Chapter Text
On the whole, Sherlock reflected as the door shut [quietly, carefully, definitely NOT a slam] behind John Watson, it hadn’t been a bad innings. He honestly hadn’t expected it to last even this long.
The room was deafeningly silent after John left it. It pressed against his eardrums, just a little too firmly for comfort. But he was used to that. It was just going to go on for a lot longer than he had become accustomed to. Of course, John would come back presently; he’d be blushing and defensive and probably wouldn’t look Sherlock in the eye when he told him that he couldn’t, in all conscience, come back to London with him.
Or perhaps, it would be more insidious. John would come back, angry and shaken; outraged that Mary had had the nerve to ask him to come back. To help raise her child. He’d cautiously lay a hand on Sherlock’s arm, gauging his reaction, before pulling him into a hug. And Sherlock would let him, because Sherlock wasn’t going to be able to stop himself cherishing the last few times this happened. He’d keep on counting each final touch, each press of John’s lips. There were a finite number left, after all.
But the idea would have been planted; John would start thinking about it over the next days and weeks. He’d drift off, into thoughts of a cheerful, slightly chaotic family home. Carrying a small, loud, demanding creature in one of those ridiculous carriers; pushing a pram round Tesco.
John would think about being loved. John would think about being loved in an uncomplicated, straightforward way. He’d think about being loved by someone who didn’t boss him around or confuse him or infuriate him.
Someone who could put it into words.
And of course, he’d start off thinking that he could have both. That he could keep Sherlock, albeit in a reduced capacity. They’d still see each other, be with each other on weekends. The thin end of the wedge.
[Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. This place is a death-trap. It makes sense for me to find my own place; she’ll come come stay with me there. I’ll be back on Friday, don’t worry.]
[Sorry, love. She’s ill. She’s got a school project. We’re going on holiday. What, no you’d hate it! You’d be bored out of your mind. I’ll be back before you know it. You’ve got that case on, haven’t you?]
[Look, it was just stupid paying the rent on that place. There’s loads of room at the old house, Mary’s still got it. Look, don’t be daft. Of course we’re not-]
[Oh, Sherlock – we both knew this was coming. Let’s not make it any harder than it has to be. I think we both knew, deep down, that it was never going to work long-term. She needs me. I’ll miss you, of course I will. Look, Crouch End isn’t the moon; we can still see each other. I want us to be-]
And that, Sherlock reflected as he pulled his blanket around himself tightly, would be that.
The worst part of it, though, was that John hadn’t known it himself.
John, who rolled over in bed and stole the covers and smiled at Sherlock with his hair all mussed and his face creased with sleep and who made Sherlock’s heart clench in a wholly unprecedented, slightly terrifying fashion. John who touched Sherlock with his small, square, deft, beautiful hands and murmured stupidly sentimental words into the back of his neck when he thought Sherlock was asleep. John, who loved his gun just a little bit too much. John who carefully pushed back the dark things inside his head, who presented such a fascinatingly unassuming countenance to the world. Hidden behind kind smiles and offers of help and the scent of soft wool was the man who chose to immerse himself in a world of murder and felony; a man who could sleep soundly after taking a life. John, a beautiful, mad, dangerous, kind, brave, menacing man.
Three months. It more than he deserved, really. Sherlock had known this was coming, of course he did. He was a genius, after all. He hadn’t entirely anticipated the physical reaction that accompanied the clamour in his head and the hollow feeling in his chest. The hurt was more than mental; his head ached with the knowledge that John was ebbing away from him at this very minute. John was looking into Mary’s face by now, and wheels were beginning to turn. His doctor was gradually being swept away.
[Could kill her, I suppose. It’s supposed to get easier, each time one does it. Mycroft would probably arrange it, if I could bring myself to ask nicely. Risky though. Could end up tied into taking the parental unit to the greatest horrors of the West End every month until doomsday. Still no guarantee that John would stay. Don’t think he’d like it.]
[Slight concern that I’d enjoy killing her a little too much. Bit not good, I suspect.]
The ache in his skull was growing more acute; his stomach roiling. Chest pain, although the latter on closer inspection was more than likely psychosomatic.
[Shouldn’t have thrown the cup, really. Why did I do that? It’s possible that I occasionally give in to my very slight penchant for the melodramatic, but that was a new one. Never had my heart broken before, though. Possibly it’s a common reaction.]
[Stupid, misleading phrase. It’s still functioning perfectly efficiently. I can feel it, pumping away tediously. Filling, emptying, refilling. Dull. Anatomy has no opinion on such matters. The only reasons my heart has been interfered with have been purely due to external forces. Giddily high amounts of cocaine. Bullet wounds. John Watson has had no effect on my heart.]
[Cold in here. Too much effort to light the fire. ]
[Oh god, what one wouldn’t give for the delicious slide of a needle into the crook of an elbow round about now. Wouldn’t have to be much. Just a taste. Would take the edge off wonderfully. He’d never know. He never noticed all those other times.]
[Not for a long time now, though. I did insist on making that stupid promise. Does it still count? Might not. John would probably think it does, though.] [Maybe I should find out.]
[No.] [Not yet, anyway.]
[God, crying. It’s utterly revolting. Thank goodness I can usually control it. Wasn’t always able to. Did quite a lot of it on my last day in this room, the day after the-]
[STOP.]
[Blanket’s quite absorbent. Useful.][Lambswool, hand-woven. Vegetable-based dye; deep red probably derived from lichen. Pattern of wear suggests age of approximately forty-three years. Scent of lanolin. Wood-smoke. Dove brand soap. John Watson’s skin.]
[STOP!]
Sherlock forced himself to look out of the window. The small figure in the grey coat had moved from her spot outside the kitchen door, and was now dusting the snow off a low wall before sitting down on it. It was like watching a scene on film. No matter how much he willed things to go otherwise, he couldn’t stop the inevitable chain of events. It was predetermined. In a moment, John would open the door of the kitchen and step outside; wrong-footed and uncomfortable. She was clever; she’d diffuse the tension before long. She knew which buttons to press. Mary was, he supposed, a genius in some respects.
She knew how to play this game.
Sherlock didn’t even really know how to read the instructions.
[No. Can’t watch it. Masochism has never been my speciality.]
With an effort, he swung his legs off the worn window-seat, pressing the soles of his bare feet on the dark wooden floor for a long moment. With an even greater effort he focussed on the difference of temperature; the heat of his skin against the cold, time roughened wood.
[Floor: approximately 10.3 degrees Celsius. Feet: 39.2, give or take. Apallingly imprecise, this morning.]
[Strange. Not just tears on my face; sweat too. Didn’t notice. Might be ill? John would have to come and tend to me. Like when he does that, though I usually pretend otherwise. The crease between his eyebrows gets a fraction more pronounced. The feeling of his palm against my forehead. His fingers sliding along my jaw, pressing gently around my ears; checking my lymph glands. Might put off the inevitable, just a little longer.] [What was I just saying about masochism?]
[Head really does ache quite a lot now. Vasodilation of cranial blood vessels becoming apparent. Should have realised earlier. Sentiment has become a stupidly potent distraction lately.]
He was unprepared for the weakness in his legs as he got to his feet, grabbing for the heavy curtain as he staggered. It was too late. After a brief and ridiculous struggle with the drapes, he collapsed on the floor; the blanket trailing messily over his traitorous, wobbling legs.
[Perfect. Just bloody perfect.]
[Might stay down here for a while, actually. Awfully long way to the bed.]
The ache persisted, spreading slowly along the back of his head. Sherlock huddled fitfully in his blanket, and closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at the shards of china that still littered the floor.
[Shouldn’t have done that, really. Quite a nice cup. Hated the look on his face.]
[Tea not quite as good as usual, though. Queen Anne loose leaf; brewed for approximately four minutes. Milk added before the tea (vulgar). One and a half teaspoons of raw cane sugar…]
[Oh, bugger.]
***
He wasn’t entirely surely how much time had passed before the bedroom door opened, swift and quiet. He knew it wasn’t going to be John who entered the room next, not when it had finally [stupid, stupid, how did it take you so bloody long to realise?!] become clear what had happened. He had heard the footsteps as they advanced along the corridor outside; felt the minute vibrations of the wood beneath his cheek. [Mmm. Two… no, three. Men. She’s… she’s still with John. John. John! What’s happening to John?]
“Good. He is unconscious already.” [Toulouse. No, wait…Marseilles accent? Interesting.]
“Not… quite.” he cracked an eye open, and stared up at the man as imperiously as he could manage.
After all, Sherlock mused a few hours later, when one is lying on the floor, wearing half-unbuttoned pajamas and sporting a considerable amount of saliva sliding from the corner of one’s mouth; there is a limit to the amount of gravitas a body can muster. He got a rather better view of the man when he went down on one knee next to his head. The boot that came to rest within his range of vision was well-made and sturdy, still lightly dusted with traces of snow. His soon-to-be captor smiled genially, bending down so that Sherlock could look into his face without too much difficulty. Through the haze, Sherlock observed that he was a former long-distance truck driver, the youngest of three brothers. Dyed blonde hair and a rather ruddy complexion, around thirty-seven years old. The scars on his hands suggested quite a successful history of bare-knuckle fighting and at least four years in prison.
“Mister Holmes. Nice to meet you.” [definitely Marseilles.]
“Hnngh.” With an effort, Sherlock swallowed and attempted to push himself up on hands and knees. This failed abysmally, and the man looked at him with concern as he crashed painfully back to the floor.
“No, no, Mister Holmes. Don’t exert yourself. Save your strength. We’ll help you up.”
As he was pulled carefully to his feet, Sherlock took in the other two men who were quietly waiting. One stood just inside one of the double doors, taking a sidelong glance down the hallway. He was a pale, bald, bland faced man dressed all in dark grey; biceps bulging hugely even through his thick jacket. His expressionless face was dappled with a considerable amount adult acne. Clear signs of steroid abuse.
The other man was considerably younger, with a narrow foxy face and a frankly ludicrous tattoo of a wolf on the side of his neck. He wore a black knitted hat over short, dingy brown hair and was leaning against the back of the old leather sofa. He was looking at Sherlock with an almost offensive amount of interest as he ran the tip of a large hunting knife slowly under his fingernails, carefully cleaning the grime from beneath them.
[No signs of violence on any of their persons. That idiot is clearly itching to punch someone, and hasn’t had the chance yet. They can’t have encountered anyone since entering the house. Thank god. Violet should be reasonable in an altercation but Singh is nothing but a liability. Am personally of limited use at the moment. Christ, my head hurts. John is clearly being kept out of the way. Probably for the best, unless he could join forces with Vi. Unlikely though, given the timeframe.]
“Who… who sent you? You… don’t work for her.”
Bleach-blonde snorted quietly, and shook his head. He didn’t let go of Sherlock’s arm, keeping him in place and solicitously preventing him from falling over. “No, Mister Holmes. A temporary arrangement. Ana’s been very helpful, though.”
The tattooed youth with the knife raised an incredulous eyebrow, and spat messily on the rug. He muttered something almost inaudible, which his cohorts ignored. In his cursed, muddled state Sherlock was unable to put together a precise translation, but gathered that he found the idea of answering to a female rather laughable. What caused Sherlock a sudden crackle of unease, however, was that he was almost sure the man spoke in Armenian.
[Pull yourself together. There are over three million Armenians in the world. Harman’s dead. You saw pictures of his corpse. He was very, very dead, if you care to recall? Mind working terrifyingly slowly. Pay attention]
“Y’re not…man in charge…”
“Well, Mister Holmes, I am certainly am for the time being,” Bleach-blonde replied, patting him on the arm. His voice was disconcertingly soft, his manner solicitous. He was positively likeable until one looked into his eyes, which were steely, flat and utterly cold. “Come along. Time to go.”
“Wh-?”
“All in good time, my friend.” Bleach-blonde tightened his grip. Sherlock made a token attempt to resist, but his efforts were uncoordinated and feeble. The man tutted in a good-natured way, as if Sherlock were a slightly ill-behaved pet.
Sherlock glared at him. “Too- too col…”
“It is time to go.” Biceps said insistently, glancing back around from the doorway. [German? Alsatian? Positive UN of henchmen…] “Please, let’s get him out of here.”
Bleach-blonde nodded in agreement, although there was a flash of irritation at the authoritative tone. His grip on Sherlock’s bicep tightened, not deliberately painful but on the edge of it. Sherlock sagged on his left side, long past the point where he could stand unaided. He waved a hand vaguely at the discarded clothing on the ottoman at the end of the bed. If he was being kidnapped, he might as well be suitably attired. “Clothes. Coat-“
“Here.” Biceps said shortly, grabbing a sweater at random and shoving it at Sherlock. It was John’s, the teal green sweater that Violet had knitted. Sherlock’s hand latched onto it feebly, and he clutched it to his chest with all the strength he could muster.
[Cashmere and merino wool. Antique horn buttons. She never knitted me a jumper. John’s fingers, sticky with gingerbread, combing through his hair. John. John.
Where is John? He’s with her, he’s not safe.]
[Can’t begin to take them on in this state. ‘Least three guns. Knife. Phone? Where is it? Not here. Damn. Shout? Or not shout? Can I shout? Can’t. Bad idea. Not good. Violet. Patrick. Shh… John. John. John.]
The room was growing steadily darker as he was bundled towards the doors, the edges of his vision becoming distressingly blurred. Distantly, Sherlock could feel his treacherous body listing, until he was bent at almost a right angle from the waist, drooping like a badly stuffed rag doll. Bleach-blonde muttered an instruction to Biceps, who wordlessly hauled him up into his arms; supporting his full weight as easily as if he were a small child.
[Ghastly. His skin. Can smell it. Sebum and bacon and old sweat and petrol and…. Hand on back of my neck. No. NO! John. Only John’s hand is allowed there. Bastard grinning at my face. Hand on mouth oh vile John kissed my mouth six hours forty three minutes ago and now these disgusting fingers touching it sick feel so- ]
Once outside the bedroom all three men fell silent, their footsteps on the stone floors measured and careful. The younger tattooed man led the way, something in his gait suggesting both nerves and cockiness. He twirled his hunting knife deftly between the fingers of his right hand and repeatedly glanced in all directions, despite Sherlock’s bedroom being located at the furthest end of the corridor. Sherlock watched him through the one eye he could still manage to keep open, taking in the practiced spin of the knife in his hand. [New knife. Wants to use it. Violet. Patrick. Don’t hear us. Don’t hear us. Get me out. No sound. Going quietly, see…?]
His eye slid closed under the crushing weight of sedation, and it was several seconds before Sherlock could muster the strength to open it once more. [What is this?
Awful. Awful. Benzodiazepine base? Not the nice kind though.
C16H14ClN3O? Not just that though. Something else too. C13H16ClNO? Mmm.. possible. Would be interesting to observe own symptoms. Too foggy now.]
The footsteps of the man carrying him jolted his bones, reverberating sickeningly through his frame. He could feel saliva oozing freely from the corner of his mouth, and it was gratifying in a small way that he was probably getting it all over Biceps’ horrible fingers and wrist. He battled against the growing fog that was filling his mind, but his thoughts were becoming more and more disordered. They were flying out of their correct positions and scattering, dancing out of reach or disappearing through the cracks or reassembling in a way that made no sense at all. Having his eyes closed seemed to be hastening the descent into chaos, and with a tremendous wrench he forced himself to open his left eye once more.
Wolf tattoo was now at the head of the staircase, waiting impatiently for his colleagues to catch up. He was mouthing something, making a gesture that was an unmistakable entreaty to speed up. Bleach blonde was overtaking Sherlock and Biceps and was now looking clearly annoyed at the presumption but he said nothing. [Hmm. Man in charge? For now. How long…]
He was too busy watching the silent conversation between Bleach blonde and the sulky looking Wolf Tattoo to notice the door casually swinging open to their right. It only entered his consciousness when he felt Biceps stop dead. The mans hands tightened before he rapidly stepped backwards, out of the line of sight available from the doorframe. Sherlock’s eye widened, feebly grabbing at his captor’s arm in a weak struggle. [No. No-]
The heavy wooden door was moving again, a swift attempt to push it shut from the inside.
“Leave him!” Bleach blonde hissed. “Bon sang Narek-!”
But Wolf Tattoo was already darting forwards, a filthy little grin on his narrow face. His left arm thumped forwards, smashing the door wide open once more. His right was swinging up from his side, the knife sweeping in a wide arc through the air.
“Stop. Now.” Biceps ordered him sharply, as Sherlock swung his legs feebly, writhing in a vain attempt to get free. The thick arms tightened further around him, fingers digging warningly into the flesh of his thigh, hard enough to bruise through the soft fabric of his pajamas. Sherlock dimly registered his flesh crawling at the touch, but his attention was riveted on Patrick’s bedroom door. His trussed hands clutched convulsively at the sweater he was still holding against his chest, listening feverishly.
Bleach-blonde was standing at the threshold of the bedroom, staring in irritation at whatever was going on. He reached around under the hem of his unzipped jacket, and took hold of the gun tucked into the back of his trousers. “Narek. Come!”
The sound of shattering glass, and a heavy thump. Narek emerged from the room, glaring at his boss.
“We should finish him!” he insisted angrily, squaring up to Bleach-blonde.
“No time.” Bleach-blonde hissed, waving him on with the barrel of his gun. “You can have some fun with this one later. Get going!”
With a poor grace, Narek started walking again; glancing moodily down the staircase before beginning his descent into the great hall below. Sherlock exhaled heavily, feeling weak with relief; the thump must have been Patrick hitting the floor after being knocked out. The blade that Narek was still carrying had caught the light from a nearby window, sharp and blessedly clean. He craned his head as they passed the doorway, catching sight of Patrick stirring slowly on the carpet, surrounded by the remains of a broken lamp. Sherlock couldn’t see his face from this angle, but spied Patrick’s feet sliding along the floor, his body turning as he began to struggle to his feet.
[No! Idiot. Stay down. Down!] Sherlock watched in fury as Patrick pushed himself up off the floor. The young man was panting as he pushed his tangled hair out of his face; and his eyes widened as he caught sight of Sherlock being carelessly carried by the huge man. [Stop it! Stopitstopitstop-]
Patrick’s hand had closed around a heavy silver candlestick on a nearby low table. He darted forwards, swinging it high above his head. His face was almost unrecognisable, furious, eyes narrowed as he threw himself towards the man carrying Sherlock.
Biceps stopped suddenly, turning his head at the noise of Patrick’s footsteps. In a split second, he had dropped Sherlock to the floor and had reached for his own weapon; concealed in a holster under his left arm. He advanced into the room without a word, leaving Sherlock gasping on the stone floor in pain and horror. He only dimly heard the gunshot, but the noise seemed to echo around his head endlessly, rolling and reverberating like a dropped coin. [No. No. NO.]
Biceps emerged once more, his face expressionless. He hauled Sherlock up into his arms once more, before draping him carelessly over one muscular shoulder. Sherlock’s breath was hitching in his chest, dark spots swimming in and out of his vision. [Patrick. Twenty-seven. Loves… loved my brother. No. Gone.]
Somewhere on the descent into the main hall, he finally drifted away. He was almost grateful.