Taken

(For this excerpt, please pretend that John isn't wearing his sexy, sexy gloves that for some reason make me, uh….well you get the picture.) BTW, Martin Freeman is pure cute DNA.

Don't own Sherlock...can only gape at its incredibleness.

John stood in front of him, his face showing his pain and anger at being used like this. Against Sherlock. The explosives twinkled like demonic Christmas lights on his chest.

The doctor's deep blue eyes would barely meet his. Moriarty continued to speak but it was what Sherlock saw in John, _on_ John that made his gut twist with rage.

Everything told the story.

John, leaving the flat and hailing a taxi. Never reaching it, *scalp slightly raised, head abrasion* being knocked out.

Hands tied behind him *scrapes on wrists, probably fingers too, trying to untie himself without success* and gagged *tape residue on mouth, lips dried from cloth, ensuring silence….*

The rest Sherlock's considerable imagination made up in seconds. John, being held here and knowing that Sherlock was coming, yet still being threatened.

John Watson, telling his best friend, forgiven and loved time after undeserved time, the most terrible words Sherlock could hear.

Moriarty teasing him *obvious through the nickname, through the sickening, casual, intimate gestures.*

And now. Sherlock hadn't known that Moriarty hated him. He himself didn't usually feel such emotions, yet he did now. Jim Moriarty hated him and wanted him to suffer and if John's life didn't end tonight then the criminal would continue to play the game.

Sherlock held the gun to the explosives and John gave his slight nod. Brave, so brave even until the last. Moriarty wasn't going to hurt him, John or anyone else ever again.

Weak

Moriarty would have classified it as weak. Caring. At one time, to be honest at many times , Sherlock Holmes agreed. Caring was an effect of the glands, a driven- in response, an environmental social necessity.

Otherwise, one would be classified as a psychopath. Or a sociopath, a highly functioning sociopath.

John Watson was weak. He cared about people, helped people and kept trying to reach them even after his own life was torn apart by a terrorist's bullet.

Sherlock knew John was weak, knew it from the moment he saw him. But, two years later, it is he himself who doesn't understand the adjective.

John was short, everyone including him admitted it. But he never apologized for walking into a room and flirting with the most beautiful, maybe unobtainable woman in a room without a second thought.

He was ordinary. Dark blond hair, standard figure, an easy smile…. And he continued to try, and try, and try to help, to calm, to understand, to compliment, to fix.

He was a terrible dresser. Cardigans, those god awful jumpers, plaid shirts and corduroy everywhere. He still wore them, still cleaned them and still _bought_ them (though heaven only knew where) without explanation.

He pet dogs, fed stray cats and listened to all of Mrs. Hudson's ailments.

He used stairs instead of elevators. He pushed open doors without any button. He put money into charity jars.

Sometimes he covered Sherlock with a blanket, at night.

Tea was made in the morning, how he always knew what Sherlock wanted was still something the brilliant sleuth was discovering.

He was emotional and sentimental. He was slow and cloddish. His mind focused on the most mundane things.

He was weak.

Weak, yet…..

He was the strongest, bravest, kindest person Sherlock knew. He chose to stay at 221b Baker Street and answer texts at all manner of times. He allowed Sherlock to crash dates, interrupt meal times and berate him in all manners, in all forms.

And he still kept up with the long legged detective.

He blogged, laughed and shook his head every time Sherlock Holmes needed him to.

Sherlock always wanted to be strong and independent. He didn't know how he saw people and how he judged those who are weak.

He's seeing them now.

Good

Great

Beauty

Loyal

Heart

Text

Betrayal

It was the look, that _look_, that said it all. Sherlock Holmes, the robot, the sociopath, the freak. All a lie and all a cover.

How Dr. John H. Watson wished it wasn't, yet he knew. The look on Sherlock's face and his stunned body language. John bitterly wished that that the psychopath responsible for all of it would accept his role.

"John, what the hell-"

His eyes, it was his eyes that nearly broke John Watson.

I trusted you, followed you, enabled you…you lectured me on human lives and I listened….and I shoudn't have cared. Yet you were the speaker, so I did.

I cared about you

Dr. Watson hadn't felt hate much in his life, yet he felt it now. The Great Sherlock Holmes done in by a wounded veteran and the psychopath using him as a puppet.

Those eyes, never breaking contact. John should maybe feel betrayed over the quick acceptance of his changing sides, he should be angry about Sherlock Holmes' inability to trust.

Yet, he doesn't feel such things

All he feels is love, understanding and trust. The moment Moriarty shows his hand (sooner than expected, truth be told) Sherlock's reaction, despite the danger he's in, is a joy.

After it's all over, the adrenalin rush, explosion and hushed words to a dear friend, Sherlock apologizes. Overcoming the shock, John wastes no time in accepting. This is, after all, Sherlock Holmes and apologizing doesn't even show up on his repitoire. What is there, after all, to apologize for?

Sherlock walks a still stiff and wounded John up the stairs to 221b Baker Street.

He is home, and safe for the moment.

John Watson grasps the taller man's arm before they enter the door. Never, never, I would never his hand says and Sherlock Holmes grasps back. I know…..now. I know.

Short

Humor

Hostage

Again. Happening again. Of course, Jim Moriarty would target John again. Sherlock knew it, he _knew it_ and yet he selfishly allowed himself to let John Watson, M.D. back into his life and his heart.

It shouldn't be so obvious. John, in harm's way, again.

Sherlock feels a bolt, no, a surge of rage. Never before has he wished for all of his brother's power and connections. To be fair, Mycroft has aided him throughout these hellish two days.

Moriarty has John. He's held him for two days and now he's making Sherlock watch as John struggles to free himself. Two days of videos and of John in different places. Two days of John being beaten, starved, tormented.

Moriarty never addresses the doctor, only Sherlock. John can hear him, of course and his fury can be seen through any camera.

Sherlock watches when John is taken, outside his clinic, bound and gagged and manhandled. Moriarty's men slap, kick and punch John as the criminal asks Sherlock questions he can't answer.

When he's left alone, John never stops trying to escape, even though Sherlock knows, can see that he hasn't had any food or water since the ordeal began.

Moriarty mocks Sherlock off screen. He watches John's futile efforts as well, enjoying them.

Hour 46 in (46 hours, 7 minutes and 4 seconds, Sherlock never stops counting) the detective knows that Lestrade has nearly given up. They won't find him and the only purpose behind all of this was to torture Holmes, successfully.

The only time Sherlock didn't take Moriarty seriously was the time he should have paid the most attention. The criminal is burning the heart out of him, slowly.

Hour 47 in, the sound is amped up and Sherlock's gut twists. Only one reason why. John is silent for awhile, not wanting to give in to Moriarty, then as the hour ticks down to its final ten minutes he begins speaking.

He talks about respect, admiration and friendship. No one has ever shown Sherlock the compassion and kindness that John Watson has and those ten minutes merely cement in what Sherlock has found he already knows. Then John talks about forgiveness….and love.

The building explodes.

John just shakes his head at the paramedics, police force and everyone else. Sherlock isn't letting him go any time soon and the doctor doesn't mind a bit.

Sherlock's long arms grabbed him as John made it out of the door, seconds to spare. Moriarty had stopped moving him and re-tying him in that last hour and John knows about knots.

As the criminal mocked them John was distracting him. Yet Sherlock knows, later when he can bare to watch the footage, that John meant everything he said.

The only one to never underestimate Dr. Watson, it would seem, was the one who so obviously would.

The building exploded and Sherlock pushed his smaller friend behind him, shielding his battered body. He hoisted the doctor up and hugged him, squeezing John's tender ribs. John held him as well, rubbing his back and murmuring meaningless phrases.

People might talk, let them. John continued to say "You're welcome" to Sherlock's gasping words.

Cold and heartless indeed.

At 221b Baker Street, after being embraced then force fed by Mrs. Hudson, texted by Mycroft and checked up on by half of Scotland Yard, John reflected on what it was like to be loved like this.

Sherlock was watching the footage. His entire body was tense and coiled and John just stood in the doorway.

His own words echoed around the room and John's bruised face remained sober.

Then the detective looked at him as John said his final statement on screen. His eyes were so amazingly vocal at times.

"I meant it, you know. Every word."

"I know."

And they both did. To Sherlock's continuing terror, however, so did someone else.

Question

Love

He'd just had a bomb strapped to his chest and a sniper's bullet aimed at his heart.

Sherlock didn't want to know what had happened before he arrived but his brilliant mind had already pieced together most of it.

"You okay?"

If Sherlock Holmes had a sense of humor he would have laughed and if he had a heart or a soul he would have been incredibly touched.

The smaller man was looking at him, large eyes full of understanding.

Then he made a joke. A _bloody_ joke!

After the bizarreness that was Moriarty, Sherlock came to the deduction he'd known for months now.

Subtext.

Men didn't tell each other such things, even with poor John's unfortunate ability to draw unwanted conclusions.

"Nicotine patches don't count as eating Sherlock."

"I know you look like a vampire, do you have to act like one as well? And I'm not even mentioning your fondness for bodily fluids."

"Are you ever going to set Angelo straight, pardon the pun?"

"Most people don't run out into traffic Sherlock, then most don't have your stunning intellect do they?"

"Chilly in here, not saying it a fifth time."

"Okay, not saying it a twelfth time."

"Hiding the gun was not juvenile, shooting the wall was juvenile."

"I don't have to set Mycroft on you, he's got trained killers waiting in the wings."

"Just take the damned blanket Sherlock."

"You're too thin." "You need to rest." "I went to medical school, I know how to define 'sociopath'."

"You don't know it's a different scarf, it's the same and I wouldn't go about replacing it just because you are fond of it so wipe that expression off of your face."

Every word pushed down to three and every emotion cleanly scrubbed down to one.

And John, it seemed, never needed to have it said back. More months went by.

He was waking up from a coma. Five days counting where Sherlock thought he'd lost him and had finally told him what he hoped John already knew.

Men like him just didn't _do_ sentiment.

A strong hand grasped his wrist and Sherlock looked up into large, deep blue eyes.

"I love you too." The raspy voice was like music to Sherlock's ears. John held his shaking shoulders calmly, kindly.

And it was a different scarf.

Next;

Words, pt. 2

Good

Great

Texts

Freak

Loyalty