John Watson had no idea how long it had been since he'd been kidnapped. It was hard to think and had been so for a while; he didn't quite remember the exact circumstances of his own capture and hardly even knew his own name. His brain seemed to only be able to hold on to one thing, and the thing it had chosen was that he was supposed to be Mycroft Holmes. He barely even remembered why that was important, but he held onto it. He didn't notice who came or went, didn't answer their questions, couldn't have even if he wanted to because he didn't listen when they talked and simply took their beatings as stoically as he could.
He paid so little attention he didn't realize that the resounding boom and the shaking of the floor below him meant there had been an explosion, didn't pay attention to the room collapsing around him.
He couldn't help but notice, though, that it was suddenly hard to breathe. He coughed weakly, pain racking through his body. Some dirt was expelled, but only just enough to breathe as if through a pinprick. Suddenly, a surge of adrenaline coursed through him; it seemed like calm, dishonorable submission to death to let his breath be stolen by dust, and he was filled with an absolute conviction that no, this was not how he was going to die. He had been awaiting death, was waiting for it still, but not like this, and he tried to raise himself, tried to cough harder.
He felt the fabric first, something being laid over him, brushing away dirt and wrapping him securely. He felt himself being lifted, held by someone with more of a gentle touch than he'd thought he'd ever feel again. In that moment, still confused and sluggish and struggling to breathe, he realized how much he'd been longing for anything friendly: a smile, a touch, a single kind word. He hadn't expected he'd have any more before he'd died, and now that he had he knew he'd die of despair when it was taken away again as surely as being physically strangled would kill him.
It took him a long time to bring his thoughts back into order, to repress the pain, to notice and decipher the whisper in his ear begging him to breathe, to stay awake, to stay alive. He coughed slightly, still trying to breathe through the debris and dust, trying to comply. Every inhale hurt all the way down to his lungs, and he felt someone's fingers pushing their way into his dry mouth, scraping out the dirt. The action should have made him gag and spit, but his mouth was dry and his cheeks were swollen from biting them and there was no saliva to expel, only a bit of blood.
He felt something cool and wet poured into his mouth, and even though he knew it wasn't much it was certainly too much, and he did choke, spitting it out to drip down his chin. the process repeated a couple times until the majority of dirt was gone though his mouth was still dry and swollen and the water, apparently, was all gone.
"Watson." Someone was saying his name over and over again, and that wasn't right. He didn't know why but he knew it wasn't, and after a bit he realized: it was his real name that was being called. Someone knew who he really was. He tried to think, tried to focus, tried to take some comfort from the soft litany of his own name being spoken like a mantra. It could have been his worst enemy calling to him, beckoning him to come and face a bloody death, and still it would have brought him comfort to, in the end, be himself.
He had an idea, though, that it was no enemy that was calling to him, no one who wished him harm that was holding him so gently. He mustered his strength and opened his eyes but it was fully dark all around him and he quickly gave up the effort. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but only coughed once more.
"Watson," the voice said again, and the body behind him shifted slightly. "Watson, it's me, it's Sherlock."
Of course. Sherlock. Who else had he been thinking would come for him if not the friend for whom no mystery was too great? Watson could have smiled, could have laughed, and somewhere in his heart he did both.
"I'm here to rescue you," Sherlock said, and his words were slow, each syllable pronounced like he was having trouble speaking. "I haven't done well, I'm afraid, but I'm here."
Watson wanted to speak, to tell him that his being there was the only thing he did and didn't wish for, each as strongly as the other, his baser selfish want to have the comfort of his friend at war with the more nobler feelings of wanting his friend to be as far away from danger as possible.
"I suppose you'd like to know our present condition," Holmes continued slowly. His hand idly yet gently scraped dirt away from Watson's skin as he spoke, as if there could possibly be a standard for cleanliness in this circumstance. "I'm afraid the outlook on our situation is not good: we are currently both trapped where we are and, barring a few allies that might have had the foresight to observe my movements, there is no one coming to save us specifically."
Holmes' hand stilled, then, and Watson vaguely felt it ball into a fist against his shoulder. "It is very likely we are both going to die," Holmes whispered just loud enough Watson could hear him, "but I reluctantly acknowledge that perhaps in this moment you will find death a more merciful master than you've had lately. It will, of course, be my privilege to die with you, though I assure you that it was my intention to bring you home alive."
Holmes' hand came back to his face, wiping dirt away from his eyes and brushing his bruised skin. Watson focused on breathing, trying to think through it all about what he'd heard and how things had changed; he was no longer a prisoner, but he was still trapped. And now Holmes was trapped with him, and that was worse, not in danger of being killed by his captors but in danger all the same.
Watson pulled a breath deep into his lungs, pushed his dry tongue between his teeth and ran it across his cracked lips. "H-Holmes," he rasped. His voice was weak and broken and foreign to his own ears. He wondered for a moment if he'd even said anything, but Holmes must have heard it even if he didn't understand the words.
"I'm here, Watson," he immediately said, and he grasped him a little tighter. "I'm here. I apologize if anything I do brings you further pain; I am trying to be gentle, but we are caught in a very bad position at the moment and I have very little room to move to accommodate you. I also cannot quite see our surroundings and therefore if any part of yourself is contorted in an odd way, I apologize."
"You can't hurt me," Watson answered, "I feel nothing but joy hearing your voice." His own voice was still so weak and garbled he didn't know if Holmes could understand a word he was saying, but he felt the warm drip of something on his cheek, and Watson found himself wishing that Holmes was crying because the other option would be that he was bleeding.
"We are in a very bad spot," Holmes repeated, and his voice was dull and flat, almost lifeless. "It will be many more hours until we are found, if we ever are. I fully hope and expect that my brother Mycroft is extending every effort to find us, but that cannot make our extraction move faster. I am trying to be as good as possible to you, Watson. So be at peace and trust me, my friend, and I will guard you until help comes. Once more, as before, you will be safe at my side."
Watson felt himself shift, felt both of Holmes' arms come around him, holding him securely. He felt his friend kiss him so lightly and tenderly he could have been kissing a corpse, and Watson realized, without any strong feelings about it, that it was because he was. Or, at least, that he would be soon. That was why his voice sounded so strained, so dull. Watson knew he would soon be dead, and it appeared Holmes knew it, too, was already treating him like a body laid out for burial.
"Rest, Watson. Close your eyes and be at peace," he said, and, as always, Watson obeyed him.
They sat like that in silence for a long time, and Watson tried to do as he asked. He had an inkling of what Holmes was planning, tried to rest, tried to show Holmes he trusted him implicitly, had complete faith in him even now. He could hear Holmes' breathing begin to speed up, felt his body begin to slightly shake as he took one hand off of him.
Watson felt rather than saw that Holmes' movements were deliberate and slow. He brushed his trembling fingers over Watson's face, moved his other hand to rest over Watson's heart.
He took a long, shuddering breath. "You have always shown loyalty to me," he whispered. "Thank you, my friend."
Slowly, Watson sensed Holmes hand reaching down into his pocket. He heard the soft clink of metal, the sudden hitch in Holmes' breathing, the undeniable sound of a gun being cocked in the darkness. The next kiss, soft as a song, was against his temple, and the steel of the gun was surprisingly warm, just like the gush of his blood would be against Holmes.
Watson could see it clearly: it would splash on his chest and his face and he'd be scrubbing it out of his hair later. He'd scrub himself like a madman for weeks on end after this, and Watson wished he could communicate somehow that there was no reason to do so, that he understood.
Watson wanted to be thinking about Holmes, about his friend's courage and the sacrifice he was about to make, for wouldn't that be what was good and proper in this moment, but instead his thoughts wandered. He thought about the retreat, the soldiers, the trust in their eyes as they looked up at him, their doctor, the one who was supposed to save them. He thought about the grip of his commanders hands on his shoulders, the sting of the slap across his face, the insistence that if it wasn't a quick bullet through the brain it would be slow torture in the hands of the enemy. He remembered the ringing in his ears, each shot like an explosion as he moved slowly along the line, remembered the way he washed obsessively at the next camp until he'd finally realized it would never be enough, that he'd live with their blood on his hands and face for the rest of his life, that it would be there on the judgement day, either to finally be wiped clean or be the evidence to damn him.
His heart stopped beating for a moment, like a cold hand had gripped it before letting go; the judgement day had come. The time for his reckoning was here. Still, he couldn't quite muster a strong reaction. He'd known this was going to be his outcome. It was a comfort, really, that it was happening this way.
He took comfort, too, in the fact that Holmes was stronger than he was. Of course he was: he always had been. He had no commander, no orders, but he still had the strength to do what he needed to. Watson hoped he'd be stronger afterwards, too.
The thought of it wasn't even frightening; he knew he was, as promised, safe and at peace with Holmes. He relaxed and waited for it to come, heard the repressed sobs Holmes was trying to keep in.
"It is well," he whispered through the darkness, hoping to reassure Holmes "There is no one I would prefer to show me mercy than the friend who loves me best. You say I have been loyal to you, so show me loyalty now." He didn't know how coherent his words were; he hoped Holmes would understand, would know it was alright.
Holmes was shaking slightly, but the gun was steady. It seemed like he was repressing his fear or rallying his courage or both.
There was a long moment of silence. Watson didn't move, kept his eyes closed, thought about the blood on his face from what was likely the same gun Holmes now gripped. It felt almost fitting, to die like this, and he was not afraid.
Finally, a small sob escaped Holmes' throat, and the gun dropped away, another click disarming it. "I'm sorry," Holmes whispered. "I'm sorry, John." He gripped him tightly, dropped his head down so his lips were near Watson's ear. "You'll have to wait a little longer," he whispered. I'm sorry, my friend, but there's only one left. I have been separated from you too much lately, and I will not send you if I cannot follow after."
Watson didn't quite know what that meant, but he knew he trusted him, knew there was nothing to forgive. He tried to tell him so, tried to say that the comfort he'd given him here at the end was as great a show of love and loyalty as he'd ever wish for, but his voice failed him, so he forgave him in his heart and hoped, somehow, he'd know.