The Bounties on His Head (JohnLock AU)

The Same

A/N Hey My Lovelies!!!! OMG it's been WAAAYYY too long since I've updated this story!!! I genuinely don't know what happened, I just couldn't seem to make this one work...but I pushed through and here we are!!! This is a super short chapter, as I'm really trying to make it good without pushing it...hope it was worth the wait!!! Enjoy<3

"Who is James Moriarty?" The voice that cut through the fog that clouded Sherlock's mind was unfamiliar, sending waves of panic through his body. He sat upright, his head spinning almost violently and his stomach cramping painfully. "Hey, calm down Kid, you're safe." He forced his eyes open to meet the pained gaze of the Bounty Hunter that had caught him.

"Wh-Where- where am I?" Sherlock's throat was raw, as though he had been screaming for long periods, and he felt the ache of disuse in his muscles.

"A safe house. Had to get you out of the city. How're you feeling?" Sherlock winced as he pushed himself to a sitting position, taking stock of the condition of his body. Pain from being bedridden for an indeterminate amount of time, no symptoms of withdrawal. No shakes, twitching, or elevated heart rate.

"I-I don't- I don't understand-" John nodded, reaching for something on the table by Sherlock's head, handing him a small vial. "Ibogaine? What is this?"

"The Heroin Cure. Supposed to help alter your brain chemistry to cure addiction to Heroin or something. I'm not sure how it works, just that it does." Sherlock stared at the small vial, trying to comprehend what the Bounty Hunter was saying. "This shit is outlawed here, but I have a friend that is willing to bend the rules-"

"Why?" Confusion flashed over John's face, but the older man quickly schooled his expression, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Surely Lestrade didn't offer you enough to make this worthwhile." John huffed, shaking his head and sending Sherlock a look that read as pity.

"Maybe this isn't about the money."

"Please," a cough wracked Sherlock's chest, sending a dull ache through his body. "You have made it very clear that you don't give two shits about me. So tell me, why are you helping me?" Something passed over the bounty hunter's face, something that Sherlock recognized as a sadness, the kind he felt while under Moriarty's thumb.

"Who is James Moriarty?" Sherlock glared at the small vile of Ibogaine still in his hand, picking at the label and avoiding the Hunter's questioning gaze. "His name has come up three times now, and none of my contacts have been able to find anything on him." The vial was ripped out of Sherlock's hands, the suddenness of the action making the younger man flinch. "Who is he, and why does he want you dead?"

"What difference does it make? You're job is to get me back to New Scotland Yard alive-"

"Which isn't going to happen unless I know what I'm up against."

"You seemed to be on close terms with the woman that shot you-"

"Yeah, and I know the kind of people she works for. She's not a Bounty Hunter Kid, she's an assassin. The people that hire her are filthy rich with no moral compass-" Sherlock huffed, trying to fight back the pain and tears John's questions were pulling forth. "Sherlock, who is James Moriarty, and what did you do to piss him off?"

"I left him!" Sherlock snapped, panic rising in his throat as the memories of his time as Moriarty's play-thing flashed across his eyes. "I got sick of being fed drugs so he could have a pliant piece of arm candy with ties to New Scotland Yard and the British Government." Sherlock felt the tears slip from his eyes and he scrubbed furiously at his face, trying to hide the tremor in his hands. "I left, he got pissed, I suffered the consequences, end of story." A tense silence settled over the room, the unspoken words between them leaving the air thick and unpleasant.

"Moran, the bloke you killed-"

"Moriarty's second favourite fuck toy. Took my place when I left. He was far more, hands-on, then I was." Sherlock moved to climb out of the bed, wincing as his joints ached from disuse.

He managed to stand, taking a step towards the bathroom before stumbling, catching himself against the wall. He flinched as a hand gripped his elbow, hauling him upright and spinning him around. He found himself pinned against the wall by John, held up by strong hands that reminded him a little too much of Moriarty.

He squirmed, trying to free himself but finding his body too weak.

"Get off me-"

"How long?" Sherlock glared at the shorter man, still trying to fight, but quickly running out of strength.

"Fuck off-"

"How long, Sherlock?" The younger man blinked, trying to fight down the memories that tried to fight their way to the surface. "How long did he-"

"Six days." John released him, stepping back and letting Sherlock slide to the floor. He wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to protect himself from the ghosts that were screaming in his mind. "He would let Moran beat me, pump me full of drugs and alcohol, then he would send him away and have his own way with me." Sherlock kept his gaze firmly on the floor, reciting a passage of Shakespeare to try to drown out Moriarty's voice.

You brought this on yourself Sherlock, you know what happens when I feel betrayed.

"Mycroft finally found me and got me out of there, but James-"

"Lestrade doesn't know, does he?" Sherlock shook his head, trying not to flinch as the older man slid down the wall beside him. "That's why he called me in, because he doesn't know it was self-"

"Don't call it self-defence!" Sherlock snapped, scrambling to his feet and stumbling away. "I killed him! I saw him, grabbed Lestrade's gun and shot him in the head."

"He tortured you-"

"I killed him!" Something flashed through Sherlock's mind and he spun, nearly falling as his vision went spotty from the suddenness of the action. "Why are you justifying this? You made it very clear that you didn't care about what I had done. I saw the disgust in your eyes when you looked at me. You think I'm a spoiled child throwing a fit-"

Former soldier, Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder, old wounds on his torso, signs of torture and self-harm.

Sherlock's world compressed down to the way John's jaw was clenching, the way he had dropped his head back against the wall behind him, the way he was massaging his wrists.

"Y-You were-"

"Third year in service. My troop got hit by a battalion of Rebels. I survived, but they got me and took me to their camp. Took thirteen days before I decided I was getting the fuck out of there, even if it was in a body bag." John pushed himself to his feet, moving to stand in front of Sherlock, years of pain showing through in his eyes. "I shot my way out of that hell, making sure I emptied a clip into their commander's mouth. Tell me Kid, does that make me a murderer?" The room filled with a tense silence for a moment, the challenge in John's eyes sending a strange thrill through Sherlock's aching body.

"You did what you had to do."

"I felt threatened so I slaughtered thirty men without a second thought." John shifted closer, his dominant presence nearly driving Sherlock to his knees. "You felt threatened, so you killed the man that tortured you. That, in my books, ain't murder Kid." Sherlock fought against his submissive nature, deliberately raising his chin and holding the shorter man's gaze. "The only difference between you and me, is I was celebrated for killing those men. You, were punished."

"So what are you going to do with me?" John's lips quirked in a dark smirk, his eyes sparking with the first sign of life Sherlock had seen from the man since he had busted into the hotel room.

"We are going to take down James Moriarty."