
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/437145.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, F/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Jim_Moriarty, Sebastian_Moran, Mycroft
      Holmes, Anthea_(Sherlock), Mrs._Hudson, Greg_Lestrade, The_Homeless
      Network, Original_Female_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Angst, Abduction, Abandonment, Fluff_and_Angst, Johnlock_-_Freeform,
      Psychological_Torture, Torture
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-06-18 Updated: 2012-09-18 Chapters: 9/? Words: 3572
****** His Kingdom Come ******
by Lumbumtre
Summary
     John Watson was a man who was not to be messed with, especially after
     his best mate's death. That is, until one cold January night when he
     was stolen away, and Sherlock Holmes is left to not only save him
     after his own three years of hell, rendering him weak, but to tell
     John the truth in a way that John will believe him.
     Multiple POV's.
     Jumps back and forth in time.
Notes
     Here's my first ever AO3 fiction! Here we go!
     Please don't hate me if I misspell things, or use too many commas (I
     REALLY like commas), or anything like that. Also PLEASE let me know
     if I stray too far from character, if something doesn't make sense,
     or I've made a mistake (tense switch, etc.). Thanks!
     A big, huge thanks to LoyalNerdWP! <3 I'm forever your slave now! ;)
***** Of the Night *****
John’s POV
 
January 15, 2015; 22:14.
 
It was a cold and dreary night on January fifteenth. It was late when I left
the flat, but the rubbish needed taking out. As soon as I stepped over to the
side where the bins were kept, a shiver, not due to the cold, ran down my
spine. Someone was in the dark with me. Though Sherlock had been dead a little
under three years then, I had still kept my gun hidden against the small of my
back. Better safe than sorry and Sherlock’s daemons continued to hunt after his
death. Quietly, I dropped the trash to the side and pulled out the Browning,
pointing it towards where I’d last heard movement. I cleared my throat,
waiting.
Nothing.
After about five minutes of staring into the dark, I tentatively reached out,
until I concluded that nothing was ever there after all. I shakily exhaled in
relief and finished what I had come outside to do.
Back inside, I padded into the kitchen and made myself tea. My nerves were
still quite shaken, and the hot beverage always seemed to help.
Following Sherlock’s death, I seemed to be constantly on edge. My therapist,
Ella, was just waiting for me to slip up, so she could then diagnose me with
Paranoid Schizophrenia. How lovely.
I was a nice person before the suicide, according to her, but with Sherlock’s
death, I had hardened. The worst part was that she was right for once. I was
not the kind, friendly John Watson anymore; I was not allowed to be. I had to
keep this I'm-a-bastard-and-don't-even-think-of-looking-at-me-before-I-punch-
your-face-in front up against everyone because they thought I was crazy. I
apparently talked to no one all the time, but it was not /my/ fault they were
all blind. I was obviously talking to Sherlock, who was standing right next to
me. Now, I understood that Sherlock was, in fact, very much dead and gone, but
who was to say his spirit wasn’t there beside me?
My therapist also thought I had started drinking too much, that I was turning
to alcohol to repress my memory from /the/ day. True, I had started drinking
more than I’d used to, but who was she to say I turned fully alcoholic?
No one understood me anymore. I had no job, no friends, and honestly, after
Sherlock’s passing, no life. I only lived off the occasional conversation with
Sherlock’s ghost. That wasn’t much.
After I finished my tea, which I had spiked with a little scotch, I shuffled
off to bed like an old man, slowly and painfully, my leg acting up worse than
normal. I only caught a couple hours due to nightmares.
Once Sherlock had entered my life, my limp, my tremor, and my nightmares
vanished. He was like the perfect cure every doctor could wish for, for their
patients. My life became normal again; well, only so normal as it can get
living with a Holmes.
I was very slow about getting up the following morning, my leg growing
increasingly painful. After a quick shower, I hobbled downstairs and into the
kitchen. My first destination was the alcohol cabinet. I thought that a small
swig would perk me up, but the liquor had no effect on the insistent pain.
As I went to throw the empty beer bottle away, I had the odd sense I was being
watched again.
***** Seven Devils of the Dark *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock's POV as John is taken in the night.
Chapter Notes
     I posted chapter 1 a little under 12 hours ago, an it has a bit over
     200 hits already! Thanks everyone!
     Please catch any mistakes if found so I can fix them! :)
Sherlock's POV
 
January 15, 2015; 20:01.
 
I was a broken shell of the great man that once was. I was once on top. Once
brilliant, above the careless humanity of people. Then, over the course of
three years, I became more human than anyone would have believed possible.
It had been almost three years since my "death". Almost three years since I
stood on that roof top, looking down. Almost three years since I had talked to
John. Too long.
I had decided a long time ago that, within the confinement of Death's grip,
there were seven devils that haunted me; Sentiment, Angst, Jealousy, Survival,
Pain, Desire, and Loss. These caused me to become a hollow shadow of the genius
I was.
First; Sentiment. I missed John. I wished to be back by his side, to be able to
dry his tears, to be able to remove the ever prominent bottle in his grasp.
Then there was Angst. I feared for John. I feared that if I failed, Moran would
destroy him. I couldn't allow that.
Jealousy; I was incredibly jealous of the broken life John had been able to
lead. At least he could walk in the open and not have to pretend to be someone
else. I wished for that freedom.
Survival; Surviving was an issue. There was, for the longest time, no place I
could comfortably hide, and even then mustering up the resources I needed was
even harder. Food was scarce to come across. With my death, all my money had
been deposited to John, as it said to do in my will, and I simply could not
bring myself to be kind enough to inform Mycroft that I was alive.
Pain; I physically hurt being away from John for so long. I felt our distance
right where my heart should have been. I finally understood what Moriarty meant
when he said he'd burn the heart out of me. He /knew/ that his death would
isolate me from John, and that that would hurt me worse than anything else.
Desire; I would have traded anything to be again with John. Anything.
And finally Loss. It felt like I wasn't the dead man, that it was I who had
lost John, not the other way around.
It was a cold night when I took up camp in the attic across 221B. I sat by the
window, eagerly watching in case John came out. And he did not disappoint. He
briefly limped out to take the rubbish out. It seemed that he had another
episode by the bins, as he pulled out his gun and stood waiting for an attack.
I'd snuck in Ella's office the other day and read through her notes. She was
pretty sure John had gone off the deep end, thanks to grief and alcohol. It
seemed that she was right for once, and that broke my heart.
All the next day I spent looking out that small little attic window watching
for signs of John, and hoping I was not going to be discovered. The entire day
John kept some kind of alcohol in hand, and kept looking around like a hunted
animal. It was very odd behaviour for him, I will admit.
Around eleven o'clock, I finally succumbed to the cold, getting up from my
perch in search of a blanket, a jacket, anything; something to warm up my frail
form. After thirty minutes and forty-two seconds of searching -I may have been
ill, weak, and over all unwell, but my mind was still sharp- I took up my seat
up by the miniature window once more, armed with an old, heavy, dusty quilt.
Aside from being a starving man, I felt comfortable for the first time in
months, especially knowing that John was only a street's length away.
I was still sitting in the poor lighting late, late (early morning, really)
that night when I saw John's unconscious body being carried out by a figure I
couldn't distinguish.
Quickly, I pulled on my coat and scarf, before pausing to grab the gun I had
acquired almost three years ago.
***** Kneel Before the King *****
Chapter Summary
     In which we begin to understand...or do we?
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys, know it's been awhile! Been cut up under summer stuff,
     sorry! Hope this tid-bit makes up for it. More notes at the end!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Moran’s POV
 
January 12, 2015; 14:39.
 
I’d been watching John for a week, waiting for Sherlock to tell him of his lie.
But Sherlock never did, which was very interesting, all the more as he kept
moving locations close and closer to 221B. Finally I got impatient on day seven
and barked for one of Moriarty’s old, let’s say, workers. In stepped a very
timid drug-dealer named Lucy McPelle. She was one of my favourite ‘workers’. No
matter whom, it was time to work.
Lucy was only twelve when I found her on the streets selling any range of heavy
drugs, from Marijuana to Heroin, she gave it all. An orphan, she’d been in the
risky business since she was eight. She had short, pixie-style auburn hair that
got longer the closer it came towards her face. She had amazing ivy-coloured
eyes and a splash of faint freckles across her tan skin.
I don’t know why I liked her so much, aside from her ferocity when it came to
making a deal. When drugs and money weren’t in the equation, she was a
completely different person. Perhaps I admired her separation of work and home.
Or maybe it was the way she didn’t scream when I took her, chained and beaten.
God, how I loved to touch her beautiful young body, still growing, maturing.
“Lucy,” I purred. Her head instantly snapped up, and she bit her lip. In
anxiety? God, I hoped so. How I did love her reactions! I used to bring my
inferiors to almost the point of death, back in the Queen’s military, just for
an ounce of the fear I could have, at any moment, gained from McPelle thanks a
single glance.
“Y-yes sir?” She choked out. My, my! How it seemed I had broken the tough
little fourteen-year-old; once a great dealer, whom had presided over even the
roughest of criminals in London, became a shaking, sniveling child in my very
presence.
I shifted and motioned towards my lap. “McPelle, why don’t you come and take a
seat? Sebby’s got a request for you.”
Her hands instantly clenched hard, but she did as commanded. I made very sure
that she was sitting on top of my erection, which had sprouted due to her
lovely presence.
“Now, dear,” I breathed in her ear, brushing away her short hair so I could
take a nibble. “There’s something I need you to do.”
Chapter End Notes
     So what do you think of Lucy? I promise once my schedule begins to
     clear up, the chapters will be coming more quickly (I hope!). Also
     I'd like to let you all know the chapters will be getting longer,
     and, well...you'll see! Love you all!
      
     [Photobucket]
 
So here's what I'd imagine Lucy to look like^
(Also, what do you think of my photo-editing? ;D )
***** Breathe, Love *****
Chapter Summary
     Lucy's POV. Enjoy!
Chapter Notes
     Sorry, sorry! I know, too long! But I had a lot of summer stuff going
     on, including a foot injury and Independence Day here in America. Do
     you forgive me? :(
     I hope this makes up for it. There is more to Lucy's POV, but it's
     still a bit shaky, so consider this part one. I just wanted to post.
     :)
     Again, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, let me know if you see any mistakes,
     inconsistencies, etc. Cheers!
Lucy’s POV
 
January 12, 2015; 14:41.
 
I cringed when Moran hollered for one of us ‘workers’, as he referred to us. I
felt that was such a strange term for us slaves, but hey!, the man /was/
mentally deranged.
Moran was the one who found me on the streets, buying any drugs I could with
the last of parents’ money to be resold at a much higher price. Most of my
profits went to either getting more substances, or keeping my little sister in
an all-girl’s boarding school. I tried my best to support Gray, but after being
kidnapped by Moran, all my income stopped. I found out four months later, after
being made Moran’s personal sex slave, that when payment stopped going to the
school, my dear Gray was kicked out, and didn’t last four weeks on the streets.
They found her body in the Thames one late summer’s night. She had starved to
death, and a couple of the other homeless had moved her body to a more
convenient place, for them, at least. If it weren’t for Moriarty’s cracked
system, my would-be nine-year-old sister would have lived, and /thrived/. It
wasn’t fair.
I took a shallow breath and stepped into the room, head down, and eyes on
anything but that /monster/. He must have sensed my discomfort, because he
murmured in his sickly-sweet voice my first name like it was a piece of hard
candy, to be rolled around between tongue and teeth. It was disgusting.
I had no other option to but to look up into his hard, insane eyes. The feeling
of terror that crashed over me was nothing new; that happened every time I
looked anywhere near his face.
I had barely managed to choke out a “Yes sir?” before hatred washed over me. I
loathed him! He destroyed my sister, he was the one responsible. /He/ was the
one who stole me from my fate, and mangled it.
I hated drug dealing. I never meant to be messed up in that kind of stuff. I
was a good kid. Before Mum and Dad’s death, I was an amazing artist, and
probably would have gone far into the art world. But then they died in a freak
car accident, and Gray and I fled to the streets. After about a week and a
half, I decided I couldn’t let my only family, and best mate, wither away under
the harsh life of homelessness. I soon found the cheapest, yet most stable
boarding school I could, said my goodbyes, and began to work for her life. I
wrote Gray letters every so often, but she could never track me down to make a
return of her own writings.
Gray was a great writer, absolutely fantastic, even from an early age. She
would have been a novelist one day.
We were both talented children, destined to go far in life, until one Sherlock
Holmes decided to, on one of his mighty adventures, dart across the street,
causing Mum and Dad to swerve and hit another vehicle going the other
direction. He was also apparently higher than a kite, if you get my drift.
Funny, that was before he met Dr. Watson. I read /all/ about them in the
papers, whenever I could pick them up. I could not say I wasn’t at least a
little pleased about Mr. Holmes’s death; after all, he was the reason my family
died. I did feel bad for the supposedly kind Dr. Watson, whom seemed really
tormented thereafter. He became a drunk, too, or so I had heard. Pity.
“McPelle, why don’t you come and take a seat? Sebby’s got a request for you,”
Moran shifted and pointed to his newly-erect lap. My fists immediately
clenched, and I barely kept from gagging. I stiffly did as he demanded, feeling
completely uncomfortable as his cock pressed up against me through his cargo
pants.
“Now, dear,” He breathed in my ear, brushing his large hands across my hair so
he could bend down and bite my upper jaw.
“There’s something I need you to do. I need you to go and find me Dr. John
Watson, and bring him here. Got it?” I gave him slight nod, and he turned my
head to brush his lips across mine. I had to fight every urge in my body to
slap him across his vile face as he began to move his hands lower. Suddenly, he
stopped and threw me off his lap. My head crashed hard against the stone floor.
He stood, and walked over me, towards the nearest window. “Work to do, we can
finish this later. Be gone!” I quickly scrambled off the cold ground and
hurried out of his control room, glad to be spared for once.
***** Time to Run Again *****
Chapter Summary
     A short snipet of Sherlock's POV.
Chapter Notes
     Hey guys, sorry, I know. Dad's been in the hospital, so my life has
     been hectic.
     But here's a short little something for you! And after I convert
     everything, blah, blah, blah, I will have /another/ chapter
     up...today (hopefully, if nothing changes with Dad)! Two for one (I
     hope) as a royal apology!
     And I need to mention, I decided to not use Lily's POV until later.
     You'll see!
Sherlock's POV
 
January 17, 2015; 2:11.
 
I darted out of the building as fast as I could, trying to trail after the car
John was in. The gun, soon forgotten. But I was weak. How could I not be after
three years of homelessness, abduction, and torture? Quickly the car raced out
of sight.
Leaning against a lamp pole, I stopped, wheezing for air. My fear, while it did
not ebb, turned into self-hatred. Had I not gone, and looked for a blanket, a
jacket, anything to warm myself up with, I would have seen the intruder enter,
and would have been able to save him. I possibly had just had John killed/
tortured/raped all because I was weak, and crumpled into the cold.
My fist slammed into the pole once, twice, and a total of six times before the
pain was too much.
Luckily it was dark, late, and cold, so no one was around to recognize or hear
me, much less watch me, the once mighty Sherlock Holmes, sob against a lamp
pole in the middle of wintery London.
***** The Enemy *****
Chapter Summary
     Lucy's POV
     See what I'm doing here? Breaking it into pieces? ;D
Chapter Notes
     Sorry guys, we had a bit of a scare with Dad, but he's stable again.
     So here's three mini-chapters, that I wrote while in the waiting
     room.
Lucy’s POV
 
January 12, 2015; 14:52.
 
“Give me hope in silence; it’s easier, it’s kinder.
Tell me not of heartbreak; it plagues my soul, it plagues my soul.
We will meet, back on this road, nothing gained, truth be told.
But I am not the enemy; it isn’t me, the enemy.” I hummed quietly, as I set
about doing the Devil’s deeds.
As soon as I left Moran’s office, I ran immediately for the loo, and tossed up
my lunch. There was nothing to be done about that; that’s what happens when
you’re messed with mentally on a daily basis. Your body can’t handle much.
After wiping my mouth, I pulled out my mobile, and began checking all data
bases I could scrounge on Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. First thing first, when my
plan was to be carried out, it appeared that Holmes would have to be
distracted. He was stationed across the street, keeping a vigil watch on our
dear doctor, according to our most recent reports.
Great.
***** Oh Lord, Please *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock's POV
     Yup. He's scared as hell.
Chapter Notes
     Read the above chapter's notes. :3
Sherlock’s POV
 
January 17, 2015; 4:06.
 
Where, where, where?!
I sure as hell did not waste three years for this!
John, please!
***** Welcome to Hell *****
Chapter Summary
     John's POV
     And so it begins...
Chapter Notes
     Read the above chapter's notes, and do as it says. XD
John’s POV
 
January 17, 2015; 3:15.
 
I slowly peeled my crusted eyes open, to awaken in my drug-induced stupour in a
bare, white-washed room, chained down to a metal table.
***** Coming Home *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock comes home. Sherlock's POV.
Chapter Notes
     I won't even bother with excuses, so just enjoy. :)
Sherlock's POV
 
January 25th, 2015; 16:23
I sat curled up on John's bed, face against the duvet, the damned gun on the
bedside table. It had been eight days, eight terrible days, since John had been
abducted, and I was feeling completely lost. Not even a hair could have been
found out of place in 221B, and I was growing more fearful by the hour. If only
I could have been sane enough to shoot one of the god-damned tires, and maybe
John would be in this bed with me. But no.
Perhaps some of my problem had been that I hadn't slept in three days, not even
a wink. Probably not.
I couldn't talk to Lestrade, not to Mycroft, not even to someone as stupid as
Anderson for help without my cover being blown.
My hands furled and unfurled in the blankets around me. They smelt like John,
and I relished in the scent that I had long missed. The next thought I had made
me sit up straight, back up-right. But what would happen when the smell faded,
and John was still lost? My heart clenched, I saw red, and my head fell back to
the bed with a dulled smack. Whoever took John was going to /pay/, and with
blood.
I rolled my head out of the smell so distinctly /John/, so I could evaluate his
room a forty-fourth time. Two point seven, seven, six, minutes later, I came up
with the same frustratingly puzzling conclusion that I had time and time
before. I moaned and tilted my throbbing head back into the blankets. /Where/
could my army doctor be?
As soon as John filled my senses again, I promptly fell asleep. A sudden noise
startled me awake. When I rolled off the bed in an unmannerly fashion, I cursed
my damned transport on wasting more valuable time. More awake now, but with a
bruise soon to be forming on my forehead, I listened. Ah, that's what woke me.
Mrs. Hudson had been away at her brother's the past two weeks, helping plan and
carry out his funeral. Well, needless to say, she had just arrived home and her
closing the front door had awakened me from my light slumber.
After dropping her things in her rooms, I heard her hobble into the foyer, with
intent on letting John know she was home.
My heart leaped; it was now or never. Get her help and risk being found out by
others, or risk losing John by working on my own? If eight days didn't make me
desperate and quick to take a small, personal risk, I don't know what would. I
scrambled down the stairs as quickly and quietly as I could, praying she was
too tired to notice the rushed pace I was going, too tired to realize that I
wasn't John. Breathe, she didn't notice.
I situated myself in front of the window, and waited. When the poor, old, tired
lady did finally manage the stairs, she knocked and gave a broken "Yoo-hoo,"
before entering. I turned to see a panicked, disbelieving Mrs. Hudson, her hair
disheveled and dark rings under eyes. All I wanted to do in that instant was
run to her. Run to her, fall to my knees, hug her waist, beg her forgiveness,
and swear to the mother-figure of mine that I'd never leave again. But I am
Sherlock Holmes, and those things simply aren't done. Instead, I turned from
the window and drawled, "Mrs. Hudson, you're looking lovely tonight..." My
speech was cut off when I saw her eyes rolling back into her head. I leapt
forward and caught her.
Within ten minutes I had revived strong Martha Hudson, and had her propped up
on the couch.
"Sherlock, it's really you?" Her voice wavered and she looked, frankly,
horrible.
I took her withered hands in mine and squeezed.
"Yes it is. And I'll explain later, but you have to help me..." Her mouth
opened, but I held up a finger to shush her. "John," I continued, "has been
taken."
And the lump crawling its way up my throat got its wish; I crumpled, my head in
the old woman's lap, sobbing.
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