So I'm a BIG fan of the show and of the couple. The idea for this is based lightly on an idea I had had in my head for a while now that only blew up when my friend seemed to get the same one in some ways for our role play. So this is lightly based on that role play (though, it hasn't gotten this far yet) and even more so off that idea. This is during the relationship of Sherlock and John. And yes. They have Gladstone. Gotta love a bulldog pup.
I OWN NOTHING.
Sherlock, John, and Moriarty belong to BBC and Gladstone belongs to Doyle.
There were no other words to put it. It was a winter night (or was it morning?) in London. It was expected. Even as he breathed, he could see his own breath becoming a cloud and bouncing against the floor that his face was pressed against.
He should be moving, trying to get at least a little heat in him. No. What he should be doing was getting out of this place. But he knew he couldn't do that, knew that it was impossible. His legs were useless and laid in odd angles. He could still hear the horrible cracking sounds that had crippled him in pain which had happened in what felt like life times before. It must have only been hours, though. Maybe even a day or two. Time seemed to mean nothing here for him. He couldn't keep track of it even if he wanted to. There was no light, no signs of sun to tell him what time of day it was. He must be underground.
No, it was better that he didn't know how much time had passed. It would only prove what had been told to him over and over again. No one was coming to find him. And if they did, they wouldn't be in time. Even he was starting to think there was no way he could last much longer. His throat screamed painfully for water, even the smallest amount while the rest of his body was screaming in its own pain. And the cold. It didn't help the matter that he was drenched and so was the floor under him. Red blotches all around him, looking of paint if he hadn't known better.
His eyes were burning again, begging for sleep. It left his body wanting the same, begging to drift into the blackness of rest and to leave the pain behind until it woke him later. It seemed like a gift from god, if there was such a thing. But he knew he wouldn't get lucky. It would only be a matter of time when he got another visit. He had learned his mistake of being asleep when it happened last time. He wasn't going to make it again if he had the choice.
So time passed and sleep was fought off the best he possibly could. But in the end he couldn't keep doing it. His body needed sleep. And part of him almost hoped that when he did fall asleep, maybe he wouldn't wake up. The soldier in him had fully given up by now. Part of him was already dead.
Things around him were going dark as his heavy eyelids won the struggling battle for sleep when the sound of heavy feet could distantly be heard. Let him do what he wanted to him. He didn't care anymore. He was going to sleep, to escape from the pain that was plaguing him. The fact he was soon able to make out the steady beat of more then one set of footsteps above him on the floor above didn't come much of a surprise to him. Moriarty didn't like doing all the dirt work himself, hated to have blood on his own hands. But he was the one that broke the ex-soldier in the end. For John Watson was nothing more then a play toy to him. He was something that could be thrown away, though would break apart Sherlock Holmes at the same time.
For that was all this was. Jim Moriarty wanted to break apart Sherlock in every way possible, to teach the consulting detective a lesson now that he had a weakness. John wasn't sure when all of this had started. They hadn't been working on case, not that he had known of anyways. And yet they were both sucked into this that god damn night.
"John! This is important! There's something in there that might end up helping us find a new case!" Spoken like a true spoiled child as Sherlock turned his head and gray-blue eyes to John, a plea on his face. Really, the detective hadn't seen the problem in this favor. Far from understanding why John was being stubborn on the matter. But John had good reason for it. It was technically the next day by now. And the chances of John actually finding yesterdays paper was little to none at this point. None close by anyways.
"What happened to the one I got you earlier today!" It wasn't a question, it was a statement. A very annoyed statement. He had been planning to go to sleep after he had finished the tea he was currently sipping on. Even Gladstone was looking back at Sherlock with annoyance at the idea of the source of his warmth leaving him. Though, the idea of being left alone with a bored Sherlock wasn't on the top of the dog's list of things to do either.
"Stop giving me that disapproving wife look! And same goes for your dog-" "Our-" "Yes, fine. Just tell him to stop giving me that look! He's judging me!" Why Sherlock was thinking that Gladstone was judging him wasn't even clear in John's head. Though, the dog most likely knew what happened to the paper, which John was still waiting to hear about. He rolled his eyes at the look on Sherlock's face and how the other's milky white features burned from the excited tone in his voice and glare he was sending the dog that was laying on John's lap. Though. The glare wasn't new. He had been giving it to Gladstone all night. Most likely for the fact John decided to sit in his chair rather then somehow finding a place on the couch that the detective was sprawled out on and that Gladstone jumped up right as Sherlock was about to start complaining on the matter, just to 'spite him', as the other had put it.
"The paper, Sherlock?" The detective looked back at John for a moment, an eyebrow raised as if he was trying to remember what exactly they had been talking about as his eyes flashed and met John's dark orbs. "Right. Well, I was trying to cook breakfast-" "Dear lord, that was that burnt smell? Sherlock, how many times-" "You weren't around! You were out walking that beast and I was hungry! I simply got distracted by reading the paper and it just happened to be a bit too close to the flame that had formed. Lestrade is in a mood and told me to read the paper if I wanted information. Which is stupid because the paper will be a horrible lie on the matter." Through the whole story, it was this part that made Sherlock's face scrunch up with disgust. To John, however, everything suddenly made sense of why the kitchen was in such a state when he had gotten back. Everything had been soaked yet and there had been black ashes laying in disarray in the kitchen. And of course Sherlock had been in the sitting room watching the news with a bored look on his face. John had simply learned not to ask questions so early in the morning.
John let his head rest in his hands, plenty of words in mind in which he would love to spat out at Sherlock, but instead he just let out a tired sigh. "Fine. Just don't burn the place down while I'm gone this time," he grumbled, of course adding the sarcasm in to it all the same. He moved and placed Gladstone onto the chair while he stood, which only left the dog giving him an upset look and a small whimper. John simply gave him a small pat before crossing the room and grabbing his coat. Maybe it was the fact that John had agreed, but Sherlock had sat up in shock, an eyebrow raised at the matter before he pushed himself to his feet and walked over to John.
"We'll go to bed after." John didn't have a chance to really give another snappy remark before Sherlock's lips had captured his own. As soon as he felt them against his own and the shock of the matter had dripped away, John's anger simply melted away. Damn Sherlock. He should never have told the other the power he had over him with such kisses. And of course, it was the one thing that Sherlock had decided to listen to him about too. When he had been freed from the kiss (though, he had been quite enjoying it in all truth), there was no heated anger left within him. He simply let out a small sigh and nodded. "Fine. But your sleeping on the side that's by the edge tonight. I don't want to wake up on the floor again." Even if John completely meant it, there was a smile on his face that was reflected lightly on Sherlock's face slightly awkwardly. But it was still beautiful all the same.
And John left it at that, a smile on his face as he made his way down the stairs. The sounds of the wood under his footsteps creaking in the late hour had some how left their impression on him as he pulled his jacket close to him against the cold he knew he'd soon be feeling outside compared the warmth he had been sharing with Gladstone only moments before. It seemed to echo in the darkness and seemed far louder then it should be.
Why hadn't he noticed this before? Something was different with the footsteps that seemed to echoed all around John and yet missed him altogether. They were more frantic then they should be. Looking for something or someone. Not only that, but he was sure, even if it was only whispers to him, that he was hearing voices with them. They were calling out. But they were far too quiet for him to really hear of what. Even if he knew, why should he care? And yet he did. Though the chances that they were looking for him were small, he hoped whatever they were looking for was found all the same.
Well, he had some how done it. John found a bloody paper. Right before the paper boy replaced the old ones with that days paper, John had rushed in and grabbed one. He just hoped Sherlock still needed it, not having had him run about town in this cold to find it for nothing. But he couldn't keep mad. He wanted nothing more then to get back to the flat and to crawl into bed and to be close to Sherlock again. That and he was exhausted.
It could have been that fact that he didn't notice it, didn't notice black car slow behind him and stop. John hadn't even heard it. His mind was in a haze of what he wanted more then anything at that moment. He didn't hear the door open, didn't hear the footsteps behind him. He hugged his coat to him once more, the paper tucked under his arm messily.
It was the clicking sound and the sharp pain behind his head that finally made John take notice of what was actually happening. His heart froze roughly and so did his feet. He didn't move, didn't even breath. "Look, I don't have any money. I'm piss broke." Of course being mugged was the first thing that came to his mind. What else would be happening on the streets of London. Even more so at this time at night. But the person behind him just gave a snorting laugh.
"Oh please. I know you don't have a cent to your name Johnny. No, no. I'm not mugging you. Like I would need the money. No. What I need is you Doctor John Watson."
"John! JOHN! Answer me John!"
The voice was so sarcastic and bored sounding. A younger male. Maybe John would have a chance against him if he didn't have a gun to his head. But the voice itself, it was like nothing he had ever heard. It was so cold, colder then the night around him. It sounded like he would kill John right then and there if he could. It was defiantly not one John knew. He had never heard it before in his life. And yet it seemed the other knew him, almost like he was someone John had known his whole life.
He knew that voice. Sherlock? No, there was no way it real. It had to be his mind playing tricks on him, his mind finally caving after no sleep or water for so long. It was just something his mind had created to comfort him. It wasn't like John minded. It was nice to hear it again, to hold onto it while he wasted away to nothing.
But were the footsteps in his head as well? They were still scattered, moving this way and that, but there was one set close to him at last. Slowly his eyes opened a crack, unable to open them anymore then that. Even in the dark he was able to see foot as they came into the room. No this really couldn't just be in his head. The feet had stopped, frozen before he watched them move toward him in a rush. Who was it? His heart raced, expecting to feel a kick to his chest or head, his eyes even closing almost as if he could feel the pain already. But there was a small bit of heat that slowly drifted toward him. A shaking hand touched his face lightly, drawing his eyes open once more.
Sherlock? He found him. He actually found him. His eyes and face stung horribly. It was only as he tasted the salty liquid on his lips that he knew he was crying, taking away the little water that was still in his body. Sherlock found him. And he was swallowed up by darkness, passing out as he felt water dripping from above him, falling like rain but tasting like salt.