He has come to the conclusion that he is quite possibly- no… definitely, insane.
Yes, there in that shadowy, foreboding little room they left him in, he had finally realized that he had spent either too much or not enough time with Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.
It was all too much, because of the insane and frighteningly thoughts of observation that whizzed inside his little brain. Never had he actually seen so much- Not that he could act on the tauntingly open door, the knife that lay all too out of reach, or the cell phone to his far –too far- right. He, John Watson, the army doctor and soldier, just could not get out of the bindings they had tied around his tired body and connected with the wall with duct tape. From the texture of the ropes, he knew it to be twine. (Who uses twine anymore? He thinks.) It had to be a lot of it by the amount of force that kept the war torn doctor stationary… But it didn't really matter at the moment what kind of bindings were used, only that they were there.
John Watson was trapped.
Although, there was no doubt in his mind which criminal it was that captured him. There was only one man out for his dear flatmate's blood at the moment… Moriarty. He had seen him on the way in as he was dragged into the room. He, the insane master criminal and possibly Sherlock's biggest challenge, who which gave gay people a bad name. And for Christ's sake, that laugh is just…. either really funny sounding, like a cracking teenage boy's voice, or simply creepy like a crazed serial killer that just smashed out of an asylum.
He liked to think of the teenage boy instead to make the situation more humorous. After all, John thought as he scanned the perimeter of the room that barely fit him inside, this has nothing on Afghanistan.
So, after trying yet again to wriggle out of his bonds unsuccessfully, John just sat back and sighed. He felt terrible…. The thundering headache from the blow he had received in the back of his cranium, the dryness of his throat, the dull throbbing of the old war wound in his shoulder, and the sluggishness brought on by fatigue added to his rough imprisonment. And with how tired he was, it was better to conserve energy…. no matter how boring it was just sitting there staring at the navy blue walls.
He just wished that Sherlock was-
"Helllloooo Doctor Watson!" John jumped in shock at the cheery exclamation and immediately went into army defense setting as his brain had been honed in out it for ages. Mind spinning at a few hundred rpm, the former soldier eyed the squeaky man leaning cockily at the door frame. Mustachio quirking up into a devilish smirk, Moriarty tapped his fancy dress shoes that curved up at the ends and stared at him with eyes that bored into his soul. He smirked and asked with his voice oozing fake sweetness, "How are you feeling my dear? Are you well?"
An 'are you freaking kidding me' frown rested on John's features as he decided to be difficult and maybe rile the villain up a bit… After all, Sherlock would be here any minute for him. So, with a face devoid of any changing mood, John said monotonously, "I can give you a definite perhaps on that."
Moriarty seemed to just grow amused. With a strangled toned giggle, the criminal cooed, "Aw, is the wittle Johnny Watsy prejudice against little ol' me?"
And oddly enough, the bound doctor shrugged as if he was calmly speaking about the weather. Really not feeling the panic set in yet, John retorted, "I am free of all prejudices… I hate everyone equally."
"That's a good practice, dearie. One I have often used in my adventure with my genius-"
Abruptly cutting his captor off seemed to make him angrier than John just being too stubborn to answer his questions correctly. Raising his voice, now dead set on making him furious, John said as he shook his head, "You are no genius, Moriarty. I know a genius and he isn't you." Snickering now, "The difference between genius and insanity is that genius has its limits, its morals. You're just messed up in the head, clinically insane, bonkers- Whatever you prefer."
The smaller man then fell into a fit of giggles, resembling a group of school girls at best. He fell to the floor, slamming those awful shoes against the ugly brown baseboards with his horrendous laughter.
And then he just stopped.
Moriarty stood with a serious, almost military expression on his face as he made his way over to John's trapped form with two burly men the size of skyscrapers following behind like trained mules. In their hands were white hot fire pokers. (John couldn't suppress a short shiver at that.) The evil maniac daintily plucked up the objects on the floor, stuffing all but the incredible well sharpened knife into his left jacket pocket. As Moriarty knelt down to bring the hunting knife up to his vulnerable face, John finally felt fear.
Sherlock was going to be too late to save him.
So before he lost all of his fighting nerve, the doctor sent a chilling glare as well as a few words. He spat of with as much spite and fury as he could muster up, "Are you going to kill me then, short stuff?" They were fighting words.
"I can give you a definite perhaps on that."
And the next thing the ex-soldier felt was the hot poker blistering the back of his delicate skin on the side of his neck in molten metal and the sound of Moriarty's giggling as he slices his face over his uncontained screams as they kicked him in the ribs.
But the last thing he felt was the man punching him with intensity behind it to connect for a knockout blow.
The next time John woke up he was alone, in extreme pain, but alone.
Taking painful deep breaths to avoid hysteria, John forced himself to take the shortest deep breaths than he had ever taken. This was no time to hyperventilate, but his abdomen hurt. He was in bad shape. The wounded doctor could feel the multiple deep slashes etched into his face as the faint trickles of red life giving liquid oozed out and down his countenance. That was the least of his worries, though. He knew immediately without having -or wanting- to touch the intensely hot third degree burn on his neck that it was going to be extremely prone to dehydration and infection. Third degree burns were tricky and he could all ready feel the painful blistering and burning. And if not to make matters any worse, he could feel at least four misplaced ribs knocking into, but thankfully not puncturing, his fragile lungs. Wincing, he prodded his face around the slashes to search for anymore injuries only to find a large patch of swollen and surely black and blue flesh at his jaw line, where Moriarty had decked him.
And for the first time he realized the twine was gone, as was the duct tape, however, in its place was a horribly familiar vest that he had seen too many times and on way too many people.
The heavy canvas that held heavy packages of high explosives that had sent him, Sherlock, and the entire police force on a panicked chase. It was the suicide bomber vest covered with a heavy winter jacket and complete with an earpiece wedged in practically to his ear drum, so John Watson was now officially a terrified hostage.
"Morning doctor!" A thundering and all too familiarly cheerful voice belted out. Jolting up from his seated position in shock, John gasped as his injuries caught up with him and the blood drained from his face.
"Come on, dearie it's showtime!"
But John just stood there trembling at the pain wracking his frail body. He wasn't going to give Moriarty the pleasure of ordering him around or even speaking with him he wasn't going to stand down-
And that little red dot synced on the explosives suddenly changed his opinion.
"Down the hall and to the left, little Johnny." The voice echoing in his ear was more sinister than cheerful and sickly.
So with that little dot trained on his vest, the soldier marched with stutteringly little pained breaths and searing injuries all the way down the hallway to the left door that smelled like chlorine.
Shrugging, but then regretting it as his ribs and burned neck screeched a warning; John entered the pool and turned to his right-
He tried to respond to the silky voice belonging to his nearest and dearest friend, but the earpiece came back to life. Moriarty giggled like a madman, "You know how this works, my dear. Repeat everything John."
And he did.
"Evening." The doctor says, trying to keep the winces of utter pain and fear out of his voice. He needed to be strong. "This is a turn up isn't it Sherlock."
John looks into his dear Sherlock's gray eyes with his glazed over blue orbs. He knew immediately that his lanky detective was totally and utterly thrown by his appearance, and the soldier just stared at him, biting his chapped bottom lip with stress. John was now trembling inside of the hot winter coat and bomber vest.
"John. What the hell-"
And the hostage feels awful as the he sees the lost and betrayed look on his dearest flatmate's face … Sherlock thought he was the bomber if only for a moment before his friends eyes dart to the cuts and bruises…. John knew Sherlock was terrified and unconsciously took a deeper breath only to let out a wince of hurt as his ribs shift, knocking another one out of place.
He is barely standing straight up now.
"Bet you never saw this coming."
How he wished the vile creature on the other side of the ear piece would stop! He couldn't stand the hurt, the look of confusion, and the completely lost air around his usually all knowing partner.
What," John never tears his eyes away from Sherlock's as he opens the jacket enough to reveal the vest of C4 and dynamite, "would you like me to have him say next?"
Iced over fury is the only way to describe his consulting now. Seeing the red dot trained on the biggest packet of death, Sherlock's sculpted features freeze as he narrows his eyes that are pulsating with power and intent.
"Brought a little gear. Lot of little gear."
At this point the pain had gotten almost too much for the military man to bear and Moriarty knows it. The evil man had done the broken ribs on purpose… He wanted the doctor in such intense pain that he would break under pressure. Well, that wasn't going to happen. So the doctor put all of his weight against the wall and pushed through.
John can see Sherlock panicking beneath the surface now either from the way Moriarty is toying with him, or how dependant John was on the wall. However, one thing was for sure.
"Nice touch this, the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."
He was whispering now, breaking up his sentences to attempt to quell the pain building- not that it works. John could feel the ribs poking at his chest cavity like a child tapping the glass in a fishbowl, except it was a thousand times more painful.
"Who are you?" Sherlock is screaming now, but his companion barely registers as he sinks lower down the wall of support. He feels so weak…
"I gave you my number," Moriarty spared the injured soldier a cheeky smirk before turning his full attention to the consulting detective. "I hoped you might call."
And for the next few moments, John blanks out their conversation as the throbbing sting in his abdomen now matches the pain of his burn. He is dehydrated, weak, and everything is just searing…. He can hardly breathe….
The doctor feels himself sink even lower before he caught himself-
John watches as Moriarty chucked the memory stick into the pool until an idea popped into his mind. There was no hope for him at all at this point, but if he could get Sherlock out….. And that damned man, Moriarty, would be dead.
Immediately after the memory stick leaves his hand, a rush of adrenaline struck. He grabbed the energy to grab the vile man in front of him and wrap his arm in a death grip around his neck, giving his detective a chance to go….
And he's sure that his friend could see the pain that kept him prisoner as he held Moriarty in as tight of a hold as possible. John knew Sherlock wouldn't leave him alone to die,
But he had to try.
The doctor let the man go as the red dot appeared of his Sherlock's forehead, completely wiped out-
A swift elbow connected expertly to the rip closest to coming through the skin of John's abdomen, tearing the flesh like a needle through fabric as a brutal rib jutted out of the doctor's body. John couldn't hold back a scream of pure agony as he dropped to the floor, covered in the gushing of blood from the wound the bone had made in exit. It was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak.
Scarlet blood dyed that bomber vest as the life poured out of the poor doctor.
The next person at the scene was Lestrade with the ambulance, and to be honest, the DI was terrified. The only other time Sherlock had ever requested an ambulance he had to be given CPR seven times. Seven! What could he have gotten himself into now?
Bursting into the pool with the medical personnel behind him, Lestrade ran, looking for the good doctor that had most likely kept Sherlock alive until they had gotten-
"Oh my God." The police detective froze as he looked at the scene before him. There lay Dr. John Watson as pale as a ghost with Sherlock holding him close and trying to stop some wound on his stomach from bleeding out-
He didn't just see a rib outside a man's body.
No. No. No. No! Jolting out of his state of shock, Lestrade ran to his fallen comrade, only to turn to Sherlock in fear of seeing a dead John. However, as he turned to the consulting detective, he was shell shocked. The cold hearted know it all was sobbing hysterically in a vivid picture of more emotion than Lestrade had ever seen on any person on this Earth.
"Sherlock…" Both detectives jumped at John's unexpectedly weak, hoarse voice as it echoed through the pool. The doctor seemed to just stare at the pushy, now over emotional man with his tattered face before saying in a barely audible whisper, "E-e-everything….. Everything will be all right.
"It's a d-definate p-perhaps."
So... first Sherlock story. (I don't own it!)
What did you think? Good? bad? Awful? Please tell me!