And All We Need of Hell

Chapter 12

John Watson sat kneeling on the cold pavement, his ears ringing. It took a moment for him to fully comprehend the fact that he was still breathing, that he wasn't lying facedown in a pool of blood. It didn't seem possible. It wasn't as if Moran could have missed from two feet away. John's whole body jerked and tensed when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. Then he opened his eyes, and Greg Lestrade's face loomed into view.

"Christ, John, are you alright?" Lestrade murmured. He reached around and uncuffed John's wrists. Still a bit dazed, John blinked up at Lestrade as the man helped him to his feet. Then he felt an icy jolt in his stomach. He gripped the front of Lestrade's jacket and hung onto him for support.

"Sherlock, he's...Moriarty's got him," John gasped between short breaths. "Oh God, we've gotta get him out of there...we've got to-"

"John, take it easy." Lestrade said gently, keeping a firm hand on John's shoulder. He glanced back at the hulking man lying on the pavement with a bullet in his temple. If he had gotten here a second later, that could have been John. "You're probably in shock right now. Just try to calm down."

"There's no time! Don't you understand?" John panted. "We have to stop Moriarty. Right before they dragged me out, he made Sherlock inject heroin into his arm. He's gonna hurt him. He's... oh God." John's knees buckled beneath him.

"Alright, John, just breathe," Lestrade murmured, rubbing his back. "Help is on the way. My team is on standby. We just needed confirmation that he's in there before we storm the fortress. Mycroft is flying over in a bloody helicopter."

"Well, tell them to fucking hurry," John said gruffly, his heart still racing. "I don't know what's happening to him."

***

The handcuffs dug into Sherlock's wrists as he lay facedown on the cot. He'd been here countless times before, but this was the one time he truly felt dead. Jim's calloused hands roamed over the plush hills and valleys of Sherlock's slender body. Still, Sherlock couldn't feel anything except the deep psychosomatic pain gripping his heart. John was gone, nothing could bring him back, and nothing could make this pain go away. Sherlock just wanted it all to be over.

"Oh Sherlock," Jim purred. "I've never seen you like this before."

He sat on the edge of the bed and reached up to stroke Sherlock's hair. Sherlock breathed shallowly against the pillows, his eyes stinging with tears. A few salty drops spilled down his cheek, and Jim brought up a hand to brush them away.

"You were always so quiet in bed," Jim said in a hushed tone. "I had to tell the clients to rough you up a bit in order to get so much as whimper out of you, but I've never seen you cry. I've never seen you this shattered until now. I must say, it's fascinating."

Jim studied the boy for a long moment. Then he looked up and motioned to one of the remaining henchmen. "Call the client back. Give him my regrets and tell him that Sherlock's services are no longer available." He turned back to Sherlock and ran a hand over him once more. "I want to remember you always, just like this."

Sherlock didn't know what that meant. He didn't care.

After standing up and straightening his Westwood suit, Jim walked to the door. On the way out, he called over his shoulder, "Uncuff him and put his clothes back on. Then bring him up to the roof."

The roof. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was a long journey up eight flights of stairs to the roof. Jim's men half-dragged, half-carried Sherlock the whole way, but there was no fight in him anymore. Small fluorescent lights shone over the open doorway leading out onto the dark rooftop. Jim stood casually by the ledge as his employees approached with Sherlock in tow and laid the boy down at his feet. Jim waved them away and looked down at Sherlock curiously.