Promised the Dark, or, Indestructible. Chapter Seven.
Title: Promised the Dark, or, Indestructible. Chapter Seven.
Author: ghislainem70
Word count: 947
Rating: PG-13
Warning: depictions of violence,
Disclaimers: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat et al.
Summary: Sherlock is dead, and Moriarty is holding John captive. BAMF! John.
Promised the Dark, or, Indestructible. Chapter Seven.
The helicopter landed. They removed John's hood as they approached a crumbling Georgian stone manor, walled and gated, its grounds overgrown and neglected. A mossy stone fountain with a mournful stone angel trickled water into a basin clogged with slime. John could hear the sea pounding.
He had been shackled feet to hands. The armed man from the warehouse led him from an attached chain. And a woman was there too, striding alongside, tall and exotic, with long black hair that whipped in the wind. Her face was mostly concealed behind huge Bulgari sunglasses but what John could see was inscrutable, possibly cruel. This was Moriarty’s wife.
They entered the manor, which was almost devoid of furnishings. What John could see was all exceedingly dusty, faded and decayed. The only source of light here was greyed sunlight that filtered through numerous french windows. They traveled downstairs, footsteps echoing. Below was dark and damp. Here there were some improvised portable lights such as one would use at a crime scene.
They came at last to a heavy white metal door, obviously newly installed, at the bottom of a short stone stair, bearing a fluorescent sign that said Warning: Biologic Hazard/Poison. Do Not Enter Without Airlock Process. It looked like something one would find in a nuclear submarine. The guard held John back, yanking his restraints by the chain. There was a silver keyhole in the door.
Mrs. Moriarty held up little silver key, toying with it, then finally turned it in the lock. There was a click, and little LED light there switched from blinking red to green. Then she pushed a larger button on the wall, and John heard a huge whooshing of air, and there were flashing lights until the airlock cleared.
Mrs. Moriarty pushed open the door with feline smile. "After you, my dear Doctor."
John charged into the room, clumsy with his restraints. It was a huge old Victorian-era kitchen that had been fitted up as a laboratory. He called out "Sherlock," his voice echoing against the stone walls, but the laboratory was eerily quiet.
John realized that it was all just another cruel joke. That all Moriarty and his wicked wife would ever have to do to inflict the cruelest torture imaginable would be to repeat this scenario, over and over, without end. John’s iron nerves, finally stretched beyond their limit, quivered and then snapped. He slowly sank to his knees, shuddering and sobbing.
Whereupon he finally saw Sherlock stretched out upon the stone floor, his limbs unnaturally contorted, and very, very dead.
He thought he could hear Moriarty’s wife laughing behind him but the sound faded somehow.
"Ooops!! I think we missed fail deadly by a few minutes! My dear husband is very strict about his protocols," she said, but a loud roaring in John’s ears almost drowned her voice out.
Then his brain snapped back to itself.
"Please. I don’t care what you do to me now. Let me try to do something for Sherlock," he begged. "I will do anything you ask, you can do anything with me, anything at all. Let me try to help him. He might not . . . I may be able to bring him back, if you let me work on him now."
Moriarty’s wife clapped her hands, delighted. "Anything? My dear Doctor, I am sure you don’t quite know what you are saying. But please, make sure for yourself. I assure you Sherlock is quite dead.
"The fail deadly protocol deploys a poisonous gas of Moriarty’s own invention. That is the reason for the airlock. The amount of gas is minuscule. One is dead before the first breath is completely inhaled. There is no antidote or treatment."
She beamed proudly, as though Moriarty were a sort of child prodigy, her child rather than her husband.
But she gestured to the guard to unlock John’s hand restraints, holding her own gun on him.
John flung himself on Sherlock, checking his vital signs. There were none. No pulse, pupils fixed and dilated, his color cyanotic. He was very cold but his skin and limbs were still soft and flexible. Sherlock’s entire frame was sunken in upon itself. It was obvious that Sherlock had not eaten anything for a long time. Tearing open Sherlock’s shirt to reveal his chest, he saw with tears in his eyes that Sherlock was covered with bruises.
John began mouth to mouth and heart massage, and did not stop until after what seemed like hours. Finally his own strength gave way.
He leaned over and brushed the dark hair from Sherlock’s clouded eyes. He kissed his cold cheek and bent to whisper in his ear.
"I’m sorry, Sherlock. I did try. I never was as clever as you. If I were, I would have saved you. Wait for me, love. I will be with you soon."
The guard was prodding John now, urging him up as John tried to hold Sherlock’s cold hand. A tiny rolled fragment of paper fell from between Sherlock’s fingertips. John palmed it and flung himself over Sherlock, crying out dramatically, and sweeping Sherlock up into his arms.
"What a touching scene," Mrs. Moriarty mocked.
Behind Sherlock’s lolling head, John was able to quickly work the scrap of paper open. It had a tiny, almost unreadable word scrawled upon it.
"Corsica."
Now John was being dragged up and he palmed the paper in his pocket just as the guard refastened his manacles.
"You see, Doctor, I keep my promises. One hundred-fold."
To be continued . . .
Listen to Dead Letter Blues: (Son House) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jN5vqEyV7g&feature=related
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