To the Ends of this Earth

Chapter Seven

    The high hit him like a truck, it was sudden, a huge blast of clarity coupled with heart racing feelings, it was almost as good as touching John. Sherlock sucked in a greedy breath, like he was resurfacing from the bottom of a deep murky lake. He stood up like he'd been struck by lightning. What he had to do next was extremely important.

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    John's eyes fluttered, he couldn't see clearly. Fluorescent lights swam and blurred above his head, the smell of an underground parking garage assaulted his senses, Moriarty's leering face flashed in and out. He looked like an eel, all forced grin and beady dead eyes. There was a flash of red, somewhere in his head John was aware that he had been hit, but he didn't feel the pain. All John could feel was a blaring headache and something in the back of his mind that he couldn't remember.
    "Johhhnnn," Moriarty sang mockingly. He slapped his face lightly a few times, "Johhhny boy," he sang again, hovering over him. "JOHN!" He screamed, suddenly violent. He drew his arm back and with all of his force, whipped his arm around and slapped John in the face.
    John was hit with a sudden awareness, he was tied to a metal chair, the chair was bolted to the cement floor beneath him, and his wrists were bound uncomfortably behind him. The awareness was only temporary because everything was still blurry and his memories wouldn't come. He tried to speak but his words slurred together, his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and it seemed fuzzy and numb. "Sherlock," he managed to mumble. John wasn't quite sure where the name came from, but he remembered that the owner was very important.
    "Hahahaha," Moriarty threw his head back and laughed, he sounded like a hungry jackal, the noise was jarring and fiercely unwelcome, like it hadn't been designed to have a place in this world. "Sherlock can't help you now John! For now it's just you - and me."
    "Wha di you dotomee," John's words slipped together like mud, like trying to climb up something that was just to slippery.
    "Oh John, it's just a bit of drugs. Not to worry though," he moved around to the back of the chair, and placed his hands on John's shoulders. "I made it myself." He whispered, bending down so that his cool breath tickled John's ear.
    "Wha-at do you wanth," garbled John, he had tried to sound brave but speaking at all was getting harder and harder. Did Moriarty drug him again?
    "Don't worry yourself John, we're just going to film Sherlock a little video."
Sherlock, that name. What was it? Mixed emotions swirled in John's drugged brain. He felt annoyance and loss but there were also other things, like hope and protection but none of these were as powerful as the one that washed over him next: Love. Images of soft curly dark hair swirled around him, long legs and an elven body, thin fingers expertly spinning the dials on a microscope. All the pictures danced in his brain, alluring and desirable but just out of reach. John needed him here now, John needed to find Sherlock and tell him just how much he needed him. Even with so many drugs flowing through his blood, one thing was blatantly present in his mind: John might not live to see tomorrow, and he couldn't let himself die without telling Sherlock the truth.

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    There were a million thoughts coursing through Sherlock's brain and every single one of them had to do with John. Why was John taking up so much space in his head? He needed space to think, he needed room, but he couldn't delete anything. He couldn't delete the way John smiled sarcastically when Sherlock was being stubborn, he couldn't delete the way John looked in his best suit, he couldn't delete John's deep blue eyes. Oh his eyes, Sherlock sighed happily, completely lost in his high for a moment. He was beginning to sink into the floor, submerged in a daydream when something snapped him back to reality: It was a small electronic ding, a text message. Sherlock hurriedly opened it, knowing it could only be from one person.

Hey Sherl! John says hi, we are having the most fantastic time! He's so smitten with me <3, but he keeps calling your name! Oh Sherl, you know that makes me mad, I guess I'll have to take it out on something... Or someone.
www.savejohnsherlock.uk

JM

    Rage flooded Sherlock's body, how could he do this? How could he insinuate the things that he was insinuating! John and Moriarty! The thought made his stomach turn, and Sherlock could feel the blood rushing through his body, he could feel the anger. His fists were shaking, his breaths were quick and shallow. The vibrating impulsive feeling of anger filled every inch of him, until he couldn't hold it anymore. Sherlock let out a guttural scream and smashed the first things his hands touched onto the hardwood with all the force he could muster. He didn't realize what he had thrown until he heard the sickening crunch. He looked down, hoping, willing it not to be true, but it was.
It was Sherlock's violin.
Suddenly all of the violence and rage left him in a wave, not his violin, not that. He crumpled to a ball on the ground for the second time in the night, he cradled the remnants of his most highly valued possession in his arms and began to sob the deep, heart wrenching sound of a man crying. The sound that seems alien, the sound that makes your heart skip a beat because it is almost disturbing, the sound that shows just how deeply wrong something has gone.
    "No, no not this, not you, not you, I'm so sorry, please please, don't let it be, please don't let it be, please not this, not John, never John. John, John, JOHN." His words were quiet and hushed but filled with unequivocal pain. As they reached their crescendo they were no longer whispered words: They were the words of a man who was not unlike his violin. Broken.

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*hides underneath covers to cry* why did I do this?

xx
-Johnlox