I know, I know. I took forever with this chapter. I kept writing it and then it didn't make sense so I re-wrote it. I hope this version is okay. It's a sad ending, but I've already started writing the sequel so you guys won't have to wait long.
It's the end guys and I'm sad,
I know you guys are dying for Moriarty and John but I feel like Lestrade needs some answers.
I'm going to tell you something right here. This chapter was difficult so there will be mistakes, I guarantee it.
Peace&Love
Sophie
The detective lays across the back seat of the sedan in a restful sleep. Lestrade just stares, his face narrow and concentrated.
"What in the bloody hell is going on?" The DI thinks to himself, watching the skinny form snooze. Lestrade thinks back to the staircase not fifteen minutes ago. The genius had just gone down without any warning and yet, Mycroft knew, somehow, what was going to happen. The politician moved like he had a sixth sense, faster than the DI has ever seen the man move.
There is something wrong, seriously wrong, with this situation.
The DI tears his eyes away from the genius and finds his boyfriend's face. Mycroft's eyes haven't left his phone, fingers typing fiercely on a keypad, the only noise in the car.
Occasionally, the elder Holmes will look up at his brother, making sure Sherlock is still here, in the car. Double checking that the detective is all right, it's the closest thing to worry that Lestrade has ever seen.
The politician looks up slowly, his eyes reluctantly leaving his mobile screen and the DI watches in curiosity.
Mycroft's face, usually a solid mask, is splintering and emotions are getting through. Lestrade suddenly knows why Mycroft continues to look up, the politician is checking one thing.
He's making sure that Sherlock is still asleep.
"Why?" Lestrade thinks to himself, irritated and confused by all of his many questions and the fact that none of them are being answered.
Contrary to popular belief, Greg is not an idiot, at least not when it comes to the Holmes brothers. He has learned from experience not to interrupt when a Holmes is concentrating, one never pressures a Holmes.
So, the DI waits as patiently as he can, hoping that his questions get answered or even have an answer.
For lack of anything better to do, Lestrade takes up a silent vigil, watching the detective, his face lax in sleep.
As his vigil goes on, as do his thoughts. Greg tries to shake his head in an effort to dispel them but they don't stop and Lestrade gives up and lets his thoughts roam free.
Is Sherlock really asleep? The DI still doesn't know what happened, the genius just collapsed for no reason and Mycroft acted like he had seen it before.
What does that have to do with John?
The doctor is in trouble, that much is obvious, but what kind of trouble? And how does Sherlock even know?
The detective was frantic in the hospital room, doubling over in pain and crying. Lestrade has never seen the genius lose control of his emotions like that. What changed?
The DI learned long ago to not ask questions out loud, it's much more simple and far less dangerous to go with the flow, and at the time that made sense. Offer what help he could and follow the Holmes brother until answers were provided.
It wouldn't be the first time something like that has happened.
But now, the Yarder just sees a passed out detective with no explanations and as much as he is reveling in his patience the DI finds it getting harder and harder to keep quiet.
Why did Sherlock pass out anyway?
What did that?
Who did that?
Lestrade is buried deep in silence and unanswered questions, each thought revolving around in his head and a dull headache is starting to form.
None of it makes any sense and Lestrade just shakes his head in defeat and his brain hurts as he tries to will the doubts and questions away.
Just as Greg pushes all of the thoughts away and decides to focus solely on breathing and their destination, Mycroft speaks for the first time.
"Gregory." Mycroft says softly and the DI feels a hand lay gently on his knees. Lestrade calms significantly into the gesture and looks up at the elder Holmes.
The politician's phone lays in his lap and his eyes are only looking at the sliver haired man.
The question come flowing back, so many filter through Lestrade's brain and it's overwhelming.
"What's going on, Mycroft?" The DI whispers, his curiosity desperate and encompassing.
The elder Holmes sighs and furrows his brow.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to be blunt, we don't have a lot of time." The politician states. The DI glances from Sherlock's still form back to his boyfriend in confusion, but nods anyway, thinking it best that he remain quiet.
"John's a telepath." Mycroft deadpans. Greg's mouth shoots open, his eyes widen with disbelief. The Inspector seems to contemplate what Mycroft said for a minute before his eyes start to flash dangerously in a fit of anger.
He's lying. Why would Mycroft lie?
"If you don't want to tell me, I get it." The DI spits, uncharacteristically angry and looks away from the politician. It's obvious that the elder Holmes doesn't want to the tell the truth, probably some national security reason, but there is no reason to lie.
Mycroft sighs, squeezing Greg's leg. "I'm afraid I'm entirely serious, my dear." Mycroft's tone is gentler, yet more commanding at the same time. Greg's head whips back and stares into Mycroft's eyes and for some insane, Holmesian reason, Lestrade trust the older man.
Lestrade stares back in bewilderment and suddenly doesn't know what to feel. Is it true? How? Why?
Greg, his emotions confused and out of whack, does the only thing he can think of, the man laughs. A nervous and amused giggle.
"A telepath?" The DI asks incredulous, shaking his head. "No way."
"Think about it, Gregory." Mycroft begins, "There have been plenty of cases in which you found yourself confused by their communication tactics." The older man states pointing to the detective in the process.
"Yes, but that's just Sherlock. He always does that." Lestrade tries to reason with himself, glancing at the genius before returning his eyes once again to Mycroft.
"They have conversations in their minds." Mycroft states bluntly and Lestrade's head is reeling.
"What?" The DI gapes, his eyes darting from face to face.
"It's how, at crime scenes, they solve it without talking." The politician says earnestly, picking up his mobile once again, it's vibration echoing the car.
"That's because John can read minds?" The DI inquires.
"Yes." Mycroft answers patiently, glaring at his screen.
"Did John make Sherlock pass out?" Lestrade questions, his eyes scanning the detective in a new light.
"Gregory, John is powerful. He calmed my brother down enough to lull him into sleep." The politician remarks, one of his hands never leaving Lestrade's knee.
The DI stares in confusion, his mind going back to the stairwell. Sherlock seemed everything but calm, but Lestrade supposes that's not the relevant point of the matter.
Lestrade just hums in response, concentrating on the detective and his own thoughts.
The DI is not a brilliant man, or so the detective says, but Greg is a good man, a man who knows how to take things in stride and ironically doesn't need a lot of detail.
So instead of asking a billion questions that neither one of them have the energy nor the time for, Lestrade speaks one more sentence and then leaves the conversation alone.
"I would have pegged Sherlock for the telepath." Lestrade deadpans, looking at the detective while Mycroft looks up from his mobile and lets out a chuckle.
John slowly wakes, his mind hurting and his body aching. The doctor is transfer swiftly and urgently into soldier mode. He ignores the pain and the aches and he opens his eyes with force and determination.
He hasn't been moved, the white bland walls look back at him, mocking with entrapment. The room is the same, but the blood and vomit have been cleaned up, making the room as colorless and pristine as ever and John wonders idly how long he has been unconscious.
John tries to keep himself detached from the white walls and lack of furniture and he wonders how long it took Moriarty to get bored of John's forced unconsciousness.
There is no new information from his scanning so the doctor turns his attention back to his own body.
John rolls his shoulders, causing the chair to creak and the ropes to tighten. He aches all over, his head, his arms, his wrists, his legs, there is no way to know how long he has been passed out with the amount of soreness. The blood from his nosebleed has long since dried and John can feel it crusting on his face. He must look a right mess. The faint smell of his own blood causes the doctor's memories to flood back as he tries to swallow the bile rising in his throat.
Altered memories of the blood reminds John of Moriarty causing the soldier to shiver with apprehension and a tiny bit of fear.
John shakes his head, trying to get back into his soldier mode and away from his fears and memories.
A sudden wave hits him and the doctor leans back, involuntarily trying to get away from it. The metallic intrusion lingers with John, it's smell stronger then before. Is John more susceptible to the sense of Moriarty's blood now? How close is the evil genius?
John tries to ignore his mental warnings and questions, choosing to concentrate and think.
For a second, the doctor is tempted to open up the connection between Sherlock and himself, but instantly decides against. The doctor's shame and guilt coming in full force. He had to knock the detective out. He had to prevent the six foot, angry, coat flying genius from barging into John's captivity and ending up getting injured.
Despite keeping the younger man safe, John still feels the guilt. He used his gift on purpose and against his boyfriend, two different situations that should never have happened.
Suddenly the doctor is angry, angry at being manipulated by Moriarty, the evil man making John bend his rules and harm Sherlock.
If the doctor is honest with himself, however, he knows full well that it's not entirely Moriarty's fault. The doctor did it, even if it was a subtle coercion.
The detective will never forgive him and John doesn't expect him too.
The doctor hopes silently that the detective is still passed out, John was careful not to put him in a coma but that doesn't mean the detective will have a restful sleep. He is going to be angry when he wakes up.
If he isn't sleeping, is he on his way here?
Did he really figure out where John is?
Did Moriarty move them?
John throws that question out the window, the room is too much alike the first room, they have to be the same room. It has an industrial feel and warehouse-like appearance. There are tons of warehouses in London, which one is he in?
Sherlock found out, he knows where they are and he probably even knows why Moriarty took John.
Why did the criminal mastermind take him?
What does Moriarty want? Could it really just be as simple as his own personal telepath? The evil man can read minds, what could he possibly want John for?
The force of blood hits John like a wall and the doctor's thoughts are suspended as the door creaks open.
John fights through the onslaught and tries to keep his face neutral.
"Johnny." The voice coos before a body enters the room, causing the doctor to shiver. John doesn't move, he holds his ground, not even wincing when the criminal mastermind's face peaks around the door, pushing his body into John's cell.
Moriarty walks in, impeccable and put together like usual. His stance is predatory and firm but John doesn't notice, trying to keep the blood at bay and away from the features of his face.
He fails. The consulting criminal moves into the room and shuts the door with a loud click. He advances slowly, only stopping centimeters in front of the doctor.
"You can smell me." The criminal mastermind says bluntly, leaning in closer to the doctor who in turns leans away from the stench.
John's mouth gapes in shock at the bluntness and also the accuracy of the man in front of him.
"I thought you said you couldn't read my mind?" John questions anxiously. Was Moriarty lying before when he said he could read the doctor's thoughts?
"I can't." Moriarty shrugs simply before backing up slightly. "Your emotions radiate off your skin. You are too easy, Johnny Boy."
The doctor doesn't say anything, he focuses solely on trying to make his face completely neutral, but a shiver runs through his body uncontrollably and that causes Moriarty to laugh.
The soldier is losing many things, his patience, his willingness to play games but most of all, John is losing the ability to sit in the room any longer.
"What do you want, Jim?" The doctor snaps. It's the first time that the doctor has called him by his first name but John is too tired and too bored to care.
The criminal mastermind doesn't finch, in fact, the man smiles wider, his teeth shimmering with sickening perfection.
"I'm a powerful man, but I can't manipulate people as well as you can, deary." The criminal mastermind begins, "you have the ability to make people feel emotions that you falsify." The criminal puts a finger on John's torso and the doctor moves slightly, trying to push it off. Thank god no images come, the soldier is still too weak from the last attack.
"Think about it, that would be extremely helpful in my organization." Moriarty wrings his hands together gleefully and John turns in disgust. "I can only hear what they are thinking presently, but you, Johnny, you can delve into their thoughts and control them whilst telling me every thought they've ever thought. It's positively exciting."
John scoffs, no way would the doctor be helping the mad man.
"If you think that I would willingly work for you, let alone digging into people's brains intent to harm, you are sadly mistaken." The doctor spits through gritted teeth.
"Why?" Moriarty snaps, equally angry. "You did it for Sherlock. You killed that boy, Ian Jeremiah."
John freezes, how did Moriarty know about that?
"Moriarty knows about everything." John thinks to himself bitterly.
"I didn't-" John starts,
"You made that boy fall, Johnny." Moriarty states menacingly, advancing slowly upon the doctor. "You are naturally a bad person, my dear."
John shakes his head and stammers, "It was self-preservation."
"Your rules." Moriarty laughs with amusement and John stares."I know about your rules and let me tell you, your rules make you weak." He spits.
"You are a killer and you will fit perfectly in my organization." The Irishman snickers, his face bending down to look John in the eye.
"I'm not a killer." John replies angrily, "It was a necessity, that rapist was going to kill us."
The criminal mastermind laughs and straightens up, he paces around the room again lazily. "You are dangerous, and I like it." Moriarty whispers behind the doctor, leaning down, his breath against John's ear. The soldier scowls in repulsion and leaning forward, trying his best not to be touched by the criminal.
"I will never work for you as long as I live." John snaps with finality, straightening with strength and courage.
"We will see about that." The Irishman sings with pleasure. John doesn't know what to say or do.
"Sherlock will find me." is John's snide reply, trying to push Moriarty's buttons. The doctor is angry and hurt and trying to access his percentage for surviving this meeting.
His chances are dwindling and the doctor is not going to go without a fight.
"How? You didn't call him. He's still passed out at your flat." Moriarty's grin is scary and John's face briefly flashes terror before the soldier part of him gets in control. "You didn't want to get him involved."
How can this man know John so well? He really has to work on masking his face better.
"That's fine with me, I got what I wanted." Moriarty comments, walking around John and facing the older man. "Sherlock means little to me now."
"I don't know how to say this to make you understand." John sighs, lowering his head in frustration. "I will not work for you. Not now, not ever and never willingly." The doctor's head bolts up and his eyes find the Irishman, twisting his words with as much hate and conviction as he can.
The criminal sighs dejectedly, turning away from John slightly, "I was afraid you were going to say that." He says, picking up his pacing routine. Moriarty is behind John again and the doctor doesn't move, he does not give in to the evil genius's taunts.
"I don't like getting my hands dirty, but for you, it's a simple pleasure." The criminal mastermind remarks, his face warping into a grin that John cannot see.
Moriarty lifts his hand silently, hunching over and placing a finger on John's cheek, caressing the doctor with tenderness.
John's head burns and the blood intensifies, an image starts to burn and the doctor thrashes. John squeezes his eyes shut uncontrollably and is forced to have his full attention on the image that Moriarty is altering.
John is in the sitting room, drinking a cup of tea. A normal depiction of a normal day at 221B Baker Street. With the small exception that instead of the usual flooring, the sitting room is sinking in a pool of blood. John watches himself in horror as he does nothing but continuing to sip his cuppa and read the newspaper.
Suddenly, Sherlock bursts into the room, clad in his usual scarf and dark coat. As the detective is peeling off his layers, John starts to notice the bruises and cuts upon the high cheekbones. The detective is cradling himself as if injured and John wants to call out to him but his memory self is oblivious. Without warning, the detective falls to the floor, cradling his side and wincing in pain and memory John does nothing.
Choked noises are coming from the memory and John watches in horror as Sherlock drowns in the blood, too weak to lift his head up. Red pools around the genius's face as his mouth gapes open, gasping for breath.
John screams in horror.
"SHERLOCK!" Pain, grief and fear envelope the doctor and he writhes and flails against his restraints. Sherlock's body is flailing and there is nothing that John can do.
"SHERLOCK!" The doctor screams again and suddenly the image is gone, along with Moriarty's finger. John inhales a shaky breathe, the pain throbbing and the image scarring.
John's breathing is erratic and shallow and the doctor is becoming anxious.
"What are you seeing Johnny Boy," The Irishman whispers playfully and pushes his finger onto John's cheek again.
John wiggles and yells out in pain, blood envelops him and another image comes to John's mind.
Sherlock sits upon the couch, blood seeping out of his head. The doctor calls out for him but the detective doesn't respond. Ropes are wrapped thickly around the lanky man, making Sherlock immobile.
John instantly recognises this memory from the intruder. John is on the floor, struggling as the intruder lays on top of him, his eyes crimson and hungry.
The struggling soldier yells for him to get off but the intruder doesn't move, his hands are around John's neck, squeezing and holding firm.
Suddenly, a gun is pointed at Sherlock and John freaks, he moves and thrashes, struggles and writhes. He knows where this memory goes and he does not want to relive it.
The couch cushions suddenly turn blood red, pulling Sherlock further into them. Their tendrils wrapping around the detective and Sherlock doesn't seem to notice. John yells and cries in terror.
A loud bang echoes the flat and John stills, immediately looking over to the genius. A large hole seeps blood, right between the detective's eyes.
"NO!" The doctor screams.
The image is literally painful and John finds himself pushing back, hard, with his feet.
The chair creaks under all of the pressure and starts to break apart when John hits the ground.
John rolls and squirms on the floor, trying to make the pain, the fear, and the grief go away. He screams, long and loud, expelling every emotion.
The doctor can't help it, he would rather not give Moriarty the satisfaction, but honestly, the criminal mastermind is the last thing on the soldier's mind.
John is focused on not dying from his head exploding.
"Shush, Johnny Boy." The doctor vaguely hears the evil genius and doesn't even bother obeying his request.
He deliberately (even though he is in excruciating pain, he is still a soldier in crisis) rolls around the floor, causing more stress on the chair. He feels his ropes slacken a little bit and John is rubbing against them furiously, trying to get out.
Moriarty steps closer to John and the doctor yells extra loud, right in the man's face. With a look of disgust the pretentious criminal backs up, turning his back away from John.
The doctor struggles a bit more and finally, his wrist are free from the ropes, the chair starting to break apart. John doesn't move his limbs, keeping them still against the remnants of his bonds until the mastermind comes closer again, this time with an angry glint in his eye.
"You are rather fascinating." Moriarty spits and leans down, holding his finger out in preparation. John moves swiftly, grabbing Moriarty by the wrist and pulls, yanking the man across him, taking Moriarty by surprise. The evil genius lands on top of John but the doctor quickly maneuvers out from underneath him, sitting up and placing a knee against his back.
The door burst open and a gunshot rings out causing John to fall to the ground. He doesn't recognise the pain until he hits the hard floor. Moriarty is up, his movements jerky and angry. John writhes on the ground, gripping his stomach. Blood seeps out of his midsection and the doctor grunts in pain.
"That. Was. Very. Rude." Moriarty snaps through gritted teeth and then a finger finds John's forehead again and for a moment John wishes for death.
This memory doesn't have images, everything is blood, simple and flowing crimson. John is screaming, gasping for breath, his head hurts with such ferocity that his gunshot wound feels likes it's being lick on by bunnies. Razors cut against his brain, knifes saw at his memories, blood is squirting everywhere.
It's like John is caught in a river of blood, the doctor can't move, he can't breathe, he is drowning and his paralysing fear and pain is slowly killing him. It's the worst set of emotions that John has ever felt in his life. The doctor is screaming and yelling, not bothering with pretenses.
A foot stomps onto John's midsection and the doctor cries out, his head lolling and his fight gone.
"You will die here, Dr, Watson." Moriarty spits and Moran's foot pushes harder before letting up.
The door creaks open and Moran and Moriarty are gone, again.
John starts to weep alone in the room he is going to die in.
Sherlock bolts upright, startling the two other men in the room. The detective's brain is is exploding in pain, fear, exhaustion, and grief. Sherlock maneuvers himself so his head is in his hands, the pads of his fingers gripping his hair, anything to try and stop the emotions.
Sherlock can tell right away that the connection is strong and unintentional and Moriarty is torturing him.
"Sherlock." Lestrade calls him, and the genius can hear the DI shuffle closer. Sherlock moves quickly through the pain. He stands up and rushes out of the sitting room, only one thing on his mind.
"John." Sherlock yells over his shoulder as his only explanation.
Another wave of pain sends the detective careening to the floor of the landing abruptly.
"This is getting ridiculous." Sherlock screams, writhing uncontrollably, his back arching, a echoing scream floats through the detective's thoughts. He instantly recognises it as John's scream.
"What's going on?" Mycroft bends down next to the genius, watching in horror as he younger brother suffers.
"I can hear him, Mycroft." Sherlock says, "I don't know how, but I can hear him screaming." The detective is gripping his temples and gritted his teeth. "They are torturing him."
"Sherlock-" The politician puts a hand on the younger Holmes's head trying to comfort the man.
"We have to get there now." is Sherlock demanding remark and the detective stands up, wobbling and his knees buckling.
Sherlock stumbles down the stairs and into Mycroft's waiting car, Lestrade and the politician in tow.
"I know which warehouse they are in." Mycroft states looking worriedly at his brother who is hunched over and breathing erratically.
"The one Joseph Abernathy died in." Sherlock pants out in response, trying to straighten up and failing. Unintentional connections have never been this strong, it worries Sherlock because if he is experiencing the emotions this vigorously, he can't imagine how much John is suffering, let alone the fact that John is transferring a lot more than emotions. Sherlock heard his scream, how? Why? How hurt is the doctor?
"Faster Mycroft." Sherlock puffs when another wave of paralysing pain hits the detective, causing Sherlock to groan out loud.
"We are almost there, my team will get there before us and neutralise threats." Mycroft remarks, typing on his mobile, his eyes wild and full of thick emotions. Lestrade remains quiet, staring with intent concentration.
"ARGH!" Sherlock screams suddenly and nearly passes out, images of blood enter the detective's brain and Sherlock stops breathing. Why can he see images? Are they coming from John? What is going on?
Sherlock lists forward, almost careening into the floor of the backseat, his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Lestrade acts first, grabbing the detective's head and helping him onto the leather cushions. The DI is handling things exceptionally well, considering that a friend of his is actually a telepath and he can communicate freely and dangerously with the detective.
He's handling things swimmingly.
"Sherlock, what now?" The politician asks anxiously, his face worried and not even bothering to hide.
"I can see what he is seeing." Sherlock gasps, watching as the images of blood float into his brain and pain, endless pain comes with it.
"Two minutes, Sherlock." Mycroft calls, "Hang on."
Sherlock curls into himself, grunting and yelling in pain as the sedan travels fast, definitely ignoring the laws of the road.
A wave of shame, guilt and regret hit the detective with such force that Sherlock thinks they are his own emotions. The detective interprets the "I'm sorry."
"No. No." Sherlock cries. Another wave of pain and then a brief image, white walls surround the doctor and Sherlock can see it.
The detective is frazzled but he knows where the doctor is being kept.
"Hurry." Sherlock yells, sending thoughts to John.
John grips his stomach with force, the images are finally subsiding. Why did Moriarty leave?
"Because you are going to die, Watson." The doctor answers himself bitterly.
John lays on the cold floor with defeat, his whole body aching as he slowly bleeds out. John's grip is loosening and the doctor is fighting to stay conscious.
He opens up the connection without hesitation, the doctor feels these are his last moments, Moriarty has left him to die. He sends shame, guilt and regret.
"John. John. John." The detective is desperate, and John can see images of Mycroft's car float through the connection.
John sends waves of calm and happiness, something to make the detective less wound up.
"John. Stop. We are coming. I'm almost there." John smiles weakly to himself.
A rush of pain shoots through the doctor, causing John to squirm on the ground, arching his back in frustration.
"We are here John, just hang on." John sighs in relief but the agony hits him hard. John's hands are slippery and losing their determination.
Slowly, the doctor closes his eyes and tries to relax.
The pain is suddenly gone for Sherlock, the detective takes a deep breath just as the car enters the complex.
"Shite." Sherlock calls, bursting out of the car and into the warehouse. The detective briefly registers Mycroft's men floating around the warehouse, their guns out and searching. Sherlock scoffs, he knows that Moriarty is long gone, they should be focusing their efforts on finding John.
"Sherlock." Lestrade calls after him but the genius doesn't stop, his mind focused on John, mentally trying to rouse the doctor.
The poking sensation has stopped and Sherlock instantly fears the worse.
With Mycroft and Lestrade following, Sherlock twists around corners and down hallways, running deep into the factory. He recognises the room, he searched it when they were last here.
"Hang on John." Sherlock pushes with distress panting slightly as he sprints through the warehouse.
Sherlock turns the next corner and burst into the room.
The detective freezes for a second and it's enough to scan the area. In that second, all the genius sees is blood, on the walls, pooling around the doctor, just like the image that John had pushed into his brain.
John lays on the floor motionless, he slightly curled onto his side. His right arm grips his stomach loosely while his left is jutted out uncomfortably. Bits of broken chair litter the ground around the doctor and Sherlock starts to move again.
"John." Sherlock screams out loud, running to the soldier. He is crying and falling to his knees by John's head. The detective grabs the man's head, cradling John in his lap.
"John." The younger man wails, rocking the two of them back and forth as Lestrade and Mycroft enter the room, the two men freezing at the sight.
"John. You have to WAKE UP!" Sherlock screams and the doctor seems to wince slightly before opening his eyes.
John's vision is blurred but he smiles bleakly at the familiar voice.
"Hey." The older man's voice is hoarse and scratchy and John winces. Lestrade bends down wordlessly and presses his hands to the doctor's stomach, sirens already singing in the distance.
"Hey yourself." The genius blubbers, gripping the man and pulling him tighter. Sherlock's exposed hands are cupping John's neck and the doctor is being fed pleasant memories from Sherlock's thoughts. Calm thoughts cause the soldier to close his eyes.
"You have to stay with me. Stay awake!" The detective commands, pulling all of his thoughts out of the doctor. John's eyes shoot open in surprise.
"I'll...try." John pants out, his breathing becoming shallow.
The doctor winces when Lestrade presses harder onto him.
John can barely feel Lestrade's images. They are scattered and John doesn't even bother focusing on them, he winces when Lestrade moves his hands away briefly and it's enough for Sherlock to notice.
Before the detective can do anything about it, the doctor suddenly arches his back, screaming out in pain and Lestrade pushes harder, trying to stop the blood but the pool beneath them just keeps growing and growing.
"John. John." Sherlock yells, his hands flailing and his body moving with desperation. Suddenly, the doctor falls limp in Sherlock's lap and the detective's hand immediately find John's pulse, it's weak and fading fast.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock yells, looking up briefly with tears in his eyes.
"They are here." Mycroft calls back quietly.
Sherlock catches Lestrade briefly lifting his hands from the doctor's midsection, his blood-stained hand growing slippery. John writhes in torture, struggling in pain and turmoil.
"Lestrade. Get away." The detective demands and the DI looks shocked.
"I have to keep-" Lestrade begins, staring at the genius with glaring bewilderment.
"I said, get away." Sherlock says through gritted teeth but Lestrade doesn't back down.
"He is going to -" Lestrade yells back but Mycroft's hand is suddenly on the DI's shoulder.
"You are hurting him, Greg." The politician says urgently and Lestrade's hands are gone so fast that the doctor arches his back again, his mouth screaming through his unconsciousness.
One of Sherlock's hand snakes down John's torso and finds his midsection, pushing pressure against the wound.
"JOHNATHAN! You do not get to die on me." The detective yells, one of his hands gripping at the doctor's face, sending cold thoughts trying to break John out of his unconscious state.
It's not working and Sherlock is growing even more anxious.
"John."
"John."
"John."
The detective cries over and over again, he doesn't notice when the paramedics storm into the room, his eyes focused on the bloody face of his boyfriend.
A firm hand grips Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock you have to let go." Mycroft's voice says.
The detective lets go swiftly but doesn't move. Lestrade hooks an arm around the detective's thin waist and scoops him up, making the younger man stand and getting him out of the way.
Sherlock stares in shock as the paramedics work on John, there gloved hands moving swiftly as John winces and writhes against the connections. Just before Sherlock opens his mouth to yell at them, John stops moving.
"I've got no pulse." One of the medics says suddenly and Lestrade feels Sherlock tense against his form.
The paramedics had to dash out of the warehouse and they were gone before Sherlock could catch up and ride with them. The genius had cursed and snapped at everyone, running to Mycroft's waiting car and jumping in. The DI and the politician barely had time to hop in the car before it took off.
Now, the detective paces the waiting room, demanding answers. It's been twelve hours and the doctors, nurses and Mycroft alike, will not let the detective see John or even give him information about the doctor.
Mycroft had gone about an hour ago to see what he could find out and the DI is sitting on a chair, wringing his hands and watching the genius with an anxious stare.
"John."
"John."
"John."
The detective pushes over and over again, hoping for him to answer back.
The sudden clicking of shoes distracts Sherlock and the genius looks up to see his brother.
Mycroft's head is lowered, staring at the tile floor beneath him. Sherlock almost collapses.
"No." He cries quietly, watching his brother with extreme apprehension and disbelief.
The politician finally makes it to the detective and he stands directly in front of Sherlock.
"Sherlock," Mycroft starts, breathing a deep sigh and slowly raising his head.
Sherlock grips the man's shoulders, searching Mycroft's face for lies.
"No." Sherlock breaths weakly, grabbing his older brother's chin, causing the politician to look into Sherlock's eyes.
Mycroft's face is full of guilt and shame, grief and sadness. It's all Sherlock needs, he turns his face away, his eyes red with sadness.
"No." The detective wails quietly his hands sliding lazily from the politician's shoulders. The genius's face is blank but his eyes are darting wildly with sadness and grief. Lestrade is suddenly next to him and the detective moves away, cringing from the comfort.
John is dead. Gone, gone forever and it's all his fault.
"John."
"John."
"John."
The doctor doesn't answer and tears fall down the detective's face with increased fervor.
John is gone. No more jumpers, no more smiles. No more John.
The detective shakes his head, this can't be right. John doesn't die, he is a soldier.
"I want to see him." The genius commands, intent on proving his brother wrong.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Sherlock." Mycroft states moving closer to the detective, preparing to catch him if his brother runs.
"I don't care what you think, Mycroft." Sherlock spits angrily moving towards the morgue, trying to bypass his older brother.
Mycroft stands his ground and stays firmly planted, blocking the genius's way.
"Mycroft." Sherlock hisses before sprinting down another direction. Mycroft freezes for a moment, confusion in his face as Sherlock takes off down a different hallway.
Lestrade doesn't hesitate, he bolts after the detective.
The detective zigzags around the hospital corridors, finally making it to the morgue.
He can hear Molly in the room, her sniffles alerting Sherlock to his denial.
But the detective doesn't hesitate, he bursts into the room, pushing both doors open with his hands.
The genius freezes when he sees the man on table, Molly's back to him, covering John with a sheet. The detective can't move and all breath leaves him.
Arms hook around the detective's elbows and within seconds and Sherlock is being pulled back out of the morgue, the doors swinging shut ominously.
The detective doesn't struggle, he doesn't move, he lets himself get dragged out of the room. The room that John is in.
The room that dead John is in.
Sherlock wants to scream, he wants to yell and hit things but nothing comes. The detective is numb.
Sherlock's back meets a wall and the detective is forced against it by Mycroft and Lestrade hands.
The genius's vision is blurry and his mind is blank. Thoughts escape the genius and he isn't even bothered.
"John."
"Sherlock." Mycroft calls, placing himself in Sherlock's fixed vision, the genius's eyes never leaving the door. "You need to breathe."
The detective involuntarily refuses. How can he breath? John is dead. He isn't breathing. The genius doesn't deserve to breath.
"John."
John is dead.
The fact finally hits him and the detective collapses, doubling over, dragging Mycroft and Lestrade with him.
A hard structure is beneath the genius abruptly, bending the man's body and causing Sherlock to sit.
"I want to see him." Sherlock says weakly.
"I don't think that's a good idea." Molly says coming through the doors, looking into the detective's eyes. Her eyes are bright red and puffy.
John is dead.
Sherlock is too tired to fight.
"John."
John is dead.
Wow. Just wow.