Chapter Text
When he opened his eyes he was lying on his stomach; hard surface there, grit under his cheek. Arms trapped behind him, bite of steel at his wrists: handcuffs, then, and if his head hadn’t been so appallingly bright with pain he might have been able to recall why.
His first thought was, as always in such situations, Sherlock, but of course: no, not this time. Not for years, in fact. A lifetime.
John groaned. Being kidnapped was, he supposed, a bit like riding a bicycle; it wasn’t as though it were possible to forget how, and he’d had his share of practise. His head hurt—likely an aftereffect of whatever he’d been given to knock him out—and his hands seemed to be tethered to something behind him. The room he was in was small and dim, mostly empty, a single window high on the wall that didn’t seem to be letting in any external light. He shifted, trying to see the rest of the space, and the bright lights snapped on overhead.
He recognised the voice immediately; would have known it anywhere, rage and adrenaline rushing up his spine in a hot wave at the sound of it.
“So good to see you again, Johnny boy, it really has been far too long. No, don’t get up.” Jim Moriarty was a few yards away, slouching against a wall, head bent forward, eyes dark and shining with eagerness. So surreal: everything had changed, nothing had changed. “I’d hate for you to trouble yourself on my account.”
The hammering of John’s pulse drove a shooting pain into his skull. Moriarty pushed himself off the wall and John stiffened at his approach; when he crouched down and reached out a hand toward him John tried to pull his shoulder away, but Moriarty just gripped it firmly and manhandled him upright. One way or another he ended up in a seated position, legs crossed in front of him, cuffed hands still anchored to the floor.
Moriarty moved until he was directly in front of John and squatted down, resting his elbows on his splayed knees. “You always were a great deal of fun, John,” he said, a wide grin splitting his mouth. John swallowed against the nausea rising in his stomach. “We could have had a good time of it ourselves, you and I. I always was rather fond of you. Too bad your loyalties were spoken for so dreadfully quickly.”
John considered, briefly, spitting in his face; settled for glaring, instead. He still felt weak from the knock-out drugs and had no idea—literally no idea—what possible interest Moriarty could still have in him.
When he spoke he aimed for bored detachment, and thought he almost got there. “Still on this, then, are you? Bit late, I should think, at this point. This little obsession of yours is bordering on unhealthy.”
“Unhealthy, doctor? Oh, I do rather like that.” He exhaled, and he was close enough that John could feel the movement of the air across his face. Moriarty squinted, ducking his head in just that little bit closer, and John had to suppress the urge to flinch away. “Not so late as all that. You’re wondering what I could possibly want with you, so long after your dear friend’s death.”
Christ, that was uncanny. “As I said,” he responded evenly, “unhealthy.”
Moriarty laughed. “Fair enough. Disappointingly unobservant, but fair. Do try to pay attention, Johnny. The devil is in the details, after all.”
John gritted his teeth and clenched his trapped hands into fists. “You’d know.”
Moriarty’s face grew abruptly, icily serious. When he spoke his voice was low, steady, full of menace. “So would you.” He pushed back and stood, moving away toward the door, his voice suddenly bright and mobile again. “Although I am afraid,” he said, pushing it open, “you’ve missed rather a big one, this time.”
John’s first thought was that Moriarty had simply indulged his obsession with a remarkable likeness: the same height, the lean build, the shock of dark curls against the pale skin. Paler than in John’s memory; sharper edges to the bones in his face. Then he took two steps forward and the way he moved was just the same, the same slant to the shoulders, undeniably so, and John hissed in a breath. Sherlock.
John wasn’t always the cleverest bloke in the room (certainly not in that room, at that moment) but somewhere between medicine and military he’d got a fairly firm grasp on dead, a pretty solid understanding of not coming back.
And yet.
It was impossible (no, he amended, and in his head it was Sherlock’s voice: improbable). Everything had changed, nothing had changed.
Well, this is a turn-up. The last time they’d seen each other. Christ.
John ’s mouth was abruptly dry and he couldn’t seem to get enough air to speak; didn’t even know what he’d begin to say, in any case. It was a relief, of course, and it was wretched, because as glad (and that wasn’t the word for it at all; his vocabulary woefully ill-equipped for such things) as he was to see him—he’d thought never again, didn’t deserve to be so lucky—the fact that Sherlock was standing there was proof that something had gone dreadfully, overwhelmingly wrong.
Sherlock had scarcely even glanced at him, all his attention on Moriarty, who looked at his watch and whispered words John couldn’t quite hear.
Sherlock beamed at him.“Thank you,” he said, and it was the same low voice he’d always had, John’s stomach clenching at the sound of it.
Moriarty’s reply was immediate, something automatic born of long practice: “Always, pet,” and John bristled at the dangerous familiarity of it, unwelcome understanding slamming through him like fire. Not so late—
Moriarty inclined his head in John’s direction and spoke to Sherlock again, almost benevolently. “Go on, then,” he urged, “he’s all yours. You do want to see, don’t you?”
Sherlock gave a tight nod and turned his attention to John, began moving toward him. He was barefoot on the cement floor and why, why was John noticing things like that, now of all times?
Sherlock squatted down in front of him, just as Moriarty had done, bouncing on his heels and and reaching out a hand to cup the side of his face, and John turned his cheek toward its impossible (improbable) warmth, relief flooding through his system (careful, said his training; not through it yet) at the undeniable physicality of his presence, at the familiarity and the shock of it.
(Three long, unbearable years; long enough, unbearable enough for him, and for Sherlock - oh, Christ, his stomach roiling with unease, sharp as acid.)
(Three years, and never once had he thought-- had anyone thought--
It was no good telling himself they couldn't have known.)
John finally managed to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth, though his voice when it came was more like a croak. “Sherlock,” he said, “what. What is this.”
As questions went it was woefully inadequate, and it was all John had.
“It’s all right, leannán,” Sherlock said, “I’m just going to take a look.”
Now that he’d started to speak John found he couldn’t stop. “Oh god, it’s so good to— we didn’t know, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. But it’s all right, I’ll… it’s going to be all right.” It wouldn’t be, though; it couldn’t. It hit John like a wave: anger blooming up his spine (at Moriarty, Mycroft—bloody Mycroft, how had he missed this, of all the— and at himself most of all), spilling hot and bitter through his blood. He tugged at the cuffs, trying to shift closer; didn’t recognise the sound of his own breathing. “Sherlock.” It sounded broken, even to him.
Sherlock, for his part, acted as though he hadn’t even heard. He’d drawn back his hand—paler than John remembered, metacarpals and knuckles more pronounced, the nails ragged and torn— and was now simply watching John dispassionately, holding himself perfectly still.
“Are you ready, pet?” Moriarty said behind him, and Sherlock turned just slightly to look over his shoulder and give that same little nod. “You’re sure you don’t want to play with him first?”
Sherlock’s eyes flicked back to John and he frowned as though considering. “I think not,” he said at last, eyes on John’s face. “Unnecessary.”
Moriarty approached, dropping a rolled-up bundle into Sherlock’s hands and bending swiftly at the waist to give Sherlock a chaste kiss on the top of his head as he passed, and it took John a moment to realise that the sound he’d just heard had come out of his own throat. Then Moriarty was behind him, hands on John’s wrists above the metal of the cuffs.
“Sebastian,” Moriarty growled, and an unfamiliar shadow passed behind Sherlock’s eyes. “Focus. Stay with me.” Sherlock gave a tight nod in response.
John first heard, then felt, the snapping of his finger below the first knuckle, a white-hot jolt of pain that caught him totally by surprise and forced the breath from his lungs.
Then John was being yanked backwards, forced down, his cuffed hands and the ring they were anchored to digging painfully into his low back, bright stars of pain in his vision at the pressure against the fresh break. It ended with Moriarty kneeling on his shoulders and Sherlock sitting on his thighs, pinning him. He fought and kicked instinctively but all he managed to do was wear himself out, his muscles still feeling like jelly. He couldn’t seem to think properly.
“Sherlock, what are you—“ No flash of awareness in those pale eyes, and he had a scalpel in his hand. “Sherlock.” Nothing.
He must be processing things a bit slowly, John thought, because he was just now registering that the scalpel Sherlock was holding was one of the large ones used in autopsies.
“Go on, then, pet,” Moriarty urged, behind John’s head. Sherlock gave him a tight, quick smile and began using the blade to cut away the buttons of John’s shirt, one by one.
John’s thoughts, when they formed words at all, were just strings of denials, searing threats. Oh god, no, fuck, no, and if Moriarty leaned any closer John would tear out his throat with his teeth. “Sherlock,” he heard himself say, over and over again, “Sherlock, stop, what are you doing, stop,” because whatever had happened to him (was happening, his brain insisted ruthlessly) this was part of it, and he couldn’t let it continue.
Sherlock pulled the scalpel back and reached out to run his thumb over John’s cheek. “Quiet, leannán,” he said to John; then, more sharply, to Moriarty: “Shut him up, will you?”
Moriarty shoved a coarse cloth into John’s mouth and pulled up hard on his jaw, trapping it there and forcing his head back so that John could scarcely see his own heaving chest at the bottom edge of his vision. Sherlock pushed John’s shirt open and shifted against his thighs, drawing his knees up and settling into a crouch. He ran the tip of his finger along John’s scarred shoulder, following the topography of the skin there, and John could feel himself shaking under the touch. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, the expression on his face intent, almost meditative, running the scalpel lightly along his ribs as though considering where to start.
“It’s his heart we’re interested in, pet,” Moriarty said, and Sherlock almost rolled his eyes, the gesture so familiar it hurt.
“Of course his heart, I’m just deciding the most efficient way to—“ he shook his head as though to clear it. “Just let me work,” he snarled, and bent forward to press the tip of the scalpel into the skin over John’s breastbone.
John howled—more from adrenaline and rage than anything else; it didn’t hurt that much, not yet—and tried to move away. Got nowhere. Sherlock pressed harder and dragged the point of the scalpel down carefully, one inch, two. With his arms still behind him the skin was already taut, and it parted easily under its own tension. John could feel tears in his eyes, could hear himself mumbling into the cloth pressed in his mouth, wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say.
Sherlock’s eyes were cold, trained on the blade, avoiding John’s face, and nothing would ever be right again. He let his own eyes fall closed.
Sherlock paused and used his left hand to cup the side of John’s head, digging his thumbnail into the underside of John’s jaw until he dragged his eyelids up and they were looking at each other again. “I need you to hold very still for me now,” he said quietly, “like a good little soldier,” and John could scarcely hear the words over his own shuddering breath, the thudding of his heart. He didn’t understand what these two might be playing at (not a game, not at all) but it was Sherlock asking and John found he couldn’t refuse him (not ever, not now). Found that the rest of it mattered less.
That was how he’d got into this spot in the first place; he did as Sherlock asked of him.
Right, he thought, might as well see it through, then, and held… very still.
There was a sudden explosion of movement and sound above him: a wet gasping; a shifting of the pressure pinning John’s shoulders and easing up on the pull under his jaw; a spray of red across Sherlock’s face that extended down his throat to his chest.
Then Sherlock was standing, edging away, his shadowed eyes fixed on something behind John’s head, and it took John a moment to realise that what he was looking at was the body of Jim Moriarty, his now-lifeless face scarcely a foot away from John’s own, his blood beginning to seep outward from his open mouth.
John used his tongue to push the gag out of his mouth, coughed, dragged in several deep, heaving breaths against the burn in his chest. The words tumbled up his throat and over his tongue without conscious thought: “Sherlock, thank God, look, let me take you home, if you’ll just—“
Sherlock crossed the room in four long strides and dropped heavily to his knees, one hand fisted in John’s hair, the other pressed bruisingly against his mouth. The skin around his eyes was tight with strain. “Quiet,” he snapped, “you mustn’t talk, just shut up.”
John nodded mutely against his hand but Sherlock didn’t remove it, his gaze sliding over John’s shoulder to where Moriarty’s still body lay on the floor. “He’ll hear you. You mustn’t—“ Then, more quietly: “Don’t listen to him. He lies.”
John nodded again, felt sick. Sherlock’s hands were shaking. He pulled them back, balling them into fists which he pressed against his thighs.
“It’ll be fine if you just stay quiet,” Sherlock whispered, and the words He’s heard that before surfaced from somewhere below the swirl of of emotion threatening to overwhelm John’s thoughts. He reached for him without thinking and was brought up short by the handcuffs, and it was all just too much, he couldn’t—
Sherlock’s hand on his face again, thumbing away tears he hadn’t even noticed, torn nails rough on his skin. Sherlock gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “Can’t do anything about those, I’m afraid, but it’s all right,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful. “You’ll be okay.” Sherlock frowned at the moisture on his fingers. “If they’re real he—” A tightening of the muscles in his jaw. “Stops. He can always tell if they’re fake, but these are—” A shaky inhale. “Well. You’re okay.”
John thought his ribs might actually shatter from the pressure in his chest. “Sherlock, you have to let me go so I can—” He rattled the cuffs behind him in frustration. “Please help me,” he said, his voice ragged and breathy, “please, just… let me take you home.”
Sherlock’s eyes went cold. “I am helping you,” he said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “We can’t go; it's not time yet and you have to shut up.” He grabbed the gag where it had fallen to the floor and shoved it back into John’s mouth.
John bit down instinctively, choking on his surprise. Sherlock stood abruptly and began pacing, twice across the narrow room, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He stopped abruptly and turned to face John again, and the expression on his face was softer, unfocused. “He’s right,” he said softly, almost sadly, and John had the distinct impression that he wasn’t the one Sherlock was speaking to, “I really can’t be trusted.”
Then he spun on his heel and John had just enough time to register the line of rust-coloured stains on the back of his shirt—dried blood—before he was gone, closing the door behind him.