#sherlockpov

[arcwin1]

My collection of Johnlock Fanfics on AO3! Check them out if you like. :)

[mendersandmakers]

- -51- -

(Previous)

"He did all this to you, didn’t he? Tore off your Mending and had your mouth sewn shut!? He nearly-" ‘Nearly’ what, John doesn’t say, clenching his fists and standing. He’s restless and ready to act. Sherlock supposes now that John has a name to connect with his outrage he’ll be on the warpath, which he obviously can’t encourage.

If he knew how Moriarty had stood over him and dropped matches on his outstretched back John wouldn’t wait for Sherlock to be in fighting form by his side before he tore off. How can he admit that when Moriarty threatened to drown him in a vat of bleach until his silk dissolved he was reduced to begging? Better to tell him nothing.

“Don’t want to disappoint your little Mender, do you? We can give him back his ratty patches, don’t you worry,” Moriarty had said when he began to rip off pieces and toss them him a heap with his torn coat. He said he would burn John out of him, if he must.

John tries again. “Was he going to fit you with new limbs and a wig and sell you off like those other Dolls?”

“It crossed his mind. Until I told him the thirteen ways that was a stupid idea and he decided the conversation had taken a turn he didn’t like.” Sherlock mimes zipping his mouth.

“But how did you get away? Without your Mending… You must be falling apart!”

Sherlock knows John hasn’t even seen his back yet, and will be further horrified when he does. He had to steal a coat off a hook on his way out of the factory- anything to keep his insides from spilling out while he made his escape. He makes sure to measure his explanation.

“He decided he wanted to keep me for himself, and when he handed me off to his underlings for a steamclean I gave them the slip. When I got outside I estimated I was close to Battersea Power and if I could manage to cross the Thames I might avoid sinking from saturation and wash up somewhere with enough foot traffic that I’d be found immediately.”

He’d had to cross quickly, before he soaked and couldn’t control himself. He wouldn’t have fancied drifting all the way to Westminster Pier.

“I threw myself into the river to let the current take me away quicker than my feet could have managed.” He looks down at the very apparent damage to his legs: trousers shredded from dragging across cement floor, and knees kept together with what feels like three lonely stitches apiece. River water and muck colors the stuffing that pokes out.

“Oh, Sherlock…” John breathes in sorrow.

"You have you work cut out for you, I suppose,” Sherlock jokes, and John smiles weakly. He reaches out a hand to one shabby knee, brushing his thumb on the popping seam.

“I don’t mind.”

“Well. You may if I don’t get this stench out. If you’d be so good as to fetch me that dreadful drawstring mitt-” but John’s already throwing open the drawer in the side table to get the mitten out, and helps him on with it before assisting Sherlock to his feet so he can hobble to the bathroom and shut himself inside.

Now with proper light and a mirror, he’s finally able to see what’s become of him.

(Next)

[mendersandmakers]

--50--

(Previous )

"John," Sherlock says- the first word he’s been able to speak in nearly a month, and the only word that’s been on his mind for days. "Thank you."

Now that John's cleared the stitching that had shut his mouth, he starts a diagnostic routine. He ventures his fingers into Sherlock’s hairline, like he’s looking for a fracture in in the skull he doesn’t have, then skates his fingers down the seams of his neck, checking for pops. As little as Sherlock minds it, he can't allow for the full extent of his injuries to revealed tonight and he leans away.

“You might want to hold off getting your hands dirty until I’ve had a chance to wash,” he excuses, when John’s eyebrows shoot up in worry.

"You do reek. How was it you ended up in the Thames?” He brings his hands back to himself and sits down across from Sherlock.

“I imagine you saw where I was taken. I was looking for someone related to Ms. Adler’s missing Maker-"

“But they were looking for you too, weren’t they?”

“He was. James Moriarty, Ms. Adler’s actual Maker. I’m not certain why he passed his work off under Alexander’s name- likely to do with his disregard of the registry, but after our time together I’m certain he saw to her demise personally.”

“What happened?” John reaches out again, but stops shy of where his missing hand should be resting on his knee.

“He didn’t like my dismantling his USED parts operation, and wished to register his displeasure,” Sherlock says, hesitating. He’s fast approaching the other reason for his abduction and is wary of John’s reaction.

Moriarty had found him to be disobedient, and didn’t appreciate that quality in a Doll of his own Making.

(Next)