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Science and Faith	By : ambersue Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3734 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (BBC). The show and all characters belong to BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I don't profit from a thing.

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A/N: Thanks to all of who have commented--the comments are much appreciated! I am writing as quickly as I can...about three more chapters to go! I can't for the life of me figure out how to reply to comments on this site, so let me just say, my apologies for the cliffhangers, and I promise they are frustrating me at least as much as they are frustrating you :)
So lay your cuts and bruises over my skin
I promise you won’t feel a thing
Cause everything the world could throw
I’ll stand in front, I’ll take the blow for you¹
___________________________________________________________________________________
“You walk back into my life, you tear down everything I’ve managed to build, and I let you do it…”

John’s hands around his head, John’s fingers in his hair. The doctor’s eyes are wide, frantic, his voice rising in a way that Sherlock recognises—it’s the same tone the detective uses when he can’t make everyone see what he sees, when someone is refusing to notice what’s in plain sight.

The blue of John’s eyes is black in the firelight, and Sherlock can almost hear the thrum of his pulse—elevated—and the detective tells himself it’s just curiosity that makes him lean forward, just an experiment. But John doesn’t fight him, doesn’t even try.

Instead, the doctor’s mouth opens to him, and whatever pretence Sherlock is hiding behind falls away, because hell, the man isn’t lying. He needs Sherlock, and the detective, so accustomed to being merely tolerated, is struck by how very much he wants to be needed. His fingers wrap around John’s arm, possessive, and he feels the doctor surrender beneath him, and that does it—a flash of something burns through him, brighter than a magnesium flame, sudden and hot and desperate. God, he hasn’t felt—hasn’t wanted—not like this, not since Victor.

John tastes of tea and scotch and steel, and he’s nothing like what Sherlock’s wanted before. He’s not brilliant; he’s not special—but he is somehow both, and the steadiness of him, his belief, is overwhelming in its simplicity. The detective shivers, his lips leaving John’s mouth and trailing over his neck, marking him, claiming him, like a promise. A constant, he thought him once. And it feels like truth when John whispers his name.

It’s the cold that wakes Sherlock. He groans and stretches on the sofa, then immediately recoils when his feet hit the frigid air of the room. Curling into the foetal position, he draws the blanket tighter about himself, reaching for John—

John. Images of the previous night flood his consciousness, triggering a release of serotonin that floods his body with pleasant warmth. He spreads his fingers under the blanket, seeking warm skin, and shivers a little when he finds only upholstery. The warmth radiating through him subsides. No John. He opens one eye. Early morning sunlight is streaming in through the sitting room windows, and he is alone on the sofa.

He’s an early riser. Probably just didn’t want to wake me. The thought does not ease the icy fingers twisting themselves into his gut. He wraps the blanket around himself and sits up, all senses online.

There’s no scent of cooking breakfast or brewing coffee, no groaning of water pipes to suggest John is grabbing a shower. His clothes are gone, but Sherlock’s are still lying about, and John Watson is not the type of man to leave soiled pyjamas lying in the sitting room floor, not unless—

Sherlock glances at the door, and the cold fingers in his belly clench into a tight fist. John’s shoes are gone, and his coat. <i>No.</i> His brain tries to simultaneously implode and explode, resulting in a sort of chaotic stasis that leaves him unable to stand but incapable of sitting still. His fingers grip the blanket, knuckles white.

I told you, John. I told you they leave, and you said…you promised— Except that’s not fair, because he didn’t promise, not really. But surely he knew? Knew what it cost Sherlock to do…Hell, but how would he know? I asked! I asked if it was too much, and he said! He said he wanted it. He wasn’t lying. I would know if he was lying.

Do you know what the worst thing is that can happen to a man, Sherlock? This time it’s Victor’s voice in his head. The worst thing a man can get, Sherlock, is exactly what he wants. That will break a man. And what did you do? You gave him what he wanted. Sherlock pushes the thought aside—it’s useless.

There are logical reasons for John to be gone. Perhaps they’re out of milk—but no, Mrs. Hudson brought some on Sunday. Was he taken? Moran implied that he could reach Sherlock anywhere. A quick glance around the flat, a re-evaluation of the clues, discourages this theory. Nothing is out of place, aside from Sherlock’s pyjamas on the floor and the remains of John’s dinner. There are no signs of a struggle. A walk, then. John could just be out for a walk. At half six in the morning. With a mass murderer hunting him.

Sherlock rockets to his feet, letting the blanket fall and pacing anxiously across the sitting room. Damn him! What the devil was he thinking?

He wasn’t thinking. He just needed to get out, to get away. The thought stings so sharply that the detective sucks in his breath, tangling his hands in his hair. He is not thinking of Victor standing in the rain, smirking and vicious and absolutely vindicated.

Sherlock goes to the door, fumbling through his coat pockets until he finds his phone. No missed calls, no texts. His fingers fly across the screen.

6:34 AM
Where are you? –SH

6:35 AM
Come home. It isn’t safe. –SH

6:37 AM
John. Please. –SH

The detective forces himself to stop typing. Sending more messages isn’t going to make John reply faster. If he can reply at all, his mind supplies darkly. Sherlock shakes himself. He has to act, to move.

He is shrugging into his coat before he remembers that he’s still nude. Cursing, he storms into his bedroom to dress, keeping his phone on hand, because John may text: Stop worrying, you silly git, I’ve just… Sherlock can’t even finish the fantasy, because too many horrible possibilities are presenting themselves to his well-informed imagination. God, John has to be all right. Angry, regretful, even disgusted—fine. Just not hurt, or worse.

By the time Sherlock makes it out the door, the icy tendrils of dread have spread from his belly, twining viciously around his heart.

***

“Sherlock, you’d better have a damn good reason for calling before I’ve even had my first cup of—”

“John is gone.”

“Christ.” Lestrade’s irritation fades immediately. “How long?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, calculating. The cushions were cold when he awoke; John had already been gone for some time. “I’m not sure,” he says at last. “A few hours, maybe. Sometime after midnight.”

“And you don’t know where he went?”

“I’d hardly be calling you if I did.”

“Right.” A pause, then: “I don’t understand. He knows what’s at stake here. Why’d he leave? Why in the middle of the night? You don’t think—”

“He left willingly.” Sherlock can’t keep a hint of bitterness from his voice. He hopes it’s bitterness—neediness is so undignified.

“He wouldn’t be that stupid, surely.”

“Apparently his stupidity exceeds previous estimations.”

Lestrade’s voice is suddenly suspicious. “Did something happen? I mean, did you do something? Upset him, maybe?”

“I didn’t…” The detective takes a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

For a marvel, Lestrade doesn’t push the subject. “What do you need from me?” he asks after a moment.

“Check his flat. I’ll check Mary’s. And then…hell, I don’t—”

“If he’s not there, I’ll try work. I’ll get my guys on it. Sherlock? We’ll find him.”

Sherlock’s hand grips the phone until his fingertips are white. “Please,” is all he can say.

***

“Yes, alright! Leaning on the bell is hardly going to make it—oh. You?” The surprise is evident on Mary’s face when she answers her door, and something sinks in Sherlock’s chest.

“He’s not here.” It’s not a question.

“He’s not—” Mary’s brow furrows. “John? Why would he be here? He’s not with you?”

“He was. He…he left.”

She studies him, and he’s alarmed to find he can’t read her expression. “You said you didn’t want him out of your sight.”

“I didn’t. I don’t. I—” He makes himself stop, clenching his teeth. “He didn’t exactly ask my opinion.”

“No. John wouldn’t…” Mary sighs suddenly, rubbing a hand across her eyes. “But I guess I wouldn’t know, would I?”

The detective takes out a cigarette, struggling with his lighter, his hands trembling.

“God,” Mary says, “he really is in trouble, isn’t he?”

Sherlock, still fumbling with the lighter, spares her a half-hearted glare.

“No, obviously. Stupid question. But—look at you. You’re a bigger mess than he was.”

That makes the detective pause. Mary takes the lighter from his slackened grasp, thumbing it to life. Sherlock lights his cigarette, and they watch each other carefully.

“You don’t know what you did to him,” Mary says quietly. “The whole time I’ve known him, it’s like he was asleep. And then you showed up, and he—he just woke up. I think—I don’t know. He cares about you, you know.”

John arches his back beneath him, and Sherlock can feel him hard and wanting, and God, how has he done this? How has this ordinary man made him greater, made him more? The doctor is watching him with a curious expression, something like sadness, something like responsibility. He pulls Sherlock close and kisses him—and there is no hunger in it this time. John isn’t taking anything with this kiss, he is only giving, and no one has ever kissed Sherlock like this before. Every motion of John’s lips is an offering, and something the detective didn’t even know was aching is suddenly at ease.

“What was that for?” he asks when John finally pulls away.

“Just needed doing, I suppose.”

Sherlock doesn’t stop breathing, his heart doesn’t stop beating, but something in him is dying just the same. It’s a terrifying sensation, and he hides his face in John’s neck so the doctor won’t see it in his eyes.

The detective’s eyes close against the memory, and he takes a long drag on his cigarette, remembering at the last moment to exhale away from Mary’s face. The smoke stutters strangely, his breath as unsteady as his hands.

“You care, too,” says Mary. “I can see it.”

“He’s my friend.” My only friend, the best I’ve ever had. He’s mine. He’s my John.

“Mr. Holmes…Sherlock.” She hands him back his lighter, and the detective can see the unshed tears in her eyes. “These people you mentioned before…you think someone took John?”

Another drag while he decides how to answer this. “He left on his own,” he says at last. “But he’s not answering my texts, and he’s been gone for hours. Either he’s angry with me, or he’s…” He can’t finish the thought.

“Angry with you? I doubt it.”

The detective snorts and says nothing, every line of his body shouting contempt for this statement.

Mary draws herself up, filling the doorway as much as she can with her tiny frame. “Don’t. He said you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Treat everyone else like they’re idiots.”

“They usually are.”

“Well, I might not be a genius, but I’m not wrong. Ignoring you because he’s angry? That’s not John. I might not know all of him, but I know that. He was furious with you when he found out you were alive. He didn’t ignore you then.”

Cigarette smoke curls from Sherlock’s slightly parted lips where he’s forgotten to close his mouth. A grudging part of him can see—vaguely—why John may have liked this one. For an ordinary person, she’s…well, not bright. But somewhat less lacklustre than the rest.

Unfortunately, her logic also confirms what he already knows, what he’s known since he awoke, if he’s honest. Wherever John is, he is not okay. He can see it on Mary’s face that she’s followed this train of thought to its destination.

Her fingers pull at his sleeve, and he freezes at the touch. “Sorry,” she says, pulling her hand back. “Just…find him. Please. He’s…I know he isn’t mine to worry about anymore, but he’s still the best man I’ve ever known.”

John’s heartbeat under his hand, John’s taste in the back of his throat. Sherlock brushes his thumb across the doctor’s skin, self-regulating, trying to calm the strange, sweet terror that has settled in his stomach. He’s awake for a long time after John has nodded off, thumb tracing a rhythm, fingers twitching across imaginary strings, comforting himself by composing a melody to the time signature of John’s breathing.

The detective puts his lighter back in his pocket, for the first time feeling a twinge of pity for Mary. “Yes,” he says, and he leaves.

***

John opens his eyes to darkness, and the first thing he thinks is, Not again. Knowing Sherlock has taught him firsthand that no good ever comes of waking up in a strange place with only a pounding headache to suggest how you got there.

Not that he was very keen on the idea of getting kidnapped by murderous psychopaths to begin with.

He shifts, and has to swallow a scream—his limbs are all in various stages of numbness, and when he moves, pain lances through his stiff muscles. He focuses on taking deep breaths, trying to flood his body with oxygen, to raise his heart rate and increase his circulation. Slowly, the stabbing pains in his arms and legs give way to a constant, unwavering ache. John lets his eyes adjust to the dimness, taking stock of his situation.

He’s in a small room, seated on a hard wooden chair. Bound to the chair, he realises, finding restraints at his wrists and ankles—thin, plastic, not digging into his skin, but tight enough keep him in place—and thicker belts around his forearms and chest that feel like leather. Aside from that, he’s wearing…nothing at all. As his eyes adjust further, he can see thin wires taped along his limbs and torso. His gaze follows their serpentine lines, but they disappear into the gloom of the room.

Brilliant, he thinks, and shivers a little. Just bloody fantastic. But the sarcasm is a refuge against the welling panic in his gut. This is so very not good.

He tries to remember what happened, to decide how long he’s been out. The previous night comes to him in a series of sensations and still images: he can remember the way Sherlock’s weight felt against his chest, sleeping. He remembers waking, his lungs crying out for air, and he remembers leaving. He remembers turning the corner from Baker Street to Marylebone, and he has a vague recollection of something heavy colliding with him from behind, a pinch at his neck, hot breath against his cheek, and then…nothing.

God, he’s an idiot.

Too kind. Complete fucking bell-end, more like. And almost simultaneously, he thinks, Christ, Sherlock. I’m sorry.

Footsteps. John makes himself sit up straight and still, trying to ignore the way his heart hammers in his chest as the doorknob turns. The door opens, and John can see a dark silhouette outlined against a bit of corridor lit by wan grey daylight. Then the figure’s arm moves and two bare light bulbs flare to life on the ceiling, making the doctor flinch in spite of himself. He blinks, squinting up at the man who enters the room.

He is built somewhat like Sherlock, not strikingly tall, but with a lean frame that gives him the illusion of height. His dark hair wants cutting, the ends curling slightly around his ears, but the set of his spine, the subtle rigidity in his movements read military. Not that John needs to read him. He knows exactly who this is.

“Captain. Nice to see you awake,” says Moran. A faint Irish lilt clings to his voice, making it sound warm, but the doctor notices that warmth never touches his eyes. John stares at him and says nothing.

Again, the lower half of the man’s face remains amicable, disarming, while the upper half is cold and calculating. John feels gooseflesh ripple across his arms as Moran smiles.

“Don’t feel like talking? Shame. I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you.” He circles around John’s chair, and the doctor’s eyes track his movement. With the lights on, John can see that the walls are padded with soundproofing material. The wires attached to his body are clearly visible now, but they lead to a point somewhere behind him, outside the range of his vision. John tries not to think about what they might be connected to.

Moran continues circling, talking as he goes. “We have a lot in common, you and I. We’re both military men—strong sense of duty. Loyal.” He pauses, leering down at John unpleasantly. “Both have a bit of a thing for the mad genius type, eh?”

The doctor just glares at him, and Moran takes a step back, laughing. “Oh, Captain Watson! Jim was right about you. That stubborn streak—he always said it was adorable. Bit condescending, but that was Jim’s way. Now me, I think it’s admirable. It’s a soldier’s stubbornness—that’s what keeps the good ones alive. Not talent, not bravery, just honest-to-Christ bull-headedness.”

The man moves so he is behind John, and the doctor can hear the scrape of a chair against the wooden floor as Moran presumably sits down.

“I like you, Captain, let me make that clear,” says Moran. “My fight is not with you. You and I…we’re pawns. Your friend, Mr. Holmes, he thinks he’s won the game because he killed the king—and maybe he has, at that. But this pawn is alive and well, and your man has a murder to answer for.”

“Suicide,” John corrects him. He was trained to remain silent, not to offer information, to recite his name, rank, and serial number in response to an interrogation. But in spite of the obvious threat of torture, Moran is not interrogating him. John isn’t sure how to categorise what the man is doing. Monologuing at him, maybe.

“What was that?” says Moran from behind him.

John clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “Suicide, actually. Moriarty killed himself.”

A snort. “And you suppose Holmes had nothing to do with that? You’re a lot of things, Captain—I didn’t take you for an idiot.”

John has nothing to say to that. Sherlock did say he’d—how had he phrased it?—tipped the scales.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing you like people,” he says, changing the subject. “Do you always go around doing…what was that you gave me, anyway? Bit more exotic than my HBV jabs.”

“Thiopentone. One of your RAMC mates taught me that one. If I didn’t like you, I’d have used the chloroform. I thought I’d spare you the headache.”

The doctor can’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Cheers. Naked tied to a chair is much more comfortable.”

“Well, you have dear departed Mr. Trevor to thank for the naked bit.” Moran’s tone becomes thoughtful. “Did you know, Captain, that electrocuting someone with their clothes on can actually make them catch fire?”

Images flood John’s mind: charred skin, raw and rippled from flame. He shivers. “Why?” he asks quietly. “Why him? Why me? Why would you—”

There is no warning. His mind goes white, every muscle in his body contracting at once, and his back arches off the chair, straining against his bonds. His teeth snap shut, and it takes him a moment to realise the high-pitched whine that suddenly fills the room is coming from his throat.

It’s only seconds, but when it ends, John collapses back into the chair, panting. The white dissolves to red, then to black around the edges as the doctor’s whine becomes a whimper, faint and thin against the backdrop of Moran’s voice, which rolls on in its cheerful baritone.

“You are wired to the mains, Captain,” the man says, almost gently. “For your own sake, I’d avoid stupid questions. Why, indeed. Surely you know the answer already.”

“W-why,” John echoes dumbly. He blinks, steadies himself, and ignores the way his left hand is suddenly trembling. “Because you—you think—we’re important.”

Moran murmurs his approval. “Important to him, yes. Mr. Trevor, now he was the stone what felled two birds, if you will. After Jim was gone, well, some of his clients tried to divvy up his empire for themselves. And that didn’t sit well with those of us who knew him best—when an artist dies, you don’t give his half-finished masterpieces to a gang of school kids with some finger paints. I needed to send a message to those clients, let them know their disrespect was not appreciated. And it just so happened that they had this friend—a pet barrister, keeping the lot of them out of trouble—and wouldn’t you know it, that barrister is the one time close personal friend of one Sherlock Holmes. Very personal, if I’ve the right of it.”

John is still struggling to catch his breath, the muscles in his throat contracting painfully. “He—hates him.”

“Maybe. But he certainly doesn’t hate you, does he, Captain? And he had to wonder, if I got my hands on one close, personal friend…well, it was only a matter of time before I got my hands on the other.”

The doctor shakes his head minutely, clenching and unclenching his hand.

“Don’t be thick,” says Moran. “The man’s already died for you once. He never did as much for poor Mr. Trevor.”

John’s brow furrows. “—the hell are you talking about?” he wheezes.

“Oh.” There is genuine surprise in the Irishman’s voice. “He hasn’t told you, then? I’d have thought he’d be rabbitting on about it left and right. Not very modest, your Mr. Holmes.”

Silence, as a memory stirs in John—Sherlock’s features sullen with disappointment, Sherlock’s lips stubbornly closed. You said you didn’t want to know why I faked my death.

“You never asked him why he jumped?” Moran presses, and the doctor’s heart sinks into his stomach like a lump of lead, because he already knows what’s coming.

You know I’d never have done anything like this without a good reason. But John had been too angry, too hurt to listen. Shame burns in his chest, and his breath escapes in groan.

“I had you in my sights, you know,” says Moran, his voice closer, as if he’s leaning toward the doctor. “That was the deal Jim made. Holmes jumped, or I got to pull the trigger.” He pauses, letting the weight of that settle on John. “Not just you, of course. Jim thought you would be enough, but I told him we needed insurance. The landlady he’s so fond of, and that pet DI of his. Their lives—and yours—in exchange for his.”

“No.” The word is a whisper, John’s head shaking now—not in denial of the Irishman’s words, but at his own blindness, his own hypocrisy; he, who claimed he’d never stop believing in Sherlock Holmes, how could he have doubted him? How could he not…not just see what was so painfully obvious?

It’s doubt that made him angry, doubt that made him afraid—scared that Sherlock would leave again, and if he’d known, God, he’d never have left that sofa, nightmares be damned. The memory again, of Sherlock’s head against his chest, that maybe means nothing and maybe means everything, and John Watson has left, just like Sherlock said he would.

Fucking hell.

Moran is still talking, relishing John’s obvious distress. “Yes, Captain. Imagine that. I’m not sure Jim would’ve believed it if he’d seen it. He thought Holmes would gamble his life—he values it, absolutely, but not over others, not over yours. But Holmes gambled his ego as well, didn’t he, letting himself be called a fake. Really quite big of him.”

God, Sherlock. Sorry doesn’t cover the half of it.

“So you see, Captain, you’re really the key to everything. Jim knew it from the start—even before Holmes did, I reckon. He’s a bit of a blind spot when it comes to matters of the heart, wouldn’t you say?”

“This is insane,” John says, which isn’t exactly relevant, but it’s all his overwrought brain can come up with. He’s rewarded with a second jolt—this one stretching just a fraction of a second longer, a fraction of a second that breaks down into hours, months, decades, and when it finally subsides, John tastes blood in his mouth where he’s bitten his cheek.

“Ah,” says Moran as the doctor half-heartedly spits a long line of pink saliva. A hand appears, brandishing a leather belt—John’s own, he realises. “Bite on this,” the Irishman instructs. “Another lesson you owe to Mr. Trevor.”

John’s head sags against his chest. “What do you want?” he mumbles through numbed lips.

“I thought that bit was obvious. I want Sherlock Holmes dead, Captain.”

“And how does—this—help you?”

A world-weary sigh from Moran. “You can’t possibly be that naïve. This doesn’t help. It’s just for fun.” His voice curls around the last word like a contented kitten. “Although hurting you hurts Holmes, and that’s alright as well.”

“He doesn’t even—know where you are.”

“I’ve left him the clues. With your imminent danger to motivate him, I’m sure he’ll turn up soon enough. In the meantime, however...” He pushes the belt toward John’s face, insistent. “Let’s play, Captain.”

***

Sherlock’s mobile rings as he’s exiting the cab.

“Anything?”

“No.” Lestrade’s voice is weary, even over the phone. “Not at Mary’s, then?”

Sherlock can’t keep the irritation from his tone. “Obviously.”

Lestrade sighs. “Look, I’m trying to help. John’s a mate, alright?”

The detective knows this is true, but it does nothing to stem the rising flood of his anxiety. As a rule, Sherlock does not traffic in the hypothetical, but the choices that led him here are spread before him like an intricate web, and he can’t help but wonder how the pattern would be different if he’d been more careful, if he’d seen the repercussions. He says nothing, his gaze sweeping the street around him.

“Where are you?” Lestrade asks.

“Bart’s. I need to go over the clues again. He’s told us where he is, I’m sure of it.”

“What, John? How do you—”

“Moran.”

“Okay, right. And who in the actual fuck is Moran?”

“Your killer. One of Moriarty’s agents. He wants me to find him.”

The silence on the other end of the phone is not exactly accusing, but Sherlock winces anyway. If he’d told Lestrade sooner, would it have helped? Unlikely. Moran’s too smart for the Yard; they’d have missed the bullet clue completely. The thought draws another grimace from Sherlock, because he hasn’t fared much better with that clue.

When Lestrade speaks again, his voice is dangerously low. “Anything else I should know? Think carefully, Sherlock. Because if something…well, let’s just say I’m not keen on the chief superintendent having to get involved over an inquiry into the disappearance of my friend.”

The way his stomach turns, like he might be sick—is that guilt? Regret? It’s uncomfortable, but a cutting remark will right him again…except Sherlock can’t seem to summon one. “I’ll have Mycroft send you the file,” he says, humbled by the tremor in his voice.

“Do that,” Lestrade says. Then, softer as he registers the apology in Sherlock’s tone, “You’ll let me know when you figure out the clue?”

Not if, Sherlock notes. When. Another unfamiliar feeling stirs in him, rippling under his skin, easing the sour knot in his stomach, and he’s reasonably sure this one is gratitude. John is his best friend, his closest friend—but not his only friend.

“I will,” the detective promises.

“As soon as?”

A flash of irritation at having to repeat himself, but Sherlock suppresses it. “As soon as,” he agrees.

***

1. The Script. Science & Faith. Sony Music Entertainment UK, 2011.
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