But I can't. I can't, I want to, but I can't. My eyes, I can't see. I raise my hands, or I try to, but all I can feel is pain. Sharp, numbing pain that tears through my wrists. I scream in frustration, straining my arms against whatever is holding them down.
He's saying my name. Oh, God, I can hear him. I can hear him, I need to see him, I need to go to him, I need I need I need
A hand. A hand on my shoulder. Fingers tickling my jaw. And a chuckle. Faint, but I still hear it. "Oh, my poor Doctor Watson," a voice soothes. "I do believe you've had a bit too much to drink."
I blink and suddenly there's light, a sharp glare catching me right in the face and causing me to hiss in pain. A piece of black cloth dips into my view, then out again, but I manage to spy it one more time, just as it hits the floor. I test out my mouth, wetting my lips as I try to speak.
My tongue searches, coaxing my brain to help it out, but my mind is still too muddled.
I jerk my head up sharply. Of course it's a blindfold. God! How did I get so stupid?
"Don't worry, Doctor. Your vocabulary will return within the next few minutes."
I curl my fingers so that I can feel the nails biting into my palms. I'm sitting. I'm in a chair, a metal chair, and I'm sitting. How the hell did I get here? I was with Sherlock. The roof, he jumped. He jumped again and I saw him and
"Oh, please, don't strain yourself. I can't be having you brain dead before your boyfriend shows up."
My chest tightens. I'll kill him! Whoever he is, I'll kill him! I tear at whatever holds my wrists to the chair. White, plastic, blood seeping from where they are bound, I know this. I know what they are.
"Trousers. No, no, belt. Button? No, dammit! Zipper. Zipper. It's not a zipper, but it is, isn't it?"
Fingers flick a wisp of hair behind my ear. He's smiling. I can see his lips, mere inches from my face, curving upwards, but just barely. "It's alright, honey," he murmurs, caressing my cheek. "Just take it slow."
His condescending tone triggers a rage that suddenly takes hold of my body. "Ooo," he says, stepping back. "Anger. Now we're getting somewhere." I glare at my bonds, as if staring at them will release me. "But I do believe I enjoyed your fear just a bit more." I hear his tongue race over his lips, I feel his eyes locked on me with something of anticipation.
"Look at me, John."
I shake my head, not to him but to me, ordering myself to keep my gaze off of him. He hisses, impatient.
I snarl and bow my chin against my chest. He reaches out and takes me by the shoulders, his breath hot against my neck.
"Lift your head."
Jerking away from him, I close my eyes even tighter, determined not to let him in, determined not to look at him because I'm frightened. If it's him, if it's who I think it is, I'll break. And I can't let that happen.
Something presses down on my knee and suddenly there's an explosion and I scream, agony ripping through my leg. I scream and I scream and I can't stop, it hurts it hurts so much it hurts. I look through watery eyes at my thigh and see blood poring from the mess of bone that was my knee. I sob, choking on my cries of pain.
Then the steaming barrel of the gun is pressed against my head, and I know that I am finished.
"Lift. Your. Bloody. Head."
I can hear the fury in his voice, the words laced with venom as they escape his lips. I keep my my eyes closed,but I obey his command. I move my head up slowly, and finally, all I need to do is open my eyes.
Oh, God, Sherlock, where are you? I need you. Right now, I need you. Please, please help me, please please please
"Look at me."
I open my eyes then, slowly, but it doesn't matter. Once I see him, I cannot contain my emotions any longer. Rage courses through my veins, but after a second glance in his direction, at his cunning eyes and teasing smile, fear overtakes me.
For standing before me is the man I hoped never to see again.