pipmer1

Chapter 3

Title: Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did, Part 4 of 6
Author: PipMer
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Original Characters, Harry Watson, "Killer" Evans
Genre: Friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
WordCount: 1990 this part
Warnings: Non-graphic violence and possible (?) minor character death in this part, for-real minor character death in another part.
Disclaimer: I don't own, no money is being made from this.
Summary: What the title says.

A/N: Chapters don't follow any sort of linear timeline.

Chapter Summary: Sometimes not having a heart can be a good thing, especially when dealing with someone who has harmed the person you love most.

Chapter 4: "Killer" Evans

Sherlock wasn't panicking. Sherlock Holmes never panicked. He hadn't panicked when the cabbie pointed a gun at him. He hadn't panicked when he'd seen the yellow graffiti after John had been taken. He certainly hadn't panicked when he saw John wrapped up in Semtex. Neither had he panicked when he caught a glimpse of the hound from hell. Even when he was faced with his own mortality on the rooftop of Bart's, he had never broken a sweat.

So, he sure as hell wasn't panicking now.

"John? John, I need you to keep talking to me. Focus on the sound of my voice, there's a good lad."

Sherlock kept a firm pressure on the knife wound in John's chest as his eyes frantically scanned his friend's face. Estimated time of arrival of ambulance, five minutes. Estimated time before John bleeds out, four to six minutes. Blood on John's lips indicates punctured lung, drowning in his own blood. Face ashen, deathly so, lips tinged blue, scarf already soaked with blood.

"She…. Sherlock…"

"That's right, John, keep talking. Tell me what day it is."

"Your..." *cough* "….your birthday."

"Yes, good, and how old am I?"

"Forty… Forty-one. Sherlock…"

"Right, good. Getting a bit old to be running after criminals, eh?"

John reached up and squeezed Sherlock's arm. "Never… too old for that. But… Sherlock… need to tell you…"

"Nope. No need to tell me anything right now, you can tell me after they patch you up. Hear that? Sirens. Music to my ears."

"No… not… you need to know… know that I'd do it all again. It was… all worth it… every second."

Sherlock gripped John's hand hard. "Don't be an idiot," he breathed, voice shaking. "You're going to be fine, everything's going to be okay. I didn't save you from a sniper's bullet only to have you die on me here, on my sodding birthday, John, do you hear me?"

John smiled sadly, wincing from the pain. "Can't control… the day or time, m'afraid. Not your fault, don't regret… a thing. I'm so… so sorry….." John's grip on Sherlock's arm loosened as his eyes fluttered shut; his chest rose, fell… and failed to rise again.

Sherlock started trembling. "No, John, no, John, DON'T…."

The paramedics rushed to John's side and rudely shoved Sherlock aside. "He's not breathing!" one of them shouted. Sherlock stumbled, then immediately righted himself as he stood up and backed away from the scene. In an attempt to deny what was going on in front of him, he squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his ears. After several long minutes, he opened his eyes to the sight of several people blocking his view of John. His hands slowly descended to his sides. He stood there for several more seconds before turning and running in the direction in which he had last seen Evans.

He ran for several yards before realising he hadn't a clue where to start looking. He leaned against the wall of a nearby building, trying to catch his breath. His phone pinged; he reached into his pocket and brought it out, squinting as he opened his message.

Got him. Warehouse 58. -MH

Thirty minutes later…

"You killed John Watson."

"Killer" Evans, also known as James Winter, smirked. "Did I? What're you gonna do about it, Holmes? Murder me in cold blood? I don't think so. Not even your big brother could get you out of that one. "

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You won't be leaving this building alive, although I won't be the one who kills you. But let's concentrate on what I am going to do to you right now. No witnesses, no police officers, just you and me. What do you say, James? Funny how the dirt bags I run up against are all named 'James', don't you think?"

"What're you talking about?"

"Ever hear of James Moriarty?"

"What does he have to do with me?"

Sherlock smiled, all teeth. "He tried to have John killed, as well. That didn't go over so well for him."

Evans sneered. "You had nothing to do with that. The psychopath offed himself."

Sherlock placed his fist under his chin and faked contemplativeness. "Hmm, yes, he did. I rather think that you'll wish you had done the same, after I get through with you."

Evans swallowed past the lump that was rapidly forming in his throat. He tugged uselessly on his restraints as Sherlock slowly approached him, silver eyes glued to his face. He didn't care for the obsessive, lethal focus the detective was sending his way. Although he really shouldn't be surprised, Watson had probably been the closest thing to a friend Holmes would ever have.

Evans spat out, "So it was big brother's goons that grabbed me while you was tendin' to your little pet? Couldn't even be bothered to run after me, could ya, not while lover boy was bleedin' out before your very eyes. What's it like, to lose the only person who ever cared about your sorry arse, the only one who didn't believe you was a fraud?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he grabbed the wooden beam that just so happened to be lying next to the bolted-down chair that Evans was strung up in. Quicker than a Ninja, Sherlock swung the weapon back and rammed it into Evans' stomach once, twice, three times. Snarling, he viciously tossed it aside as he grabbed the criminal's chin, forcing Evans to look into his crazed eyes.

"You will not speak of him again."

Evans spat in his face.

Sherlock grinned as he wiped the spittle off his chin. "Not going down without a fight, I see. Good. Very good. All the more fun watching you break. Mycroft gave me leave to deal with you as I see fit, but I'm not going to kill you. I'll leave that to my brother's clean-up crew, after I'm done with you."

Fear flashed in Evan's eyes, followed swiftly by disdain. "They wouldn't dare. That would be pre-meditated murder. Even I've never done that. Watson just got in the way, it was self-defence. If you hadn't come after me, if you had just left well enough alone, your dog wouldn't have got hissself killed. That was your doin', by draggin' him along ….."

Crunch.

Evan's head whipped back, red liquid spouting from his now broken nose. He glared at Sherlock, hatred oozing from his pores. "Is that the best you've got?"

Sherlock's lips curled menacingly. "Oh no…. I'm just getting warmed up. You have no idea what tricks I've come up with during that year I was playing dead. Glad I get to put some of them to good use again."

Panic flared in Evan's chocolate-brown eyes as he watched Sherlock stroll past him, calmly making his way to a point behind his back. He heard Sherlock moving something around, metal clanging against metal. He desperately tried to stretch his head around to look behind him, but his restraints prevented him from getting a good vantage point.

"What… what're you doin'?"

"Deciding what tool to use on you first."

"Oh god… please, just call the police, I'll turn myself in. Just… don't torture, me, please, anything but that."

A voice cold as ice responded. "Do you think John Watson suffered in his last moments?"

No response.

"DO YOU?"

Evans face crumpled in upon itself as he breathed, "Yes."

"Then I think it's only fair that you should suffer as well."

Sherlock walked back into his view, clasping an evil-looking metal implement that caused chills to shiver down Evans' spine. Sherlock grinned.

"I'm a sociopath, James. I can't even dredge up empathy for family members of victims; do you really think I'm going to have any for someone like you? Don't despair, though; in a little while, someone will come to put you out of your misery. I'm not a monster, after all."

And Sherlock set to breaking James Winter.

After he was finished, Sherlock turned his back on the man and started to walk away. A weak voice rose up behind him, giving him pause.

"Please… please don't let 'em kill me. I'll confess to Dr. Watson's murder, I'll confess to anything you want me to. Just… don't let 'em kill me. " The voice dropped to a whisper. "Please."

Sherlock resumed walking, pulling out his phone as he did so and texting his brother. He's all yours. SH

His phone sounded with a response, but he didn't bother checking it.

Hours later…..

Sherlock had been wandering the streets of London now for five hours straight. He had nowhere to go, not really. An empty flat seemed less than appealing right now. Night had fallen, crisp and cold, snow gently tumbling down and wetly clinging to his eyelashes. Whenever he got too cold, he hailed a taxi, and randomly chose destinations. His phone had been sounding text alerts every so often, but he ignored them all. He had been studiously avoiding all CCTV cameras; he didn't want his brother's attention and concern right now. He just wanted to be left alone.

January 6, 2017. Forty-one years old. He had never really thought that he would make it past forty. There was a time he didn't even think he would reach thirty.

This was certainly not the way he envisioned ending the day. He and John had had reservations at Angelo's for seven o'clock. It was way past that time now. John had annoyingly come up with the sentimental tradition of going to Angelo's for dinner every year for Sherlock's birthday. He always presented his gift to Sherlock during dessert . Sherlock, of course, always knew ahead of time what John's gift was. This year, it was a pocket-watch, with the engraving "To SH, the best friend I've ever known."

He closed his eyes. There was just one gift he wanted from John, this year, an impossible gift. Just one more miracle…

His thoughts were interrupted by another text alert. He blinked as he found himself re-orienting to time and place. There was only one person he wanted that text to be from, and he knew that wasn't going to happen. Sighing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, unlocking the screen.

Sherlock, stop ignoring your messages. John is awake. He's asking for you. He wishes you a very Happy Birthday, with hopes of many more to come. –MH

Sherlock's legs almost gave out on him. He reached out and steadied himself against the side of a nearby skip. He hurriedly checked the rest of his missed messages.

Understood. John made it to hospital, he is in surgery. –MH

Evans taken care of. Will not be traced back to you. –MH

John still in surgery –MH

Sherlock, respond –MH

John survived surgery, prognosis good –MH

Sherlock, stop ignoring your messages. John is awake. He's asking for you. He wishes you a very Happy Birthday, with hopes of many more to come. –MH

Sherlock hastily typed out a response with clumsy fingers. Which hospital? –SH

For Pete's sake. Charing Cross, naturally, the nearest one to the scene. Where are you, I'll have a car sent. –MH

Sherlock told him, making his way back out of the alley towards the street proper. He sent out a silent thank-you to a God he didn't even believe in, thanking them for an answer to a prayer he hadn't even prayed. Once he arrived at the proper cross-street, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited to be taken to John's side.

It could be credited to the good doctor that a whisper of remorse for what had been done to Evans followed Sherlock into the car; just a whisper, one that was easily ignored, for now, but one that would continue to niggle at the recesses of Sherlock's conscience for the rest of his life.