Sent by Sherlock - Chapter 4

"John," Sherlock called out, his voice hoarse. "John, I'm sorry." His head was throbbing as he tried to open his eyes, only to see the world spinning around him. There was too much noise, too much motion.

"Sherlock, I'm here."

As his senses slowly crawled back to him, he could feel a hand enclosing his own and the voice of John Watson, barely audible over the commotion around him. There were others around him shouting numbers, statistics... where was he? Gradually his head began to clear and the incessant buzzing he had been hearing faded away, freeing the tension pounding in his head and his vision. He was lying on his back but could feel bumps and jerks beneath him as sirens wailed above. An ambulance.

"John, get me out of here," Sherlock demanded.

"You passed out! Your pulse nearly stopped," John replied. "You need to go to the hospital!"

"I can't. Get me out of here."

"Christ, Sherlock, this isn't funny!"

"I have to get out of here!" he shouted, wincing with the pain that came from the effort.

"You're already on your way," John said, patting his friend's hand. "You're almost there."

Sherlock started thrashing about to the best of his ability, despite his confines. "No!" he cried. "I can't, I can't!"

"Sir, we're going to have to sedate you," one of the ambulance technicians said, sticking a needle into Sherlock's neck.

"No, no, no..." His voice faded off as the ambulance carried on with John inside, clutching the cold hand of Sherlock Holmes and praying that he wouldn't lose another.

"Sherlock," a voice called out. "Sherlock. Wakey wakey." It wasn't John's.

As his eyes came to focus, the face of Jim Moriarty hovered inches above his.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, his voice shaky and weak.

"Aren't you so faithful to your pet?" Moriarty mocked. "He's over there." He tipped his head, Sherlock's gaze following.

John was tied to a chair, gagged, and handcuffed. His head hung limp with a bloody gash near the left temple, still fresh and flowing. Sherlock's stomach dropped.

"It was so kind of him to offer to come along, wasn't it," Moriarty contemplated. "I'm still surprised he picked that dreadful woman over you." He tenderly ran a hand along Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock tried to slap it away, only to find his hands strapped to the bed he was on. He couldn't fight back. "Don't speak of her like that!" Sherlock croaked. "Mary was better than you or I could ever be."

"Oh, don't get so defensive," Moriarty complained. "And really, if I'm going to be quite honest, no one can be better than me. I'm simply the best."

"She had a heart, something you'll never have."

"Do you have a heart Sherlock?" Moriarty whispered, leaning in again.

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage," Sherlock replied. "I've purged myself from any traces of the dreaded stuff."

"So you wouldn't mind if I were to, say, butcher John here in front of you, would you? Of course not; the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel for anyone he says."

Sherlock fought against the restraints, but his futile attempts only made his frail body weaker. "This is between you and me, Moriarty! Leave John out of it!"

"This is my game, Sherlock. I'm the one who gets to make the rules. And this is more fun for me."

"Are you going to kill me this time?" Sherlock scoffed, refusing to give into Moriarty's ego.

"Oh Sherlock, can't you feel it? You're already dying," he whispered. "Really, this has been too easy." Moriarty gave a menacing grin and walked over to John, removing the gag. "Now he can tell you how much he hates you with his dying breath," Moriarty teased, then walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock and John alone to die.

The door clicked shut, the sound making Sherlock cringe as he recognized the sound of a lock sliding in place. The lights had left with Moriarty, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he focused on the silhouette of John. He waited for the man to shudder awake suddenly, his attack mode still on.

"Sherlock?" John called out. "Sherlock!" His voice echoed in the empty room.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock managed.

"What... what happened? Where are we?"

"Moriarty happened." The words tasted like poison on his lips. "We're in a locked room. I'd guess a storage facility."

John was silent for a long time before he asked, "Is it real this time?"

"Is what real?"

"Are we really going to die this time?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and John wasn't entirely sure if he wasn't dead already until he heard him whisper: "I'm sorry."

Lestrade was frustrated with his recent case. Adding to that frustration was Sherlock Holmes, who had promised to visit the crime scene that morning and had yet to show up. It was unlike Sherlock to be late to a crime scene, especially one as gruesome and perplexing as the one at hand. He was crouched by the recent beheaded victim, found in a dumpster, when his phone began buzzing persistently.

7:12 Sherlock passed out. Weak pulse. Going to the hospital.

"Oh, fuck," Lestrade said out loud, running a hand through his silver hair. The text from John was concerning, and with anything involving Sherlock, it also involved trouble. Lestrade left orders for the forensics on the scene and climbed into his car, weaving his way through the streets of London to the hospital.

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes. Where is he?" Lestrade asked the woman at the reception desk.

"Sherlock Holmes? The detective guy with the hat?"

"Yeah, where is he? What floor?"

"Are you a relative?" she asked.

"No, I'm a bloody cop! Where the hell is he?" He pulled out his badge and showed it to her, his frustration growing once again.

The woman looked flustered and began quickly typing at her keyboard. "There's no record of Mr. Holmes being here," she said, looking up nervously.

"Did the ambulance hit traffic? What's going on? 221 Baker Street. Any ambulances sent to 221 Baker Street?"

She began typing furiously again. "There was a call a good half hour ago," she replied, "but the ambulance was called off. That's odd."

Lestrade felt the air in his lungs turn heavy and cold. "That is odd," he murmured, then ran out to his car to phone the station.

The officers sent to Baker Street found nothing but a worried Mrs. Hudson trying to calm a baby in her arms. Lestrade scratched his head and nervously called Mycroft, uncertain of what happened.

"Did you get John's text?" Lestrade asked the moment the phone picked up.

"Yes. What is it this time?"

"He's not at the hospital, Mycroft. He never made it there."

There was an eerie pause. "He's dead?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know what happened to him. The ambulance was called off, according to the hospital. But Mrs. Hudson saw one cart him and John away."

"Well did you try texting either one?"

"Repeatedly. No answer. Shit, Mycroft, you don't think it was..."

"That's exactly what I'm thinking," Mycroft cut in.

"Well what do we..." The phone clicked off. "Mycroft?"

John wanted to hate Sherlock. He had given away the information that had lead to his wife's death. He had made an enemy out of the man who now had John tied to a chair and given him a gash on the head that left a resounding headache. Now he was going to die, slowly, painfully, and leaving his baby girl an orphan. But as much as he wanted to hate Sherlock, he couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, making John's heart drop. John saw the deep sincerity in those blue-gray eyes and the shame as they looked away. The pale face was eerily white in the darkness, but John had the feeling that it was more drained of color than usual. He could hear the detective's ragged breathing and saw the way his hands were weakly shuddering. Sherlock was dying fast, and John was watching once again as life left his best friend.

"Sherlock, you'll think of something. We'll find a way. We always find a way."

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock replied. "I... There's nothing. I can't do anything. I'm so sorry."

The words took clear effort from the dying man's lips, and John shuddered as he could hear the strength leaving the body. "Sherlock," John whispered sullenly. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," Sherlock retorted. "I... It's all my fault. Mary. And you. And poor Lucy is alone now. I promised, John, and I failed. Three times over." His body shook as sobs escaped.

"Sherlock, you're my best friend. And I know, I know you tried. I accepted this life, this bloody dangerous life. And throughout it you've always tried to protect me, and my family."

"I love her John," Sherlock whispered. "Lucy. I love her. I know she's your daughter, but... sometimes she feels like mine too. When I hold her, and when I play for her, and when she smiles..."

The tears sprung to John's eyes as he thought of his baby girl. And it was true, Sherlock was as big a part of her life as he was. They raised her together, and Sherlock had done so much for her, especially on the days where John struggled to simply get out of bed. "I know, Sherlock. Thank you."

"John, there's got to be a way. Somehow. You have to make it," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "For Lucy. You can't leave her. She needs you. Dammit, why can't I think of a way?"

"It seems we can never save the ones we love," John whispered back, then finally gave way to the sorrow swelling inside, letting the sobs overtake him. It was true: Sherlock Holmes was often seen as heartless and cold inside, but John knew better. Beneath the stoic exterior was a man who felt compassion, burning inside his heart, for the ones he truly cared about. Sherlock Holmes wasn't sobbing over his impending death. He was crying for the infant girl he loved and was leaving behind.

"Shit!" Lestrade yelled, throwing his phone across the room. He couldn't find them. Mycroft had checked London surveillance cameras, but the ambulance had been lost somewhere, taking a back road unmonitored or switching vehicles somewhere in a blind spot. Fucking Moriarty. The sick bastard.

He held his head in his hands, feeling the intense migraine that accompanied his frustration. Where the fuck could they be?

Lestrade's phone began buzzing violently. "Mycroft. Oh god. Tell me you've found them."

"I hate to admit it, but I think Sherlock saw this coming. We had placed agents to trail John at all times, and they lost the ambulance. But they've found something."

"Dammit, Mycroft, is it them? Where are they?"

"I'll let you know," Mycroft said, hanging up.

Lestrade threw his phone again, annoyed with Mycroft. "He's worse than Sherlock," he complained.

Sherlock had stopped making any sounds at all. John's heart sunk as he tried to keep his head free from the thought that his best friend was dead. "Sherlock," he sobbed. "Don't die. Don't leave me. We're going to make it. We have to make it."

There was a scraping sound in the direction of the bolted door. He's probably coming back to gloat over Sherlock's death, John thought bitterly. The scraping intensified as shouts could be heard. Shouts. Why would Moriarty shout?

"Hello?" John called out, his heart quickening with hope. "Is there anyone there? Oh, god, please say there's someone there!"

The shouts increased before dying away suddenly. John choked as his tears came back, his hope gone. A sudden detonation blasted his eardrums as the door was blasted off the hinges. Terror now had a hold on him.

"John Watson?" a man asked as sunlight streamed through the opening, blinding John.

"Are you here to help me or kill me?" John shouted blindly in the direction of the voice.

"Here to help, sir," another voice answered from behind as the straps bounding John's hands were cut.

Tears of joy sprung to his eyes. "Thank god, someone has to help my friend though! Who sent you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the voice replied, cutting the ties strapping his feet to the chair.

In seconds John was freed and rushing over to the bed where Sherlock was being checked by the first voice. "Is... is he alive?" John asked, his heart pounding.

"Barely," the man answered. "Help me roll him out of here."

"Who... who are you?" John asked. "How did you find us?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the man answered. "We work for Sherlock, and he sent us to find you. Let's go now. We have to get him out of here."

John helped the man wheel the bed out to a waiting industrial truck, where the other voice, a woman, was waiting at the wheel. "Is he going to make it?" John asked hesitantly.

"We'll see, Doctor Watson. We have a basic medical kit in the back. You can tend to him until we reach the hospital, yes?"

The vehicle had government plates, and as the man opened the back, John saw the box suited for medical transport. "Yeah," John replied, stunned. "But we can't go to the hospital. Moriarty..."

Another voice answered him. "Moriarty won't have access to him. You'll have to figure it out, John. Molly will help."

John had been busy looking at the beeping machines and medical fixtures, so he was startled by this third voice. He looked up quickly to see Mycroft in the back of the truck. "Let's go," Mycroft commanded. "We can't waste time."