Chains (Johnlock)

Chapter 8

Sarah's P.O.V.

It has been a whole month and Sherlock hasn't said a word to her, or even screamed. The Boss seems to have forgotten about him. Perhaps he wanted to show off his power. Whatever.

As she walked down the chilling concrete corridor, Sarah dropped her knife and mobile. Door number ten was unlocked, and after entering the chamber, she saw no sign of Sherlock except a red message on the door: Run. And she did exactly that.

Sarah bolted down the hallway, up the stairs, and out a window. You see, as much as she liked hurting others, she was afraid of getting hurt herself.

How in the name of hell did that bastard get out of there?
~~~~~~~
Sherlock's P.O.V.

"Mycroft how long have you known where I was exactly?" He spoke through his teeth as his brother unlocked the chains binding Sherlock to the wall.

"Since you got here." Mycroft said with an emotionless tone.

"Why the hell did you leave me down here?"

"Had to work around Mr. Moriarty."

"James Moriarty is-" Sherlock started

"Dead, obviously. No, you where messing with his younger brother Trent Moriarty. Not all to bright, but was keeping tabs on John so I had to work around that."

"You took too long, old man."

"Shut up or I'll leave you here."

"No you wont, you need me." Sherlock chuckled.

Mycroft ignored the comment and said "Come along, we must hurry. I'm taking you to my house to get you freshened up."

"Wait, I have to leave Sarah a message." He touched his bloody wounds and wrote on the wall 'Run.'

"Alright, brother mine! Lets get out of this dump." Sherlock grinned at his brother for the first time in a long time. Mycroft rolled his eyes and followed his bloodied brother out the rotting building.

Trent Moriarty's P.O.V.
(TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE)

Let them run, I got what I needed. I got my revenge, he just doesn't know it yet. Let him run, run to his demise. Sherlock wont understand for the first time in his life.

I'm done with this now, the hole has been filled. My brother has been avenged, and the chains I once dragged are no more.

My name is Trent Moriarty, my brother was James. I was second in line to the throne of the empire our father had built on the blood and bones of the innocent and wicked.

My soul is at rest, and I am tired of this all. No, not defeated, not near that at all. Sherlock Holmes will hurt worse than I did in a few days time. My soul is at rest. I look to my gun and know what comes next. My brother left this way, so I must as well.

Time to paint the wall behind my head, the deepest of reds and the colour of the dead. I put the gun in my mouth, with one bullet within. A laugh of joy escapes my lips as I tighten my finger around the trigger and-