*Okay guys, this is my "I'm sorry I won't be able to post near as often as my already seldom posting happens" chapter. I'll do my best to find a way around it, but i'm not optimistic. enjoy.
Sherlock was getting mighty bored. It had been roughly sixty minutes, and it had only taken him the first thirty to deduce exactly where he was. He was in Roseburg Hall. It was roughly twenty years old, used maybe once a year, and unbelievably dull. He had considered calling John, but wasn't totally sure he could contain himself if he tried to talk to his doctor right now. He had spent the last thirty searching for a violin. He figured he might do something he enjoyed with his last hour. It was hard for him to think like that. He had already survived so much. He had survived Moriarty once, but this time, Moriarty had something much more powerful. Before, he had the knowledge that John was his only friend, and the inkling that he and the blogger felt something more for each other. This time he had confirmation. He had proof. There was the note Moriarty's men had undoubtedly saw. There was the fact that Sherlock had even returned. There was Sherlock's last call. So much proof.
But Sherlock wouldn't have taken any of it back. He wouldn't exchange those moments for any thing, not even his exoneration from this trap he was currently in. Those moments, he would die for. He would rather die than take back the certainty that John loved him. It was selfish, but Sherlock could not, and would not give up John. Not for anything. He couldn't resist calling John any longer. He pulled out the phone desperate to hear John's voice. The phone still had eight minutes left on it. He dialed John's number with a shaking hand. It only rang twice. Sherlock smiled. His John was waiting for him.
"John" he said, pleased that his voice came out relatively even.
"Sherlock! Did you think of anything we could use?" John said, obviously pleased to get word from the detective. Sherlock frowned. He knew exactly where he was, but he didn't want John to know. Yet he would have to tell John something so as not to raise suspicion.
"Um, yeah. I have deduced that the building is no older than twenty five years, and no younger than fifteen years." There that would be something that Sherlock could deduce, yet not so specific as to give John too much information. He listened as John relayed the information to someone else in a delighted tone.
"Great Sherlock, that's bloody brilliant!" John ejaculated, "That helps narrow down our list considerably! We went from twenty something options to five!"
Damn "Great, John!" Sherlock put on a falsely cheerful voice. A thousand different options ran through his head. He could say any number of things to completely throw John off. But he couldn't bring himself to lie. Not to his John. Never to his John. Never again. Last time he had told his John a lie was when he had been atop that rooftop. The fall. That lie had caused such pain. He never wanted to inspire such pain in his John again, so he promised himself he would. Never. Lie. Again.
"Listen, Sherlock," John said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "Those roses on the bookshelf, I found them. They're lovely. Thanks." Sherlock could nearly hear the blush spread across John's cheeks. Sherlock hadn't left any roses. A flash of jealousy flashed through him. Some other man/woman/person was leaving HIS John roses. The Audacity...!
"What roses?" Sherlock snapped without thinking. The massive significance hit him as the words poured out of his mouth. Roseburg Hall. Ah Moriarty, you are clever. Sherlock thought, despite his utter horror at the clue John had no doubt received. He would have to break the promise he just made. Damn.
"You mean you didn't leave any roses...?" John asked, the pitch of his voice raising as he got to the end of the sentence.
"No! No I did leave roses, I just...forgot." Sherlock finished lamely. His vocabulary and way with words must be impeded by all the stress he was under. He had used two curse words in the past 3 minutes. Unacceptable.
"Sherlock..." John said uneasily "You never forget."
"Oh um, must be the stress of being kidnapped or something... but yes, I did leave you the roses. I was hoping I could give them to you when we...chatted." Sherlock said desperately. In reality, he had not considered ever getting John flowers unless it was a very special occasion, such as a birthday, or a date, or...other romantic firsts. John could hardly be blamed for not knowing this, as he had no data about a romantically involved Sherlock.
"Oh, right." John awkwardly said, "Well thanks. I really appreciate it. I do love flowers." Sherlock carefully filed that little tidbit away for further analysis.
"John," Sherlock breathed, "John, I just want you to know-If I never see you again-"
"NO!" John shouted, "No, Sherlock. Don't talk like that. Don't even think like that. I will figure this out. I will find you. We will be safe. I'm going to find this Moran bastard and kill him. I lo- I'll make us safe!" Sherlock's heart swelled with pride at these words, before it promptly sank. As much as he wanted to believe John, he really did, but John didn't have all the information. If it was just Sebastian Moran, Sherlock could have easily taken him down. But Moriarty was involved, and this time, Moriarty had a reputation to make good. Sherlock had beaten him once, no he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Sherlock wanted to cry, but couldn't. Not with John listening. He couldn't let John worry about him. There would be enough time for that...later.
"Okay, John. I look forward to seeing you here." Sherlock said, then promptly hung up. It was the hardest thing. to press that little red button. But he had to spare John as much pain as he could, which included not letting him see the hurt. The impossibility of the situation. Sherlock desperately wanted to see John, but he even more desperately didn't. Seeing John would mean death for John. And, Sherlock realized, death for me. He had no desire to live with out John anymore. If John died, so would he.
Was this Moriarty's plan all along, Sherlock mused. Did he always plan to use our feelings for each other against us? Sherlock sat down and looked at the text message he had typed up earlier. There were still three minutes left on the phone, more than enough time to send the text and perhaps even to call John one last time. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, it was all he wanted to do. He wanted John's voice telling him it was alright. He wanted to tell John that he loved him. He wanted it to be said before...before he couldn't say it anymore. He wanted John to know, before he ended up at his grave, his real one this time, wondering if Sherlock had actually loved him. So far, Sherlock had only written once, in an ill-conceived note nonetheless, that he loved John. That wasn't enough. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops, tell John a million times. He would settle for just one time, though, in light of the situation. He needed to tell John. He didn't want to die with one more regret.