Fic: Multiples Part 2
The unanticipated wait has Sherlock drumming his fingers on the desktop in frustration.
When the static bursts, distorts and clears, he's presented with the familiar tableau of John crumpled on the table, Moriarty at his side. His mind plays a macabre game of spot-the-difference (John's blood-drenched face and neck, the reddened table, Moriarty's change of clothes) and he leans forward to get a closer look.
John has been beaten, that much is obvious from the way his stomach cringes inward, with bits of mud from dirty shoes staining his jumper. His body thrums, as if he's been running, which is impossible. Sherlock suspects he's been injected with a stimulant to stop him passing out, and the subtle shuddering along the line of John's body supports this.
Moriarty smiles his sickly smile.
"So glad to see you escaped that bomb, Sherlock. I wouldn't know what to do with your pet, otherwise." He pauses, eyes roving over John, and that smile grows somehow wider. Sherlock can see the white of his sharp little teeth. "Actually, that's a lie, there's plenty of things I'd do, but torture is so much more fun with an audience, don't you think?"
He tugs on John's cheek, like you would a child, a movement made casually violent by circumstance as it reopens the clotting wounds scraped through John's mouth. The adrenaline would have made him hyperaware to sensation, and Moriarty sniggers as John reflexively twitches in pain, tugging again. Blood smears on this tips of his white fingers, and he wipes them off on a clean part of John's jumper, nose wrinkling in disgust.
The computer bleeps as an IM pops up.
M: Remove a limb, or remove an organ?
No anaesthetic, naturally.
And Sherlock can't do this. He honestly wishes he'd never met John, if it meant sparing him this suffering.
"30 seconds," chirps Moriarty. "Or I'll let my assistant have some fun with his blowtorch. He's very creative."
John's eyes are shut, and Sherlock's hands shake on the keyboard as he types the only answer that won't result in death (because he knows he can find John. He can.)
S: Limb.
"Oh, that's excellent," Moriarty says cheerfully, hopping down from the table and pulling out his iPhone. "I have an app for this."
John breathes slowly in the background, out of focus as Moriarty fiddles with the phone.
"Aha!" he squeals delightedly. "Left arm, pet. That's not so bad! Isn't that your fucked-up side anyway? I haven't seen the scar."
Even out of focus, Sherlock can see John lurch to attention, eyes snapping open, body tensing as he realises what is going to happen. Moriarty flashes the camera a glimpse of his phone, the screen showing a randomiser application with Left Arm being highlighted.
"See?" he says, pocketing the iPhone. "I wasn't even making it up." He walks closer, reaching out his arms. "I'll do the camera, you go and help hold John down. I think he's really going to scream for this one."
There is shuffling, and for a moment all Sherlock can see is concrete (They're in some sort of basement no natural light confirms this design is compliant with storage rooms for factories) and then Moriarty is holding the camera. One of the men moves the blowtorch from the table, and rolls a kicking, twisting John onto his back.
"So pointless," says Moriarty, tutting. "You're only hurting yourself, pet."
The man wraps an arm around John's knees, holding him in place, and pressing a hand into John's tender stomach until his struggles cease with a violent coughing fit. "Should we tie him down, or do you want me to hold him here?"
"I'm not really a fan of ropes," Moriarty says, voice amused. "I prefer, ah, bodily restraint. Much more fun to watch."
The other man comes back onscreen with a jagged-edged full-tang blade, about a foot long, dark military metal that doesn't glint or cast reflections. He presses the flat of the blade to John's cheek, slides it to his chin, tilting his head this way and that. John's eyes don't leave the man's face, and they're burning with genuine loathing.
"Now, that's just asking for it, pet," laughs Moriarty. "Look at that face!"
The man guides the dark blade down John's reddened throat, smearing the blood like a butter knife until he reaches John's collar. His eyes rise to meet Moriarty's behind the camera, and there's something wordless being exchanged there.
(All of a sudden, Sherlock sees white. He has a flashback of the pool, and he's standing there on cold tiles, gun clasped, dropping his aim to the bomb, in move that can kill all of them, if taken. John is staring at him, bright-eyed and trusting. Their gazes meet, and John nods.)
The man begins cutting John's clothes off with vicious jerks of the knife blade down the centre of his jumper, a bit too violent in some places, where he slices skin. He revels in the violence, ruthlessly delighting in every stifled sound from John's tortured mouth. He tears off the tatters of the jumper
Now John's chest is exposed to the cold air.
The sight is odd to Sherlock.
He realises that, in all the time they've lived together, he's never seen John anything less than modestly covered. This expanse of soft untanned flesh is foreign, and seems startlingly vulnerable in the too open space of the basement.
The bruises from his beating are already blossoming, a sickly grey-purple scattering his stomach and abdomen. His ribs expand and contract with every carefully controlled breath. Narrow red slices start to clot in the open air. The man smiles gruesomely; he slips the flat of the blade down John's sternum and stomach to wipe off the blood on his skin.
John lies deathly still, staring at the ceiling.
The man moves around to John's left side and grips the broken wrist hard. John suppresses a cry, pulling instinctively against the powerful hands holding him down.
"Where should I cut him?" asks the man, tracing the dark blade over John's wrist as John clenches his teeth and thrashes, his efforts futile.
Moriarty makes a thoughtful humming noise.
He walks closer and his pale fingers reach out in front of the camera, tracing a line around the middle of John's forearm. The mangled hand flops uselessly in the corner of the screen. "Well, we can cut it there," Moriarty says, moving back. "And if that's not enough we can always take off a bit more. That's what my hairdresser says anyway."
Sherlock swears at the screen.
The man traces a guideline around John's forearm, blood beading up as he dips the blade shallowly into soft flesh. John had gone very still, and very quiet, visibly steeling himself for whatever was going to happen.
Sherlock can't watch this. He stands abruptly, and goes to stand by the window, watching the street outside. It is likely, he deliberates, as John starts to scream behind him, that Moriarty has someone in the hotel watching when he comes and goes. But there are no cameras in his room, and from what he can see there is no-one across the road who can see in. Perhaps one of the staff is in his pocket, or maybe he owns the hotel through a fake name, Sherlock doesn't know.
John's screams are growing desperate.
Sherlock turns back, he can't not look, and John is thrashing so hard that he's snapped his own half-sawn bone, leaving white splinters. There's blood everywhere, the man with the knife is wet with it, and the man holding down John's increasingly fierce movements has splatters on his hands. John is left with his arm up to just under the stump of his elbow, which he can't flex, as the tendons have been messily sawn to pieces.
Moriarty is laughing.
He zooms in on John's bloody, pained, crumpled face, twisting as he gasps for air, eyes screwed shut.
"Not good enough, pet!" Moriarty screams. "What happened to all that stoical soldier shit? Open your eyes."
John's eyes flicker open. His sandy lashes are wet with tears. They clump together like moth-wings, and his pupils are obscenely dilated.
He looks at the red mess that is left of his forearm and turns away, inhaling, exhaling in a horrified sob, shaking furiously. His arm is dropped back into the table and he lets out a short sharp cry.
Things are quieter now. Moriarty sneaks closer.
"Look, pet," he says softly, and he's holding ...
Sherlock chokes.
He's holding John's severed broken hand.
Sherlock can't really see any details. Just blood and bone and the crushed remains of kind fingers.
John refuses to look and Moriarty grows bored, dropping the hand to the floor and kicking it under the table. "In your professional opinion," he asks the man with the knife, "Do you think he needs that elbow?"
The man shrugs. He's grinning.
"No!" yells Sherlock.
S: Stop this. I'll do whatever you want just stop this and let him go.
"Ooh, Sherlock's getting wound up," Moriarty says, presumably checking his phone. "Same old shit, Sherlock. Not listening. Cut off his elbow."
"You bastard!" Sherlock spits venomously, slamming his fist on the desk. The man with the knife takes hold of John's arm again, knife raised and the feed switches off.
Sherlock stares in shock at the static, tapping the side of the computer, refreshing the page. Nothing.
"John?" His voice is tremulous. "John? No! What is happening!?"
He clutches at his head, gaping blankly at the static and it's worse somehow, not knowing. He twinges, his head hurts. When he looks at his fingers they're smeared with blood, a trace amount from his blow to the side of his skull that was courtesy of Moriarty's bomb.
There's a bleep.
M: Sorry, sexy. Technical difficulties. Please stand by.
***
"What do you mean we don't have any batteries?" screeches Moriarty, waving the now useless camera frantically.
John lies motionless on the table, deathly pale, eyes shut. Moran has stalked off to the side of the room to clean his weaponry, and Moriarty is in Armitage's face, murderous.
Armitage stands straighter and blinks slowly, mouth dry. "We did, but ... we must have left them somewhere. I can't find them."
"This is ridiculous," grouses Moriarty, dropping the camera onto one of benches on the side of the room, breath heavy. "I have never had to put up with such blatant ineptitude before."
"Sir-"
"Shut the fuck up when I'm talking to you, Armitage," Moriarty screamed, hitting the bench with his skinny fist. "You have no excuses!"
"Sir, he's dying."
Moriarty wrinkles his nose and glances over at John, expression indifferent. "It looks that way, yes."
Armitage's hands were sweaty. "Are you going to let him die? Adrenaline may keep him awake, but it's not going to restore all the blood he's lost. And what about your game?"
Moriarty's eyes narrow. "Don't try to manipulate me, sweetheart," he hisses, voice dangerous.
He steps forward and reaches to grip the top of Armitage's balaclava, pulls it off. Armitage stares, messy hair and red-faced, shabby next to Moriarty's cool disdain, and Moriarty eyes him up and down with a smirk. "I know you trained as a medic, many years ago," he says slyly. "I have supplies. Saline solution. Gauze and bandages. If needed."
"You want me to save him?"
Moriarty tsks, shaking his head. "No, you want to save him. Do you think I'm stupid? You've been making moon eyes at the poor thing since we picked him up. You're not exactly subtle, my dear."
"It's not like that," Armitage protests, and Moran scoffs in the background.
"I'll give you the supplies if you do something for me," Moriarty offers.
"What?"
"It's a surprise," Moriarty says, grinning. "And it's the price."
Armitage has never completely trusted Moriarty, and he's definitely planning something. But this is his only chance to keep John alive, so he grabs at it. "I'll do it, then, sir."
"Good boy," coos Moriarty. He nods over to a dark green box that's stacked to the side of the room. "Everything you need is in there."
Armitage drags the box over to John, whose eyes slide open and glance up at him, clearly in shock. He's trembling, and his skin is sweaty and cool to the touch.
First things first.
John's forearm is completely shattered below the elbow. Armitage holds it up to reduce the blood flow, wrapping the area firmly in sterile gauze from the green box. Blood keeps soaking through each layer, staining his hands, but he continues, overlaying the gauze with a thick layer of bandage and pulling it tight. He rests the arm on John's stomach. It's not much elevation, but it's better than nothing.
He can see Moran's smirk from the corner of his eyes. Was this some sort of test?
He cleans John's cuts and bruises, disinfecting them and bandaging them as best he can. He has no idea how to treat John's mouth, so he just tissues off the drying blood and tries to make it easier for him to breath. His skin is soft under Armitage's fingers.
John's eyes are groggy. He's lost a lot of blood, but Armitage can't really put an estimate on it. He needs to make up the blood volume, so he pulls out an IV bag of Lactated Ringer's solution and carefully attaches the line and needle, running the solution through to remove air bubbles. Then he holds the bag up in the air with his teeth as he fiddles with the needle.
John doesn't even wince at Armitage's botched attempts; pain at that level doesn't seem to register anymore.
Armitage finally gets the needle in, and opens the port for the saline solution. John stares up at him, but Armitage can't look into his eyes.
Sometimes it feels like John can see right through him.
Moriarty walks over. Armitage doesn't turn around but he can hear the click of dress shoes on the floor, and then there's a little hand pressed tightly to his shoulder. A harsh squeeze.
"Happy now?" Moriarty asks with false sweetness. "Moran!" he says liltingly, raising his voice. "Go get some batteries."
Moran scowls. "We're in the middle of nowhere."
"Go. Get. Batteries," Moriarty orders. "And I'm sorry, but is it 'Annoy Jim' day today? Why are you fuckers so intent on pissing me off?"
Moran rolls his eyes when Moriarty turns his back, and leaves.
"Poor Sherlock," murmurs Moriarty, tracing John's now clean lips with a white forefinger. "He must be going mad right now. What's it like, pet, being the only person that gets him this frustrated?"
John glowers weakly at him, and Moriarty pets his cheek.
"What a dear-heart you are."
Armitage goes to stand guard by the door, as Moriarty continues his one-sided display of affection with a man completely unable to fight him off. He can't help but feel that the only reason he was allowed to fix John, was so Moriarty could take him apart again, piece by unwilling piece.
***
After ten wasted minutes of pacing up and down in front of the computer, Sherlock has had enough. He sits down and navigates to his email, finding a new message from his brother.
Footage shows the car that picked up John Watson arrived in Cardiff two hours ago, without stopping at any of the usual rest stops.
However the car is now empty, and the driver has vanished.
Liaising with the police for more information. And don't worry, Sherlock, I can be subtle.
#file/drop/250511iy836.avi
Sherlock narrows his eyes. He clicks back to the previous email and opens the attachment Mycroft sent last time. The computer stutters, then opens the file in the media player.
The footage is typical CCTV rubbish, with low resolution cameras casting a distracting grain over everything. Even so, Sherlock can see John's small form walk down the empty streets, apparently lost in thought. And although Sherlock knows what is going to happen, it's still a shock when a Ford Mondeo speeds down the road, skidding to a stop beside John who immediately snaps to attention, backing off.
Two men in balaclavas leap out, and it's over very quickly.
John makes a run for it, but they are faster and prepared. He's knocked out before he can get a hit in, and they bundle his unconscious body into an already stuffed boot. Sherlock can't see from this angle, but they have duct tape and rope and appear to be tying him up, presumably so that when he regains consciousness he doesn't cause a fuss. The boot is shut, the men jump back into the car, and they speed off.
Sherlock rewinds.
There is no way he can discern the identity of the individuals in the balaclavas. He recognises them immediately as the ones Moriarty has helping him, but that's it. Their movements confirm his earlier deduction, that they were military men trained to a high standard. John was a tactical fighter, but he'd been overwhelmed without struggle.
He rewinds again, pauses.
There's a man in the back seat of the car, dark hair and white skin. Moriarty. How very odd of him to get involved so early.
The driver sits at the front, but it's impossible to make out any features. A GPS glows in the front seat, but the footage is far too indistinct to even see what is on the screen.
He opens the new attachment, and sees the same car in Cardiff, being parked in a carpark. The driver leaves without paying for a ticket, collar pulled up high. It's obvious he won't be returning. The car is empty.
Sherlock takes note of the time and flicks back to the other attachment. There is a three and a half hour gap between the two images, from Marylebone to Cardiff. The first broadcast of John had been sent out an hour after he was kidnapped. Somewhere along the route, Moriarty, John and associates had emptied the car and left.
But where?
Sherlock plays the clip over and over, frustrated. There are no clues as to where they are headed in the footage, and the GPS is impossible to read.
The GPS.
It's a TomTom navigator, one of the newer models. And although Sherlock can't read the screen, that doesn't mean he can't find the route.
Sherlock downloads the TomTom maps onto the computer, and opens the program. He enters the address John was snatched from, and the address of the carpark found later, and clicks the shortest route. Apparently the journey should take three hours, but there is always the possibility of traffic messing things around. Either way, about an hour along this route should be the place where Moriarty has his hideout.
He knows the hideout has to be a factory or warehouse, and it has to have been abandoned for some time, or Moriarty would never have gotten everything in there without the owners noticing. A quick google search and some investigation, and Sherlock has an address of the location John was most likely being held.
Sherlock inhales, sits back, flexing his fingers.
Everybody makes mistakes, even Moriarty.
Sherlock gets into the system of the computer and types in commands to format the hard drive. Then as the computer shut itself down for good, he stands and paces, thinking.
It's obvious he can't go in on his own. It would be three against one, and Sherlock knows his weaknesses.
He has to call in a favour.
After leaving the hotel, he makes the call, and the phone is answered on the second ring.
"Mr Holmes, never thought I'd hear from you again."
"Hello Mr Musgrave. This isn't social. I'm calling to collect."
The man laughs. "I should have guessed. How can I help?"
"I need a hand in an extraction operation. Very discreet, can't discuss over the phone. Can you meet me at Camden station?"
"I'll be there in five."
Sherlock takes off in a run, and hails the next taxi he sees.
***
Moriarty pets John, traces his wounds with curious fingers, strokes his hair off of his forehead, analysing. John holds himself still under every touch, huffing as Moriarty brushes over his bandaged stump.
"That's right," Moriarty murmurs softly, eyes wicked. "How does it feel? I can alter your body as I see fit. I can shape you, make you useless, make you hurt for my entertainment. And you have been very entertaining, pet."
John looks exhausted. He doesn't move as Moriarty cradles his head, cooing tenderly into his ear.
"Don't panic yourself, dear-heart, it'll all be over soon," he whispers. "He's going to come after you, and I'll let him. And I'll catch him. And I'll torture you in front of him. I'll cut off bits of you at a time, and I'll make you eat them. I'll burn off every hair on your body. I'll pull out your eyes with tweezers. I'll slice you down from forehead to arsehole and peel off your skin. And when you're dying, and mad, and bloody, and senseless, I'll let him kill you. I'll let him put you out of your fucking misery for once and for all."
Talk of Sherlock always gets John on edge, and he tenses in Moriarty's arms.
"Armitage," orders Moriarty. "Come over here. It's time for your favour."
He looks up, and Armitage is standing there, shaking, gun pointed squarely at Moriarty's skull.
Moriarty doesn't let go of his hold on John. He grins, slowly, until all his white teeth are showing. He looks delighted, as if observing the results of a successful experiment.
"Now now, my dear," Moriarty says, black eyes fixed unnervingly on Armitage. "Think this through."
"I have," retorts Armitage, voice choked.
"Moran did warn me about this happening," Moriarty admits, tilting his head to the side. "He insisted you were untrustworthy. You'd be happy to know that I defended you. You wouldn't be so ungrateful as to shoot the man who saved your life."
Armitage stuttered. "I am grateful, but … what we're doing is wrong. You can't do this to people."
"You know why I had Moran leave?" Moriarty stands, walks closer. "This is another test, Armitage. I know you are obedient, but you falter when it comes to these sorts of things. I wanted to see how far you would go for me."
Armitage backs away, keeping the gun trained on Moriarty's forehead.
"What do you mean?"
Moriarty grins.
"It was a psychological experiment, sweetie. I wanted to see what would make you turn. Tell me ... what was the deal breaker? You quite happily smashed his little hands in with a claw hammer. You were fine holding his head still so I could cut out his tongue."
He pauses, eyes flicking over to John (who was breathing quickly, blue eyes darting between the gun and Moriarty) and back again, mouth twisting as he thinks.
"Was it the amputation?" he muses, tapping his chin. "I suppose it was rather grisly."
"I won't kill you," says Armitage. "Just … go. Go and don't come back."
"And leave you alone with your little crush lying half-naked on the table, helpless and grateful?" Moriarty says with a sly smile. "I don't think so."
"It's not like that," Armitage protests. "And I would never do that."
Moriarty's expression darkens.
"Yes you would."
He slinks back over to John, slides a hand down his chest. "You can't lie to me, dear. I make my business in knowing people."
He glances back.
"And playing them off of each other, naturally."
"Don't touch him," Armitage says, as John twists under Moriarty's hands. Moriarty ignores this.
"I know exactly how far you would go, and I know for a fact that you're not above fucking people who can't exactly … refuse you."
"Past is past," hisses Armitage through gritted teeth. He knows he should end this and kill Moriarty now, but he can't quite bring himself to shoot.
"People don't change," Moriarty counters, and he shrugs his shoulders. "I know you through and through. I know you won't shoot me and I know that, even if you do leave now, you'll come back to me. Your type always does."
"I am done with this," Armitage says, taking aim, his finger pressing cautiously on the trigger. One squeeze and it would all be over, Moriarty's brilliant, mad brain splattered on the concrete wall.
There's a loud bang and the door to the basement flings open. Armitage reacts in shock, opening fire in the direction of the noise, but there's a powerful impact in the centre of his chest that drops him to his knees. He falls face-forward onto the concrete and the world around him blackens.
***
Sherlock bursts into the room after Musgrave and his two associates, startled at the gunfire.
They better not have -- oh thank god.
"Keep him alive," he barks at the man holding Moriarty, who had been knocked unconscious by a well-placed blow to the skull. The dangerous mind wasn't half as threatening when the body was lolling about so defencelessly.
He rushes to John, who is trying to say something through his split tongue, the words intelligible, face haggard with emotion, shock and relief and a thousand other things that Sherlock can't decipher. His eyes are wet but he's struggling to hold back the tears, and although he's in terrible pain, he stays silent.
"John," breathes Sherlock, reaching down and holding him close, careful not to press on any injuries. He inhales with his nose in John's hair, overcome for a moment, just thanking anything that's out there for the fact that John is here and alive and can be saved.
John is still cautious, tired as he is, he doesn't want Sherlock to worry. He hides his pain, trembling with the effort.
"It's okay," hushes Sherlock, cradling John's head. "You've been brave, John. It's okay to hurt now. There's an ambulance outside and it's going to take you to hospital, and everything will be fine, I promise."
John huffs a shuddering breath, and then he finally lets himself cry, burying his face into Sherlock's neck. They are tears of pain, frustration and relief, hot and salty on Sherlock's skin. Sherlock holds his broken body as he shakes with every pained breath, stroking the back of his neck, only moving away when the paramedics come in to whisk John off to a private hospital.
Sherlock leans in before John is taken away, hand pressed to his good shoulder.
"I'll be there when you wake up from surgery," he says. "I have things to sort out here."
John nods weakly, clearly on the verge of passing out, and Sherlock lets him be taken away.
Now it's just him, Musgrave, and two of Musgrave's fellow agents.
Sherlock mentally composes himself. He straightens his coat, and finally takes a good look around the room. He can see what the camera didn't let him see, the laptop on the desk that connected Moriarty to his private video hosts, the collection of torture devices that he never got around to using, a box of medical materials and drugs that presumably were used to put John together after each broadcast.
"Who's the man?" he asks Musgrave, who is kneeling over the corpse that Sherlock recognises as one of Moriarty's mercenaries.
"No identity," says Musgrave, standing up and shrugging. His gun, which took the killing shot, has already been holstered. "Nothing in any of his pockets apart from camera batteries."
Sherlock takes Moriarty's laptop. He needs to get to the hospital. "I need you to do a cleanup while I investigate this. There was another man like this one, so be on your guard. And keep Moriarty alive, I want to question him later."
Musgrave nods, and Sherlock leaves.
***
The hospital is private and well-maintained. It falls under the umbrella of Mycroft's considerable influence, and he sends his spies and operatives there when they are injured in the line of duty, and need a place to recover where bullet-wounds and the like aren't reported to the police. The staff are highly trained, and the facility is kept up-to-date with the latest technology.
John has been in surgery for five hours.
During that time, Sherlock had tried and failed to get anything out of Moriarty's laptop (the man was a computer genius) and had eventually given up and handed the thing over to Mycroft and his technicians.
"You should have informed me, Sherlock, in more detail, what was happening," Mycroft had admonished when Sherlock handed over the laptop. "Why did you insist on solving this without me? John could have died."
"This wasn't an issue with my ego," Sherlock snaps. "Moriarty had tabs on me. I didn't know who to trust. If I had gone running to you, he might have found out and killed John."
"Perhaps John would have preferred that," Mycroft says loftily, turning to go, but Sherlock is on him in a second and pushes him to the wall, livid.
"Don't say it," he hisses, teeth bared.
Mycroft grimaces in distaste and shoves Sherlock off. He straightens his suit, and brushes out the crumples. "He'll be in pain for the rest of his life, and he's lost his dominant hand."
"I will look after him," Sherlock retorts.
Mycroft scoffs. "You will grow bored very quickly."
"I owe John," Sherlock says. "If it wasn't for me …"
"Does he know?" Mycroft asks, with a glint in his eye. "Does he know that you're the one who chose what would happen to him?"
"I believe so," Sherlock says. "Anyway, I'll tell him when he wakes up. I'll tell him everything."
John is small on the hospital bed. His broken hand is in a cast up to and over his elbow, and his stump has been bandaged, the skin over the wound having been sutured together. His various cuts and bruises have been treated, and the scalpel injury to his left shoulder has stitches.
(freshly cut doctor)
John's eyes blink open, bleary under the influence of drugs.
Sherlock has always been able to track John's thoughts. He can see them play now across his face, the profound relief that he is no longer in that damned basement, the pain hitting him, causing him to wince, the momentary horror that is blanked out for Sherlock's benefit as he remembers his stump, which twitches against the blanket.
He smiles weakly at Sherlock, who desperately wants to touch him, hold him, reassure himself that John is okay, but he knows that is more than a little bit not good.
Sherlock settles for resting a hand on the soft skin above the cast. "I'm sorry," he whispers to John, who shakes his head.
They sit that way in silence until a doctor walks in to talk through recovery. He's smart and efficient, business-like, and doesn't talk down to them.
Sherlock can see he is also a former army surgeon, and has been married for five years with at least one small child, most likely a girl. He lets go of John's arm and sits back, intent on what is going to be said, but letting the man talk directly to John.
"There's good news and bad news," says the doctor, sitting on a chair next to the bed so John doesn't have to crane his neck to look at him. "The good news is that your tongue will heal completely, although you need to give it time. People have tongue-splitting surgeries all the time, a sort of body-modification, and one of the difficulties is stopping the two sides joining back together. Admittedly, the split in your tongue is rather messy, so there will likely be scarring, and your tongue will be less mobile and narrower than you are used to. This may affect your speech."
John nods, and Sherlock feels hope swelling in his chest.
"Your right hand is trickier. Every bone was fractured. We treated it with internal fixation, where we fix the bones use wires and pins so the bone callus can heal around it in the correct formation. Because most of the bones in your hand are broken, there is a lot of metal in you right now. You'll be in pain for a good while afterwards, as this sort of thing takes several months to heal. You'll never have the same level of control as before, but you will have a useable hand.
"Then there's your left arm. You're a healthy guy, you have good blood circulation, so there shouldn't be any trouble with tissues dying. Most people can cope perfectly well after amputation. There are prosthetics and the like, and have specialists here who can help you with therapies. I'll leave it to them to discuss this further with you."
When the doctor is out of the room, Sherlock turns back to John. The man is more awake now, and he is watching Sherlock closely, obviously curious but not sure what to ask.
"You want to hear how I found you," Sherlock says, and John nods.
Sherlock explains, how Moriarty emailed him, how he was forced to pick between torture methods, how he watched them all, because everything Moriarty saw of John, Sherlock had to see too.
He explains how Mycroft sent him the CCTV, and how he was able to use the make of the drivers GPS and the time taken to travel, and the little he had seen of the basement to work out where John had been taken.
"The men I was with, when I came to get you, they were friends of Musgrave. That man owes me. Years back, I helped him recover his hidden family fortune. He used to be the army, and he specialised in retrieving important prisoners of war, which is why I used him to get you out."
He's helping me question Moriarty, Sherlock didn't say.
He visits John every evening, between his investigation.
Moriarty's organisation is all but ruined. His right-hand man, Sebastian Moran, who Sherlock recognises as the missing mercenary who cut of John's hand, is still at large. But not for long, if Sherlock has his way.
He sits next to John on the hospital bed, and vows to stay with him, and help him recover.
"You will never be a burden," Sherlock promises. "I'll retire. I'll spend the rest of my life looking after you. And I won't do it begrudgingly, and I won't do it out of pity, I'll do it because you are the most important person in my life, and the kindest, bravest friend a man could have."
John's gaze softens, and he leans towards Sherlock, who gently kisses him on his wrinkled brow, and lets John rest his head on his shoulder. He runs his fingers though John's downy hair, and together they stare out of the window at the grey London sky.
"My family owns a cottage in Ditchling, in the Sussex Downs," Sherlock says after a while, and John glances up at him. "I used to spend summer holidays there when I was a child, exploring the village, visiting the farms, taking long walks in the nature reserve. I've often thought of it as the place I would return to, after all of this."
He waves his hand at what he could see of the city, and John lifts his head, questioning.
"I was wondering …" Sherlock stumbles over his words. "When you get out of hospital, I was wondering if you'd like to live there with me. It's very peaceful. And only an hours train ride from London, if you ever wanted to return for a visit. It's just - I think we need a break from London." He exhales slowly. "A very, very long break."
John smiles, his blue-grey eyes crinkling at the edges. He dips his head, nodding, and Sherlock slowly smiles back.
"Really?"
"Yes," John says hesitantly through his healing tongue, and moves forward, kissing Sherlock's temple before nestling into his shoulder again. They lie together until visiting hours are over, and then Sherlock excuses himself.
He strides past nurses and doctors and hospital orderlies, recognising those who are helping with John's recovery and returning their greetings. He exits the hospital and takes an expensive taxi ride west to Ealing. In the failing pink-grey light, Musgrave is waiting for him outside one of the warehouses, and the two shake hands. Their long shadows stretch over concrete, lone figures in streets of metal buildings.
"Mr Holmes."
"Mr Musgrave. How is he?"
"Not exactly good as new, but that's not really a problem in our case, isn't it?"
Musgrave has a ring of keys, which he uses to open an apparently unused warehouse, and takes Sherlock in.
A scrawny pale figure dressed in nothing but a hospital gown is strapped to a metal table in the middle of the open space, hands and feet bound by leather cuffs to each corner. The room is cold, and his breath spirals into clouds as he breathes, the movement of his lungs discernable through the flimsy fabric of the hospital gown. He jerks as Sherlock and Musgrave come in, staring wildly with huge black eyes.
Sherlock pulls off his coat (don't want it to get ruined) and covers up with a lab coat, snapping on latex gloves. He walks over to Moriarty and grips at his hair, pulling his head back and leaning in until they're pressed forehead to forehead, ice pale eyes glaring directly into beetle-black.
"Remember what I said?" Sherlock hissed. "Everything you did to John, I'll do to you. Except I have the knowledge and skills to make it last longer, to make it hurt so much more. I'm going to keep you alive for days, Jim, and I guarantee you'll be wishing I'll just let you die by the end of it."
Moriarty grins widely. He can't speak after Sherlock had burnt his tongue into nothing with concentrated HCl, after extracting every last bit of useful information out of him.
This isn't the investigation. This is revenge.
Musgrave gets the camera working, and he nods at Sherlock. They're live.
"Hello, Moran," Sherlock drawls, fingers still tightly laced into Moriarty's dark hair. "We're going to play a game."
END