*Oh look! A third chapter? What's this?! You guys are getting so spoiled tonight ;)
Sherlock awoke with a pounding headache. His vision blurred when he tried to sit up, or any time he moved in general. He became aware or a sharp ringing that pierced the quietness around him. Eager to stop the shrieking noise that was hell on his currently sensitive ears, he quickly rooted around for the phone. He answered it with a slurred "Hello?"
"Hello Sherlock. Miss me?" a voice that Sherlock was all too familiar with sung.
"Moriarty. What are the conditions of the game?" Sherlock asked quickly, trying to throw off the consulting criminal with his deduction.
"Oh, Sherlock. Quick as ever. So eager to prove your abilities. Compensating for a lack of self-confidence, are we?" the voice with a funny Irish-lilt chided.
"Just. Tell. Me" Sherlock hissed.
"Fine. Fine. Listen close, this is a fun one. Little Johnny has ninety minutes, starting as soon as this call ends, to locate you. If he does, then you will get to leave. BUT-"Moriarty giggled in delight " when he comes, my little buddy, Sebastian, here will kill him. Snipe him right in the head."
"John, no!" Sherlock gasped.
"And the best part is, you can't tell him!" Moriarty was outright laughing now. This statement piqued Sherlock's curiosity. Of course, he had no way to communicated with John, unless...
He patted his pockets, confused when he pulled his cellphone out of its usual hiding place in his right hand pocket.
"Goodbye, Sherly. And remember, if you attempt to tell John of his impending doom, or try to escape the building without MY PERMISSION!-I will kill Doctor John Hamish Watson." With that, the connection went dead. Sherlock glanced down at the phone in his hand. It was a basic prepaid phone with 10 minutes left on it. He then glanced down at his own phone and groaned. It was out of service. Just this one time, Sherlock let and explicative slip from his lips.
"Bloody Hell" he moaned. It felt good to let some stress go like that. His senses had dulled back to the comfortable, normal range, which was admittedly still sharper than most people's. He got up and surveyed his surroundings. He was in an old building. A grand old concert hall. He quickly compiled a list of older concert halls in London. He then narrowed it down based on the color scheme and architectural features. He had a small list, but could not be sure of where he was.
He sighed as he pondered what to do about John. There was no way he could allow John to get close to finding him. He would, once again, sacrifice himself for his John. He didn't even have to think about it. It was a given. He would do absolutely anything for John. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to hear John's soothing voice. Frankly, he was scared. He didn't want to die, but he was going to have to. His John had to stay safe.
Suddenly he remembered the phone in his hand. He could keep John safe. He could feed him false information. He would have to be careful about it, as John could tell when he was lying, most of the time. He felt a heavy weight on his chest. He would never get to see John again. He would never get to cuddle with him, or kiss him. Wouldn't get to argue and make up. He wouldn't be allowed to grow old with John.
Sherlock felt a tear roll down his cheek as this reality sunk in. Before, with the fall, he had planned, he knew he could survive. He had known he could return and see John again. But he also hadn't had confirmation that John liked him back. He had simply been crushing, admittedly hard, on John. But this time was so much harder. He knew now his feelings were reciprocated. He knew now that if he could get out of this, he could have all those things. God he wanted them bad. There had o be a way. If there was, Sherlock Holmes would find it.
He pulled out the disposable phone and dialed John's number. He decided to inspect the building, looking for a way to get around Moriarty's threats. When John answered, Sherlock barley managed to croak out "John."
"Sherlock? Oh God, Lestrade, Mycroft its Sherlock!" John cheered " Sherlock, are you okay? Are you hurt? Is that bastard Moran there with you? Do you know where you are? Can you gives us help so we can come get you?"
Sherlock chuckled at his flatmates quickfire questions.
"John, I'm okay," he lied; he may have been physically okay, but emotionally he was hurting so bad "No, Moran is not here. I know I'm in some older concert hall, and while appreciate your rush, since this disposable phone only has ten minutes on it, take a second and breathe." Sherlock tried to sound as calm as possible, but the sound of John voice so concerned over him was doing strange things to him. He felt a lump in his throat that made it difficult to keep his voice normal.
"What? Oh, never mind. Sherlock, I swear to God that I will find you and get you out of there alive. I'm coming for you Sherlock. I will find you. For now, I'm going to go and see if I can narrow down your location. I'll call back when I have a smaller list. Or if you think of something that could help, call. But don't waste minutes, in case we really need them." Sherlock wanted to yell at him to not bother. To please not try and find him. Sherlock could not live if John died. The doctors presence in his life had become a necessary one. Who else could put up with him? Who else could make him feel like the luckiest guy on Earth when everyone else seemed out to get him? Who else would satisfy his need for an audience, his need for approval? Even if another person existed who would do all of this for Sherlock for any sort of long-term arrangement, Sherlock didn't want anyone else. He just wanted his John.
"Th-ank you, John" He couldn't stop his voice from cracking or the tears from welling in his eyes. He had to be strong to keep John happy as long as possible. He was going to have to make this as easy on John as possible. When a sociopath discovers that he is irrevocably in love, it is a surprise. But it also makes that other person that much more amazing, the relationship that much more intense. Sociopaths are not supposed to feel, especially not love and remorse. But John made Sherlock feel both of those. John made Sherlock feel human.
"Sherlock?" John said softly, obviously hearing something amiss in Sherlock's voice; he dismissed his question in favor saying "Sherlock, I... I lo- I'll be there soon." Then the line went dead.
Sherlock checked to see if the disposable phone had text. When he found that it did, he typed up a message to send to John. He saved it to drafts, so then when the time came, he could just press send. He wiped the tears of his face. He resigned himself to his fate, but at the same time, kept scanning his brain for possible ways out. That was the good thing about Sherlock's brain. He could think many different things at once, then delete the extraneous strands when he was done.
A thought crossed his mind, and he pulled out his phone. Just because his own phone didn't have service didn't mean it didn't have other functions. He plopped down onto the floor as he went to the photo albums. He clicked on one labeled 'mine', then quickly typed in 'MHqu33nof3ngland'. He smiled to himself at his choice in password. It was very secure, with the capital letters and numbers, and it was bloody brilliant. Mycroft Holmes, Queen of England, indeed. He sniggered, remembering the first time John had dubbed his brother that. It had been after the left Buckingham Palace for that case he met The Woman on. Sherlock had made a remark about how regal Mycroft pretended to be, and John had sniggered and said "yeah, its like he thinks he's the Queen of England." They had both nearly died in a fit of laughter.
The file unlocked. He scrolled through the pictures in the file. They were all of John. John laughing. John swearing. John talking. John smiling. He scrolled to his favorite picture. It was one he had secretly taken it while John was in full on Doctor mode. They had been passing Regent's Park, walking back to the flat after a case when a boy on a skateboard had fallen over something, and landed hard on his wrist.
John had immediately rushed over to the boy, stopped him crying, and payed for a cab to take him to the hospital. Sherlock had snuck a picture of John with one hand comfortingly on the boys shoulder, crouched down to be at eye level with the boy. John looked so kind, so tender. Yet at the same time, he had a rigid air of calm and cool about him that sharply contrasted the boy's panic. In that moment, John looked so perfect. That picture held everything that Sherlock loved about John.
Tears threatened to well up again. He wanted his John.