Sherlock fanfiction part 2

What?

Wait, what; what is this?

I can't think but...

But I can always think.

When all else fails it is the sole thing that still functions.

I still had the offending item in my hand that had rendered me useless. A note, short and sweet; though far too terse and too jagged to drag through any thought processes.

'John is most definitely alive – though I can't guarantee that that will last very much longer - he does rather struggle, but I imagine that would be the army training. Shall have to figure out a means of dampening his spirit.

These are the sparks; let us see how quickly your heart ignites.

And I give no clue as to where we are – you're clever, figure it out.
- M'

No other possible combination of words could have offended me more; it was as though someone had shot me through the chest, forcing my body to reel forward from the impact of the shock. Furniture, cutlery, life fell aside, to make way for my form loosing balance momentarily and I fell to my knees.

But my brain tried to do as always and assess the situation; pick on any minor detail that could perhaps yield hope. I thrust the envelope and the note within before my eyes in order to complete a full survey of them; scanned them; obsessed over them. Any detail, no matter how minor was scrutinised, but ugh! I could not function – all the while I was trying to work I could not help but linger over the state John might be in. Incapable of utilising my own line of work was humiliating. I was left to lie on the floor, my knees hugged to my chest and try to move; try to think what to do next.

Just make the panic recede a little from my chest.


* * *

Cold.

Yes, it was cold.

There are many abandoned buildings in London, and after analysing some of the dirt I found in the envelope (a clue I suspected – after my small panic attack I managed to get my head together and do something of actual worth) I was able to tell which part of London it was likely to be from. I say 'likely', generally I'm right. I knew Moriarty, it was his compulsion to make large statements, so I was able to assume that he would pick something rather ostentatious, but equally it would have to be something not very accessible to the general public.

We wouldn't want to be disturbed now, would we?

And so it was I found myself wandering London in an area where disused factories were rampant. I knew I wasn't at my personal best, but I had to try my hardest to look for any clues that might help find John; after all, I would be the only person capable of doing so.

"Sherlock!"

My heart gave a sharp twinge as I felt John's voice echo through the concrete. But his speech was muffled – evidently he was not meant to be making so much noise, and people were having to go to great effort to keep him silent. It came from behind – definitely behind.

I broke into a run, ignoring any slight wobbles as my feet slipped over the rubble and fractured concrete. I just knew that I had to get there – get there and reclaim what was mine. Slamming through a fetid door, I came upon James Moriarty with a pistol gently running the length of John's head.

A pregnant pause settled heavily into the room – but with his head snaking and grinning through the air towards me.

"Sooooooo, little Sherlock finally made it to the party. It's a good thing you're here, John and I were starting to run out of interesting things to say to one another; weren't we sweetie?" He tapped him on the shoulder with the barrel of the gun.

The look of contempt John shot back at him through bruised eyes almost made me smile – he couldn't possibly be too badly injured if he was still able to make that face.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked cautiously, "it's not like you've presented me with something particularly difficult to figure out – so what is this achieving."

He smiled and inhaled slowly, "the thing about you Sherlock, is that you don't panic. And, generally, that is one of the things that I am very good at doing – creating chaos, making people do what you can't.

"But just from watching you; watching where you watch. Well... what do you think I deduced? What do you think it was that I saw? The one thing that you can't take your eyes off?"

The malice spread through his face in a way that he evidently found gratifying as he watched my brain digest what he was saying.

Yes, I suppose I did look at John a lot – but we were close, and I have never been close to anyone before. I suppose it shows my naïvety in that I couldn't pull my eyes away from him.

"I should write the book 'How to make the Great Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes Panic' – though you could hardly call something that is only a page long a book," he gloated. "'Steal John Watson. The End'."

"What do you want?" I growled.

"Just to see. See what your face does when I do cause it to panic," he smirked. "I do like to know things about you – you are so very fascinating.

"For example, what would you do if I shot John in the knee? Right now? Just, bang! Bullet in your leg!

"I wonder what face you'd make."

He swung the gun down to the top of John's knee cap, and as his hand tensed, it seemed my brain, in it's new state of panic, was unable to think of a better course of action than the one I took. Leaping forward, I forced the full weight if my body onto Moriarty sending us both flying to the ground.

But I heard the shot.

My plan hadn't worked, and I whirled my head around to see if John was unharmed. It had missed, he was fine – what struck me with surprise was the sheer look of horror etched deeply into his face as he looked down at us. What had caused him such alarm.

And then I felt it – the warm blood seeping through my shirt; the searing pain soaring through my arm. It was true that the gun had missed John, but it had hit me point-blank in the top of the shoulder.

I felt sick – the pain, once I realised it was there, rattled through my body with vehement ardour. I fell to the side clutching myself, caring very little that Moriarty had began to pull himself away from my quaking form. Fright caused me to start, as within seconds of him moving, a shoe collided heavily with his face. John's foot sent Moriarty's head lolling to the ground with an arc of blood close behind it.

John's bonds must have been tied a little too loose.

"Sherlock!" He knelt beside me, "oh God, you've been shot! Sherlock."

Cradling my body in his arms he pulled me closer and started to run fingers through my hair.

"You're an army doctor, John. I was relying on the fact that if and when this did happen, of all the people I knew you wouldn't panic and would actually be useful." I replied.

He smiled through tears "just stay awake; don't shut your eyes, try and stay with me. Sherlock, please, stay with me, I promise I'll do all I can, but just stay awake."

"John," I said with my eyes shut, "you've been shot before, surely you know how difficult that is."

He let out a small laugh and said something in reply; what that was I can never remember (and for some reason he won't tell me), because by that point I was gone; semi-conscious, unable to do, think or say anything.