Fifteen
Sherlock
I sleep with chains tied to my wrists and ankles. I hear the shouts and screams of the other people around me. I lay on my stomach, because my back is too cut up to sleep on. I've been living off of dirty water and stale bread for the past six months. My ribs noticeably stick out, but that's not even on my top ten things to be worried about list.
The list is actually quite ridiculous. Because John is on that list four times, and not the fact that I'm starving and won't make it much longer.
Escape is what I should be thinking about instead of him. But those eyes . . . I can't get them out of my mind.
I don't know what month it is exactly. I know it's been around six months since I got here because one of the men holding me hostage said, "We've held him for six months and we still can't get any answers," but what would that make it? April?
My heart sinks, reminding me it's still there and beating. I've been away for over a year. I left in December, after Christmas. And five months after that I came here, which would have been May. . . John had a Christmas without me. My family had a Christmas without me.
I bet it was wonderful. Mycroft could brag all he wanted about his job and I wasn't there to take away from his attention or shoot him down.
I bet it was wonderful.
x x x
Just when I think I'll be here forever—when I keep refusing to give them information and they keep torturing me, even though there isn't much of me left to torture, Mycroft steps in.
I don't know how long he's been here, or why he didn't intervene sooner, but I recognize his voice.
He's sitting in a chair in the shadows, so I can't see his face . . .
Two men are standing at my side. One is asking me questions, and when I don't give them answers, the second one cracks my back with a whip. I've gone numb. I don't even feel the pain anymore.
It's when I hear a man—my brother—say, "Leave us. I'll try to get answers myself," that I know I'm going to make it.
"What do you say we get you out of here," Mycroft says once everyone else is gone. "Brother mine?"
I cough and blood streams out of my mouth.
"I'm sure you've been having a lovely time, but the holiday is over. Back to Baker Street we go."
I smile because that means I can see John Watson again and it will be perfect.
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Suicide of Fake Genius - A Johnlock FanFiction
Fanfiction"Goodbye, John." "No," he cries. "Don't." I nod, then throw the phone on the roof behind me. John takes the phone away from his ear and screams, "Sherlock!" I spread my arms out and fall forward off the building, hoping that something will catch m...
