The last chapter; enjoy my darlings and tell me what you think of it. :D
Now! I must go over pointless GCSE math crap so I can prepare for a little test in A-Level Maths... oh God... can't I just write more Sherlock? (oh I wish! :p)
Hope you've enjoyed this re-write people... I actually enjoyed writing it but now I'm going to officially go and hibernate for a year lol.
LOVE IS TO YOU WHAT AIR IS TO ME... NORMALITY AND A FORMALITY
"An idea is salvation by imagination." - Frank Lloyd Wright
The screams didn't bother Sherlock; they were the by-product of pain and the body's only natural way of expressing its intense discomfort at such overwhelming agony. The taunts didn't bother Sherlock; they were the psychological torture that went hand-in-hand with the physical pain. What did bother Sherlock was who was screaming, who was being taunted, who was being tortured... that's what bothered Sherlock.
He hated it, hated it so so much and he wanted to scream, shout and kick and punch and even cry because he hated it so bloody much! But he could neither talk nor breathe properly because it seemed that his throat had closed up the moment the quiet whimpers which turned into eventual screams had robbed him of such things. He couldn't move for the blasted wire around his wrists and ankles; cutting and ripping and bleeding. In his mind though he was hurting them back; every hit, every cut, every drop of blood or tear was done unto them and it was enough to keep his mind sane. As sane as it could be for him at least.
But his mind, the world of logic that he had so often taken refuge in, couldn't stop him from wanting to call out his name, shout and beg for him, because he was human and he felt and he felt so much for him; too much he feared at times because he never knew who was going to use that against him. But he didn't care right now, oh like heck did he care about anyone and everyone else, he mattered to Sherlock; only him, no-one else. Just him. As always.
"All you need to do is say the word..." the inconsequential piece of homo Sapien filth whispered into John's ear, his voice deceptively soft but Sherlock heard him; he heard the maliciousness and the dark intoxication that the... man was experiencing playing with, torturing, his friend, his John... his lover.
But John couldn't focus on much, he couldn't focus on anything really; the pain was too intense, even for him, and somewhere in the back of his mind there was a miniature version of Sherlock, billowing coat-an-all, that was pointing out random little quirks about his interrogator and he felt compelled to inform the interrogator of a myriad of things just because he felt like it. One day he was going to have to stop following everything Sherlock said like it was gospel; including the miniature model in his head.
He blinked slowly, lethargically as the pain slowed him down, and looked up at the detestable little man leaning over him who was staring down at him with a smile that wasn't as natural and nice as the guy wanted it to look. John smiled slowly and deliberately, ignoring the additional pain that flared up in his face; he could just tell there were bruises starting to form and he thought that he had a split-lip judging from the coppery taste in his mouth. He took great pleasure in watching as the interrogator's face morphed into its usual twisted leer when John murmured, because really he just wasn't up to talking loudly because of all the screaming he'd been doing for the last two, or was it three, hours, "I've... got three... go fuck yourself..."
And maybe he really shouldn't listen to himself either because the macho-soldier part of him was all for pissing off the interrogator, but the intelligent-less-than-suicidal-doctor part of him was calling him every name under the sun for being such a fool. In hindsight the fist was something he should have seen coming but hey, he was barely hanging onto consciousness because of the pain he was already experiencing so he had a legit excuse, and he tasted fresh, hot blood in his mouth as his head snapped back with enough force to make him think he had whiplash for a good moment or two.
A hand was in his hair and the interrogator gripped his hair hard and yanked his head up so he had to look at the slimeball. The interrogator's other hand, the one that John had bitten during their first session, came to rest lightly on John's cheek and he just managed to stop himself from flinching as a thumb stroked his cheek lightly, almost absent-mindedly, as the interrogator's eyes betrayed some of what he was feeling; and that miniature model Sherlock in his head was not helping pointing out the dilation of the pupils and the quickening of the slimeball's breathes and other things that he resolutely avoided acknowledging.
The interrogator licked his lips in much the same manner that John had done in Angelo's not long after he'd met Sherlock and it made his stomach, already a twisting mass of lactic acid, turn to solid stone.
"I think I'd much rather..." Mr-Slimeball said quietly, too quietly for Sherlock to hear clearly, "fuck you until you bleed..." and then he laughed; he laughed a dark, malicious laugh that somehow gave John the energy, the incentive, to suddenly yank his head out Mr-Slimeball's grasp in a futile gesture of his continued defiance and stubbornness.
The slimeball stopped laughing and scowled at John darkly and reached out with a violent grip to latch onto John's exposed throat and squeeze hard enough for John's vision to dim, and he would have gone further were it not for the sounds of shouting and the distinctive sound of gunshots from rifles and handguns from nearby. Mr-Slimeball released his grip on John suddenly and, as John coughed painfully, he moved over to the table which he had all of his instruments on. He leaned down at the edge of the table and picked up the black duffel bag he'd brought his equipment in, and began to pack it away; quickly and efficiently as he ignored the continued sounds of violence outside the room.
All too quickly though he was finished and there was only one instrument left out, a single long scalpel-like blade which he held comfortably within his grasp as he moved back over to John and smiled down at him. Sherlock, who up until this point had been both silent and frozen, suddenly seemed to come alive with quite the flare of animated activity. He began to wriggle about and shout loudly, desperately for anyone to hear because they needed help; by Jove did they need it, "HELP! HELP DAMNIT! WE'RE IN HERE! LESTRADE! HELP!"
The interrogator was beside him in a flash, the blade arcing towards him, heading directly for his neck to slice through his jugular and kill him within a minute, but the blade didn't get any further than two centimetres from his neck as the door was thrown open and several armed officers from Scotland Yard burst into the room and one of them immediately took down the interrogator. Sherlock watched, in a sort of morbid fascination that was mixed with intense satisfaction, as the Slimeball's body jerked back as though the strings that held him up were being jiggled with before being cut entirely as he collapsed in an unmoving heap to Sherlock's right.
It took the armed officers a grand total of two minutes to free Sherlock of his restraints and to also free John who was too tired, too in pain, to do much more than groan and wince as his arms were gently jostled by the officers. Sherlock was at John's side in a heartbeat, checking him over with an almost frantic hysteria tainting his every move, every breath and every word from his mouth. It took too much out of John to reassure Sherlock that he was fine and wasn't going to die of internal bleeding and so he passed out, though not before firmly informing Sherlock that he was exhausted and could do with the rest unconsciousness would undoubtedly give him.
The last thing John recalled before the world went dark was the sound of Sherlock's voice arguing with someone who was trying to pry John out of the detective's locked arms; and he kind of liked being in Sherlock's arms because he felt safe in his embrace.
John was unconscious for near-enough three whole days, on a concoction of painkillers and sedatives, until he managed to wake up for longer than five minutes. He blinked and opened his eyes blurrily, only to shut them again as daylight assaulted his senses and it took him a good few minutes before he dared to reopen them and face the world. To his left, cramped and contorted, in the only chair in the private room he seemed to be in was none other than Sherlock Holmes who looked to have been living in the seat; not far from John's side. A strange thought indeed seemed to make its presence known as he realised that a fair portion of the things in the sitting area of Baker Street seemed to be in attendance in the room; apart from the obvious one being Sherlock there was also the skull, Sherlock's violin, his laptop not Sherlock's as per, and a couple stacks of books that he thought he'd seen on the shelves in the sitting room.
Though it must have been a nightmare for the nurses to navigate though John liked it because it made him feel less like a patient and more like someone who was being held against their will; and yeah, John was weird in a whole different way to Sherlock in that regard. He'd never liked being referred to as being a patient, especially since he was a doctor and a soldier so being in one place like a hospital for a prolonged period of time wasn't something he enjoyed; i.e. that meant he was being held against his will in a place of healing where he had no choice but to remain until such point that he could either be released or escape without detection.
He smiled in contentment because he didn't care whether he was a patient or a breathing cadaver since Sherlock was around and looking a little the worse for wear due to sleeping in such an uncomfortable position for at least two nights on the trot. Sighing and taking a careful breath John shifted his attention to the rest of the room which was exactly what you'd expect of a private room in an NHS hospital although the last time he checked London Bridge Hospital wasn't an NHS run hospital; he was pretty sure it was... private...
He pushed himself up slowly in the bed and winced as his ribs informed him that they were bruised and cracked. Looking about purposefully he spied the call button and was about to hit it when the sound of movement to his left drew his attention. Sherlock was yawning and uncurling himself from the chair in a way that just made John hate the man and the natural agility he possessed. He watched as Sherlock rubbed his face and froze, probably sensing something was different about the room. Slowly Sherlock's hand left his face and John's eyes locked with Sherlock's pale blue/grey orbs which shone with so many different things that John was suddenly afraid of what it all meant.
The pair stared at each other for a long time, each one taking in aspects of the other that allowed them to reach certain conclusions; Sherlock stared at John and noticed that the man was tired and worn out, healing slowly but surely from the ordeal he'd been through and he was alive, breathing and he had a pulse, Sherlock had checked it every hour on the hour during the days that John had been unconscious. John stared at Sherlock and saw that the man was tired, exhausted; both physically and emotionally, and looked to be worried, afraid that John was about to disappear. It was then and there that John realised that he had never told Sherlock that he loved him and he thought that he needed to rectify that problem because Sherlock deserved to know; Sherlock deserved to hear John confirm what Sherlock's deductions told him. And John also knew that Sherlock needed John to say the words because he had no prior reference for a relationship that was as serious as there's so John was the teacher in this regard.
Sherlock looked away from John, focusing intently on filling up the empty glass on the bedside table when John spoke, his voice rough and quiet, "I love you Sherlock."
Sherlock's head snapped to the side and his eyes burned into John with such intensity that John felt himself wither but he didn't dare look away because he felt like something important was happening between them and he'd be damned if trust issues and problems with eye-contact would stop this. Sherlock stared, and stared... and kept on staring and John kept staring back until Sherlock finally broke the silence that had descended with a soft but heart-felt whisper of, "I-I l-love you too..."
Within two days John was able to be released from the hospital and Sherlock was ready and waiting for him when he signed the last discharge paper, damn he'd seen more of those since he'd met Sherlock than he had when he'd been an F1. They got a black-hack back to Baker Street, even though there had been a perfectly serviceable unmarked Mercedes waiting patiently for them, and before Sherlock opened the door to 221 he swiftly turned on his heel and stormed over to the same unmarked Mercedes that had followed them all the way from the hospital home. He leant down and tapped on the window, not wanting to bother his time with opening the door; Mycroft's head appeared as the smooth glass descended into the door and Sherlock told him in no uncertain to not try anything with John ever again otherwise he'd ruin his entire life in ways that Mycroft couldn't even imagine.
And Sherlock meant it, dear God did he mean it! Because John was his doctor, his friend, his lover and Mycroft could go off and starting a war on the fucking-moon for all Sherlock cared because John was what he was concerned with; so Mycroft be damned. And people be damned. Everyone be damned because Sherlock had found his salvation and it was named John bloody Watson!