Chapter five
"sweater"
It feels as if Sherlock was caught up in the middle of a slow-motion capture.
He is still running, arms moving up and down hysterically, eyes opened wide and yet, it seems as if he hasn't moved an inch forward . He can see snowflakes falling slowly in front of his nose, lantern's light delicately playing through grains of dust a few inches to his left, smudges of mist-like cigarette smoke going up in the air in cloudlets meters away. It's unrealistic, surreal at best and driving him mad with the sheer complicatedness. Perhaps by other circumstances, when it wouldn't be about that one person, about John, he'd laugh at just how marvellous the world can sometimes be, but not now, not this minute, not the next one. He has no time for such thoughts, for foolishness. All those days ago, he let himself dwell to much onto such things and what, did it bring him anything?
Stupid, stupid, stupid little Sherlock.
Perhaps Mycroft was right after all. Yesterday, last month and all those year ago.
Perhaps he'll always be alone.
And it'll be all thanks to his own idiocy.
It's no use to think about that now though, coat lashing his legs heavily, scarf falling up and down his strained chest. Thinking such thoughts over and over again is reserved for the time of afternoon sprawling on that couch of theirs accompanied by rhythmical pitter-patter of John's fingers onto the keyboard, following with half-lidded eyes dimmed shadowy afterglow of searchlights from the street against the paper-hangings, clenching that damn peignoir and staring at a peculiar spot at the ceiling. John saying something over his shoulder, pointing at a gadget he's just found. Poring aloud whether it' s already time for the dinner or just tea, he shuffling and pretending to choose the going to sleep option instead, John just sighing and flashing a lopsided smile he's not sure if addressed at him or not in the end. Whispering threads of cooking the food himself if John really doesn't want to have anything eatable this evening and John not even frowning but getting up and walking into the kitchen, bickering just how he has found himself in all of this.
Blissful. Fulfilling. Ignorant.
Fine.
Sherlock feels his heart racing, the alley growing nearer and nearer in his eyes. He can't remember whether he told the cabby to wait up for him or not, the more thoughts come to his mind, the more unmistakable John's sweater gets, his hands colder and sweatier. The alley is faintly lit by two curved lanterns, their light bluish on his cheeks. Snow is slippery but Sherlock stumbles through, not stopping for a second. The figure clad in that knitted jumper doesn't move, hasn't moved an inch since he saw them and even though it might mean that one horrible thing, Sherlock tries to keep calm, tries not to dwell at least once at a newfound clue.
He just can't do that, not to John.
Even though it feels like an hour, the run lasts a couple of seconds, his pulse skipping, blood rushing to his neck and cheeks. He's a few feet from the person that must John, must be the end of this whole sick situation, a masquerade planned and done by a psychopath. Sherlock makes his last steps gingerly, trying not to be as relieved and happy as he feels now. It seems too easy, too damn naive to be true, to be real. He's soaking wet, his hair slicked-back thanks to the quickly melting snow and for the one time in his life, he just doesn't care whether it's far easier than usually, not as complicated as the last time John was gone, not as well motivated and perhaps played as before.
He wants him back, that stupid blogger who's got problems with technology offered at groceries, wears extravagant and perhaps self-made things no one but him admires. That guy who tells him his deductions are fantastic, who was brave enough to move in even while having all of those well-justified doubts.
The only person who finally cares and views him as whole, as someone he can spend and enjoy his time with. As another human being.
John.
John.
John.
If it ends now, Sherlock is sure he'll never do anything wrong, will try as hard as he can. Damn, he'll buy John a puppy both of them will strangle with hugs to death. Everything will be fine, he'll do the groceries and John won't go out alone ever again, he'll be at his side day and night and nothing will harm him, no, Sherlock won't let anything harm him again. No. Never again.
He's too precious, Sherlock realises with a painful delay, creeping up to the fallen figure.
"John!"
Now that he's close enough, he notices the man (for the shoulders are too wide, hands too quadratic and the whole outline of the body too awkward to belong to a woman) laying on his stomach being fearfully still. Sherlock's footsteps echo in his ears, the very same sweater John left the flat dressed in torn on the back, clinging with its wetness onto the jeans and thin blood-red shirt laying underneath. Sleeves have been ripped, arms protruding from them skinnier than Sherlock remembered them, ribs he sees showing from under the damp material too numerous, legs slimmer.
Has he been away for that long? Has he really lost him for more than a week to Moriarty? When he previously thought about it, it seemed less sinister but now, faced with the consequences and the painful realisation at what exactly happened or could have, Sherlock's legs shake and soon he collapses, wincing at the ice-cold water shimmering on the sidewalk the body lays on.
"John? John, do you hear me? John!" He gingerly brushes his fingertips over the wrists, trying to feel his pulse. Those hands are freezing cold, veins visible and pulsing slightly underneath his fingers, the skin growing sickly blue. "John, goddammit, John!"
How long exactly has he been here? There's so much water around the body, snow still falling, creating small pyramids on it and Sherlock desperately wants to believe it's not too late, that this miracle isn't just a nail to his coffin, searching frantically for that one sound, that one rhythm.
Finally, he reaches for the neck and presses his fingers firmly onto the skin, praying to every damn god he's never believed in.
Don't do this to me, don't you even dare...
And then there's a faint vibration, steady but dying every other moment.
He wishes he could gather up some tears, stupid droplets of an aqueous solution everybody seems to have loads of, but his eyes stay perfectly dry and still focused, even though the world seems to drift apart slightly, his thoughts in and out, escaping him.
He's not too late after all.
"John, John, John... " He wants to take John into his arms and say that everything is alright now, that they will leave and never have to see Moriarty ever again, that he'll be safe now, that nothing bad will happen again and he won't be ever hurt again, as long as Sherlock lives. But those nearly formed on his lips words begin to slowly die the more he looks at the small frame in front of him, that uncharacteristic bone structure, breathing inaudible at first but then growing wheezing. He knows it's highly unwise to roll over people with potential spinal and chest damage but the doubts sink in, Sherlock's eyes growing wide at the realization that it really was far too easy.
Cautiously, with a heavy heart and tears finally stinging at the corners, he inserts one of his hands as delicately as he can under the man's throat and turns him around.
The next second Jim Moriarty is coughing at him dazedly with pain sharpening his features, blood oozing down his unseeing eyes.