John woke up a few hours later when he felt the wheels of the plane touch down on the runway. He’d been dreaming about his life with Sherlock before the vest made of explosives, before Moriarty’s showdown at the swimming pool, and before Sherlock turned into a possessive maniac. He dreamt of sitting in front of the fireplace at 221b on Baker Street. He had his feet up on the coffee table, a comforting cup of tea in hand and his computer in his lap typing up the latest blog. As in dreams, he couldn’t make out the words on the page and kept trying to focus his thoughts on typing up their latest case.
The title formed in his mind, “The Case of the Abducted Doctor.” John wanted to write a satisfying conclusion to this story because it was distressingly important that it turn out all right. Sherlock had solved the case; he always solved the case, and John didn’t know why he couldn’t remember the ending. Sherlock, his best friend, stood over his shoulder and pointed to the screen helpfully.
“John,” he said amused. “You’ve forgotten something important.”
“Oh, what have I forgotten, Sherlock,” John asked feeling irritation rise in him at the detective’s superior tone. Sherlock moved toward him and placed his long-fingered hand on top of John’s head in a possessive fashion. It felt familiar and reassuring. Then, he moved both hands to rest on John’s shoulders and massaged them. The intimate pressure touched all the right spots and John felt himself relaxing, and letting all the tension leave his body. It felt incredible.
“I’m still in the game, and I haven’t forgotten you, John,” Sherlock answered him.
The dream faded slowly and John tried calling back the warm, familiar feeling of living at Baker Street and the good times. He’d loved the flat and his routine with Sherlock. Each case drew out the desire to do more, risk more to solve the crime. He felt invincible and strong each time they brought another criminal to justice. Sherlock could do no wrong even when he broke the law. John had admired him so much, he’d shot a man for him after knowing him only one day. During those mad chases through the London streets, he’d followed along never questioning his directions, commands or methods. He basked in the glow of Sherlock’s genius and thought he’d still be doing exactly the same thing today if Mycroft hadn’t introduced the collar.
Perhaps, if Mycroft could see reason. Perhaps, if Sherlock weren’t a selfish dick. Perhaps if pigs flew… John finished waking up and stretched as best he could in handcuffs. If he’d never met Sherlock, he could be safely living a boring life as a clinic doctor somewhere in South Croydon right now instead of wondering if Mycroft Holmes were going to deliver him back into the hands of the devil.
“We’ve landed, Doc,” Trevor said moving past his seat on his way to the front of the plane. Trevor leaned over to look out the window. “Canada,” he said cryptically.
“Why are we in Canada?” John asked. He thought they’d just fly straight to the UK.
Trevor continued looking out the window a frown line creasing his brow. “I’ve got new orders,” he said. “I’m supposed to hand you off to an old friend before Mr. Holmes gets you. It appears,” he said and paused to text someone. “That you’ve caught the attention of one of my old acquaintances and he’s offered a better deal for you.”
John looked out the window and saw a long, black car waiting on the tarmac. “Who, Trevor? You owe me at least that, you bastard,” John said fiercely. He didn’t like the uneasy look on Trevor’s face or the jumpy way he looked over his men as they collected their light gear from the plane.
“In my line of work, you learn to pay attention to who’s got the power at the top of the food chain. Mycroft Holmes is a big dog, but Jim Moriarty is a wild winter wolf and he wants you, Doc. He wants you so bad, he offered three times my going rate, and my going rate would make your eyes pop out of your head.”
“No,” John said managing only a hoarse croak. He felt his world drop out from under him again. “You can’t hand me over to him, Trevor. He’ll kill me or worse, keep me locked up forever.”
“Nothing much I can do, Doc. His men are taking over from here. My boys and I are jumping ship and heading to South America for a while to enjoy our ill-gotten gains. I’m afraid I got in over my head on this job, Doc. I had no idea what a hot bucket of piss you’d turn out to be when I helped you back in London. If I knew then what I know now,” he shook his head and let out a low chuckle. “But, I guess it worked out, eh?”
“Yeah, it worked out for you, you backstabbing arsehole!” John shouted at him. But, it suddenly became too much. He felt the weight of everything that had happened to him in the last twelve hours. Hell, he felt the suffocating weight of everything that had happened to him in the past six months. He laid his head back on his seat and closed his eyes heavily. “Get out of my sight,” he said tiredly. He hoped the whole lot of them suffered some venomous bite and died horrible, painful deaths.
“One more thing before I go,” Trevor said and John heard a sound he thought he’d never have to endure again, the sound of a small box opening and... His eyelids flew apart and he saw Trevor standing in front of him holding a thin, leather collar in his hands. This one had the initials JM stamped on one side.
John’s mind went white with fear and he moaned, “Please no!” Trevor surged forward and secured the hateful band of black with a click. He’d been trapped again, like an errant dog.
Trevor arched back out of John’s reach quickly. “They’re gonna be here in a minute. I have to leave. But, Doc. I’m going out on a limb here and doing you one last solid. Your collar’s been modified. One of my tech boys tampered with a wire or two and now it’s not making an important connection. It won't blow its charges, but it still has an active tracking chip. Whoever's got the remote control key will still think he's got full control of it, but that collar’s just for show now.”
John glared at him incredulously. “You expect me to just believe you’re helping me?”
Trevor touched the side of his nose in a classic, “word to the wise” gesture and said no more leaving John to wonder if he could trust the bastard. With that, Trevor and his crew hustled out of the plane leaving John to the mercy of James Moriarty.
YOU ARE READING
Daylight
FanfictionThis is a sequel to "Good Old Fashioned Nightmare." John has fled to the US and is hiding from Mycroft and Sherlock. He's forged a new life for himself. He doesn't know the Holmes brothers are doing everything they can to track him down... This is...
