Hello everyone, This story has like over 56,000+ words, jebuss.
I really love all of you guys, not to mention the story alerts and such, You guys are my favorite.
If you guys have any ideas as to where the story should go let me know.
Peace&Love
A pair of hands jolt the doctor awake. The cold concrete beneath him should mean something but John just feels pain and confusion. "What happened?" The doctor thinks through the pain in his head.
"John?" Sherlock's yells invade the doctor's ears. John doesn't open his eyes and he doesn't probe the detective's mind, his head throbs and his muscles are weak. The cold beneath him making him shiver.
"Sherlock." John's confusion comes to the forefront, what happened? Where are they? John opens his eyes in a rush, the small room comes into focus as does the genius's worried face. The detective holds the doctor partially in his lap, gripping the doctor's upper body.
"John, what happened?" Sherlock calls, his voice dripping with barely masked fear. John doesn't answer, his thoughts trying to disquiet the pain and find the memories of what happened.
"John." The doctor winces and Sherlock mutters apologises, gripping the doctor tighter. John tries to wave a hand dismissively, his voice not working right but John catches sight of his wrist, the skin is rubbed raw, crimson wetness flowing eagerly down John's forearms. John stares at his damaged wrist in confusion, he can feel the stinging but he can't fathom how the damage came to be. John brings his wrist closer to his face, examining the extensive injuries.
That's when he smells it, the faint stench of blood, lingering in his nose and the air around them. He instantly turns his head and sees the dead body of Joseph. The memories flood back in a painful rush. John's weak hands find his temples and his eyes squeeze shut, the memories consuming him, the doctor curls himself into Sherlock's lap, willing the images to go away.
"John. John, what's wrong?" The panic fills the room and John's memories finally subside, but the throbbing pain remains.
"Moriarty." John utters weakly, his body writhing and struggling against the memories, all his resolve leaving in waves of pain and frailty. John can feel Sherlock stiffen against him. John keeps his eyes closed as his breathing picks up and his heart beat races uncontrollably.
"He knows." John says panicking. "He knows. He touched me." John lets the tears fall free. "He knows." John repeats over and over again, a sad mantra. Fear envelops John, causing the memories to flow with pain and blood. John struggles against the memories as his body and mind freak out.
"Shh." A hand is place on John's exposed forearm, careful of the doctor's damaged wrists. The connection is instant and the pain is unbearable, but Sherlock's thoughts remain silent. John tries to still as the connection becomes familiar, he knows it's just Sherlock but the connection is tearing at his brain, razor blades cutting at his cerebrum. John tries to focus on the lilac and honey for comfort, but the doctor can't help but wince and whimper involuntarily, wanting the connection to leave. Sherlock's grip tightens and John starts to panic on a whole different level. Why is Sherlock doing this? Why does it hurt so much? Why won't he stop? John writhes against the touch but soon Sherlock opens his memories to John. The detective pulls up memories of comfort and calm, that hurt at first but then the intense emotions from the memory cause the ex-soldier to still and, surprisingly, the pain lessens and starts to fade.
"It's okay. I've got you." Sherlock soothes and the doctor grips the detective shirt with his free hand, anything to anchor the doctor to the calm.
Sherlock pushes the memory of John calming him at Mycroft's. John lets the feelings in the memory envelop him, acting as some reverse agent. The feeling is so strong that John senses the pain deteriorating quickly.
"How is this possible?" John rasp weakly, even more confused now. John opens his eyes to look at the stormy gray eyes.
Sherlock just shakes his head, continuing with his calming memories and rocking John back and forth. John feeling weaker and weaker as exhaustion threatens to capture him.
John wants to open his mouth again, remark on how amazed he is, how is this even possible? It's some weird reverse affect of John's powers. The ability to have such a strong emotional memory that it acts as a calming agent for the doctor is unthinkable. Why? Is it because John is responsible for the intense calm in the first place? Is that why the emotion is so potent and transferable?
Or maybe, it's just another weird, really weird, quirk of the detective. John doesn't know, and he is way to tired right now to hammer out the details. He lets his eyes slide close in confusion and fatigue.
"Hospital?" Sherlock asks timidly, as the man in front of him relaxes, his body going slack and his face lax with calm. John contemplates the decision. He isn't hurt, besides his wrist, which he can treat. There is nothing they can do for him at the A&E. Besides, the hospital staff would just hold him hostage as they try to find an explanation for his unexplainable symptoms.
"No, I don't think so," John states, "I just need rest." To prove his point John lets out a struggled yawn.
The detective nods, "Mycroft will be here soon." Sherlock states, pushing his calming memories harder and faster than ever. John is already exhausted so he has no defense against the onslaught of unfair memories, and before he can ask why the politician would be coming here, John's fight against sleep looses and his eyelids droop.
John falls asleep just as the sounds of a certain politician invade the room.
John wakes slowly to silence, his body cold and stiff, but the smell of lilac starts to warm him significantly, whereas the mental taste of honey soothe the doctor and cradle him in a blissful half-consciousness.
His head throbs slightly, but all smell/taste of blood is long since evaporated.
"Thank god, I wouldn't be able to stand it if that was permanent." John thinks with relief.
"John." John flinches at the thought, not out of pain but out of irrational surprise.
The doctor can feel Sherlock wrapped around him, the tight embrace stiff from the motionless sleep, but its welcoming all the same.
John knows the detective is awake beside him, the older man can feel the rapid thoughts pulsating from the genius, experiments and thoughts play on fast forward through the tactile connection.
"Bored."
John chuckles out loud, his self-control shot.
"About time." Sherlock huffs, as if John's sleeping is of great inconvenience, and knowing the detective it probably is. Nevertheless, John finds himself a little peeved at the comment. He's tired and can tell how much his attack wore him out. His muscles still ache and his head throbs tolerably. All the doctor really wants to do is go back to sleep, even though he knows he's been unconscious for a long time, if he listens to the stiffness in his shoulder scream at him. The doctor tries to push the detective away in protest, hoping that the branches of sleep will grab him once again.
Sherlock just seizes the doctor tighter, preventing John from moving at all, his grip pleading.
"Don't. Stay, please."
John opens his eyes to see Sherlock's face in a mask of begging vulnerability. John, of course, melts into the look and stops his small struggle and actually scoots closer to the detective.
He nuzzles his head against Sherlock's shoulder and closes his eyes in contentment.
"How long?" John asks after a couple of minutes, the question steadily routine after one of John's attacks.
"23 hours and 12 minutes." Sherlock answers.
John just gapes at the younger man in shock, the doctor figured he'd been asleep awhile but not that long.
"I've been out for a day." The doctor whispers incredulously, immediately feeling an irrational sense of unproductive laziness.
"Not technically." Sherlock's thoughts point out and John just rolls his eyes.
"Close enough." John states. As they lay in silence, the whole day wasted causes the sleep to leave and reality to follow with horrifying despair.
"He knows." John says, his voice calm but inside his mind is freaking out in a panicked frenzy. How? How does he know? Why?
"I know." Sherlock sighs.
"How?" John exasperates, his mind confused and scared. "I just don't understand. You and Mycroft are the only ones who know." John adds.
"I don't know." Sherlock says out loud. His tone filled with resented defeat and unhappiness.
"You don't think Mycroft..."
"I don't think so." Sherlock starts, his voice analytical. "There would be no benefit, beside my brother has never met Moriarty." John contemplates and nods, the politician is many things; a kidnapper, extortionist, the base of the British Government, and occasionally the concerned older brother but talkative he is not. Especially talkative to a criminal mastermind, proclaimed arch enemy of his younger brother. The thought seems unlikely, even more so to talk about something so precious. John's gift to read people's mind.
"I think you're right. I don't think Mycroft would share...valuable information with Moriarty." John states finally, still worrying how the criminal could have found out and what he intends to do now.
"What happens if Moriarty gets bored? What if he tells someone?" John questions feebly, not even wanting to imagining what would happen if people found out about John. The press would be everywhere and eyes would follow him with disbelieving grunts. John starts to panic internally.
"Who would believe him?" Sherlock remarks and if John was looking at the detective he would have seen an eyebrow raised on the defined, cheek-boned face.
John realises that the detective is right...again. Who would believe the criminal mastermind? The story is crazy and John only believes it because it's his life.
"I'm always right." Sherlock's thoughts are smug as always and before John can respond, the detective continues, "He'll want you all to himself." The thought pains Sherlock and sends shivers uncontrollably down John's spine.
John shudders at the thought of being in the presence of Moriarty again, the man tormenting him and making him smell/taste the blood, John sitting by in terror, his brain being forced to betray the doctor's control.
"It was nothing like I've ever witness." John states, "He controlled my brain, Sherlock. It was...scary. Beyond scary." John deadpans, his emotions so frayed by the thoughts, memories of the blood and sand worming there way through John's brain, it's easier to stay clinical and detached. "He smelled and tasted of blood," Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the statement, unbeknownst to the doctor, who is looking away, John's eyes misty with sadness. "He radiated it," John continues, "I literally tasted it after a while. He could bring up images and fill them with so much blood. I saw fallen soldiers on the sand, I saw myself get shot, I...saw you after you got shot."
The tears streak down both of their cheeks shamelessly.
John shakes his head at the unpleasantness, Sherlock grips and sends calm thoughts into John. The doctor tries to tell the detective to stop, tries to communicate how unfair it is that Sherlock can calm the doctor, but all John can do is feel the lump in his throat, preventing him from speaking and tears welling in his eyes, preventing him from seeing.
"I've never been so out of control of my own brain before," John continues, afraid that if he stops, despite his tears and emotions, he won't be able to speak of it again. It would sit in the doctor, bottled up in a container of fear, sadness, grief and pain. It's better to get it out now, no matter how much the doctor is crying or how hard it is to speak his vulnerabilities out loud. "It was like he was diving into my memories and picking out the ones that would hurt me the most." John swallows thickly, "I don't know how he did it, but I never want that feeling to happen again."
Sherlock's own eyes are letting tears fall, staring at the broken man in his arms.
"I've never thought my ability could hurt, or be used against me, and I never hated what I could do, not once," John states, "but in that moment I loathed my ability, I hated how much pain it could cause me." John sniffles at his confession.
"And it scares me," John proceeds, "If I can feel that much pain from my gift unknowingly, who's to say that one day I won't be able to control myself and inflict that kind of pain upon someone else." John exasperates, horror evident in his voice.
Sherlock stiffens with incredulity.
"You won't." Sherlock responds, his tone flat and firm and he holds onto the crying doctor with force, he stance reflecting his thoughts and voice. They say "John Watson is a good man."
"You don't know that." John cries, feeling Sherlock's confident body language but ignores it. His thoughts imagining images of future people running from him in fear. Their faces distraught and in pain, pain that John caused.
"I know for a fact, John Watson." Sherlock's thoughts offer a sense of relaxation, not enough to dispel the doctor completely, but enough to get the thoughts of future people in pain out of his head.
"How?" John questions disbelieving of the consulting detective's powers and predictions of the future.
"Because you are you, John, an ex-army medic, a gun-wielding cabby shooter," John chuckles at that despite his sadness, "and the most true and wonderful person I've met."
John shies away from the comment, his wet cheeks blushing slightly. "You have the rules for a reason John, if you have complied by them this long, I highly doubt you'll break them in the future, don't be dull, John. You are a smart, good man."
Sherlock thoughts placate the doctor who's tense body starts to relax.
"I thought I was an idiot?" John remarks smirking.
"Oh you are," Sherlock places kisses into John's hair, soothing the doctor. " But not in this situation, and besides you are my idiot."
John doesn't know whether to bounce on the detective for his thoughts or to run away and vomit from the mushiness. Instead, he just stays, wrapped in his embrace, as the thoughts start to leave him, the doctor smiling, letting the lilac/honey warm him back into pleasant thoughts, away from Moriarty and his distressing hold.
"I think it's time for an experiment." Sherlock pronounces to the empty sitting room, loudly enough so John can hear him in the kitchen. The doctor peeks his head out of the kitchen apprehensively. Sherlock is upright, his legs tangled with each other and his fingers steepled underneath his chin.
John bites back a groan, so much for a quiet night full of crap telly. The doctor finishes making his tea and stares longingly at the telebox as he crosses the sitting, plopping himself on his chair, opposite the thinking detective on the settee. The doctor looks expectantly at the Sherlock, wondering what kind of experiment the genius is thinking about, a part of the doctor waiting in an excited anticipation.
Sherlock shifts somewhat nervously with jerky movements, John just stares at the unfamiliar movement and the unfamiliar display of nervousness.
"I find myself...thinking back to the night at the warehouse," John stiffens involuntarily at the thought and mimics Sherlock's anxiety. Unpleasant images plague the doctor's mind briefly. John tries to push the thoughts out of his head and listen to the detective, who is contemplating on how to communicate his words.
"It seemed...appropriate to be able to communicate with the feelings." Sherlock says after a few minutes, the detective lost in his own memories that he can't delete, no matter how hard he has tried.
The doctor stares at Sherlock, nodding in agreement. Truthfully, John hasn't thought about that part of the night in the warehouse, if he does think about that night, he is always swept up by the memories Moriarty tainted. He avoids those memories as much as possible.
He didn't realise how helpful being able to communicate with Sherlock with his feelings until after the fact. Now John knows, that conveying his emotions to Sherlock, the detective was able to act fast and prevent John from further torture. When Sherlock first found out something was wrong that night, based on John's emotions, he texted Mycroft who in turn gathered intelligence. Moriarty's own intel alerted them to Mycroft's impending visit and the criminal mastermind fled, prematurely.
John shudders at the potential thought of Moriarty staying longer and tormenting John further. The images horrify him.
"I think we should have some sort of code." Sherlock suggests, breaking John out of his thoughts.
"The fact that we need a code should probably send off alarms." John remarks, smirking.
"Regardless, I think it would beneficial." Sherlock scowls and John just snickers.
"Yes, okay, okay fine." John concedes. "Who am I kidding, we get into trouble everyday. It would be helpful." John resigns.
Sherlock nods, his victorious nod. "So what kind of code." John questions, sipping his mug, wondering what the detective is thinking.
"Well simple emotions for answers."
"So, if you ask a question and I'm incapacitated, I fill you full of happiness for a yes?" John asks, slightly confused and disbelieving it's potential uses.
"Exactly. Is that possible?"
The doctor replies with opening up the connection, the senses overtaking him and happiness radiating from his mind into the detective. A definite yes.
Sherlock smiles warmly and John beams back. John retracts the happiness, letting it fade naturally out of the genius.
"Obviously sadness for no, then?" John proceeds, sending a very reluctant, very brief wave of sadness into the genius. Sherlock's smile disappears and a frown instantly replaces it. John backs out immediately and sends a happy wave again.
"Good, John." Sherlock says, shifting slightly on the couch, untangling his legs and putting them out in front of him.
"When you are hurt?"
John sends the easiest thing he can think of, a wave of pain, simple, short, and to the point. Sherlock's breath catches slightly and he grimaces. John is out, ready to apologise with fervor. The detective's hand is up and waving dismissively.
"Excellent. When you aren't hurt?"
John thinks for a minute before sending a wave of contentment to the genius, washing out previous feelings of pain.
"What about if you can't respond? Having an attack?" Sherlock questions timidly.
"If I can't respond, I'm probably unconscious," John snides back softly, "If I'm having an attack I'll send panic." John adds and sends brief panic to prove his point.
Sherlock nods in agreement and leans back on the couch restlessly.
"I think...I think we should have an emotion for Moriarty, something unpleasant and fitting." Sherlock suggests and John cringes, not wanting to really think about a situation where the doctor would need to use the emotion for the criminal mastermind.
John just nods with resignation and focuses on finding an emotion that he associates with Moriarty. The older man doesn't have to think hard. He sends waves into Sherlock who stiffens with pride.
"Fear and irritation, excellent." Sherlock's thoughts swell with the emotions, his eyes flashing bright but his face neutral, John backs out and replaces the troublesome feelings with calm and safety.
The two sit in silence, but of them relaxed, Sherlock feeling happy and John feeling happy because the detective is safe and calm.
"I just had a thought, this is going to make you invincible, the ability to actually read how I'm feeling." John asks, the sudden thought unbearable, the detective becoming anymore superior is a fate worse than death.
"You are controlling, I'm not doing anything." was Sherlock's snide reply.
"It was your idea." John mumbles grumpily and narrows his eyes at the detective who smugly smiles. The World's Only Consulting Detective also happens to be The World's Only Consulting Telepath Trainer.
Excellent.
Okay, so next chapter, John keeps kidnapped by Mycroft, but should Mycroft be forceful, make John use his gift? Or should he just want an explanation?
I guess I'm asking if I should make Mycroft slightly evil, which could be slightly fun.
Let me know.