Lost and Found 6/10
Summary: AU. Sherlock and John were childhood friends, and as they got older they only got closer. They got engaged just before John went to Afghanistan, still having joined the army to cover med school. Sherlock is still a consulting detective. John is declared MIA, but it becomes clear that that there's more going on than that when Sherlock gets a message in the form of a dead body. Major John!Whumpage, but no character death.
Warnings: Rated T because there's no sex, but there are torture themes, kidnapping, Moriarty (obvs), etc. Nothing you haven't seen before i'm sure but should be mentioned. Also apologies for very unimaginative title.
Pairing: Sherlock/John and a bit of Mystrade pre-slash later on.
Length: ~12'000 in total
Rating: T
Previous Chapter
Sherlock immediately rushed over to where John lay prone on the floor, feebly attempting to push himself up with his good arm, but too weak to manage. He pulled his doctor up off the floor, smearing red across the white tiles and tore the injured man out of the bomb vest, throwing it as far away as he could.
John screamed in agony as his wound was aggravated but the bomb was all that Sherlock could concentrate on.
"John," It was half whispered, and he pulled the other man to him so that he was laying in his arms against his chest, earning a groan for his trouble. Sherlock put a kiss on the pale clammy forehead and shook John gently, trying not to disturb his shoulder again if he could help it, merely trying to rouse him. He wasn't sure he'd be able to carry them both out of here.
"John, wake up! Please." He begged. "We need to-"
And that was when he heard it. The tinny sound of a cheap Nokia ring tone, and it was coming from the bomb vest.
If they hadn't have been by the pool side, or if John had have still been wearing the vest, there was no way that they ever would have survived.
As it was Sherlock had mere seconds to roll them both into the pool before the air was on fire. Even under the water he could feel the heat and see the flames rolling across the surface of the pool, the muffled sound like a roaring animal, as though the inferno felt cheated at not catching it's prey.
He felt John struggle weakly against him, desperate for air. He was drowning, Sherlock knew, he could feel the unbearable pressure in his own lungs, but he held the smaller man tighter until the flames died out.
As soon as he thought it was safe he kicked as hard as he could towards the surface, dragging John up with him and desperately sucked in a deep breath as he broke the surface, the incinerated air burning his lungs but still by far the best breath he had ever taken.
He pulled John around so that he was floating on his back, holding his head out of the water as he climbed out of the pool, heaving the other waterlogged man out after him.
John felt incredibly heavy, which Sherlock attributed to his own muscles being deprived of oxygen. Even though so much of the oxygen had been burnt out of the air, more was already being sucked in from outside, and Sherlock sucked in another huge lung full of air.
John did not.
As soon as Sherlock realised that John wasn't breathing he desperately felt John's neck for a pulse, panicking when he found nothing.
Without hesitation, he began CPR, holding John's nose closed as he forced air into John's lungs through his mouth, then doing chest compressions.
He felt more than heard several of John's ribs fracture and even crack under his frenzied hands, but it was worth it when John suddenly choked out what looked like half a gallon of chlorinated water. His eyes remained closed but at least he was breathing again, albeit shallowly. Sherlock almost collapsed when he felt Johns neck and felt a slow, weak beating. However it was a double edged sword as his torn shoulder stitches began to bleed sluggishly again.
'Moriarty had said that he had been followed. Mycroft obviously. So where the hell was he?'
His muscles still ached from insufficient oxygen, but he picked himself up off the floor and hoisted John up with him.
He was a lot stronger than he looked, but right now he couldn't pick John up completely, so he settled more slinging one of John's arms around his neck and one around his waist, dragging his slowly dying fiance with him towards the exit.
There was fire everywhere, on bits of wood from the stalls and from bits of ceiling that had fallen in during the explosion.
Both of the exits were blocked. There was nothing that Sherlock could do. There was no way out, for either of them. Sherlock was going to die... John was going to die, and when he did it would be all Sherlock's fault.
As another chunk of ceiling fell down, narrowly missing the two of them, he pulled John against the wall so that they were less likely to be hit by falling debris.
The helpless detective slid down the wall until they were sat on the floor, lower than the cloud of smoke that billowed through the room and he pulled John flush against him, until he could feel the other man's labored breathing against his own neck and wrapped his long arms around John as tightly as he could.
It was unlikely that they would burn to death, he reassured himself, more likely that they would die from smoke inhalation. It wasn't so bad, he supposed. Better than being blown up probably. It would be almost like going to sleep, and he would die with John in his arms. There really was no better way than that, he just wished that they had had longer. Much, much, longer.
As for John, he would be unconscious for the whole thing. He wouldn't even realise that he was choking, that he was dying, or that Sherlock was-
If it were possible, he gripped the the blond soldier even tighter. John let out a small noise of protest at the pressure on his wounds, but Sherlock ignored it. It didn't really matter. Not anymore.
Tears began to run down his face, and he couldn't be sure if they were only from the smoke. He thought probably not. He didn't want John to die, and if he was honest; he didn't want to die either.
Just as he began to feel lightheaded, he finally heard something. Was that... voices?
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Next Chapter
Warnings: Rated T because there's no sex, but there are torture themes, kidnapping, Moriarty (obvs), etc. Nothing you haven't seen before i'm sure but should be mentioned. Also apologies for very unimaginative title.
Pairing: Sherlock/John and a bit of Mystrade pre-slash later on.
Length: ~12'000 in total
Rating: T
Previous Chapter
Sherlock immediately rushed over to where John lay prone on the floor, feebly attempting to push himself up with his good arm, but too weak to manage. He pulled his doctor up off the floor, smearing red across the white tiles and tore the injured man out of the bomb vest, throwing it as far away as he could.
John screamed in agony as his wound was aggravated but the bomb was all that Sherlock could concentrate on.
"John," It was half whispered, and he pulled the other man to him so that he was laying in his arms against his chest, earning a groan for his trouble. Sherlock put a kiss on the pale clammy forehead and shook John gently, trying not to disturb his shoulder again if he could help it, merely trying to rouse him. He wasn't sure he'd be able to carry them both out of here.
"John, wake up! Please." He begged. "We need to-"
And that was when he heard it. The tinny sound of a cheap Nokia ring tone, and it was coming from the bomb vest.
If they hadn't have been by the pool side, or if John had have still been wearing the vest, there was no way that they ever would have survived.
As it was Sherlock had mere seconds to roll them both into the pool before the air was on fire. Even under the water he could feel the heat and see the flames rolling across the surface of the pool, the muffled sound like a roaring animal, as though the inferno felt cheated at not catching it's prey.
He felt John struggle weakly against him, desperate for air. He was drowning, Sherlock knew, he could feel the unbearable pressure in his own lungs, but he held the smaller man tighter until the flames died out.
As soon as he thought it was safe he kicked as hard as he could towards the surface, dragging John up with him and desperately sucked in a deep breath as he broke the surface, the incinerated air burning his lungs but still by far the best breath he had ever taken.
He pulled John around so that he was floating on his back, holding his head out of the water as he climbed out of the pool, heaving the other waterlogged man out after him.
John felt incredibly heavy, which Sherlock attributed to his own muscles being deprived of oxygen. Even though so much of the oxygen had been burnt out of the air, more was already being sucked in from outside, and Sherlock sucked in another huge lung full of air.
John did not.
As soon as Sherlock realised that John wasn't breathing he desperately felt John's neck for a pulse, panicking when he found nothing.
Without hesitation, he began CPR, holding John's nose closed as he forced air into John's lungs through his mouth, then doing chest compressions.
He felt more than heard several of John's ribs fracture and even crack under his frenzied hands, but it was worth it when John suddenly choked out what looked like half a gallon of chlorinated water. His eyes remained closed but at least he was breathing again, albeit shallowly. Sherlock almost collapsed when he felt Johns neck and felt a slow, weak beating. However it was a double edged sword as his torn shoulder stitches began to bleed sluggishly again.
'Moriarty had said that he had been followed. Mycroft obviously. So where the hell was he?'
His muscles still ached from insufficient oxygen, but he picked himself up off the floor and hoisted John up with him.
He was a lot stronger than he looked, but right now he couldn't pick John up completely, so he settled more slinging one of John's arms around his neck and one around his waist, dragging his slowly dying fiance with him towards the exit.
There was fire everywhere, on bits of wood from the stalls and from bits of ceiling that had fallen in during the explosion.
Both of the exits were blocked. There was nothing that Sherlock could do. There was no way out, for either of them. Sherlock was going to die... John was going to die, and when he did it would be all Sherlock's fault.
As another chunk of ceiling fell down, narrowly missing the two of them, he pulled John against the wall so that they were less likely to be hit by falling debris.
The helpless detective slid down the wall until they were sat on the floor, lower than the cloud of smoke that billowed through the room and he pulled John flush against him, until he could feel the other man's labored breathing against his own neck and wrapped his long arms around John as tightly as he could.
It was unlikely that they would burn to death, he reassured himself, more likely that they would die from smoke inhalation. It wasn't so bad, he supposed. Better than being blown up probably. It would be almost like going to sleep, and he would die with John in his arms. There really was no better way than that, he just wished that they had had longer. Much, much, longer.
As for John, he would be unconscious for the whole thing. He wouldn't even realise that he was choking, that he was dying, or that Sherlock was-
If it were possible, he gripped the the blond soldier even tighter. John let out a small noise of protest at the pressure on his wounds, but Sherlock ignored it. It didn't really matter. Not anymore.
Tears began to run down his face, and he couldn't be sure if they were only from the smoke. He thought probably not. He didn't want John to die, and if he was honest; he didn't want to die either.
Just as he began to feel lightheaded, he finally heard something. Was that... voices?
WHORING FOR REVIEWS!
Next Chapter