Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 21

SHERLOCK

CRASH.

"WHERE IS HE!?"

"Calm down, brother dear."

CRASH.

"Damn you, Mycroft! Damn you to hell!"

CRASH.

"This isn't helping, you know."

He'd dodged every vase I threw at him, insolant twat.

Shards of broken pottery pooled at my brothers feet, a grouping of clay petals settled in dissaray for a rather unromantic scene. I could scarcely see his face, as my hair had gone ratty in my rage and blocked a proper view. Still, I knew how he was looking at me from the tone of his voice. From the way he stood so still and straight and professional like he hadn't an urgency to anything. Unalarmed, uncaring, disappointed.

I wanted to break something else, but I was out of breakable things. "You promised you would protect him!" I screeched, amazed at the sound of my own voice, so high and loud and unfathomably shaky. My sweet blogger was to blame for that, taking down the metal walls around my heart and leaving all the sensitive parts vulnerable. John...

John, who had only wanted to go for a walk. John, who'd said he loved me so many times already and I'd only ever said it once, it my damned sleep no less. My John, the one who'd been snatched away right under my nose, because of my own arrogance. My voice broke off in chunks, leaving a ringing in the air. "You promised..."

But I wasn't even talking to Mycroft anymore.

After a moment of silence, he spoke again, the sound of his voice making me wince. "I have my most equipped agents on tracking John's phone. I've also called Greg Lestrade, who's invited you down to the station in Scotland Yard for an investigation of the situation, if you feel up to it." Those words caused a stirring in me, like ashes buried somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach being prodded with a poker and kicked up into the chimney. "Him," I muttered, leaning forward a bit with the sudden pain in my stomach. Mycroft knew what I meant, no doubt. "Most likely."

It didn't help the pain rocking my body this way and that when I noted the hint of worry in his voice. He hardly ever showed fear or anger or remorse, but the prospect of James Moriarty back on the scene of his sacred environment meant trouble for him. Oh, forget about me and my kidnapped boyfriend, what is poor Mikey to do!?

"I'm taking a car," I spat at him, taking whatever strength left in me to force a calmer voice. It came out as a scratchy, quivering drawl, which was as good as it was going to get. He didn't stop me until I was at the door. "We'll find him, Sherlock. We always do."

Right, because what I really needed right now was to be reminded that this had all happened before. That it was all my fault. I didn't need to answer him. I didn't trust him anymore.

* * * *

I had to admit I was a little surprised to see Lestrade's team in such a frenzy upon my arrival. Then again, they knew almost as well as I did what Moriarty was capable of. These were the people who had tried their best to put him away in court, who had thrown a fit when he was let free, and who had stood by my side (sort of) when my Fall had to be planned. These were the people I needed.

The noise they were making in the office was a blissful distraction, though it still hurt to walk. It hurt to breathe and think and talk, too. I didn't mean for it to happen, but Lestrade had spotted me. He pushed through the people clouding his desk and practically threw himself on my shoulders. I flinched and struggled to wrench myself away, and it took me a moment to realize I was being given a hug.

"I'm so sorry," came a whisper, making my shoulder feel uncomfortably warmer than the rest of me. "He's not dead." The words slipped from my mouth before I could comprehend them. But for all I knew, he very well could be. He could be sitting in the bottom of a ravine as we speak. He could have a bullet in his skull and I would never know it. He could be hours dead, and I would spend the rest of my life looking for him when he wasn't there.

Shut up! I told myself, and I said it out loud too for good measure. It was too quiet for many to hear, but a few of the buzzing officers around me quieted. Lestrade passed over it like I hadn't said a thing. "We need you to identify something, " he said simply, dragging me by the coat sleeve as I was hardly able to walk through the crowd of my own accord. Leave it to Lestrade to be already on the point, working on the problem before we even knew what it was. It was one of the things I might have liked about him.

A few of the officers in his desk space had dispersed, one of them phoning Molly to come down to the lab on her day off, explaining that something bad had happened.

Lestrade pulled up a stool for me to sit on across from his cluttered desk. I only sat because it felt like my legs would fall off. To his side was a grouping of small bags that had apparently already been filled and documented at Mycroft's home. For as much spite as I felt for my brother at this time, I had to admit he was efficient.

"Can you tell us if you recognize this?" Lestrade's voice interrupted. A lump caught in my throat. It was the note, written in that God-awful red ink. "Lucky number seven." "We recieved it unknowingly in a restaraunt on our night out," I mumbled, forcing myself to look away. My eye caught something else, however, and my resolve to remain calm shattered. Bagged up and labeled was a single red rose, hand-picked from my brother's own garden. Johns doing, obviously, probably when he was on his walk. Tears were streaming down my face before I could stop them, though no sound escaped my mouth. Red roses for love.

JOHN

I awoke in a prison cell, which was already better than I'd expected. The cot I lay on was half my size and severely uncomfortable. There was no pillow, the walls were bare, and beside my head rested a single nutrition bar. For some odd reason, it was the placement of the food that made me panic, sitting bolt upright and swiping it to the floor. Well, that and the fact that I was in a prison cell.

I curled up with my knees to my chest so I could actually fit on the cot, and waited. What was I waiting for exactly? Was Moriarty just going to fly in through the window and shoot me in the head? Damn, I hoped not.

Sherlock. The name breached my thoughts like a burst of fresh water, and everything that had occured in the last few hours came flooding back with it. The drug, the kidnapping, the smell of leather and blood, a cold concrete floor. Voices, not many, all at the same time. Complaining.

And Sherlock, sitting at a dining table waiting for me to come back from my walk. My blood ran cold as ice.

A voice from behind the thick steel pipes in front of me dragged me out of my memory. "Hello, Johnny boy." My teeth knashed at that horrible voice fogging up my thoughts. "Its about time you woke up," Jim Moriarty scowled, pausing to have a large man standing behind him hand him a small coffee to sip. Instead of handing it back, he threw the paper cup at the wall, dousing the floor in French vanilla delight. The man behind him sighed and went to get a mop. Moriarty smiled, and I focused on the discarded nutrition bar instead.

"Miss me?"