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A Bit Worse	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2624 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 6
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It wasn’t until later that John realized what had happened. He’d been drugged, once again, but this time it was different. It wasn’t the mind numbing cold of the devils breath this time, no. In fact he hadn’t known he was drugged until Moriarty told him later. It had been that bloody H.O.U.N.D. complex from Dartmoor.
At the time he’d been left alone in the dark the entire night. He had no idea what was happening with Sherlock, and he wasn’t even sure if he slept. His nightmares seemed to seep into the corners of his prison, making it impossible to separate reality from his dreams.
He realized they must have pumped the drug through the room later on in the morning, before Moriarty joined him. The drug coursing through his veins was making his head pound, and he wanted nothing more than to rip Moriarty apart. Piece by piece. He’d lunged toward the older man, head first, only to be thrown back to the ground in one swift movement.
“You will do as you’re told or Sherlock will pay for it.” He growled, leering over John and snapping, “Get up and go sit.”
The chair from the day before was still there in the center of the room, and John hurried over to it. His mind was running through all the ways he could disarm the older man, and how likely it was that Mary wouldn’t intervene before he killed him. If he killed him here and now would he already have ways for Sherlock to be hurt? Or was his web honestly diminished enough that he would be nothing?
He was hardly given a chance to think about it before his arms were secured down to the chair, then his ankles, and finally a black piece of fabric was tied around his head, effectively blocking out his vision. It was quiet for some time after that, John wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He heard Moriarty leave the room, but it was dark and silent, leaving his mind racing, picking sounds out of the dark.
Finally he heard Moriarty speak far too close to his ear, hot breath rolling over his neck. “Sherlock is here John. I’ll let you leave with him if he can find you in time.” John had just been about to ask what he was talking about. What he had done to Sherlock, when he heard the sound of a drill starting. Whirring somewhere to the side of him.
That was when he’d begun calling out to Sherlock.
In the end it all became a blur, but at the time it had seemed shockingly real. He’d hear the drill whirring and then the cold spinning metal would meet the flesh underside of his arm. Warm hot liquid rolling down the side as he screamed. It had hurt. It had been excruciating, he was sure of it, but when the blindfold had been removed and he’d been left alone once again he couldn’t find a single mark on him.
He thought back, the drill, the knife. They had all been there. He’d felt them, heard them, but it had all been a trick and Sherlock had never been there either, not really anyways.
In the end John finally began to break. He could no longer fully decipher what was real and what he’d imagined. A few hours later, or what he assumed were hours, Moriarty came back through the door, setting water and bread in front of John before stepping back, looking the doctor over like he was a creature to be dissected.
“Eat.” He said after a few moments of silence. “I’d hate for you to be of no use to me... well that’s not quite true. If you lose your usefulness I’ll simply kill you, but Sherlock will be much less amiable without you alive.”

John glared up at the man but obliged. Taking a sip of water, which turned into a gulp when he realized how thirsty he was. As he picked at the bread he tried not to let on just how desperate he was for each bite, some of his fight returning now that he wasn’t drugged and could see clearly.
“Good.” Moriarty said simply, “Now, so you don’t go completely fall apart mentally. You were drugged earlier with the H.O.U.N.D. compound. You were not harmed at all last time I was in here, but I wasn’t lying about Sherlock, not completely. He could hear every blood curdling scream.” The older man was smiling maniacally at this, and John found he was no longer hungry.
“Is Sherlock alright?” He couldn’t remember hearing Sherlock, he had no idea what had happened.
“Yes and no.” Moriarty offered, shrugging his shoulders.
“What does that mean!” John growled, preparing to lunge at the man when the opportunity arose.
“It means he didn’t fare quite as well as you did. He’ll live, if that’s what you're worried about, but he’s fairly damaged.” He laughed again shaking his head. “Sherly has a small task for me on his own, should give you a bit of time to recoup. Try and get some sleep John.”
John barely had time to grasp the glass cup, still partially full, and throw it at the door. Hitting the back of the door as it swung shut behind Moriarty. He growled in frustration, running his hands through his hair and pulling on it roughly, a choked sob ripping through him.

He wasn’t sure this was better. Yes, at least he hadn’t fully imagined everything that had happened, he’d been tricked. But knowing he had been a tool in whatever had happened to Sherlock made him feel unimaginably worse. The lights had been left on this time. Crawling to the corner of the room he let himself finally nod off, the bread, still half eaten, left in the center of the room.
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Sherlock felt the tiredness in his bones. The weariness of the past two days had taken it’s toll on him and he felt like someone had left a large weight on his belly. His entire body felt extremely heavy, but he was nestled in something soft. It was that thought that brought him fully back to consciousness. The lights in the room were dim, but he could still tell by the lavish decor that he was at Mycroft’s estate. They must have found him after the blast and rushed him here to care for his wounds. Shifting, he found that nothing appeared to be broken, and that he had been patched up quite well. A saline IV drip was attached to his arm and he ripped it out without thought, and moved to sit up. The world swirled a little, but he regained his composure easily, and braced himself to stand. It was easier than he had first thought it would be, and the pain in his right leg from the gunshot wound was minimal. He found his phone and coat as well as fresh clothes waiting for him as if they had known he would end up waking at any moment.
As he was pulling on his clothes, he checked his phone. Nothing. He’d been out for around four hours, and there was no message or missed call to alert him to his next challenge. Heaving a heavy sigh, he collected his jacket from where it hung, still bloody and torn from the back of the chair. It had come in handy so far and it was a bit calming to have something familiar around him. He would have liked better to have his belstaff, but this would have to suffice. The hall was surprisingly deserted, and Sherlock almost allowed himself to think he was home free until he was met at the side door by Lestrade, his arms crossed, and one eyebrow raised.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Out of my way.” Sherlock growled hoarsely.
“Or what?” Greg asked, “You’ve lost quite a bit of blood and now that we’ve got you , knowing what you’re planning, I can’t let you out there again.”
“Get out of my goddamned way Lestrade, or I will hurt you. Do not think for one second that I will hold back.” His phone went off then, and he chanced a quick peek, seeing an address on the screen.
“That’s him isn’t it? You know I can’t let you go.”
“If you don’t you’ll be putting Mycroft and yourself in danger as well.” He snarled, but it came out weaker than he had intended, “He made a threat on your lives if I didn’t get you to leave me to my task. This is me asking nicely. Back. Off. Otherwise I will be forced to break your legs Detective Inspector.”
Greg looked pale, and Sherlock felt like he might have actually gotten through to him. Could he dare to hope that the older man would be on his side?
“Do you think he’d actually hurt My?” Came the soft, expected question.
“There is no doubt in my mind. The only way to help him is to keep him from finding me. Can you help me with that?”
The silver headed man swallowed roughly before stepping to the side, clearing the doorway he’d previously been blocking with his body, “I can try.” As sherlock moved past him, the older man grabbed him by the arm, his fingers almost painfully tight. Two more text alerts sounded, one right after the other, but he ignored them for the moment as he turned to look into the kind eyes of the first man that had ever truly believed in him. Before he’d met John, before he’d gotten off the drugs, this man had believed in the junkie that had only been a shell of his true self. He saw that same trust now in his warm gaze, and Sherlock swallowed against the tightness in his throat.
“I thought about what you asked me. When you asked me what I would do, if it were me... if Mycroft were...” He stopped, clearing his throat when it cracked with emotion, “You go get that son of a bitch. You do whatever you have to do, and we’ll find a way to cover up your involvement when you get back. I’m sure I’ll be the head of the investigation, as long as you keep your face out of the papers, we should be fine.”
He released the detective, and motioned for him to go. Sherlock gave him one swift and resounding nod before disappearing out the door, leaving Greg to watch after, hoping to God he’d made the right decision.
Once he’d made it out the gates, surprisingly easier than he’d thought it would be, Sherlock ducked into the nearest alley and stopped to read the text messages he’d received. The first was as he thought, an address in a private community, and a very wealthy part of London. The next was only two words. Kill her. They made his stomach roil and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. But it was the final text message that sent him sagging into the brick wall behind him. It was a photo of his intended target.
Familiar dark curls were pinned atop her head, chin held high with her typical proud demeanor. Irene Adler. He had saved her life more than once, and now he was being forced to take it away. He couldn’t do it. He had to do it. A soft haunted noise slipped from his lips as he pushed himself to stand once more.
Shaking himself visibly, he set off in the direction of 221b Baker Street. He would be needing John’s gun.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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A Bit Worse