Warning: Things get dark. Very very dark. I'm sorry. Did I mention that there IS a happy ending?
Jim waited for the confirmation, then hung up, turn his eyes to John, whose smugness had been instantly replaced by open-mouthed horror. "Congratulations, Johnny. Your cheek just killed an old friend. Want to try riling me up some more? Go on, then," he said, his voice dangerously low, even as he regained his breath from his orgasm.
John's heart plummeted. He couldn't breathe. Mike...he'd killed Mike. He'd made it this far without any casualties and in a moment of defiance, he'd ruined everything. Tears stung John's eyes and he pushed Jim off of him, scrambling off the bed and sinking to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest. He bowed his head and sobbed. What had he done? Yelled a couple of stupid things. That was all. Hope feeling smug was worth your friend's life, he thought bitterly as tears poured down his face. His hands knotted into his own hair as his head dropped, bawling. He absolutely hated himself. He'd been responsible for taking lives before, but they hadn't been innocents, they hadn't been friends.
Jim stood up and yanked John to his feet by his wrists. He dragged him down the hallway and flung him into a hallway closet. "You'll stay there for the night. I'm not having my rest disturbed," he said in a monotone voice. "In the morning you'll have a new set of rules to live by." He locked John inside and returned to his bedroom to sleep.
John was still sobbing as the door slammed. There was hardly any room, but he was too distraught to care. It was the cleaning closet. John grabbed an old, raggedy towel from a shelf and curled up with his as he cried, the sounds not lessening at all. He wanted to die. He couldn't take this anymore. He couldn't let anyone else die because of him. There was no hope left, none. He'd heard nothing from Sherlock, Sebastian could only hurt him despite his wishes, and Jim would grind him away and break him until he crumbled. Well, Jim wasn't going to be able to play with him anymore.
John abruptly stopped his sobs then, the answer suddenly so clear. With a steady hand, he reached over in the dark to grab a bottle of bleach he'd used for cleaning earlier that day. If he could keep it down, it would be enough to kill him. Jim would probably already be asleep. No one would find his body till morning, and by then he'd be long gone. John, with trembling fingers, unscrewed the cap, and started to gulp it down. The taste was beyond awful. He'd gotten only two burning drinks down when he vomited, but he didn't let that stop him, and started up again. Any suffering now would be a small price for rest and an ending at long last.
Sebastian hadn't slept at all—he'd listened, wide-eyed and enraged, as John pleaded and Jim coaxed and they both fucked and talked and then there had been yelling, then quiet talking, then sobbing in the hallway. He heard distinctly through the cracked-open door what Jim said before he locked John into the cupboard, and he'd listened, sobbing silently on his own, as John's sobs racked through cupboard. Sebastian was just wondering if he could sneak out and comfort John from the other side of the door when he heard the sobbing stop, then after a silence, the sound of violent vomiting. Then there had been silence, and the sound of vomiting. At the retching, Sebastian had leaped off the bed, ignoring the slicing pain in his back, and ran into the hallway. "JOHN!" He heard gulping noises and tried to yank open the door, but Jim had locked it. "Oh my God...JIM! JIM, GET OUT HERE! JOHN, WHATEVER YOU'RE DOING, STOP! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP IT!" He frantically kicked at the door, but it wouldn't budge. "JIM, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, UNLOCK IT!"
Jim growled as he climbed out of bed, "What the FUCK, SEBASTIAN?!" he yelled as he stormed into the hall, holding the key.
"John's...I think he's trying to kill himself," Sebastian said, his face pale. "For FUCK'S SAKE, UNLOCK IT!" he yelled with every ounce of energy he had.
Jim blinked at him in surprise for a moment, then sprang into action, unlocking the door and throwing it open. He grabbed the bottle and tossed it down the hall, spilling bleach across the carpet. "You little SHIT!" he yelled. "You do NOT GET TO KILL YOURSELF WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!"
John barely heard him. His insides were on fire. He lolled out of the closet and landed on his back. He vomited again as he stared up at the ceiling, then began to choke on it, but couldn't find the effort or motivation to move himself. What a pathetic way to die...he thought to himself as he felt Sebastian rolling him over on his stomach. He closed his eyes. He'd been on the edge of death before, but this time instead of thinking, please, God, let me live, all he could think was, please, God, let me die...
John woke up in hospital. His stomach had been pumped and neither Jim nor Sebastian was in sight. His wrists were strapped to the bed with hospital restraints and a nurse was busy checking his vitals. "Ahh, you're awake," she said. "You gave us a scare there for a while, Mr. Watson. How are you feeling?"
John weakly opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. His throat was too raw. He let his head drop back and he closed his eyes. He felt like a failure, that's what. He could kill his friends, but he couldn't kill himself. Pathetic.
"We've put you on suicide watch, John," the nurse said, deep feeling in her voice. "That's why you're restrained right now. We understand you tried to take your own life. We're going to have a counselor come in today and talk to you. All right?" She reached out and squeezed his hand compassionately.
John just averted his eyes. He had thought after all that time, he'd enjoy interacting with other people, but all it made him think of was Mike. Mike used to work in the hospital with him. He was in a hospital. Mike was probably in a morgue. John swallowed and hissed in a breath at the pain and made no move to squeeze the woman's hand back.
"This came for you," the woman said, taking out a card and opening it, setting it on John's lap so he could read it. He recognized the hurried handwriting immediately.
John-Sebastian told me what happened. I wasn't going to let you know that I knew, but I think I must. Sebastian came to me for help, and I intend to do everything I can to fix this. I am going to get you back. Don't do anything else idiotic. I'm lost without my blogger. -SH
John let out a silent sob and tears started pouring down his face again. Sherlock...Sherlock was going to try and save him. He had to figure out how to tell him not to—if Jim ever found out, John was positive that everyone would die. He couldn't let that happen, especially not after Mike. As his voice wasn't working, he knocked on the bed to get the nurses' attention.
He mimed a pen with his restrained hand and she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I'm not allowed to give you any sharp objects."
John flexed his jaw and then tried miming a phone. He couldn't talk, but maybe if she handed him a mobile, he could type out a message to give to the nurse. Instead, she returned with a dry erase board and a marker.
John felt a wave of relief. The woman unhooked his right hand and he jotted down:
Can you please text this number and say: John says, 'Don't.' ?
The nurse read his note and the number below, then nodded, following his instructions without asking questions. She introduced John to a visitor, who John recognized as one of Jim's men, Dawlish. Dawlish sat in the chair to watch over John all through visitor hours, making sure he didn't try anything foolish.
Meanwhile, Sebastian was trying to pull himself together back at the house, wishing like crazy that he could see John. He'd contacted Sherlock as soon as he'd been able. He texted Sherlock once more.
When can we meet again? I need to know how the hunt is going. -SM
Tonight. 19.00. 43 Conduit Street. -SH
Sebastian met there at the appointed time. He had never been so happy or relieved to see Sherlock in his life. Sherlock was the only other person in the world that he could tell the truth to, besides John. He found himself babbling before long about everything that had happened—him being whipped, John being tortured, him having to torture John, and gave him an update about what he knew about John's condition.
Sherlock listened silently, his lips pursed, his fingers steepled. Although he was a raging storm on the inside, his cool exterior gave nothing away save for an occasional nostril flare or jaw flex. Once Sebastian had finished, he gave him an update as well. "Seeing as you didn't report it to me, I assume you don't know. Mike Stamford, one of John's good friends, and I suppose, a friend of mine—he was the man who initially introduced us—was shot last night by a sniper. I can only assume Jim is to blame. I went and looked at him in the morgue this morning and gathered what information I could. There wasn't much...but there was enough for me to track down and figure out who one of the shooters is. Does the name Harry Stone mean anything to you?"
"God..." Sebastian murmured. So that was why John was a wreck. Jim had finally followed through and killed someone. He felt sick to his stomach, but pulled himself back to the question. "Harry Stone...yeah. I've partnered with him in the past."
"He killed Stamford. Do you know if there is one gunman for all of John's friends, or are there more? No, never mind, idiotic question—Harry will have her own as she isn't in the city. And I know there's one specifically for me. I've noticed him following me—I can give you a description but not a name."
"Excellent, it's a start," Sebastian murmured. Once Sherlock had described him, Sebastian nodded. "Ahhh, right, you've got Yelchin. Have fun with him. He's dangerous. Fellow by the name of Dawlish is in hospital keeping an eye on John until he's better. Sherlock...I don't know if John is ever going to be...right again. After all this," he said quietly, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Is there any way you could try to see him? It might give him the strength that I can't give him anymore." It broke his heart to say that, but it was true. What solace could he offer John when he was under the boot of Moriarty as well? "Word is you're clever with disguises."
Sherlock pursed his lips. It wasn't hard to see the mental pain Sebastian was in. "Yes. Yes, I can figure out a way. Now that he's no longer at Jim's, I will be able to get in...you should know, though, John had a text sent to me in response to a letter I wrote to him saying I knew what was happening and trying to help him. He doesn't want me to help. ...what I'm saying is that I don't know that I will be able to offer him much comfort either."
Sebastian hung his head. He would not cry in front of Sherlock bloody Holmes, but he felt utterly empty and useless. "I just...I want to help him. I want to make things better, and I can't," he growled, pressing his palms into his eyes.
Sherlock was hardly one to comfort people; perhaps the only reason he made an effort now was because he also was hurting for John. He crossed over to Sebastian slowly and hesitated before he placed a hand on Sebastian's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "I'm sure John will be all right with time. He's gone through hell and back before."
"You haven't seen him," Sebastian said fiercely, on the verge of breaking down. "You haven't talked to him. You haven't heard him scream out, begging Jim to kill him. You haven't found him curled up in a closet, desperately drinking bleach so he could die. God, you don't even know what it's like, do you? To feel that terrible. To feel any strong emotion at all..." He couldn't look up at Sherlock or he would lose it. He would cry.
Sherlock flexed his jaw. Sebastian was right, of course. "I'll see him. Sebastian, despite what you think, you have to be there for him. I can only risk a brief visit, and that won't be enough for him."
Sebastian nodded. "He needs someone he trusts. I'm there whenever I can be, but I have to show loyalty to Jim to keep us both alive, which means I can hardly ever give him the comfort I want to." He rose. "I'll be in touch. Let me know if you need more information or have a breakthrough. And Sherlock...thank you.." He gripped Sherlock's hand tightly. "Thank you," he said again.
Sherlock gave a curt nod. He wasn't doing this for Sebastian, but as he opened his mouth to say that, he heard John's voice in the back of his head saying, "Timing, Sherlock," and so he shut it.
An hour later, a tall, confident doctor with a mustache and slicked black hair stepped into John's room, looking at Dawlish. In a gravelly, Welsh-accented voice he said, "Excuse me sir, but I'm going to ask you to leave, visiting hours are over. You can wait in the lounge if you'd like.'
The man grunted and rose, giving the doctor a cursory glance before clearing out. Once he was gone, the doctor turned his attention to John. He peeled off his false mustache and locked the door, pacing to John's side and kneeling by the bed. "John," he said earnestly.
John didn't look over. He had just barely registered the door opening and closing. He had shut off. He would let the doctor do whatever he wanted to him. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd accidently give him too many pain meds and just kill him. Maybe he could ask the doctor to. He swallowed as his eyes distantly watched the slow, steady spikes on the heart monitor. He willed it to go flat.
Very few things genuinely scared Sherlock, but he was terrified at the sight of John. John looked dead. He looked thin, wasted away. Miserable. His eyes were staring ahead, a blank expression fixed on them, but etched inside and underneath his eyes was a terrible sadness. This was the face of someone who had seen the darkest of dark and the most miserable places. When Sherlock noticed bruises around his neck, his rage for Jim Moriarty nearly bubbled over. "John!" he said more sternly, shaking his best friend's shoulder.
John blinked heavily at the feeling of the doctor shaking him and he turned to finally look at the man. It took him a moment to recognize him, but when he did, his eyes widened and he tugged at his restraints. Tears started to leak from the corners of his eyes. "Sh-Sherlock—!" he sobbed, his voice raspy and strained.
"John—" was all Sherlock could manage for a moment. He held his hand to John's face, as if making sure he was real. "John, I'm here. I'm doing everything I can to free you. Do you understand?" he said carefully.
John shook his head weakly, but he pleaded frantically, "Leave!" If Jim found him here, the repercussions would be astronomical.
"I'm not leaving," Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "Visiting hours are over, I took every precaution. I know the risks of meddling, John, and I am not an idiot. You of all people should have a bit more faith." He bit back his reprimands, running his hand through John's hair, an unusual gesture for him, but one that felt very natural given the circumstances. "Now John, is there anything you need right now?" He flicked his eyes down to John's wrists and back to his face.
John choked out another sob, but shook his head. He didn't know if he was saying "no" to needing anything, "no" to if he thought Sherlock was an idiot, or "no" to Sherlock saying he wasn't leaving. Sherlock was a sight for sore eyes, though. He was a breath of fresh air and John wanted to wrap his arms around his friend and cling to him.
"John, you...you tried to kill yourself," Sherlock said, and he had to stop, to swallow his emotions. He reached down to John's restrained hand and clasped it. "John." Sherlock finally met John's eyes once more, and he felt a deep sadness that seemed to slice all the way through him. "John, I..." What would he have done if John had succeeded in killing himself? What would he feel? How would he ever be the same again? "Don't ever do that again," he finally said, and bent to press his forehead against John's hand. "Just don't, John. Please, not ever. No matter how bad things get...I'll be finding a way out. Don't ever doubt that."
John didn't know if he could believe that, but all the same he nodded. Not for himself, but for Sherlock. He didn't know that he had ever seen him look like this before, and it was John's fault. If he stayed alive, he hurt people. If he died, he hurt people. He couldn't win either way, so he kept his mouth shut and clasped Sherlock's hand, craving the contact.
Sherlock stayed as long as he felt was safe, then finally rose. "I'll be in contact with Sebastian. We're very discreet." He repositioned his moustache. "In the meantime, John, try not to do anything idiotic, although in Jim Moriarty's hands, I imagine it's hard not to misstep often. The man is notoriously unpredictable. 'Changeable,' in his own words. Goodbye, John. I'll see you soon," he promised, then slipped out and disappeared from the hospital.