fist closed. Deep breaths, he told himself blood boiling.
"Just leave me alone dammit!" I don't need you anymore, I need him.
You want to get out of here don't you? Save him? You both are at fate's fingertips and she's playing you two like a piano. And you John Watson are waltzing about down here while he is up there, waiting. Get out, get out and save him. You couldn't save him before here's your second chance.
John swung, fist colliding with flesh and he heard a crunch. Broken nose. Smart ass demon.
"Get me out of here. Now." It came out as a snarl and he grabbed the collar of Luke's black silk shirt, hand throbbing. He shoved the demon against the wall, fire coursing through his veins straight into the fingertips clutched at the demons throat. Luke was grinning, like the Cheshire cat but the grin turned sour and he started to squirm the longer the fingertips dug in. John at this point was seeing white the anger had gotten out of control now and he could feel his fingers burning the skin of Luke's throat but he made no move to stop it, he squeezed harder fingernails making black liquid ooze past his fingertips.
The demon tried to laugh but it came out as a gurgle, he was crushing his windpipe and he finally let go when the demon finally screamed in pain. The scream was like nails on a chalkboard, it scratched the surface of your brain and you had no choice but to cover your ears. Collapsing onto the floor, ears covered, John curled into the fetal position whispering to himself. Accident, it was an accident. I was just angry it got out of control and I snapped, yeah that's what happened. He needed out.
OvO
A number of days had passed, but it felt like a century in the pit old friends kept coming back to haunt him. Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade etc etc. Irene Adler, Jim Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes made one other appearance, short and sweet. Then came Sherlock, signature coat, scarf, suit etc but his curls were plastered to the side of his head with blood. It trailed down the side of his face and all the way down into his scarf. His eyes were blank like he was dead and he wasn't going to check if the warmth was making an escape from his body. Sherlock didn't talk, he only uttered:
"With forty days gone, just twenty remain
Inside the pit, you wait in vain
Fate, who will cause him pain
Shall never, ever speak his name,
For forty days have gone and twenty remain."
Only twenty days left and he needed out.
Sherlock's PoV
It had been 5 weeks, two days, 3 hours and 26 six minutes since John went into a coma and 3 days, 3 hours and 26 (now 27) minutes since he had last slept. He was in his usual perch beside John's hospital bed, uneaten hospital food on the end table. The hand in his, like usual, was limp and the heart monitor beeped with a regular heartbeat. He was nodding off, but he wanted to keep himself awake just in case John woke up but the sand was too heavy on his eyelids and he fell asleep.
Sherlock dreamt of whirling colours. Blues twisted and curled as the sky, grey twined with blue; storm clouds. The wind blew around him in a light purple, he stood atop a building and behind him James Moriarty lay dead in a pool of his own blood, eternally smiling. Looking down he saw John, his dear John. He could hear his yells through the phone but he didn't listen. But when he thought this was when he was going to jump, he didn't. He stepped off the ledge (stop stop no John will die) and a gunshot rang through the air. No!
And then there was beeps, harsh ones that pierced the veil of his mind and clawed at his brain, they were hurried sort of like a racing heartbeat. Heartbeat...John! His eyes snapped open, he was awake and so was John.
Nurses crowded them, ripped Sherlock's hand out of Johns and ushered him out the door. There was yelling coming from inside the room and it sounded a lot like his name, he strained his ears to listen.
There it was "Sherlock! Let go of me, Sherlock!"
The yells ceased until the door banged open and revealed a disheveled John, who as soon as he spotted Sherlock bolted right toward him. He wrapped his arms around him and Sherlock grunted in pain when they hit the floor, John on top of him.
"I'm so glad you're okay, we need to go home right now pack our bags and go to Canada." John's voice was hoarse from not being used for so long and he wasn't making any sense.
"No John, we will go home but we're staying." When did he become so soft?
John got off of him and curled into a ball. He muttered something along the lines of 'only twenty days left.' Needs more data, he helped John to his feet and went to speak to the doctor while John got looked over by the nurses. John was fine and was able to be discharged in the next ten minutes.
The cab ride was peaceful but John sat right beside him, practically on top of him but he didn't push him away. He could feel John staring at him, he was worried but he wasn't really sure why, he was the one in the coma for five weeks. Home came soon and it was good to be back with John, everything was back to normal.
Or so he thought.
A/N: More to come~ Johnlock~ Review/favourite/ follow please!