To the Ends of this Earth

Chapter Nine

    It didn't take Sherlock long to find it. The parking garage was big, but not overly so and it was clear from the outside that it had lower levels that no one used anymore. As soon a Sherlock stepped out of the taxi and into the surrounding parking lot he realized with a lurch that this was where John was. He would find him here, whether he was dead or alive.
    His long legs traversed across the pavement smoothly and gracefully, his posture gave away nothing of what was going on in his head, but his appearance did. Sherlock was usually well kept, always freshly bathed and in a finely pressed clothes no matter where he was (unless he was working on a certain case) but today was different. His soft curls were pressed up against his head on one side, sticking straight up near the crown of his head. The shirt that he usually wore so crisply was rumpled and his whole appearance looked slept-in but at the same time looking like he hadn't slept in years. It was a strange way for Sherlock to look, and if you had only seen him in the papers, you would scarcely recognize him.

    Usually when people close a building off, they make an effort not to let anyone inside, but it was not the case with the underground parkade. From the outside the entrances and exits were blocked by road-closed signs painted on cinderblocks but inside, only tape had been used to ban the stairwell. Sherlock gracefully held up the tape for himself and swooped underneath. John was waiting for him.
    Lights flickered underground as he descended the stairs to the lowest levels of the garage, his shoes slapped on the concrete steps and echoed into the shadows. Eventually it came to the point where he had thoroughly searched nearly every level but had still wound up with nothing. This next one would be the last.
    The air felt stale all the way at the bottom, not even the graffiti artists had bothered to come this far down and the first signs of decay were present among the pavement and concrete walls. All around him the air settled, it was still and suffocating like someone holding their breath for too long. Sherlock was becoming frantic and the strange atmosphere only heightened his anxiety as he searched around pillars and in every possible place. Finally after he was just about to begrudgingly accept that it had been deceit, he found something. Sherlock came upon the chair John had been tied too.
    It was a simple metal chair, and it looked a bit like the ones that were used in the interrogation rooms at Scotland Yard. This one however was a tinny colour and was riveted securely to the concrete. All around the chair, were flecks of blood; some splotches others spatter, his stomach lurched. Oh God. He was too late, Moriarty had moved him, he had moved him before he posted the video.
      Taped to the back of the chair was another piece of paper like the one that Sherlock had found when he had first kidnapped John. Sherlock balked. If he had of been there with him, this would have never happened, if Sherlock had just trusted John to keep quiet with him while he scouted out the warehouse then John would be safe, John would be with Sherlock. There was something else though, there was something that Sherlock didn't consider and it made his heart feel like it was imploding. Sherlock just realized, if nothing had ever happened to John, it was unlikely that Sherlock would have ever discovered that he was in love with John, that the feelings weren't just a part of knowing him and that they were caused by John and Sherlock together. Something his mother once said to him began to scream in his mind, he tried to push it out, but it was already there.
"You don't know what you've got until it's gone," said her voice in his brain, chanting tauntingly before fading out.
    Sherlock never paid much attention to anything his mother said but for some reason, this small thing had stuck and now Sherlock was left to face how true it was, alone. He felt numb, he'd felt more emotions in one day than he had in years and it had left him drained. Vaguely, Sherlock felt like he was floating, like his feet weren't touching the ground and his head had just shut everything off to white noise in the background. He reached for the note.
    His slender fingers expertly opened the envelope and he dully pulled out another message, nearly exactly like the one he had received before.

Ohhh, where has Johnny Boy gone? I know how much you like a good game, but I feel like you aren't enjoying this one. Here's another clue, hopefully it will spice things up.

A bomb and a vest
Looks it's best
When strapped to John's chest

xo
-Jim

    Sherlock felt his heart stop and shakily restart agin. He was going to blow John up??! How was this a clue? How was he supposed to find him now? Sherlock sunk into a pile somewhere near a particularly large patch of John's blood, he felt like he'd been defeated already. Usually something like this filled him with energy, there was always an amazing drive to solve the mystery and save someone's life. Sherlock had thought it would have been even more exiting gambling with the stakes of someone's life that he cared about but now it just left him feeling beaten. Sherlock was supposed to be uncaring, unfeeling and cold but now his body felt alive with cool electricity and a dull ache somewhere near his heart. It was like Moriarty had found his one true weakness and Sherlock wasn't alright with that, it showed his vulnerability, it showed his humanness.
    He willed himself to stand up, he willed his brain to start working again but all he felt was the deep rooted worry for John's life. He tried not to cry, he tried not to feel so desperate and helpless and childish but he couldn't help himself. He reached out and pressed a fingertip to the patch of John's blood, he closed his eyes and imagined that he was touching John's face, or the small of his back, and was comforted knowing that he was touching at least a small bit of the love of his life. He managed a small smile and that's when it came to him.
    Everything washed over him in a rush, like a wave of flashbacks. He saw John and himself in a "darkened swimming pool" he remembered the fear that he had felt, much like he did now but it had been less back then. John had been close to him and he knew that he would be able to predict if they were going to die, now he had no control over the situation, he was miles away. Sherlock saw John's face in his mind again, he saw the fear in his eyes, he saw the vest filled with explosives and strapped to John's chest. His eyes snapped open and his breath rushed out of him. John was at the swimming pool where Carl Powers had drowned, he had to be. There was no other logical place that the note led to. Hope blossomed in his chest, Sherlock was going to find John, he was going to find him and wrap him up in his arms. He was going to kiss his forehead and smell his hair, he would never let him go again, he would never live another day without John's scent in his bedsheets.

___________________________________

Dedicated to - Lucy_Blue_Berry
because they favourite my chapters regularly and added my stories to one of their reading lists <3

xx
-Johnlox