A/N My newest obsession, Sherlock and Watson. I am not entirely certain how many chapters this will be, but I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. Many cackles have been let loose from my lips as I hear the dialogue in my own head. Whether or not this qualifies me as insane is to be said, but I think it just makes me what we all aim to be. A writer, of fan-fiction, but a writer non-the-less. Please do send me a review, or a critique. I have yet to find a beta reader, so these little stories of mine are going out to you unabridged.

Genre: Sherlock

Notes: Inspired loosely by Descendants of Darkness. [Yami No Matsuei.]

Rating: T, Mild Violence


The Lamentation of Doctor Watson

By: Sophie Quinn

Twitter: Quinnzical_

Chapter One: Aria de Felice

There were few cases where Sherlock did not feel the end result was a success. Most of those failures, in his mind, were due to there being a complete lack of fun in the chase. Nothing interesting, all too simplistic, text book crimes that he could solve in his sleep. A few puzzles left him absolutely euphoric. A genius level criminal that gave the genius level crime solver just enough of a thrill that left him buzzing at the end.

Doctor Watson looked forward to the ends of those cases. Not just because they were, ultimately, the most difficult and most dangerous ones to solve, but because of the giddy excitement that radiated off of Sherlock once they were alone.

"Fantastic!" He would proclaim, nearly jumping for joy at John's side. "That was absolutely fantastic."

Watson would smile, withhold a laugh and take a moment to memorize the glint of happiness in Sherlock's steely eyes. It wasn't decent that a man get so much pleasure from the seedy crimes of the demented underworld, but John figured it was just as indecent to enjoy Sherlock's glee.

They stood together at the back of a concert hall, basking in the afterglow of one of those cases. The lanky detective beaming at his side, and John standing at a parade rest beside him, grinning softly. They watched the young girl on stage, softly singing in a language that Watson didn't understand, completely oblivious as to how many times the duo saved her life that evening.

Seven, by John's count, though he could be off slightly. There was a great deal of running and he always had trouble with math when he was rushing about.

"She has no idea." He muttered softly, his fingers drumming lightly against each other as he curled his hands together behind his back. Sherlock gave no more than the vaguest of nods, the delighted little grin still on his lips.

"They rarely do." He responded in kind and then fell silent as her voice filled the acoustics of the room. The aria that she sung was sad and almost tragic, and yet they continued to smile to each other as if her voice was carrying the lightest cherzando. Only a shadow shifting in the corner of John's vision broke his happy train of thought, his gaze flicking away from the young girl for only a moment.

It was likely nothing, as the case was solved and the criminal in Lestrade's custody, but the prickling hairs on the back of his neck and the cold chill that followed told him otherwise. He gave a glance to Sherlock [who in his infinite ability to observe had missed the shadow completely] before he stepped away, drawn to investigate alone by the silent call of curiosity.

Watson thought he had called Sherlock's name, but wasn't entirely sure, as the moment he stepped through the curtain, the world faded into silence and black. There was barely any time to guess as to whether it was a blow to his head or a tranquilizer that brought him down before the sweet voice of the songstress was replaced by nothingness.

Sherlock cocked his head only slightly at his name being called, his gaze still fixed to the stage. "Hm?"

With no response and the warmth beside him replaced by a cold emptiness, Holmes turned and his brow creased just slightly. How had he not noticed that John had wandered off? More so, why did it feel so absolutely foreboding?

"Doctor?" He called out quietly, stepping towards a curtain that had just finished shifting back into place. There was a twinge of John's aftershave in the air, but as Sherlock pushed aside the fabric he discovered that to be the only sign that his friend had been there a moment before. "...Watson?"

A quiet tone sounded from his coat pocket, his gaze flicking down one end of the hallway and then the other as he absentmindedly pulled his cellphone out to check the text message. The small, digital letters that greeted him twisted up an odd feeling in his stomach. It was John's number, but not his words.

Dinner Tonight? 5 Glentworth St. 8PM. Dress Nice. JM.


Waking, when something is preventing it, is ultimately the most difficult thing to accomplish in a smooth and dignified manner. There was an ache scattered throughout various points of John's body, and a soft dripping of a leaky faucet that helped to pull him from his current state of unconsciousness. He noted, first, the pain. Steady, sharp stings in both wrists, ankles and throat, and a tingling state of numbness that had pulled the feeling from his fingertips and toes. He snorted in a sharp breath, immediately regretting the rapid movement.

As awareness slowly settled, and the fuzz over his vision dissipated, he concluded that the pain was caused by a very thin wire wrapped around each of his limbs and neck. He was bound, standing, to some sort of post, and attempting to shift or move in any way only caused the cord to tighten. John cleared his throat against the strand, pulling in a steady breath to calm his nerves.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson." The soft, nearly haunting voice that broke the silence was enough to answer all of the questions that had begun swimming about in his mind.

"Moriarty.." He choked out, his eyes twitching slightly as he snapped up his gaze towards his captor.

"Oh good!" He clapped his hands, taking slow, graceful strides to stand in front of John. His fingertips softly brushing against the front of his jumper to straighten out the wrinkles caused by the kidnapping. "I was beginning to think you two had forgotten me."

"What do you want?"

Moriarty let a soft 'tut' fall from his lips, his head canting to the side as he gazed at the doctor almost disapprovingly. "No, John. Bad form. This..." He waved his hand a bit, gesturing over Watson's captive form. "..This isn't about me."

"This is about you! You and Sherlock." He grinned, continuing to pat, brush and pet over John's chest and shoulders. "How close you have become, how.. friendly. How sweet and supportive, like old mates or little girls sharing your secrets and giggles. Frankly, it's a little disgusting."

"You don't... like.. my friendship with Sherlock?" He dared to ask, his voice still hoarse and choked as the wire cut a little deeper into his throat.

"I don't like you!" He hissed, jabbing a finger into Watson's chest. "Sherlock has always been a beautiful creature. Such genius, such insanity wasted in the pursuit of justice. And then you.. you had to show up and ruin him. Making him...care.. making him, normal."

"You are destroying a carefully crafted masterpiece, John." Moriarty glared at him, shaking his head as if to shame him for being a friend to Sherlock Holmes.

"What's all this then?" Watson glanced around with minimal movement, a shift of his hands bringing about a refreshed twinge of pain through his wrists. "Revenge? A game?"

The response was a uproarious laugh, followed by a slow, sad shake of Moriarty's head. "No, John. No games. No clues, no hints. Just.. a question. Can Sherlock Holmes find you... before you bleed to death?"

John's brow twitched slightly, his gaze flicking down as much as he could manage. There were notable aches, bruises, from his abduction, certainly a few cuts bleeding slightly where the wire had begun to slice through the first layers of skin. But, there were no injuries that threatened death. He watched Moriarty carefully, licking his lips.

"I am not.. bleeding."

The grin that curled up the corners of Jim's lips was filled with such amusement, such cold delight, that even John found it difficult not to shudder. "Tell me, Doctor Watson. Long since patched up and healed...Does the old battle wound still hurt?"

The firm pressure of a gun barrel against his shoulder was enough to trigger his military training. They had all gone through the process. In case any of them every found themselves a prisoner of war, in case any of them found themselves tortured by the enemy. His jaw clenched, his chin raised ever so slightly, John Watson prepared for the inevitable agony.

The gunshot was deafening.