A/N: i realize i havent updated in almost a month i dont even know anymore. and i left last chapter at a cliffhanger, so so sorry especially to user SamiOdermatt, damn girl, you inflicted real fear in me. ive also determined how many chapters this will be and i think 13 is good. Also, PAUL HAS NOT BEEN FORGOTTEN, I WILL GET TO PAUL. ok ill stop talking. read.
John did not return that day, and that was cause for concern. Sherlock spent the good part of two hours staring into the nothingness of the familiar roof above him before he realized something, rather someone, was amiss. He lept off the couch he has situated himself in and searched frantically for his mobile. He sent a quick text.
Where are you? -SH
No reply.
Why aren´t you at home -SH
No reply.
Please at least attempt to respond. -SH
No reply.
I will admit I´m getting a bit worried -SH
He placed his phone screen down on a nearby table, but it dinged before he could fully let it go. His fingers were dashing across the screen as quick as he could to read the one text he had received. It was from John.
Come and find him, lover boy.
Sherlock´s eyes remained still on the screen, his jaw clenched, his back straightened; he was going to war, then. He texted a reply.
Who are you? -SH
He received a reply almost immediately. It was a picture message. Sherlock opened it and--. The picture was crystal clear. The way the light shone on blood smeared on the right side of John´s face would have been poetic were it not for the situation. His right eyebrow wore a red gash, clean cut. Next to his nose, a yellow bruise made itself known. Oh, John. But none of that mattered to Sherlock. Sure, it was painful to see his John so battered and cut and bruised but he also knew those would heal in time and that John had faced much worse. No, what really hurt Sherlock was John´s eyes. John has the most beautiful eyes, blue and happy and, dare he think it, cute. But those weren´t the eyes that Sherlock now saw. These eyes were deadly. They were dark, and not in a pleasing way, more in a take-one-more-step-and-I´ll-kill-you kind of way. Which, Sherlock admitted quietly to himself, was also an attractive look on his John. Yet, he couldn´t shake the feeling that there was something underneath the darkness. When he saw John´s photographed eyes, they looked tired, like a man who´s been beaten down and not allowed back up. Oh, John indeed.
He fought his subconcious to move his legs and draped his coat over his back. It suddenly felt very heavy, like a dirty mop full to its capacity, dripping and leaving a trail anywhere he went. The first person he contacted was Lestrade. Lestrade was a trustworthy man and he cared enough about John to worry about his well-being. The call was short, consisting of only four words: John's been kidnapped; help.
~~~
Finding the warehouse John was kept in was an amateur's game. Graffiti on the walls were regional and red brick dust wasn't as common as people thought. It was the part after finding him that was hard. John was in hospital, safe and protected, but his abuser was still free and that was not acceptable.
Sherlock hadn't visited John once. He excused this to not having time to do so, but he knew the real reason was he couldn't stomach seeing John the way he was. So he did what Sherlock knew best, and solved mysteries. He put his energy to finding who had hurt John and why. Four days came and went before Sherlock had the answer to all questions present.
"While I can't pinpoint who exactly abducted John, I can tell you they were part of a bigger group smuggling narcotics. See, John went to the pharmacy the morning he was taken, small one near Baker Street, very bland, unnoticeable. That pharmacy was replacing their presciptions with drugs. Not recreational, though, these were poisonous. John was unknowingly given some that morning and someone must have taken him to make sure they weren't discovered." Sherlock told Lestrade as he took his statement.
"I don't get it, if they gave John the drugs, didn't they want him dead? Taking him only raised suspicion, rather than lower it."
Sherlock shot a cold glare at Lestrade at the implication that someone would want John dead. "I doubt their sole purpose was to poison everyone in sight. I think they had special orders for special people. John was simply in the right place at the wrong time at the mercy of the wrong hands. You'll find the names Shelock Holmes and John Watson are not unknown, especially to potential criminals. Once they realized their mistake, they'd want to eliminate anyone with that evidence who has such close ties to Scotland Yard."
"You said this had to do with the college student and the professor, how?"
"Autopsy reports indicated they were both poisoned. The young lady had a white powder on her gums, she most likely planned the whole thing and bought the poison from the same drug chain as John's case. I could go on, but do you really want me to?" Sherlock's voice had changed to a drone.
"Uh, no, no. We can finish some other day if I still need it."
"Then I'll be off." Sherlock raised himself from the uncomfortable seat adn smoothed his coat.
"You know, he's awake." Lestrade suddenly blurted.
Sherlock stopped at the door of the detective inspector's office, hand on the handle, looking ready to flee.
Lestrade continued, talking to Sherlock's back, "He's been asking for you. You should go."
Sherlock tilted his head to look at Lestrade and with what almost looked like a quivering lip (except this is Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes's lip does not quiver) he replied, "I know.", and left.
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Fanfiction"What mattered was now, this exact moment, when John loved him. What mattered was that Sherlock had found a reason to smile. What mattered was that John's fingers had found their way to Sherlock's chest and were gently running along his skin below h...
