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john awoke to a familiar feeling. limbs bound to a chair, his feet dangling in a cold, still water beneath him.
it’s not that he shouldn’t have expected being kidnapped on a ‘breezy sunday with sherlock’, more that it was starting become and annoyance rather than a perilous threat.
his head throbbed something cruel. someone approached him, he could recognise this fact not through his own eyesight (which was still temporarily hazy), but through the consciousness that was slowly coming to his other senses. the clicking of boot heels, muffled under the splash of the water their respective feet were submerged in.
‘john watson, we meet at last. i’ve heard ever-frivolous good about you.’
it was a man’s voice, burdened by a thick irish accent. he spat the word good like it was an incantation, a curse. as though the mention of the word would possess him to act in its nature.
he talked slowly, drawing out his words, savouring everything he could of john’s helplessness. he recognised the tone well, as many of sherlock’s ‘nemeses’ have taken up such patronising ways.
‘who are you?’ john started. he knew how this panned out.
the evil of the week lays out their backstory, spilling their name and intentions, john pretends to listen while internally shitting himself.
sherlock saves the day, by the skin of his teeth. his damsel in one hand and a gun in the other.
‘that is a matter that does not concern the likes of sherlock’s damsel.’ the man said, equal parts mocking and disdain coating his words. if john wasn’t put off by the diversion from the usual script, he might have noticed the trace of pity in his voice.
‘excuse me? damsel?’ john was irked by the man’s voicing of his internal dialogue.
‘are you not? it’s quite alright, i thought i was his partner too once.’
‘you, what?’ any trace of the conversation that made sense to john was just snuffed by this supposed former acquaintance.
‘oh truly, my dear john.’ he tone was polite now, the right combination of somber and digestible. as though he were telling the story of an old friend to a passing visitor.
‘hold on-‘
‘there was a time he would hang on my every word. we picked at the thread of complacency, broke moulds, and subsequently broke the trust of many authorities.’ he chuckled to himself. john was getting whiplash from the sudden tonal change of the conversation. why was this random irish gentleman telling john about his supposed friendship with sherlock?
and why did he sound so…
fond?
‘we solved crimes, john! went all around the world, picking up the fractions of his history and piecing them, together.’
he paused.
’did i stop doing all this for him? making up stories, unraveling his mysteries?
or was it him that grew bored of my immodest ways?’
what was happening right now? john had never been more lost.
the man kept going, running down the path of their relationship with practised ease. his accent caught on some of his words, making them all the more hard to decipher. ‘which begs the question, was it my fault? is there a blame to be passed for the fracture, or was it simply a wound too sore for closure?’
jesus man, fetch a tizzy couch if you wish to continue, john thought to himself. this gentleman was increasingly dramatic.
was john…
jealous?
‘the gory parts, layers of skin ripped open, lacquered with bloody excuses.’ watson had to admit, the man had a way with words that was so captivating it floored john every time he reminded himself of the fact he was kidnapped by the very same man.
‘‘i love you, i would never do anything to harm you.’ he said.’
‘i love you’? what? had john’s suspicions of sherlock’s queerness been correct?
why was that the first thing to catch him in this absurd story?
and why did the thought of sherlock voicing those words form a stone that sunk to the bottom of his stomach?
‘anything.’ the man sounded dangerous now. hurt had been festering inside of him and it was now being released unto john.
sorry, why was that again?
‘anything?’ he almost whispered the repeated word, like a lash on his back.
the splashing and thudding of heavy footsteps echoed through the sewer john assumed they were in. although his sight had regained the faintest bit, he was still wildly disoriented. the irishman’s drama-seeped storytelling was not helping.
‘john? john!’ sherlock’s voice ricocheted through the tunnels, but his feet came to a complete halt. his fuzzy silhouette stood completely still.
‘how about convince me i was crazy, hmm?’ the man, who still remained shrouded in mystery, shouted spontaneously.
he waved his arm in a welcoming motion. it said both ‘here i present, my worst enemy’ and ‘here comes your hero’ in the same twisted yet humble expression.
now, all of his rage and septic hatred was directed at its very source. he was facing directly at sherlock.
‘i was deluded for being upset at your constant dismissal, for craving a morsel of your invaluable attention, like a mongrel being thrown a scrap at the end of a butchers work day.’
he sighed sharply, collecting himself.
‘so i waited, outside that butchers shop. i waited for your approval, your love. but it just got colder.’ his voice was steady and quiet.
‘i let you use me. prove to yourself you could feel. for a grounding post, a punching bag, a line at the end of the phone. because when it comes to you, i will always pick up.
ruin me. my wounds are yours to deepen.’ at this he dropped his arms by his sides, faux-martyrdom clashing with absolute surrender.
‘moriarty.’ sherlock whispered. shock, hurt and young limerence rushing back to him, hitting his chest like an arrow with a purpose.
‘holmes.’ the irishman responded, colder. final.
‘let it be known, watson. loving sherlock holmes is a curse.’
‘james-‘
‘it festers within you, hacks at your heart until your blood goes sour. love with sherlock is not easy, it’s agonising.’
‘i loved you, james.’
‘not enough to set me free.’