Gone

Chapter 7

Sherlock wanted to die. He had been so, so stupid and now he just wanted to not exist anymore. It was his arrogance that had got John kidnapped; he could see that now and if he wasn’t careful, the same arrogance would get John killed. The kidnappers had sent another message, another video of John and this time they had made their intentions clear. Sherlock remembered the anger that flooded his body, seeing what they had done to John. Closing his eyes, he tried to erase the picture of John’s broken body with the word demon branded clearly onto his chest – just above his heart.

“Two hours, Sherlock Holmes. Come to us or we’ll kill Johnny Boy here. You know where we are now so come alone. Not even Lestrade must know or we’ll kill Johnny Boy anyway. You got that?”

Sherlock had nodded, not trusting his voice and they were right; he did know where they were now – the kidnappers had told him. Not the most original or extraordinary of findings but it could get him to John. That had been half an hour ago. He needed to get going. Leaving the flat with the usual flair, Sherlock strode down the street without calling for a cab. It was about half an hour on foot at Sherlock’s pace to the warehouse where they were keeping John and Sherlock tried to work the reason the kidnappers took John. They had made it clear that they wanted Sherlock but why did they not just kidnap Sherlock then? Could it have been that they wanted to inflict some pain mentally as well as physically before killing him? Or was it something, someone else?

“Mycroft…” Sherlock breathed. His brother kept tabs on him all the time; if Sherlock was kidnapped, Mycroft would be there before the kidnappers could even put a bullet in his brain. By kidnapping John and getting Sherlock to come to the place ‘of his own accord’, they had time to torture and kill Sherlock before his brother realised something was wrong.

“Clever. Very, very clever.” He was outside the warehouse now, his breathing ragged from nerves.

Putting one hand on the door, Sherlock took a deep breath in and pushed. The first thing that he saw was John’s mutilated body, still hanging from the shackles, at the other end of the warehouse, lit up in a pool of moonlight. Not really caring what happened next, Sherlock ran to John, needing to know that his army doctor was still alive. John didn’t move, barely breathed, but Sherlock could see him breathing and that was what was important; John was alive. There was a gunshot and Sherlock cried out, grabbing John’s body as he fell. At the sudden movement and weight, John’s eyes fluttered open as the detective slid to the ground, clutching his left leg.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was cracked and unused. Sherlock turned his head up to John as there was another gunshot and blood sprayed from Sherlock’s shoulder. Whimpering, the dark-haired man’s hand went to his shoulder, already slick with blood.

“John. I found you.”

“I knew you would.”

 “John, I…”

“Hush Sherlock, save your breath,” John pleaded weakly. There was another gunshot and Sherlock curled over, retching. He had been shot in the stomach.

“John, I…” Sherlock gasped again, before passing out.