A/N: *slightly spoilerish, I guess* Argh, Sherlock's so damn hard to write for. ): I know I didn't really get him right in this chapter, I apologise in advance for having him a little OOC. I guess I just have to get used to writing for a character like him (and of course I have to make it even more difficult for myself by having him going through an emotional-logical metamorphosis).
Although, saying Sherlock is in this chapter is hardly a spoiler, seeing as you'd know from the summary that he was going to turn up at some point anyway. Just avoiding any backlash. :P *end slightly non-spoilerish thing anyway*
Also, eleven reviews for the last chapter? *blushes* You guys spoil me, you really do.
-pixie.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
John held his breath, staving off the moment when he would have to inhale and accept the poison into his body. So he had a few minutes, if that.
But what if the gas was a chemical that's absorbed through the skin?
His heart rate accelerated rapidly, fuelled by his fear. He desperately tried to calm himself down, to slow the metabolising of oxygen within his system and prolong his life (if only for a few seconds). He went to take a few calming breaths but froze, remembering just in time breathing was what he was trying to avoid.
"Ugh, breathing. Breathing's boring." Sherlock's voice suddenly rang through his head (he almost laughed, but that would have meant breathing). Well, breathing certainly wouldn't be boring now.
Stars were starting to dance in his field of vision. The gas stopped hissing into the room and the vents clicked shut. No clean air was coming in to replace the toxic atmosphere straining to get into John's lungs (which felt like they were about to burst). John started to count slowly, attempting to focus his mind. He just had to hold on for a few more seconds - surely Sherlock would turn up soon?
Of course he would. It was Sherlock. The man was almost a magician. He'd probably turn up just as John was about to take a breath of the poisoned air. He'd always had an incredible sense of dramatic timing. John almost wondered if Sherlock did it on purpose, and decided it was, in fact quite likely.
Now he was really starting to feel faint.
Where's Sherlock?
John knew that, really, it would be best to hold his breath until he fell unconscious - he'd breathe less then, so he'd take in less poisoned air.
Where the bloody hell is he?
The edges of his vision started to go black.
Why hasn't he come yet?
None of this made any sense.
What the hell happened to 'no lasting damage'? Last time I checked, death was pretty damned lasting!
John tilted from his kneeling position to an ungraceful sideways slump, grunting as all his injuries protested.
Enough with the dramatic timing Sherlock!
He buried his mouth and nose against his shoulder in a desperate (hopeless) attempt to help filter the air he'd be breathing once he lost consciousness.
Just hurry up and get in here and rescue me!
His head felt so heavy and so light at the same time.
Oh God, I can't this up for much longer.
Despite himself, John heaved a huge breath into his stupid, starved lungs, wincing as the motion jostled his bruised ribs. He couldn't help but to do it again. And again.
Stupid, stupid, STUPID.
Tears streamed from his eyes, dripping down into a mingled pool of blood and salty water that stuck his cheek to the floor.
Oh God I've been poisoned it's already in my system now it's too late I'm going to die where the bloody hell is Sherlock Holmes when you need him I can't believe this is actually happening oh God no I don't want to die oh God please let me live-
Gears clanked and ground against each other. A panel opened up in the floor and Sherlock Holmes clambered out of it, not waiting for the elevator platform to deliver him into the room. John watched him emerge with a mild interest, his recent panic fading and dissipating into a glorious fog so he couldn't even remember why he'd been freaking out in the first place (it's in the floor - so that's why I couldn't see any door seams, he thought idly).
"Too late, Sherlock," John grinned at him weirdly as the consulting detective rushed across the small room and began to drag him towards the panel. The space distorted, and Sherlock seemed both impossibly far away and much too close. "Already breathed it all in." He giggled, high-pitched, leaning against Sherlock like a drunk (well, he was drunk, at least a little. God, that seemed like a year ago). Sherlock just tugged him forward and dropped him onto the slowly advancing elevator, one arm held against his face as he jumped through. "You're timing's off. I think you need to get it looked at." Sherlock ignored him again, rolling him from the platform to the ground, Sherlock sliding off and landing next to him. John didn't even feel the fall jarring his injuries. Even if he had, he was past caring, the drug swooping through his system eradicating such emotion.
The elevator clunked to a halt, then suddenly dropped, pause for a second or two at its base, then shot up once more to fill the gap in the floor of the room above.
It was quite clever, really, John mused. The elevator levelled with the floor in this room too, and lifted so slowly that someone standing on it blindfolded (like John had been) wouldn't even have realised they were moving. Then, once the elevator reached the top, his captors had just enough time to shove him to his knees before the elevator shot down a floor, and to jump off before it shot up again. John suspected that the system wasn't even operated by gears - at least, not loud, clunky ones, he would have felt the elevator vibrate if that were the case. No, more likely the clanking gears were an audio track meant to disguise the sound of the elevator floor panel shooting back into place.
A bit elaborate, just to confuse their victim, but still clever.
John wanted to admire the system a little longer, but Sherlock was persistently pulling him towards the door. His hands were still tied. He wished Sherlock would undo the bonds, but he seemed more focused on navigating through the labyrinthine hallways of the building they were trying to escape. Suddenly, his vision flared, his right leg went stiff and he heard gunshots and wounded soldiers screaming his name, crying for help, missing digits and limbs, mangled bodies, bloodied corpses, the enemy invading the camp, more gunfire, explosions, oh God, searing white pain, the troops driving out the rebels, I've been shot, falling backwards onto a tent, my shoulder's on fire, fabric crumpling and tearing, fleeing rebels, screams of pain everywhere, including my own, finally hitting the ground, roaring in agony as his shoulder was jolted, somebody get a doctor, somehow managing to laugh at himself despite the injury, oh wait-
Pain crippled him, locked his muscles so it was like Sherlock was dragging a statue.
He'd become delirious, and that had protected him from the truth. But then his past had attacked him, somehow cleared his head again-
Oh God I've been poisoned I'm going to die.
His muscles loosened enough to allow him to stumble along in front of Sherlock, to finally splutter, "Sher... Sherlock... I breathed it in, i-it was poisoned... They poisoned me!" John pulled frantically, weakly, at his friend's arm, wanting to grab him and shake him, but his damn hands were still bloody tied. "Oh God, Sherlock, I breathed too much, I'm going to d-"
"Don't be ridiculous, John." No emotion whatsoever, except a bit of condescension. This was Sherlock when John had first met him. He hadn't seen this Sherlock for months. He wanted the new one back."We don't know what gas or gases you breathed in. We can't possibly know if you'll live until we've got that figured out."
John wagged his head from side to side, happening to glance into an empty office room as they passed it.
What the-
People had been here when he'd been brought in. He'd heard their quiet murmurs, the rapid clacking of computer keys, even if he hadn't been able to see them. Where had they all gone?
How the hell had Sherlock pulled off this one?
Sherlock's back had been stiff as a board, but once they finally emerged from the building his shoulders drooped and they both slumped against the wall. No longer able to remain his usual, unemotional self, he cast a sad glance at John.
What was with these feelings? There was no benefit to them, he felt terrible that he hadn't saved John in time and there was no need to really - except John was his friend.
The logical (and dominant) part of Sherlock's mind told him he was upset because John being poisoned meant he'd lost, but that didn't seem right. He looked again at the ex-army doctor, who was just staring vacantly back at him, pupils massively dilated. His sudden moment of lucidity had fled, leaving him in the hallucinogenic clutches of the drug in his system.
Having John around had changed Sherlock, and he still wasn't entirely sure whether he liked it or not. (All these feelings... Really, what was the point?) Sherlock had functioned brilliantly as a being of pure logic. Sure, John was an excellent conductor of his logic, but having feelings was a rather undesired side effect.
...Wasn't it?
He wasn't even sure anymore. He only knew that he was no longer just a purely logical being (machine). For the first time in his life, he'd started to become human. And that meant actually living.
Sherlock bowed his head. "I'm sorry, John."
John's eyes flickered with recognition for a moment, and he reached out to Sherlock. He'd been poisoned, he needed to tell Sherlock, have him find out what it was, but suddenly it was just all too much. He fell into a roaring, silent nothingness.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"We have to go to Bart's. They'll figure out what I was gassed with, give me the antidote, and I'll be right as rain in a couple of days." John had woken up a few minutes earlier, at first confused to find himself on the couch at 221B, swathed in bandages. After the bout of delirium set off in the interrogation room, though, John had made a complete recovery to lucidity (although physically, he was far from being himself. It would take a while to recuperate his strength, and for the cuts and bruises to fade).
Sherlock shook his head, pacing back and forth. "No. Too dangerous. They'll be watching the hospital; they'll get into your room and make sure they finish the job."
"No, Sherlock, they won't. They know how you think. Can't you see they're just trying to distract you from catching them before they flee the country? I'm not going to let you let them get away."
The rapid thud of feet continued. "They're ruthless, John. If I hadn't gotten you out when I did, you'd already be dead." He cast John a slightly condescending glare. "Really, you should know better than that by now."
"You don't know th-"
"I'm not going let my only friend die because of a case, John!" Sherlock rounded on him, his frustration roused to breaking point. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Sherlock went back to his pacing.
John cleared his throat, touched by Sherlock's concern, but still believing the consulting detective was overreacting just a little. "I know it's a risky, but we need to get me to a hospital. We can talk to Lestrade if they want to keep me overnight, or even Mycroft, but we've got to find out what's wrong with me."
Sherlock waved his hand indifferently. "We'll send a blood sample to Molly. She's got a good scientific mind, for someone who's not me. It's fairly likely she'll be of some assistance. Better than the other useless people they employ."
"You exploit Molly far too much already. Sherlock, I'm going to Bart's, and I'm not letting you stop me." John staggered to his feet, groped his way along the wall for support, and dragged himself towards the door. Swift as a striking snake, Sherlock launched himself across the coffee table, slamming John back onto the couch.
"I am not letting you leave this apartment, even if it means I have to nurse you back to health myself," he hissed, green eyes cold and narrowed to slits, right forearm pressed lightly but securely against John's throat (of course only lightly - Sherlock had noticed the slight bruising pattern where John had at some point been pressed to a wall by his throat). John cried out as the impact jolted his bruised ribs, but was otherwise silent, too shocked to formulate a response.
"You, with your chivalrous and stupid notions of 'catching the bad guys' despite any personal cost, are going to get yourself killed." Sherlock continued to berate him. "I know several forms of boxing and martial arts, and I am coming increasingly close to having to employ some of those methods on you. And if it does come to that, don't think for one second that I won't knock you unconscious if I have to. Do we have an understanding?"
Lying on the couch and completely at Sherlock's mercy, John nodded mutely. Real fear flashed in his eyes at the aggressiveness of Sherlock's attack - both the physical and the verbal components. He knew Sherlock just had his best interests at heart (or at mind, probably, because Sherlock's heart seemed to be a rather inactive organ aside from its biological purposes) but the threat of violence was certainly something that he had never used against John before. John had often wondered what it would take to get Sherlock truly angry, but now decided it really was best that he didn't know.
That almost feline ferocity faded from Sherlock now (and really, he had pounced on John like a cat) and he gracefully returned to a standing position, leaving John to recover as he straightened his clothes.
"I'll go get Molly then, shall I?" he said finally. "Wait here. I'll close the curtains for you. Don't leave the flat." Sherlock strode across the room, dimming it as he drew the fabric across the windows. "Stay here," he repeated, and the corner of his mouth flicked upwards. "Doctor's orders."
.:':. .:':. .:':.
A/N: Sorry if this chapter is a little disjointed and confusing (I promise I'll explain in a later chapter), but that's the first time I've written for a character really just going crazy. And let me tell you, it was fun.
I know I'm sadistic, but John being tortured and delirious was seriously a LOT of fun to write. Hell, I just love beating up characters... Especially ones that aren't my own (beating up my own characters isn't nearly as fun. I created them, so it's almost like beating up a part of myself...
...Shut up. My logic's weird, okay? Don't judge me).
Please review and let me know if I should continue!
-pixie.