Fic for burnt_hamster: So This is Christmas
Title: So This is Christmas
Author: airspaniel
Recipient: burnt_hamster
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock pre-slash
Rating: R for violence and brutality
Word Count: ~1440
Warnings: Strong violence, torture, angst
Notes: Thanks to my always amazing beta, drunken_hedghog, and to John Lennon for the lyrics I took for the title. For all that it's dark and bleak and violent, I think this may be the sweetest thing I've ever written. burnt_hamster, I hope it's something like what you wanted. Also, your username is awesome. ^_^
Summary: It is entirely possible that John is going to be spending Christmas in a walk-in freezer.
So This is Christmas
It comes back to him in fragments, scattered shards of awareness, and his head hurts as if the memories themselves were made of glass.
A man in a tan leather jacket taps his shoulder. “’Excuse me, do you have the time?”
A white van. Cold metal under his cheek. His arms twisted behind him and bound.
Two right turns. A left. Stop. Another right, then straight for…
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where he is.
John opens his eyes, forces himself to focus. The side of his face is tight, and he doesn’t need to be able to touch it to recognize the itch of dried blood. Hit in the head, then. That explains rather a lot.
His wrists burn, and he can feel blood on his fingers as well. Whatever they’ve bound him with is too tight and too sharp. Cable ties, probably. He lets his shoulders slump forward against the floor and grits his teeth at the way the plastic digs into his skin, but it’ll be better in the long run to keep his muscles as relaxed as possible.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Doesn’t know how long he’s going to be here; so he may as well give himself every advantage he can. He can’t move his legs much, though he can bend his knees, and he can feel the catch and pull of tape around his ankles. At least they put it over his jeans. Whoever they are.
The room is small, no furniture, no windows. Some kind of cell, perhaps, or a vault. The floor is concrete, and if he arches his neck just a little, he can see a steel drain in the centre. The walls are dull silver, faintly metallic under a layer of grime, and John huffs out a painful laugh.
It is entirely possible that he’s going to be spending Christmas in a walk-in freezer.
At least it isn’t turned on, he thinks. And then, wonderful, John, tempting fate like that. Just perfect.
It’s not so bad, though. He’s definitely been in worse places for Christmas. Afghanistan, for one. Harry’s, for another.
There’s a distant heavy clink of metal on metal, a percussive thud, and John braces himself for the cold that doesn’t come. Instead, the door swings open and two men step in. One pair of leather dress shoes, one pair of heavy workboots.
“Doctor Watson,” the dress shoes say. “So nice of you to join us.” John recognizes that voice.
He rolls to his side to look at his assailants and sure enough, it’s the man in the tan jacket from the car park. “What do you want?” he asks, voice rough and dry, but steady.
The man doesn’t answer, just smirks and tips his head at his companion, who takes it as a signal to haul John up with a fist in his hair. John’s eyes water at the sting, but he lets himself be pulled; bites down on the pained grunt that tries to escape his throat when his knees slam against the concrete.
“What do you want?” he repeats, as the man takes out his mobile and angles it at John, taking a picture. All of a sudden, it’s stupidly obvious. Why else would anyone take him?
“Not your best side,” taunts the man, fingers tapping against the tiny screen. “Do you think he’ll like it anyway?”
“It isn’t going to work,” John spits. “Sherlock isn’t going to come running into your trap just because you’ve roughed me up a little.”
The man’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Of course not,” he smiles. “But it’s a start.” He nods again at the man holding John’s hair, and John finds himself dropped unceremoniously to the floor. His vision swims and for a long moment, he thinks he might be sick.
“Back in one hour,” Tan Jacket says to the heavy as they leave. “We’ll start slow, and work our way up. No need to have all our fun at once.”
The heavy door creaks on its hinges and shuts with an ominous thump.
John is beginning to rethink his opinions on worse places to spend Christmas.
-----
After that, he measures time in injuries.
His hands are freed and bound again in front of him, to make sure his face is in the frame as the thug breaks all the fingers on his right hand; the man in the tan jacket dispassionately taking pictures from the corner, leaned casually against the wall. Hour one.
A knife to the sole of his left foot, deep, ragged cuts that may never heal properly, and John wants to scream, but he bites it back, holds it down. It doesn’t photograph well, apparently, so the thug simply snaps his ankle. John can’t help the harsh, pained noise he makes, and the man in the tan jacket smiles and takes a picture of his face. Hour two.
Cricket bat to the right knee, and John hears more than feels something snap. Realistically, he may never walk again. He’s only vaguely concerned about that. It’s far more likely he’ll just die here. He hopes that Sherlock is looking for him. Hopes he’s on his way. Hopes, absurdly, to be rescued. Hour three.
Four hours, four days, or four years, and John is aware he’s in severe shock. He’s cold and numb and hurts in a distant, abstract sort of way. If he closed his eyes, he could sleep forever. He doesn’t care overmuch if he wakes up.
“Oh, dear,” someone says from far away. “Doctor Watson?” When he doesn’t respond, he feels a hand fist in his shirt, lifting him up off the floor. His knee and his ankle are white-hot flares of agony, but he can only groan weakly at the pain, can’t even struggle.
“Go for the face, then.” the voice says, quiet and cruel. “Perhaps you were right about your friend, Doctor. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to show. Might as well give it one last try, though, yeah?”
Fuck you, John tries to say, but nothing comes out.
“Goodnight, Doctor,” says the voice. Then a massive fist slams into the side of his face, and John blissfully loses consciousness.
-----
Metal on metal, screeching. Heavy footfalls. Running?
“If you’ve killed him, I swear…”
Gunshots. Someone hits the ground. Someone’s screaming.
“John!”
He doesn’t want to die.
The door opens and John flinches, trying to curl into the floor. He can’t open his eyes, can’t see who’s in the room with him, can’t do anything but wait for the next blow. A hand touches his face, so warm, almost kind, and he knows.
“S… Sherlock?”
“Shh, stop talking,” Sherlock soothes, hushed and… and worried. “I’m here, John.”
The tension snaps out of John like a puppet with its strings cut, and he collapses, only to have Sherlock manoeuvre him gently onto his back, his head cradled in Sherlock’s hands, unexpected and wonderful. There are sirens in the distance, coming closer.
-----
The next time he wakes, John doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that he is in a hospital, the smell of disinfectant and rubber, the feeling of scratchy white sheets under his back.
He feels like he’s slept for years.
“About three days,” Sherlock says from somewhere close, and John isn’t surprised that he knew the answer to a question John didn’t actually ask.
He isn’t as surprised as he should be that Sherlock is there. He’s glad that Sherlock is there.
“Did you,” he rasps, throat dry and sore from misuse. “Did you kill those men?” He shouldn’t ask. He wants the answer to be no, wants it to be yes; he doesn’t even know what he wants.
Sherlock doesn’t quite smile; just leans his elbows on John’s bed. “What would you have done?”
John laughs, even though it hurts. “Well, I did shoot a man once for giving you a pill, so…” He shouldn’t incriminate himself so much, he doesn’t know who else might be listening; but he knows Sherlock has always known the truth.
“Duly noted,” Sherlock says, not an answer, and threads his fingers through John’s own. His hand is still impossibly warm, and John holds on.
“Sherlock,” he says, and it’s so short of everything he wants to say; everything he wants to ask, but it doesn’t matter now.
“What, John?” Sherlock answers, holding his hand tight. They’re having an entire conversation there, with their hands, their fingers; no need to say anything aloud.
John smiles, as much as he can. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”
Sherlock just laughs, and buries his face in the blankets at John’s waist.
Author: airspaniel
Recipient: burnt_hamster
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock pre-slash
Rating: R for violence and brutality
Word Count: ~1440
Warnings: Strong violence, torture, angst
Notes: Thanks to my always amazing beta, drunken_hedghog, and to John Lennon for the lyrics I took for the title. For all that it's dark and bleak and violent, I think this may be the sweetest thing I've ever written. burnt_hamster, I hope it's something like what you wanted. Also, your username is awesome. ^_^
Summary: It is entirely possible that John is going to be spending Christmas in a walk-in freezer.
So This is Christmas
It comes back to him in fragments, scattered shards of awareness, and his head hurts as if the memories themselves were made of glass.
A man in a tan leather jacket taps his shoulder. “’Excuse me, do you have the time?”
A white van. Cold metal under his cheek. His arms twisted behind him and bound.
Two right turns. A left. Stop. Another right, then straight for…
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where he is.
John opens his eyes, forces himself to focus. The side of his face is tight, and he doesn’t need to be able to touch it to recognize the itch of dried blood. Hit in the head, then. That explains rather a lot.
His wrists burn, and he can feel blood on his fingers as well. Whatever they’ve bound him with is too tight and too sharp. Cable ties, probably. He lets his shoulders slump forward against the floor and grits his teeth at the way the plastic digs into his skin, but it’ll be better in the long run to keep his muscles as relaxed as possible.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Doesn’t know how long he’s going to be here; so he may as well give himself every advantage he can. He can’t move his legs much, though he can bend his knees, and he can feel the catch and pull of tape around his ankles. At least they put it over his jeans. Whoever they are.
The room is small, no furniture, no windows. Some kind of cell, perhaps, or a vault. The floor is concrete, and if he arches his neck just a little, he can see a steel drain in the centre. The walls are dull silver, faintly metallic under a layer of grime, and John huffs out a painful laugh.
It is entirely possible that he’s going to be spending Christmas in a walk-in freezer.
At least it isn’t turned on, he thinks. And then, wonderful, John, tempting fate like that. Just perfect.
It’s not so bad, though. He’s definitely been in worse places for Christmas. Afghanistan, for one. Harry’s, for another.
There’s a distant heavy clink of metal on metal, a percussive thud, and John braces himself for the cold that doesn’t come. Instead, the door swings open and two men step in. One pair of leather dress shoes, one pair of heavy workboots.
“Doctor Watson,” the dress shoes say. “So nice of you to join us.” John recognizes that voice.
He rolls to his side to look at his assailants and sure enough, it’s the man in the tan jacket from the car park. “What do you want?” he asks, voice rough and dry, but steady.
The man doesn’t answer, just smirks and tips his head at his companion, who takes it as a signal to haul John up with a fist in his hair. John’s eyes water at the sting, but he lets himself be pulled; bites down on the pained grunt that tries to escape his throat when his knees slam against the concrete.
“What do you want?” he repeats, as the man takes out his mobile and angles it at John, taking a picture. All of a sudden, it’s stupidly obvious. Why else would anyone take him?
“Not your best side,” taunts the man, fingers tapping against the tiny screen. “Do you think he’ll like it anyway?”
“It isn’t going to work,” John spits. “Sherlock isn’t going to come running into your trap just because you’ve roughed me up a little.”
The man’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Of course not,” he smiles. “But it’s a start.” He nods again at the man holding John’s hair, and John finds himself dropped unceremoniously to the floor. His vision swims and for a long moment, he thinks he might be sick.
“Back in one hour,” Tan Jacket says to the heavy as they leave. “We’ll start slow, and work our way up. No need to have all our fun at once.”
The heavy door creaks on its hinges and shuts with an ominous thump.
John is beginning to rethink his opinions on worse places to spend Christmas.
-----
After that, he measures time in injuries.
His hands are freed and bound again in front of him, to make sure his face is in the frame as the thug breaks all the fingers on his right hand; the man in the tan jacket dispassionately taking pictures from the corner, leaned casually against the wall. Hour one.
A knife to the sole of his left foot, deep, ragged cuts that may never heal properly, and John wants to scream, but he bites it back, holds it down. It doesn’t photograph well, apparently, so the thug simply snaps his ankle. John can’t help the harsh, pained noise he makes, and the man in the tan jacket smiles and takes a picture of his face. Hour two.
Cricket bat to the right knee, and John hears more than feels something snap. Realistically, he may never walk again. He’s only vaguely concerned about that. It’s far more likely he’ll just die here. He hopes that Sherlock is looking for him. Hopes he’s on his way. Hopes, absurdly, to be rescued. Hour three.
Four hours, four days, or four years, and John is aware he’s in severe shock. He’s cold and numb and hurts in a distant, abstract sort of way. If he closed his eyes, he could sleep forever. He doesn’t care overmuch if he wakes up.
“Oh, dear,” someone says from far away. “Doctor Watson?” When he doesn’t respond, he feels a hand fist in his shirt, lifting him up off the floor. His knee and his ankle are white-hot flares of agony, but he can only groan weakly at the pain, can’t even struggle.
“Go for the face, then.” the voice says, quiet and cruel. “Perhaps you were right about your friend, Doctor. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to show. Might as well give it one last try, though, yeah?”
Fuck you, John tries to say, but nothing comes out.
“Goodnight, Doctor,” says the voice. Then a massive fist slams into the side of his face, and John blissfully loses consciousness.
-----
Metal on metal, screeching. Heavy footfalls. Running?
“If you’ve killed him, I swear…”
Gunshots. Someone hits the ground. Someone’s screaming.
“John!”
He doesn’t want to die.
The door opens and John flinches, trying to curl into the floor. He can’t open his eyes, can’t see who’s in the room with him, can’t do anything but wait for the next blow. A hand touches his face, so warm, almost kind, and he knows.
“S… Sherlock?”
“Shh, stop talking,” Sherlock soothes, hushed and… and worried. “I’m here, John.”
The tension snaps out of John like a puppet with its strings cut, and he collapses, only to have Sherlock manoeuvre him gently onto his back, his head cradled in Sherlock’s hands, unexpected and wonderful. There are sirens in the distance, coming closer.
-----
The next time he wakes, John doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that he is in a hospital, the smell of disinfectant and rubber, the feeling of scratchy white sheets under his back.
He feels like he’s slept for years.
“About three days,” Sherlock says from somewhere close, and John isn’t surprised that he knew the answer to a question John didn’t actually ask.
He isn’t as surprised as he should be that Sherlock is there. He’s glad that Sherlock is there.
“Did you,” he rasps, throat dry and sore from misuse. “Did you kill those men?” He shouldn’t ask. He wants the answer to be no, wants it to be yes; he doesn’t even know what he wants.
Sherlock doesn’t quite smile; just leans his elbows on John’s bed. “What would you have done?”
John laughs, even though it hurts. “Well, I did shoot a man once for giving you a pill, so…” He shouldn’t incriminate himself so much, he doesn’t know who else might be listening; but he knows Sherlock has always known the truth.
“Duly noted,” Sherlock says, not an answer, and threads his fingers through John’s own. His hand is still impossibly warm, and John holds on.
“Sherlock,” he says, and it’s so short of everything he wants to say; everything he wants to ask, but it doesn’t matter now.
“What, John?” Sherlock answers, holding his hand tight. They’re having an entire conversation there, with their hands, their fingers; no need to say anything aloud.
John smiles, as much as he can. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”
Sherlock just laughs, and buries his face in the blankets at John’s waist.