WARNING this work will contain the following: Johnlock, Sheriarty, violence, blood, torture, abuse, mental anguish and more.

This chapter contains none of the above


Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, arms crossed behind him and hands clenched as he gazed with ice at the screen. Moriarty glowered back at him with those empty brown eyes, only filled with flame. That smug smile tore at him and Sherlock had to swallow again.

Mycroft stood next to the screen, leaning on his umbrella, his thumb rubbing on the tip of the curve in slow and nervous circles. The older Holmes brother had narrowed his eyes slightly and a disappointed smirk crossed his face as he addressed his younger brother. "Well then? I thought you said he shot himself."

Sherlock looked to the ground, his eyes large like he was searching for something. "He did. I heard the gunshot. He fell on the ground and was bleeding!" The detective started pacing back and forth and muttering incoherently to himself.

"And you didn't check for a pulse?"

The detective immediately shot his head to look up at Mycroft with a glare. "He shot himself in the head!"

Mycroft snorted and rolled his eyes, switching which foot he was leaning on, casually, but Sherlock could tell there was something else...

John, who had stood to the side of Sherlock looked up and smacked his lips nervously. "He's right. There is no way he could have known. Besides," he looked briefly to Sherlock as if for support and then blazingly at Mycroft, "It's not like your people checked either."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "That's preposterous."

"But obviously true, Mycroft," Sherlock said pointedly with a touch of venom in his voice.

John cocked his head slightly to the side. "Really? Preposterous? Because either your people did a horrific job," The doctor clenched his hand and looked at the floor, then to the door suspiciously.

Mycroft glared. "Or what?"

John sighed and gazed back up at the brother, straightened his jacket and stiffened his neck. "Or you knew about this the whole time."

Mycroft tilted his nose up and looked down at John, clenching his jaw repeatedly, and then rolling his tongue over his teeth and lips, biting them lightly before finally saying, "Absurd."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, his mouth agape. "You knew! You bastard." And he pointed with an accusing finger, taking deliberate steps towards his brother, and only stopped when John cleared his throat with a very loud and clear purpose.

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes at his passionate brother. "We had our suspicions."

Sherlock bit his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes livid as he pointed again at his brother. "Really? We had our suspicions? And while I was trying to tear down his web, you weren't even sure he was dead? For god's sake!" He turned away and clenched fists of hair in his lithe fingers. The detective dropped to the ground in an almost feral crouch. His hands still in his hair, he placed his head in between his knees and seemed to growl in frustration.

Mycroft looked away from his brother, and was about to address John when he saw the look on the doctor's face. John was a bizarre creature, Mycroft finally concluded at that moment. He always seemed the reasonable one out of the duo. Level headed and practical in impractical situations, an effect of the war he supposed. Of course he didn't suppose, he knew. But at moments like this is when John almost surprised him. Almost. His steadfast loyalty showed itself almost unexpectedly. Again, almost. When he would usually be level-headed, John would become clouded when he perceived Sherlock was threatened. Mycroft smirked to himself. "They should just kiss already and get it over with. Might make Sherlock more reasonable too."

John cocked his head to the side and sighed. "So, what are we going to do?" His eyes locked with Mycroft still, in a threat that could not be perceived as empty.

Sherlock buzzed through Mycroft and John, with palpable determination. "We obviously go out and solve this."

Mycroft deflated and stared down at the ground with a sigh before staring back up and turning towards Sherlock, who was grabbing his coat and scarf off of the door in 221B. "Sherlock, I doubt-"

Sherlock jumped in front of Mycroft, one finger pointing as he stood off-kilter on a single foot, putting on his jacket. "That is your problem Mycroft, you doubt!" He put his scarf on and grabbed John's wrist and pulled him away from Mycroft. John widened his eyes and did an awkward little one foot hop, then falling in step with Sherlock. The doctor looked over his shoulder to see Mycroft leaning on his umbrella, shaking his head and giving a stiff little wave.

Mrs. Hudson was at the foot of the stairs, her thin little arms wrapped around her and trembling like a leaf in the wind. Her voice was even more shaky than usual as she called out, "Sherlock, do be careful."

Mary who had been looking down at her phone quickly looked up, squeezed Mrs. Hudson's shoulder and then followed the boys. John turned around and grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers digging in for just a second before he breathed and relaxed. "You need to stay here, Mary," he said with conviction.

Mary smirked lightly at him. "You can't leave me, I'm pregnant."

Mrs. Hudson shuffled over and put a hand on Mary's shoulder, covering John's hand reassuringly. "I will watch over her. Now you go keep Sherlock safe."

Mary stiffened slightly and forced a smile. John frowned, his eyes narrowing in a dangerous way. They nodded to each other, communicating silently and stiffly. Mrs. Hudson wrapped her arm around the pregnant woman, and shot a questioning glance to John, who gave a small shrug and a sad frown that spoke volumes. The landlady, understanding, frowned and nodded.

John turned on his heel and went outside to find Sherlock already climbing in a cab. The doctor sprinted quickly and slipped inside before Sherlock closed the door. Of Course, his shirttails got caught, so he re-opened and closed the door. After brushing off for a second, he turned to his companion, and asked, "So? Where to?"

Sherlock leaned forward to the cabby slightly and said, "The BBC Media Centre."

John furrowed his brow. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft knew nothing, but someone in there must know-"

"You don't know that. We never even asked what your brother knew-"

"He obviously didn't know. If there was some inkling he would have told me-"

"We were in there for less than five minutes-"

Sherlock sighed heavily and annoyed, and turned towards John. "Well then, what about the flight?" His motions were over exaggerated comically. John turned towards Sherlock as well.

"He was on the phone getting information."

Sherlock pointed at John and stared at the window. "No, he was comforting officials-"

John looked out the window as well, and when realizing their odd direction leaned forward to the cabby, then stopped. "Sherlock."

"And the reason I know that was because he was gripping the phone tightly-"

"Sherlock, stop."

"And biting his lips-"

"Sherlock, listen to me."

"Which he always does when he is nervous-"

"Sherlock, you incompetent cock, listen to me."

"You know-" And finally, Sherlock did stop, when he saw the familiar hand clench, and when he looked at John's face, he could see the raw fear in his eyes. The detective cocked his head to the side and opened his mouth and puckered in question, then closed it and furrowed his brow. "John, what's wrong?"

The cabby then took a sharp turn down an alleyway, jostling his subjects as the car itself sat on two wheels for a split second. Sherlock braced himself against John and then the cab fell back into place and raced away.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Why didn't you wear a seatbelt? This wouldn't be so awkward then."

The detective and the doctor were in a pile on the floor, locked together when the cab fell back into place after the sharp turn. The two struggled together and tried to get up, but the cabby threw a heavy blanket over them casually, making the struggle even more difficult. "Now now, be a little discrete, won't you?" And that is when it clicked for Sherlock, and the wave of fear came over him.

He could taste it in the air. Fear was a metallic, heavy taste that suffocated the lungs and coated them in adrenaline. The cabby laughed, and repositioned his hands on the wheel at ten and two and floored it. He was so close to the prize, the destination, the solution to this minute problem.

Sherlock panted and looked at John in the dim light. "John, I am so sorry."

The doctor sighed and stared pointedly at Sherlock. "You better be."

Sherlock smiled a little, but then there was another turn, in the opposite direction this time, that unlodged the duo from each other. Sherlock immediately shot up and threw the heavy blanket off. He quickly grabbed for the door, but it was locked.

"Ah, ah, ah Sherly," the cabby said in a lilted voice, "Wouldn't want you to ruin the fuuuun."

The cab jolted again as they flew down the stairs and into the tunnels below the city. Sherlock was whipped against the window and he could feel his head beginning to bleed, but he had to make it through this. Molly had him place pressure on the wound, and talked to him through the haze and the ringing.

He realized the car was still moving, but the motion was in a straight line at a fair speed along concrete (too smooth to be asphalt). There was an eerie silence in the tunnels as the fluorescent light flickered in a steady pattern that was hypnotizing to the stunned detective. Sherlock could hear the car running now, through the ringing, and when the ringing had dulled significantly, he heard the cock of a pistol.

The cabby laughed. "Johnny boy, you are just too cute. You wouldn't shoot me." Sherlock's stomach turned and he forced back a gag. The fear began taking over again. And nothing in his palace could help him with this, this stomach churning sickness induced by a sickly sweet voice with tones of up and down that just-

"How do you know I won't?" John's voice brought him back to Earth, and he felt immediately relaxed. The weight wasn't gone, but he could breathe again.

The cabby laughed and slowed down to a stop. "Because you don't know what's out there. And besides," He turned, and with those empty, burning eyes, bore into the detective, "Guns don't hurt me, right Sherlock?"

John swore, loudly, and the cabby rolled his eyes. "Shut up, won't you?" He took a gun out of his pocket and shot John.

Sherlock screamed, his world slowing down as the adrenaline pumped through his veins and the haze from the wound combined into a dizzying mixture. He shouted out his friend's name, and lunged at his falling body. But John moved, and made what was an odd gesture Sherlock couldn't understand in the haze.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Sherlock." There was another shot, and the detective felt a prick in his shoulder. It wasn't a bullet, but a tranquilizer. He fell onto the doctor with a gasp. The two were leaning against the door on top of one another, and the door just seemed to open of its own accord as the duo fell out of the car. Sherlock rolled onto his back with an aching sigh, the dart pressing farther into him.

As he looked up, the cabby, stood above them, clicking his tongue. "Besides, where would be the fun in killing him?"

The color drained from the world as Sherlock closed his aching eyes reluctantly.

Moriarty smirked as he stood above the two of them. "Nighty night, boys."

But John hadn't slipped yet into the relaxing grip of unconsciousness. He struggled against the weight in his arms, but managed to point the gun up at the criminal, who looked and laughed, stomping his feet furiously as he bent over double. John growled and even screamed as he tried to pull the trigger, but Moriarty just laughed even more. John felt the light slipping and he knew he had to do it, but as soon as his finger twitched, Moriarty kicked his wrist. There was the sound of grinding bones and flesh. The gun fell out of his hand, and the villain kicked it away.

The last thing he heard and saw before he slipped away was Moriarty, crouching above him with his feet on either side of his head, face inches from him. John could smell his aftershave, light with a deeply hidden musk. It made him sick. Moriarty smiled a toothy grin and whispered, "Don't worry doctor, it was just a sprain." Now all the color drained from the world as John closed his aching eyes.


AN: Please read and review! I would love it. If this chapter doesn't seem to be very good, tell me why! I need to get back into the swing of writing like this, so any and all criticism is accepted. Shout out to deducingbbcsherlock as I will be using a few of her metas in this work. Thanks for reading!