A Bond is Painful (The Final Song) Part I
The newspaper is relentless these days; John tosses the newest issue from his hands to the hospital floor, disgusted by the front page spectacle and the headline: “The Sherlock Holmes Still in Hospital! Questions Still Unanswered About Missing Girl!!” Despicable, really. John feels the weight settle on his shoulders as he glances at the bed-clad figure. If Sherlock were awake, he’d be angry at the amount of time he’d been out of the public eye, and especially pissed off at the staff and the amount of times the newspapers came snooping around, nearly making it to his room to steal pictures of the comatose male for their false headlines. Everyone is asking questions and instead of waiting for the genius to finally awaken, they instead create false fairytales to try and make him out to be a monster. It’s people like Sally Donovan of the New Scotland Yard that like to point fingers and blame Sherlock for a case that only exist in theory.
They never found you. Only blood splattered against pavement from a harsh fall lay where your body should have been. But you weren’t there, and Sherlock never opened his eyes to explain the details of his meeting with Moriarty. John feels lost. Out of place again, it’s akin to his first moments out of the army as a civilian, those first months spent drifting and alone without a foot on the ground. But then he met Sherlock and everything- well, it was a terribly amazing time. And then he met Mary, and things became even better, greater, he had a place, somewhere to call home, people to call friends. And Sherlock is his best friend. His best friend in existence and he shouldn’t have-
“I shouldn’t have left you alone. I should have known that you would do something like this, Sherlock. I did know, didn’t I? I knew and yet I fooled myself into believing that you could do it, you could save her, because you could. You can do everything, you know? But for God’s sake, Sherlock, wake up!” His voice raises without him meaning to because John doesn’t have any control anymore, not over himself or the situation. Newscasters follow him relentlessly to try and get answers and he can only tell them to piss off and leave him the hell alone as he stays at 221B Baker Street to watch over the place. It is strange being back in the flat without Sherlock to shoot holes in the wall or playing the violin with his things scattered about. Mary understands that this is what he needs to do and she doesn’t hate him for his distance as he spends his days and nights at the flat to keep watch and at the hospital to monitor his best friend’s vitals. He is a doctor after all.
“She’s still missing,” John murmurs to the lifeless body save for the beeping of his monitor; his skin pale and the mask broken. There is nothing there but a heartbeat and breathing; but the snark is gone and the hardened expression is no longer there. The only expression Sherlock last held was utter pain and loss. It was the first time John had ever seen an expression like that on his face before- and it broke something inside of him to see his best friend so helpless, so lost. It was the first case left unfinished in their time together, “... We can’t find her without you.” It’s the truth. For all of his experience, Lestrade is not Sherlock Holmes and there is only so much he can do with all of New Scotland Yard under his control. Pictures of y/n are in the media and newspapers, but no one has seen her; she was barely here before she was whisked away to somewhere unknown. Having come from a small village, there wasn’t much to go on. Her mother had been notified and distraught, her coworkers saddened and terrified at how she appeared to reach her end. But where was the body?
Where ?
John kept track of other hospitals in the area to see if a girl with her visuals had been admitted in the past few months, but still, nothing. John feels more useless than ever. His best friend has been in a coma for almost half a year and in that time no one had gotten any closer to finding the truth of her whereabouts or Moriarty. Mycroft has attempted to make contact, but even he, with all of his powers, has yet to find the evil mastermind. When he heard of the incident, it had stirred something inside of him, something like understanding, something like empathy, and a brotherly love that Mycroft has never truly shown before. Mycroft spoke in few words whenever he interacted with John but John could tell that he knew what it was to lose something precious, something like a Bonded. The sidekick didn’t think it was possible, but perhaps even someone like Mycroft had held the love of another before losing it and himself along the way. Now he preferred that awful silent room for the affluent to hide away in while he lived his life being a terribly prying human being.
John ignored the sound of the hospital door opening, half expecting Molly Hooper to come in with tears in her eyes again. She didn’t know about Sherlock’s Bonded, didn’t know that the missing girl had ties back to him in a way that would inevitably break her heart, as if she didn’t know already. But it isn’t Molly, who constantly begs to know what happened to Sherlock like John could possibly answer, but another nurse.
“John-”
“I know, I know,” He brushes off her depressing voice, a tired sensation settling in his bones every time he has to leave Sherlock unattended. He forces himself up onto his feet, that sad sensation right there in the center of his chest as he turns and strides out with his head held high.
God, everything hurts. Instead of hailing a cab for 221B Baker Street, he decides to spend a night home with his wife and toddler. He needs their warmth to keep from being overcome by the cold swelling up inside of his mind. He can’t help but picture the moment he saw Sherlock being carried out on the stretcher, all of the blood, the bullet wounds so dark and wet. And Sherlock tossing his head back and forth, trying to push the paramedic’s hands away, talking faster than anyone could understand. He kept saying ‘help her’ but there was no girl needing saving.
You had vanished.
And that in and of itself made John worried beyond belief. What would Sherlock do once he woke up to find you nowhere in sight? What if Sherlock… what if he didn’t wake up? And then John feels like he can’t really breathe properly anymore. There’s something lodged in his throat and pressing into his chest and the nightmare just won’t end . John is sensible, but he is also sensitive. With no Sherlock Holmes to drag him all over London and no you to make sure he made it back safely to Mary with his nerves less than frazzled, the ex-army doctor nervously took the first cab that came into sight and gave him the address without truly seeing the driver or the street.
He just- it was a bitter pill to swallow just thinking about the events of the past weeks. It would make six month since the incident and John didn’t know what else he could do but be there for his friend and to keep in contact with Lestrade in case he ever found you and your whereabouts. John wants to keep a hold on things, on this tangible worry that something even worse may have happened to you after the fall. You had to have survived for your body to go missing, or maybe Moriarty had you moved to a shallow grave out of Sherlock’s reach. John would like to think you had survived because Sherlock’s bond-tattoo, which had become a protected secret within the task force and the hospital, was still there, no darker, no lighter than the day before. It simply stayed plastered to his skin, a testament to the girl who had come and gone with the changing of tides.
John exits the cab and pays the driver, in a bit of a daze as he made his way home. Mary is waiting up for him, their daughter dozing in her lap as he steps through the door and quietly locks it behind him. It’s a surprise for her to see him away from Sherlock, although she had been secretly waiting by in the hopes that he would come home, even for a moment. Mary knows that John is heartbroken at not being able to help his best friend, but there is nothing she can do but continue to steadily pour her love into his crippling body. He curls around her in the love seat, staring down at their child and trying his best not to shed tears as another night drifted on by.
Would they ever find you?
Would Sherlock ever wake up?
Only time would tell, and it was just the beginning of “The Final Song.”
.x.
The first moment you opened your eyes, the sunlight filled up the soft, blue room and stole away all of your attention. The feeling creeps into your warm hands and you carefully sit up, your thoughts a blank slate. You don’t know where you are but that you smell the scent of… was it lavender? But how could you know that? What is lavender? The questions compound inside your mind and you quickly shake away the headache that drills its way into your temple. It hurts to think about anything, and so you try to dial down your racing thoughts and focus more on moving from wherever you are. The sheets you lay across are soft, caressing the bare skin of your legs and arms as you finally manage to sit up straight. Everything spins in and out of focus, but you manage to keep yourself sitting up and realize that you’re in a bed, a bed of purple lavender strewn across the silk sheets. The information fries everything else you could think of in a haze of grey and you shake your head slowly to try and clear it. But you can’t remember… important things… things you know deep in your gut that you should know.
“Where..” You began to speak, your throat too try and causing you to cough. The sensation makes you flinch, eyes shutting closed as your face crumpled with pain.
“Oh no, my dear. Don’t try to talk so soon.” You instantly recoil into the sheets as a male voice rang out from off to the side. You weren’t sure if you were afraid of him being there or if you were more afraid that you hadn’t noticed. Had you always been this unaware? You glance in the direction and see a man in a pristine suit sitting in a leather chair close to your side, holding a cup of water, “Here, drink this, sweetheart, and then we can talk.”
Sweetheart?
You’d never seen this man before in your life, but you felt that without any options or background knowledge to go on, there couldn’t be anything wrong with him if he was trying to help you, right? Your naivety left you vulnerable, flawed, and just right to be swallowed whole. You reach out and gently take the glass of water with shaking hands, raising it to your lips to take a careful sip. Once you’ve had your fill of the cold liquid and let it slide down your throat slowly to feel the refreshing sensation, you set the cup in your covered lap and peered over at the man, not knowing what to say.
“My, you really must have taken quite a hit to the head, Margaret, dear. The doctor’s weren’t sure if you were going to wake up at all, but I waited, and here you are,” Moriarty’s eyes are twin pools of false concern that make you feel more at ease and less tense inside. Your body feels stiff, as if you had been laying in the same position for a long time. And from the way he spoke to you, it seemed to be the truth of it all. Had you hit your head? Where were you when it happened and why can’t you remember anything from the moment you fell? And there’s something else there, too, something you can’t reach anymore. You feel it growing stronger the more aware you become. Something is off-
“M-Margaret? Is that my name?” You question quietly, blinking a few times as you tested the name on your tongue. It left a bad taste in your mouth, a sense of wrong, but you bite it back when the man gives a fervent nod. Margaret… Margaret.
“Yes, of course. My little bird, you thought you could fly-” A shudder rushes through you at his words as a brief memory comes to mind. It’s murky and muddled and you can’t see anything but the air and the sky around you but you know you hear a voice not too far off say something like “I wonder if she can fly.”
“-Wonder if who can fly, Sweetheart?” You shake your head instantly at the sound of his voice, realizing too late that you had been speaking out loud.
“I- I don’t know,” You respond in kind, shrinking in on yourself as your shoulders hunched. The words that left your mouth and entered your thoughts terrify you down to your bones and you don’t know why. How could you when you have just woken up to a strange room in a bed that you don’t remember and speaking to a man who isn’t familiar? The nameless man mutters ‘tsk, tsk’ under his breath before reaching over to gently brush the back of his hand against your cheek.
“It’s alright, I promise. I’m Jim, remember? You and I are close, you see. Very close. And I promise I’ll protect you from everything while we try to build new memories.” His words are nice, reassuring; they give you the strength you need to nod. Moriarty grinned then, ecstatic at having you play right into his very hands. He’ll keep you more safe than anyone else in the world, high in a tower no Sherlock Holmes would ever be able to reach. Even if the tattoo still lay against her flesh, she didn’t appear to realize the bond yet and he could easily use that to his advantage. He could tell her it was merely a gift from her parents when she left home because of her intense musical talent. Moriarty was smart, very much so, and had studied enough to know what buttons he could press to bolster her shattered memories. Her musical talent could be restored; it’s not like her fingers had broken during the fall.
Moriarty watched her, her skin pale and expression blank as she glanced at him before staring down at her lap. She was beautiful, that Moriarty could see as an objective fact that would not play into his plans, but at least she remained gorgeous after The Fall. He’d carefully chosen the place because of the distance between the balcony and the street below. The thing was- Moriarty never meant for her to die. No, where would the fun be in easily killing a swan with a single bullet? His plans were simply genius; He would capture her and carefully cut all of her primary flight feathers, leaving her stranded and unable to ever take flight again. If he had his way, she would be in debt to him for all of her needs. She would never, ever think of Sherlock Holmes again. And when Sherlock made it out of the coma plaguing him, because Moriarty was certain that Sherlock would refuse to be defeated in such a lowly way, he would awaken to see her by his side. And then and only then, would Moriarty put him out of his misery, utterly defeated. A perfect game, Moriarty called it, the most perfect game he had ever played.
Moriarty lowers his hand to rest it over hers, peering into her eyes with his most genuine expression he can produce. She’s sensitive, even more so now, and he watches the way her facial muscles relax. He has her right where he wants her and now is the time to cultivate the trust that will ruin Sherlock Holmes forever. After a moment, you draw your hands away to take another shaky sip of water, warily staring at Jim. You can’t remember anything, it’s as if your mind has gone completely blank up until this very moment. The name Margaret doesn’t ring any alarms but it must be your name? Right?
“How long have I been here? In this room?” You begin to question him, brows furrowed as he provides you with information. You had been in a coma for approximately 2 months, having suffered the head injury from a trip and fall off of a train on the way to your own orchestra concert. The incident had worried Jim greatly and he didn’t know what to do but watch over you and wait for you to hopefully wake up soon. The idea of you playing any music is foreign to you; you don’t remember any of your former glory, talents, even your own last name. It’s frightening to think that as he spits out all of this information, you can’t recall any of it- there’s barely a flicker of a face. A face unlike Jim’s.
Dark, curly locks.
Bright, blue eyes.
And nothing else.
“W-What is my last name?” You ask after a moment, drifting back into Jim’s ramblings about your former life. He sprinkles in bits of the truth with more lies that draw you in and leave you aching for what you seemingly lost but never truly existed. He scoots closer in his chair and your head unconsciously tilts to the side as you blink at him, your cup of water nearly empty. The rays of the sun gently caress the side of your face, warming you cheek.
“Huntington. Of the London Huntingtons. Very rich, very old money. I’m sorry to say that you are the last heir to your family name.” A truth not even you ever knew of. Your father had been a Huntington, but abandoned the title and the fortune to travel before you were born, even before meeting your mother. And there was a reason he’d settled into the village with your mother to start their life together; his family had been horrible people, full of lies and deceit and only concerned with retaining their status with lavish items and fancy cars, expensive attire and homes scattered all over the country. When your father’s parents passed away, as per their request, a trust was created for their remaining son. And even now, it lay untouched, shifting to the next of kin without so much as a single greedy finger poking at it from existing cousins or your father’s parents siblings and relatives.
Why, Moriarty had to give himself a pat on the back when he uncovered such a tucked away jem in the darkest part of the London family trees. Does Sherlock truly love her? Perhaps he could call that into question now that he knew his adversary’s beloved was actually sitting on a literal gold mine yet to be touched, probably billions in British pounds. It gave him more incentive to keep her long after her use expired, but Moriarty does not hold onto things if they pose an unnecessary risk to him and his way of life. She could be an asset, yes, but Moriarty would soon grow tired of playing with her. He always did when it came to people of a far lower intellect.
.x.
“Margaret, see, you’re wonderful.” You hear the compliment from the doorway, a shudder running down your spine as you almost lose your grip on your bow, the sound of the violin coming to a screeching halt. You quickly settle the instrument into the soft material of your maxi skirt, swallowing dryly. Jim always seemed to sneak up on you undetected and it always made you jump or visibly shudder before beginning to relax again. He had been nothing but gentle and caring with you, but there was still that small bit of ‘what if’ wriggling in the backdrop of your thoughts. But he had been right. In the two months since you had awoken, the moment you saw the violin in your new expansive room in the estate, you couldn’t put it down, and now, four months later, here you are. Jim would bring you a cello next, and then a piano, and without even realizing it, you had fallen back into your talent as if it hadn’t lay dormant for even moment.
There was something calming about listening to the music that left each string, the sound a morbid melody that reverberated across the room and inside yourself. You had no idea how long you had played for before your accident, but it must have been a lot for your body to instantly pick up on it the moment a string instrument or the piano came into view. The first time playing was a bit shaky as your fingers had to loosen up once again, but by the next day, you were playing every note perfectly, the books of sheet music easy to decode like reading the words from your favorite books. Even so, with finding this new talent, you still felt that the vast majority of your inner self was empty, stuck in the past where you could never find it. It frightens you daily that you may never remember anything of your past before the accident that left you in a comatose state for two straight months.
“T-Thank you, Jim,” You murmured with a small, nervous smile. He smiled in kind, holding a large sized, flat, square box in his hands.
“Thank me by accepting this gift?” He questioned as he ventured into your space. It was mostly filled with things Jim had gotten for you himself, wanting you to feel as comfortable as possible. The walls were a pastel pink, a few instruments in the corner (he had refused the moment you told him you couldn’t except it, insisting until you had no choice but to give in), your bed covered in soft, cream sheets and comforter and neatly folded. You had asked where all of your belongings were, but he had responded that most had been lost in transit due to incompetent movers. Sadly, you didn’t question it for a moment.
“A gift? B-But I have everything I could possibly need.” And it was one of the purest things he had ever heard you say, and for a moment, just the tiniest of moments, Moriarty felt something twist somewhere in the emptiness he knows. He is not growing attached or confused, Moriarty knows what it is to truly be needed, with his vast crime network full of thugs, underlings, and high rollers who all need him at one time or another, but you are liken to a new found puppy indebted to your owner. You could run, but you stay, the thought of leaving him never crossing your mind. You’ve become content quickly, never questioning, always yielding; Moriarty fails to see that his shortcomings are quickly catching up to him as he steps closer, holding the box out to you.
“Please, Margaret. Accept it. It took me a lot of hours to find just the right one.” You cringe slightly as the guilt overcame you a moment later, quickly setting your violin and bow on the desk beside you before standing and reaching for the box carefully, unsure of what could be inside. You take it from his grasp before sitting back down and setting the box in your lap, wringing your fingers before steadily removing the bow from atop and pulling the lid off. Underneath is a shimmering black gown folded up carefully, diamond encrusted and surely costing a fortune.
“W-What is this for?” You asked, voice soft, so touched as you looked back up at your companion. Why was he giving you something so fancy, so lovely, out of the blue?
“A date must wear something eye catching to the symphony, wouldn’t you agree?” It’s not a gift; he merely didn’t want her to be in his company outside dressed like some commoner. Sure, the moment he saw it he knew that it would fit the same tone of her skin, glittering under any and all lights. You were an accessory he wouldn’t pass up the chance of wearing on his arm, especially if it meant someone could recognize you. He was already working on the second phase of his plan. The first had been to take you away and treat you like a queen, doting on your any and every need, making sure you were living comfortably without the need to work or associate with anyone else but himself. So far, his plan was running smoothly and you had never questioned why he never took you anywhere, under the pretense that you needed rest before being introduced back into society. You ate up his words like they were gold to the ears.
“Symphony?” The light that touches your eyes is blinding. Moriarty shifts his eyes elsewhere, blinking a few times to catch onto the train of thought steadily trailing away, “we’re going to the symphony?” You asked in a hushed tone, growing excited at the prospect of leaving the estate for the first time since waking up. The structure was so vast that you had merely moved to a bigger room, but never outside. The closest you could get outside was the balcony attached to your window, but you always felt dread going near it. The idea of accidentally falling over it was a constant nightmare that plagued you for weeks.
“I thought it was time that you were able to test how comfortable you feel outside. And I know how much you love classical music, Margaret. I thought seeing the symphony might help your muscle memory.” Lies. All lies. They flowed off of his tongue with such ease now that the slight flinch he felt when he spoke caught him by surprise. He had always planned to use you as a sure way to control and destroy Sherlock, but he couldn’t very well do that with keeping you so far away. Pushing you in a closer vicinity to your Bonded would push his body to wake up and once Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, he was going to suffer. Then why the sudden feeling of guilt? Why the revulsion at his own actions? Moriarty is a certified genius, mastermind, smartest man in the world and he knows it, and the guilt is quickly subdued with anger. He’s angry at not knowing where his guilt stemmed from. Keeping the smile on his face, the evil genius turned on his heel and stalked for the door.
“I’ll leave you to get ready. There will be shoes outside your door.” He doesn’t give you a chance to deny due to his speedy exit. You sigh softly and set the box down on the desk beside your abandoned violin, the smile still there on your lips and a warmth in your chest that you haven’t felt since waking up. You were so happy at the chance to be outside again, like a bird allowed to venture from its cage for a short amount of time to test her wings, but you didn’t understand the concept of being a date. To your slacking knowledge, you were under the impression that a date was a friendly outing because you saw Jim as a friend, a partner, someone who took care of you and nothing more. Pushing the concept away from the task at hand, you went about your daily routine, taking a shower so hot it left you with a heat that lingered upon stepping out into the slightly chilly air. Your (h/l), (h/c) hair stuck to your face as you used a fluffy lavender towel to dry off your body, ending by bundling your hair up to dry. Humming the tune of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 1, you slipped into comfortable black underwear and a black bra before stepping over to your vanity to blowdry your hair carefully, still not accustomed to using it. Ignoring the makeup on the dresser because you had no idea what went where on your face, you tie your hair up into a tight bun and step towards the gown instead. You pull it from the box and watch it unravel, soft and full of lace, an ethereal effect. You had never seen a dress so beautiful (not that you could remember anyway) and accepting it made you feel strange, bad even, because you didn’t think you deserved it.
Still, Jim had gone through the trouble of purchasing it so you could at least wear it once, right? That wouldn’t hurt? Coming to a clear decision, you easily slip into the dress that hugs onto your curves perfectly, the lace translucent in places to show off skin as the collar reached to your neck and the sleeves ended at your wrist. As much skin as it covered, it left more visible among the diamond studs all over, the gown flowing yet billowing out somewhat. Your chest was exposed through lace as was the tattoo caressing the center of your chest, just above your breasts. The tattoo is the favorite thing about yourself even though you can’t remember why or when or how you got it. You don’t know which parlor or tattoo artist had given it to you or what age you received it. But you just knew that it was the most alive part of your body. You happen to glance at yourself in the mirror on the way out, pausing once you caught a glimpse of the smiling mouth and eyes to match. You look beautiful, down to the natural light flush of your cheeks.
“You are the most beautiful person in my world,” He murmured quietly in your ear when he thought you had already drifted off, his arms trembling slightly as he held you, “And I would do anything for you.” His voice is soft, deep like an endless ravine that dipped and quivered with emotion. You can’t see his face, only hear his voice admitting everything he keeps inside, all of his innermost feelings and emotions, something he had never truly shared with another soul so freely. Because he liked to pretend that he didn’t have them.
“I love you, Sh-” You start before your voice cuts out and a static takes over, a shooting pain slapping you across the face. You shake your head as a headache rubs at your temples instantly, the memory went as quickly as it had come. Taking a deep breath, you reach up to touch your head, your eyes reflecting back on you from the mirror. You turned from your reflection, afraid of any more pain hitting you just from looking at yourself. You can’t remember the voice and you’re sure it wasn’t Jim… Then who? They had called you beautiful with such conviction, such awe. It was heartbreaking to hear it.
You had a feeling it had to do with bright blue eyes and unruly locks and memories of your past. With one more deep breath, you shake off the rest of your nerves gained from the surprise attack of a memory and make for the door to your room, hoping that nothing else would happen until after the performance.
The outside is full of greenery and flowers all over the gated entrance and the grounds. Rose bushes of various colors are cut into different complex shapes, all beautiful in their own way. You reach out to carefully brush a hand against a purple tulip as Jim carefully held your hand to help guide you over to the car. Your heels were gorgeous and a perfect addition to the dress, but you weren’t sure how comfortable you felt walking in them on your own. Jim’s hand is callous and a bit cold, but not terrible. He keeps you grounded as you slip into the black limousine, scooting over to give him enough space to slide in after you. He slams the door shut and the car takes off after a moment. You rest back against the plush leather, trying to push the small sliver of memory away as if it will ruin everything. You want to ask your companion if he knows who could have said those things, but again, it would best to save it until after the concert.
You feel a soft shudder ripple through your chest but think it’s the air conditioning, curling your arms around yourself to combat the chilly feeling. How could you know that it was the other half of your Bond awakening after laying dormant for six months. The moment you stepped outside and began to venture towards London again was the start of Moriarty’s final front.