Sherlock BBC
Title: Tears, Idle Tears
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Spoilers: For Series one and two.
Word Count: About 7k
Summary: John, before, after and during.
A/N: Hmm. Might need a sequel. Title taken from a poem by Lord Tennyson.
Tears, Idle Tears
The worst bit, John sometimes thinks, the worst part of Sherlock being gone is the presence of his things - his boots, his books, his bloody chemicals, his dressing gown, his violin - still lying about in the flat are glaring absence of him.
John is rarely alone these days; the first few days after Sherlock’s death, people - Molly, Mike, Mrs. Hudson, his sister, even Mycroft - feel the need to keep an eye on John. They each have their own methods with which they think people should be dealing with grief and John puts up with it for a long time. He goes to the pub with Mike and watches the games, he chats with Molly as often as he can and for the past three weeks he’s been having tea with Mrs. Hudson nearly every day. He visits his sister and they talk about several things including her drinking and Clara and for the first time in years, John feels as though she knows him at least a little bit better than she did. This Harry is different from the other one, the one who was constantly tipsy and shouted for hours at John when he informed his family about his decision to go to war.
Mycroft comes by, week after week and sometimes they talk - Mycroft has a plethora of stories from Sherlock’s childhood which are maddening and endearing in turn, one time Sherlock had allegedly forced Mycroft and a butler who quit soon after to stand out in the rain while he tested the rainwater for salt content - and sometimes they just sit in silence with their tea in front of them while John pretends that he can still see Sherlock in his blue dressing gown flouncing around in a sulk by the windows like the sepia flashbacks in the modern movies. Often, in these rememberings, he expects Sherlock to burst through the door in that speedy, impatient, mad way he would and demand that John get up and follow him for there was a madman gunning down people and Sherlock knew exactly who it was by the dust he had collected from a piece of clothing or something similarly obscure.
He tolerates their stifling concern for weeks and weeks but it doesn’t make anything better.
Because whenever he leaves the flat and returns, be if from the clinic, the pub or Harry’s house, Sherlock’s things are spread all over the available surfaces. Sometimes he sits in his armchair and touches the ridiculous hat that Sherlock had punched, so very very long ago, it seems, and whispers,” Sherlock, I miss you.” He has never been a religious person but each time he waits for some cosmic sign, some indication that Sherlock may come back to him and each time his ridiculous hopes are dashed and the tears return because he does, he really really misses Sherlock now and he never had the opportunity to tell him he loved him, had loved him since the first time they met; it seems ages go now, the first time he saw Sherlock at St. Bart’s, bent over a microscope.
Most of all though, he misses talking to Sherlock. Sherlock, is that today’s paper? Sherlock, the victim can’t be the murderer. Sherlock, you’re not a sociopath. Sherlock, clear out that decomposing pigeon and go to bed. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
He is angry at Sherlock for assuming that John would readily accept that Sherlock was a fake, angry that Sherlock belittled their friendship, but he’s never angry for very long, he misses Sherlock too much for that. He never visits Sherlock’s grave anymore. The name on the gravestone breaks him every time. John has done enough sobbing at graves to last him a hundred lifetimes, he can’t anymore.
And dear God, Sherlock’s bedroom.
John had rarely dared to venture into Sherlock’s room before - before - because of the strong chemical odour from his experiments, the stench of decomposition from whatever was decomposing, once it was a sparrow and once it was a goose and after that John had forbidden him from bringing dead thing back to the flat and had conducted a sort of security check at the door whenever Sherlock returned asking him to empty his pockets and such much to Sherlock’s exasperation, John never dared ask.
But now, his half crazed psyche is telling him that that’s the only place he feels mildly comforted, feels at home, feels like - Sherlock’s still here, he never left - before.
But later, in time, they stop coming. He texts less and less, he doesn’t go to Harry’s house as often and Mike only calls once in a while to tell him about a few strange cases at the hospital. Only Mycroft, oddly enough, keeps up his battering visits like clockwork and John is in turns flattered and irritated. But, in the entire world, they were probably the only two people who accepted Sherlock for all his sharpness and his brilliance and loved him just the same.
John had always thought that people grieving would shout, scream and generally broadcast their grief but he’s not prepared for this slow, cloying torture. His heart aches sometimes without provocation and he has to draw a breath, blink his eyes shut and sit down somewhere to regain his composure. He wakes up sometimes with tears on his face and no knowledge about what he had been dreaming about. Sometimes he wakes up with his hand tingling as if it’s remembering the cool smooth plane of Sherlock’s. It’s in these moments, in his dark bedroom, just before sunrise, that he realizes he hadn’t merely tolerated the visits and the pints and the tea, he had needed them. And now that they deemed him fine though he wasn’t anywhere near it, they had stopped coming leaving him horribly lonely.
John decides, this time of his own accord, to see Ella again.
---
She’s dressed as impeccably as ever.
Her entire office seems to reflect her personality, it’s smooth, clean, neat and John is half afraid of breathing for fear of ruining the glossiness with his tears.
“I think, John, in order to move on, Sherlock’s things need to go. Don’t you agree?”
John hasn’t been treated this gently since the first few weeks after Sherlock’s death. It’s oddly pleasant. He hadn’t thought that it was the sort of thing you’d miss. But he doesn’t want to follow her suggestion all the same.
“No.”
“John.” Again, so gentle. “Do you want to move on?”
There, that’s a question. John doesn’t want anything except Sherlock back.
“John. Sherlock is gone, he’s not coming back, but you still have your life. It wouldn’t be disrespectful to his memory if you moved on. Don’t you agree?”
Memory. Sherlock’s memory. It’s a little too much for John and he cuts their meeting short not even bothering to cook up an excuse. Ella merely sighs and gives him her personal number and tells him that he can call her if he wants to talk. He takes the slip of paper and goes straight home.
Two days later, when he catches himself practicing what he would say to Sherlock when - when? - he came back, he rings Mycroft and asks him if he has any space for Sherlock’s things. Mycroft seems to have expected this as he expects everything and accepts, adding that John can feel free to withhold any keepsakes, like his clothes and the back of John’s neck responds with a sudden flush as he realizes that Mycroft must know - must have always known - the depth of his feelings for his brother. Boxes arrive the next day and John begins to pack. Packing takes about a week because John can’t pack a single box without taking breaks and going on long walks. John had thought that he had accepted Sherlock’s death.
He had thought that he had accepted Sherlock’s death and had even flattered himself that he was moving on.
---
The last box.
The flat looks neat for the first time since John saw it and there’s one last box. John hasn’t asked Mycroft how he knew exactly how many boxes to send. The air in the room is stifling and John takes a walk.
London is drizzly, as seems to be the perpetual state these days, John doesn’t really notice any other type of weather other than drizzly, he wanders aimlessly, looking at the brightly lit shops on the sides of the road and he smiles, realizing that Christmas time is near. John always did love Christmas. He wishes Sherlock were here to play carols on his violin.
“Spare change, sir?”
John startles nearly out of his skin and whirls around to see a girl there, in rags. It’s not unusual, but something unsettles him and he frowns and walks rapidly away. His heart starts to hammer.
He doesn’t sleep at all that night. He tosses and turns and watches the room being suddenly illuminated by a pair of headlights, almost like in a fever.
The girl. In the rags. She has the same starved expression. She’s looking at him expectantly. He suddenly shivers.
John sends all of Sherlock’s things away, except his violin.
Spare change.
Something is very, very wrong.
Sherlock.
---
The next morning, it’s the same girl. Wherever he goes, it’s the same girl.
“Spare change, any change, sir?”
John turns startled eyes on her and backs away a few steps. He wasn’t wrong, it’s the same girl. John leaves again. He doesn’t have the strength for this. He’s going mad. He turns ridiculous theories over and over in his head, he doesn’t leave the flat and he spends all of his time looking out of the window as if he expects something to happen. Ordinary sounds startle him. He’s going mad. He can’t help feeling as though there’s something urgent he needs to be doing, all the time. Something pressing.
John laughs, the sound is foreign as well as disturbing, even to his own ears as it rings around in the empty - empty? - flat,” Sherlock, I’m going mad.”
He lies down on the couch, shivering and waiting for dawn.
Every day, it’s the same girl.
---
“John, you missed our last two appointments.”
John looks up, it’s Ella. He has no recollection of coming here. How did he get here? Cab? Sherlock would know.
“Sorry,” he apologizes politely.
“What were you thinking about, just now?” Ella asks. She has a pen and her notepad in her hands.
Suddenly John wants to tell her. He wants to say the words out loud and he wants her to refute them so that he can move on, he has no energy left.
“I think Sherlock is alive.”
Ella raises an eyebrow about one-eighth of an inch, she’s a professional but John can tell that she’s barely concealing exasperation.
“Last time you were here, you expressed that people showing that they care about you makes you feel cared for, didn’t you, John?” Her voice doesn’t even rise.
“Yes.”
“Also, you said that since people stopped visiting, you felt lonely.”
Had he? John doesn’t remember telling her that. But he also doesn’t remember what day it is.
“Yes.” He sighs.
“So, is it possible that you’re inventing an excuse, subconsciously of course, for people to come see you?”
Or I’m going mad, John thinks.
He leaves. Meetings with Ella are always short. He doesn’t think she can help him anymore.
---
Three weeks later, three long, sleepless, shivering weeks later, John turns around violently and hisses at her,” Who are you? What do you want?”
She doesn’t appear surprised or even threatened. “Spare change?”
“What for?”
“A cup of tea, of course.”
“Look, whoever you are, stop following me,” he snarls,” Stop it, it’s not funny. He’s gone.”
She looks disappointed at that, he thinks.
His heart doesn’t stop pounding for five hours and he doesn’t sleep again that night.
Something is very wrong.
---
John gives in.
He doesn’t mean to, every day before leaving for the clinic, he tells himself firmly that he isn’t going mad and that he would not take a step back, no not when he’s doing so well, but he gives in.
She’s waiting for him, looking just the same as always. John shudders from head to toe, nearly drowning in staggering hope. But he can’t give in today. Not today.
The next time he sees her, he fishes in his pocket and yanks out as much change as will fit in his fist and drops it in front of her. He waits patiently for her to collect all the coins but she simply walks away after that.
John goes home that night, feeling more disappointed and defeated than he had expected to. As he had suspected, it’s only his overactive imagination, playing tricks on his mind. Somehow, it’s as if Sherlock had died again. No, it’s worse. He promises himself, in the quiet, haunting darkness of the flat that he would gather the remaining pieces of his life and move on, definitely this time. Tomorrow.
---
He has no time to start rebuilding his life for the next day, he sees her again.
He runs to her, heart beating almost too loudly in his chest, mentally cursing himself for starting this horrid business again, for giving in to his heart which is half crazed with desperation, but she motions for him to follow and takes off at a slow jog. John follows her through London’s streets, remembering the first time he had chased after Sherlock. He almost smiles, remembering the rapid intensity with which Sherlock had rattled off the street names and anticipated the red lights, remembering how impressed and shocked he had been and is so lost in thoughts of Sherlock that he doesn’t realize that she’s led him to the railway tracks from his second case with Sherlock. The one with all the Chinese symbols. The one with Sebastian and his slimy smiles and insinuations, Sebastian who pretended to know Sherlock.
A sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead but it’s not from the vigorous walk.
Sherlock.
He knows where to look. The girl’s vanished.
Sherlock.
He turns a corner and there it is.
Dear God, please Sherlock.
Scrawled across several other graffiti, in yellow paint.
Sherlock loves you.
---
John knows that he isn’t mad. He knows what he saw and he knows Sherlock well enough to know that there probably is an excellent reason why he felt he had the need to hide. But, as with all things related to Moriarty, John is extremely afraid for Sherlock’s sake. He doesn’t mention the incident to anyone but knows that Mycroft at least suspects from the way he looks shrewdly at John sometimes. John is too afraid to tell anyone for fear that he’ll blow Sherlock’s cover. He wants Sherlock to come back to him. So that he can tell him he loves him too.
He can’t be sure, of course, that Sherlock is alive.
---
For the first time in months, John Watson has had a good day.
London is bustling with brisk people and brisker automobiles, the weather is quite lovely, there’s a little line to the ATM but John doesn’t mind waiting. There’s a slightly harried looking mother in line in front of him with a little girl in her arms, dozing fitfully on her shoulder. John smiles at the toddler and waves slightly. She darts a missing-toothed smile in his direction.
John walks home with almost a skip in his step and stops at the door of 221, Baker Street to root around in his pockets for the keys. After fishing it out, John reaches out a hand to the door, but stops short when he sees that it’s open. John goes stock still. Mrs. Hudson never leaves the door unlocked, not after what had happened with The Woman and the agents who were after her. The incident had left her shaken and suspicious; although Sherlock’s job brought him in contact with a lot of people with far too much money, power and violent tendencies, the attack on her had been the worst. Instantly, John knows something is wrong. He looks up and down the street but doesn’t spot anything out of the ordinary, just a few people walking about.
He stands outside the flat for the longest time, before pushing the door open as slowly as possible and peeked inside, silently. He slips in and looks up the stairs leading to the flat. Nothing looks out of the ordinary and John wonders if it’s him again, making mountains out of molehills or it’s Sherlock, finally returned. John shakes his head and climbs the stairs.
When he enters, Moriarty is sitting on his couch.
John almost forgets to breathe. But why not? he thinks, feeling hysteria bubbling up from his chest and into his throat, why not, if Sherlock is alive, why not Moriarty?
Moriarty turns, focusing a slimy smile his way, the same one he had aimed at John before drugging and kidnapping him, the one that sends shivers racing up John’s spine, not that he’d ever show it.
“Johnny.” His tone is almost affectionate, like he’s missed John.
John has been trained by the army. If deductions and light-speed conclusions and vast knowledge of the world are Sherlock’s forte, escape routes are certainly his. He looks around the room once and has identified three exits, two risky, another quite less, within the span of thirty seconds. There’s no one else in the room but John knows from previous experience that the building is probably under siege, every corner watched by snipers or worse, assassins. He’ll take his chances.
Moriarty grins.
“Come on, Captain John Watson, the window’s being watched. You’ll be goo on the pavement before you can say,” here his face flits once, the expression of burning hate and madness,” Sherlock loves you.”
John sighs.
Sherlock had to take the risk, he supposes, but he really ought to have known better. Moriarty had eyes and ears everywhere. Even Sherlock vast homeless network wasn’t hidden from him. It would be his undoing. John only hopes that Sherlock has had the sense to escape and hide himself, bury himself deep as could be humanly possible.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” Moriarty purrs, standing up to circle the sofa and touch Sherlock’s violin. John nearly blanches at the sight of his fingers running along something that was Sherlock’s. “You’ve not said anything.” There’s that false, revolting pout in his voice and John just wants it to be over.
“What do you want?”
The laugh that echoes in the flat is crazed and John shudders again,” Want! What do I want! Alright, I’ll make this simple, Doctor.” Moriarty lifts the violin up with ease and flips the bow around, drawing it against the strings. The sound that emerges is similar to the one cat’s make, if they were being tortured. John closes his eyes. The sound of Sherlock’s violin comes to his memory.
“Put it down.”
“What?” Moriarty is faux-confused,” What, oh this? Dear Sherlock’s violin? Where is he, by the way? I’ve missed him terribly, did you know?”
John sighs, almost glad that this was the information that Moriarty wanted, something that he had no knowledge of, Sherlock had seen to that.
“I don’t know where he is.”
Moriarty nods, pityingly,” I know that. He didn’t tell you. Then again, I don’t suppose I’d inform my dog if I’m going out,” he sneers,” I’d just pat him on the head, lock him in and be on my way.”
John refuses to open his eyes,” Why are you here?”
Suddenly, Moriarty is very close, John can feel his breath on his cheek, not even aware that Moriarty had set down the violin and moved. He very carefully manages to keep his eyes shut.
“There is a tribe, in the Himalayas, a tribe of hunters…” His voice is a low, venomous hiss.
John is so very tired.
“… And they need tiger skin to keep warm in the winters but the tiger is a predator and man’s tools are worthless. When they can’t hunt tigers, John, when they fail to hunt a tiger, do you know what they do?”
John would like very much to go to sleep.
“They tie out their best goat to a tree and they wait."
He feels a sudden pinching sensation in his left arm and all fades to black.
Stupid, stupid John.
---
John wakes up in a moving van and his first thought is Christ, where’s Sherlock? And his second is dear lord my head really hurts.
His mind, groggy and dull from the drug they had pumped him full of - it has to be someone else who gave him the drug, Moriarty never gets his hands dirty, someone else who was hidden in the flat? They had got his vein on the first try - wonders just what he could possibly give them, it was highly unlikely that Sherlock, wherever he was, would even be privy to John’s abduction; he really was quite useless. He wants to say as much but can’t for the gag. His wrists and ankles are tightly bound too. The van has no windows and John can’t raise his head enough to catch a glimpse of the driver. This one has no visible way out.
The van starts to slow down. John immediately closes his eyes and sags. He’s going to get out of this one before Sherlock gets caught by this madman. Dear lord, how?
They haven’t bothered to blindfold him. John’s not sure what that means, but he knows enough to know that it’s not good.
Someone’s hands are on him and they drag him over a sharp shoulder, grunting with the effort and John tries not to grin, making himself dead weight. If he’s going to have to go down, he’s going to make it as abominably difficult for them as possible. He feels himself being moved and flung down on something hard. If he had Sherlock’s skills, he thought regretfully, he’d know exactly where he had been taken, by the bumps on the roads or something. There’s a sound of a door slamming shut and John waits for a few moments making sure he’s completely alone before daring to open his eyes. The room is almost completely dark and John’s tired throbbing eyes take a few minutes to adjust. It’s some sort of a narrow cell, he realizes, with a tiny window right at the top with bars and a door. John knows these kinds of rooms, they are torture rooms.
John wonders if this is Moriarty’s grand plan, something this pedestrian, to torture John until Sherlock comes. For his sake, John hopes that by the time Sherlock hears of these proceedings John will have escaped or died, he really doesn’t mind either one at this point in time. But he thinks that his hopes of it being quick will be invariable dashed.
---
On the first day, John gets no food for more than thirty hours.
“Why do people do it?
“Do what, Sherlock?”
“Call each other inconsequential, incomprehensible endearments, even when they’ve been assigned specific names, though I must concede that they are most tedious and when they aren’t, they’re worse than - “
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock, can’t you ask a question like a normal person?”
“---“
“Oh alright. It’s for the other person’s benefit, it makes them feel special.”
“Even though they’ve no doubt been used on several people before and probably will used on several people after them?
“---“
“But, thank you. I think I understand. Even though it’s ridiculously sentimental.”
“Go away, Sherlock.”
On the second day, a group of masked, tall men come in with knives and they cut his arms. John can only see their eyes. One of the men have blue ones.
“I never did get round to asking you, did I, Sherlock? Whatever happened between you and Mycroft for you to resent him so much?”
“Other than him being a secretive, lazy, fat, foolish, manipulative - “
“It’s because he’s cleverer than you, isn’t it?”
“---“
“Now, Sherlock, I didn’t mean - Stop looking at me like that! I didn’t mean anything by it…”
“---“
On the third day, John doesn’t know what they do, but his arm throbs, it’s definitely broken and the only thing on his mind is Sherlock.
“---“
“I know you want to ask, John, just ask.”
“Was she telling the truth? You’ve never…?”
“Oh just say it! Never had sex! Sex! Yes, what of it?”
“No, I just - “
“Yes? You what? What of it? Why should I have to bow down to society’s little stereotypes and pigeon-holes, having sex left and right in uni and school and with whomever is slow enough not to run away - Stop smiling!”
“Sherlock, you’ve never done it because you were looking for the right person, you, the person who characterizes every single thing ordinary people do as boring and sentimental and ridiculous, you were waiting for the right person!”
“I shan’t talk to you ever again.”
“You’re a child. Tea?”
On the fourth day, John sobs aloud,” Sherlock, I can’t - Sherlock, I can’t anymore, please - “
No more memories come to his pain-addled, half-crazed mind and everything aches and John doesn’t understand why Sherlock won’t come.
On the fifth day, Moriarty loses his patience.
“What do I have to do, John?” He grabs John’s hair, now matted with blood and yanks his head back painfully so he can see the other men in the tiny room, masked and robed like always and their eyes are burning and John closes his eyes,” What do I have to do, Sherlock? Do I kill your little pet and hang him out for everyone to see? Do I cut his heart out and feed it to the dogs? Where is he?”
John wants to laugh and he does so, right in Moriarty’s face.
“Tell me now, where he is. Or I’ll cut your throat right here, I’ll do it.”
John doesn’t open his eyes or his mouth. This is it then, he thinks, regretfully. He’ll never see Sherlock again and he’ll never get a chance to kiss him or hug him or run his fingers through those wild black curls and he’ll never get to hear the sound of the violin or Sherlock’s affectionate chuckle. There are probably worse ways to go.
Moriarty barks something at a man in the room on his way out. French. How odd.
Someone forces him to stand on legs that felt like noodles and he keeps slipping down, but the man keeps him upright with a tight, unyielding arm around his waist. There’s a knife against his throat almost immediately and John knows that the slightest movement will cause the sharp edge of the knife to sink into his throat. John forces himself to keep his eyes shut. He doesn’t want the last thing he sees to be Moriarty’s dead eyes.
Instead, he forces to the surface, a memory of Sherlock.
I love you, he thinks, it’s always been you, Sherlock, from the first moment we met. More the fool me, never having the courage to tell you.
Harry would wonder, perhaps. And Mrs. Hudson. Probably Lestrade and Mycroft too.
Sherlock. Goodbye.
John draws in a breath and purses his lips. None of them would have the satisfaction of seeing them quiver. He compels himself to breathe slower.
His last.
He’s ready now.
The only sound he can hear is his own hammering heart.
---
He’s so focussed on the knife now definitely drawing blood that he doesn’t realize that the arm around his waist has gone from restraining to almost an embrace.
---
Suddenly there is cloth against his ear; he can feel lips under them.
---
“It’s alright, love.”
---
His eyes fly open and he jerks his head around. He knows that voice, even as a whisper. Grey eyes. Inches above his own. Crinkles around the corners.
---
All in a single second, the arm around his waist twists him so that he’s out of the way, fluid and almost choreographed and the man throws the knife at the other, blue-eyed one standing at the entrance. It hits him perfectly in the chest, buries itself to the hilt. His eyes widen for a second and then he falls to the ground with a thud, blood pouring out. John stumbles to his knees, legs weak and shaking, still not fully comprehending and puts his hands over his ears, futile really, it does nothing to block the sound of the rifle or pistol shot so close by. Moriarty’s men make confused and outraged noises all around him but within the span of three minutes, they’re all silenced, knives buried into two of them, a bullet in another and a swift punch to the jaw for the remaining four.
Sherlock - Sherlock, Sherlock, oh it’s Sherlock, how can that even be? - staggers to his feet and turns around to face John, putting his arms around his waist and pulling none too gently until John can lean against his body, practically spitting at him,” I told you to run!”
John breathes hard, he just has to know, he just has to see, he fumbles with the knot at the back holding the cloth mask together with trembling fingers and tugs it free, revealing first a head full of black curls and then, a nose and bloodless lips, those lips. John sobs out loud and sags with relief and joy, grabbing the beloved face in his hands, kissing it wildly, madly, laughing hysterically,” Oh Sherlock, Sherlock - Sh’lock - “
Sherlock cradles him to his chest, carefully like a treasure and he throws his arms about Sherlock’s neck and holds on tight, feeling fingers run through his hair. But even through the intoxicating haze of joy and Sherlock’s smell, he knows that practically they can’t stand here forever locked in a tight embrace. Moriarty must have more men here, wherever here was and they’d never leave.
And of course that’s when he hears sirens.
“We’re safe,” Sherlock is panting into his ear, chest heaving against his,” It’s alright, we’re safe, we’re safe…”
---
John wakes up in a hospital.
He lifts his heavy heard blearily and glances around the white room smelling like disinfectant and then down at himself; he’s dressed in a hospital gown, left arm in a splint - ah, it was broken then - and whole body aching with no doubts the countless cuts on his chest, legs and face. None severe but definitely a couple needed stitches. Overall prognosis: quite alright. Outside the door, he can hear raised voices arguing and he smiles sleepily. Trust Sherlock to only be back for a couple of hours and make the nurse staff hate him already.
“ - just because I haven’t signed a tedious piece of paper, really the rules are quite extraordinarily tiresome and I’d be more concerned about the patient three rooms down if I were you, he’s not in any pain, he’s faking it for the drugs, never mind how I know. Now, if you’d just move aside - “
And the door flies open and Sherlock is standing at the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face while a red-faced nurse sputters behind him.
“Sir, I really must insist - “
Sherlock shuts the door in her face, without bothering to turn or even drag his eyes away from John’s.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything and John takes the opportunity to look him over. He looks the same, except thinner, if that could be possible and there’s a fading bruise on his throat - John swallows, he’s been strangled - still gorgeous, still Sherlock and John sits up and careful not to pull on the IV holds out his good arm. His chest aches when Sherlock’s face goes slack with undisguised relief and he launches himself into John’s arms with the speed of a frightened cheetah and John clutches him tight, unmindful of the tears running down his face or the growing wetness against his chest. And, just like that, words are unnecessary, except for Sherlock’s whispered sorry, I’m sorry.
After years in the army, after Afghanistan and shots and injuries and scars and starry desert nights, after wars and quarrels and death, after stitching soldiers up, after having to watch most of his friends blown up or shot, after squeezing his eyes at bloodied dog tags, after everything, he’s finally allowed to have this.
His miracle.
It’s four hours before Sherlock stops shaking and closes his eyes in fitful slumber when Mycroft shows up, umbrella in one hand. He studies the two of them for a second, Sherlock’s legs twisted impossibly into the metal chair and John’s face goes red at the scrutiny and he stutters,” He’s - um, he’s out cold, I’m afraid. I’ll tell him to - ah -”
“Not necessary,” Mycroft assures him and comes to stand by the bedside and rest his free hand against the riot of curls now occupying John’s lap. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes while John clears his throat, feeling as though he’s interrupting something here when Mycroft lifts his hand and brings it down rather hard on the top of Sherlock’s head. John doesn’t know if it’s the indignant sound that he makes or the blow that wakes Sherlock up but he does, with a surprised yelp that has John chuckling despite himself.
Sherlock lifts his head to scowl at his brother and Mycroft frowns right back,” You had no right, Sherlock.”
His voice is calm and measured as usual but Sherlock’s eyes widen,” I didn’t - “
“Yes, I know very well what you did and did not do,” Mycroft snaps and cuffs him again,” You could have - no, you should have come to me.”
Sullen, Sherlock leans further into John’s chest, tightens his arms and pouts at his brother, or as close as Sherlock Holmes can come to pouting anyway and John grins. ” You should be thanking me profusely, he might have killed you too, you know. Besides, might I just remind you that it was you who provided him with the necessary information to - “
“Very well,” Mycroft looks thoroughly put off and he straightens his back,” I did apologise for that… aberration.”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, loftily,” You did,” and both the Holmes brothers study each other for a long moment before Mycroft stalks out and Sherlock then turns his face fully into John’s chest, rubbing at it like a giant spoiled cat. John threads his fingers through the curls at nape of his neck and presses a kiss absently onto the crown of his head, while a thought occurs to him.
He grins widely.
“You said you loved me.”
“Well,” Sherlock starts,” Wrote it, technically, and that wasn’t me, I had to pay a man a ridiculous amount of money to - “
John cuts him off, knowing that if he didn’t this would go on for the rest of the night and maybe even well into tomorrow and he hugs Sherlock close, revelling in the feel of strong, thin arms around him, he whispers,” Say it again.”
“As I was saying before I was interrupted, I never did actually say - “
“Sherlock.”
“Yes, alright, alright,” Sherlock clears his throat,” I love you. There.”
John closes his eyes and breathes in once, settling his head atop Sherlock’s.
Sherlock loves you.
“You never said before…”
“Neither did you,” Sherlock murmurs.
“I’m quite sure I’m meant to be mad, Sherlock, you let me believe… you let me think you were dead for so bloody long - “
“I’m sorry,” comes muffled from somewhere near his chest. Sherlock seems incapable of emerging anytime soon. It really isn’t fair that John can’t stay mad at him, not after hearing that voice and dear God, is Sherlock going to exploit it later,” I didn’t think you cared. Not as much as I care for you.”
John’s heart twists and he really wants to see Sherlock’s face but he makes no effort to lure him out, suspecting that Sherlock would only find this easy to say as long as he didn’t have to look directly at John.
“More,” he whispers, tugging on one black curl to make sure Sherlock is listening.
“Couldn’t possibly,” Sherlock whispers back and John laughs out loud. Are they really having the love you no I love you more conversation? That too on a hospital bed after a visit from Mycroft? After Sherlock convinced him he was dead and then came back? Never a dull moment with this madman.
Sherlock frowns at him, no doubt suspecting that a joke has been cracked at his expense and John smiles reassuringly before lying back down on the hospital bed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, you lunatic. Nothing at all.”
Sherlock will have to explain everything whether he likes it or not, but later. Later.
---
If Lestrade’s honest with himself, he’s really very mortified.
Of course, he had known that Sherlock wasn’t a fake, couldn’t have possibly been, but he had let himself doubt for just a bit, had allowed himself to be swayed and it wasn’t right. People rarely get second chances and he recognises this to be one. Taking a deep to brace himself, he pushes the door open and runs up the stairs as he had an age ago and enters, not bothering to knock and immediately gets an eyeful of Sherlock and John in what appears to a very passionate embrace and his jaw drops open in disbelief. Well, well. This was certainly an interesting turn of events.
John spots him first and squeaks, breaking out of Sherlock’s arms red-cheeked to stumble into the kitchen, mumbling something about tea.
Sherlock puts his hands in pockets as coolly as ever and looks him over,” Inspector.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, uncomfortably and clears his throat,” Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”
Sherlock looks at him sharply as if judging whether this would be an issue but whatever he sees appears to satisfy him and he nods once,” Thank you. Wife’s away, I see.”
Lestrade frowns.
“Loose thread form where you’ve tried - and failed - to sew a button back. And you don’t appear rushed, simply uncomfortable so you’re clearly visiting socially and to apologize, which is completely unnecessary, let me assure you, anyone with an average intelligence would have jumped to the same conclusion.”
Lestrade can’t help but stare for a second and then he half-grins,” Same as ever, I see.”
John chooses this moment to come back into the room, hair hastily smoothed back and offers Lestrade a cup of tea.
“Lestrade is here for a social visit, John,” Sherlock says, clearly having lost interest and goes to stand by the window and fiddle on John’s laptop. John shuffles his feet and finally meets Lestrade’s eyes with an awkward smile,” Social visit?”
“Um - yeah. Just wanted to invite you and Sherlock to this year’s Christmas party, we’re having it this Saturday instead of next week.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah… Lots of folks going home for the holiday, so…”
“Yeah,” John says, glancing at Sherlock,” Yeah, I think we’ll come. Thank you. Thank you for…”
“Oh not at all. Right then.”
“Yes, right.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock explodes from where he’s standing,” Must I be the only adult? John, Lestrade is very sorry that he thought I kidnapped children and the like and Lestrade, John accepts your apology and he’ll no doubt drag me to your Christmas party, as if I haven’t been through enough of them already and if either of you think for a second I shall be performing with my violin for the twerps at Scotland Yard, you’re sadly mistaken and go on, don’t you have a bit of gossip to spread?”
John almost looks apologetic. “It’s a bad day indeed when Sherlock Holmes is the only adult in the room,” he says wryly, earning himself a huff from Sherlock,” We’ll see you, yeah?”
Lestrade holds his hand to be shaken and he’s on his way.
Just like olden days, then.
Sherlock flings himself onto the sofa and holds out a hand, imperiously,” Where were we?”
John grins at him and tilts his head, pretending to consider,” I believe you were talking about kissing me.”
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, noting that John isn’t making a move,” We’ve encountered a geographical problem.”
John leans even more firmly next to the door,” Indeed we have. And how do you plan to remedy that?”
“John.”
“Hmmm.”
“John.”
“Yes, Sherlock?”
“Jooooohn.”
John shakes his head fondly,” Lazy bugger.”
“Come here, John.”
John very childishly shakes his head.
Sherlock moves the very minimum amount to grab hold of John’s hand and yank him over the arm of the couch to fall directly on top Sherlock’s body. John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s and closes his eyes. Black curls tickle him and Sherlock’s arms go all the way around his waist, pulling him flush against him.
Sherlock’s lips, oddly shy, brush his and John smiles.
--- END ---
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Spoilers: For Series one and two.
Word Count: About 7k
Summary: John, before, after and during.
A/N: Hmm. Might need a sequel. Title taken from a poem by Lord Tennyson.
Tears, Idle Tears
The worst bit, John sometimes thinks, the worst part of Sherlock being gone is the presence of his things - his boots, his books, his bloody chemicals, his dressing gown, his violin - still lying about in the flat are glaring absence of him.
John is rarely alone these days; the first few days after Sherlock’s death, people - Molly, Mike, Mrs. Hudson, his sister, even Mycroft - feel the need to keep an eye on John. They each have their own methods with which they think people should be dealing with grief and John puts up with it for a long time. He goes to the pub with Mike and watches the games, he chats with Molly as often as he can and for the past three weeks he’s been having tea with Mrs. Hudson nearly every day. He visits his sister and they talk about several things including her drinking and Clara and for the first time in years, John feels as though she knows him at least a little bit better than she did. This Harry is different from the other one, the one who was constantly tipsy and shouted for hours at John when he informed his family about his decision to go to war.
Mycroft comes by, week after week and sometimes they talk - Mycroft has a plethora of stories from Sherlock’s childhood which are maddening and endearing in turn, one time Sherlock had allegedly forced Mycroft and a butler who quit soon after to stand out in the rain while he tested the rainwater for salt content - and sometimes they just sit in silence with their tea in front of them while John pretends that he can still see Sherlock in his blue dressing gown flouncing around in a sulk by the windows like the sepia flashbacks in the modern movies. Often, in these rememberings, he expects Sherlock to burst through the door in that speedy, impatient, mad way he would and demand that John get up and follow him for there was a madman gunning down people and Sherlock knew exactly who it was by the dust he had collected from a piece of clothing or something similarly obscure.
He tolerates their stifling concern for weeks and weeks but it doesn’t make anything better.
Because whenever he leaves the flat and returns, be if from the clinic, the pub or Harry’s house, Sherlock’s things are spread all over the available surfaces. Sometimes he sits in his armchair and touches the ridiculous hat that Sherlock had punched, so very very long ago, it seems, and whispers,” Sherlock, I miss you.” He has never been a religious person but each time he waits for some cosmic sign, some indication that Sherlock may come back to him and each time his ridiculous hopes are dashed and the tears return because he does, he really really misses Sherlock now and he never had the opportunity to tell him he loved him, had loved him since the first time they met; it seems ages go now, the first time he saw Sherlock at St. Bart’s, bent over a microscope.
Most of all though, he misses talking to Sherlock. Sherlock, is that today’s paper? Sherlock, the victim can’t be the murderer. Sherlock, you’re not a sociopath. Sherlock, clear out that decomposing pigeon and go to bed. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
He is angry at Sherlock for assuming that John would readily accept that Sherlock was a fake, angry that Sherlock belittled their friendship, but he’s never angry for very long, he misses Sherlock too much for that. He never visits Sherlock’s grave anymore. The name on the gravestone breaks him every time. John has done enough sobbing at graves to last him a hundred lifetimes, he can’t anymore.
And dear God, Sherlock’s bedroom.
John had rarely dared to venture into Sherlock’s room before - before - because of the strong chemical odour from his experiments, the stench of decomposition from whatever was decomposing, once it was a sparrow and once it was a goose and after that John had forbidden him from bringing dead thing back to the flat and had conducted a sort of security check at the door whenever Sherlock returned asking him to empty his pockets and such much to Sherlock’s exasperation, John never dared ask.
But now, his half crazed psyche is telling him that that’s the only place he feels mildly comforted, feels at home, feels like - Sherlock’s still here, he never left - before.
But later, in time, they stop coming. He texts less and less, he doesn’t go to Harry’s house as often and Mike only calls once in a while to tell him about a few strange cases at the hospital. Only Mycroft, oddly enough, keeps up his battering visits like clockwork and John is in turns flattered and irritated. But, in the entire world, they were probably the only two people who accepted Sherlock for all his sharpness and his brilliance and loved him just the same.
John had always thought that people grieving would shout, scream and generally broadcast their grief but he’s not prepared for this slow, cloying torture. His heart aches sometimes without provocation and he has to draw a breath, blink his eyes shut and sit down somewhere to regain his composure. He wakes up sometimes with tears on his face and no knowledge about what he had been dreaming about. Sometimes he wakes up with his hand tingling as if it’s remembering the cool smooth plane of Sherlock’s. It’s in these moments, in his dark bedroom, just before sunrise, that he realizes he hadn’t merely tolerated the visits and the pints and the tea, he had needed them. And now that they deemed him fine though he wasn’t anywhere near it, they had stopped coming leaving him horribly lonely.
John decides, this time of his own accord, to see Ella again.
---
She’s dressed as impeccably as ever.
Her entire office seems to reflect her personality, it’s smooth, clean, neat and John is half afraid of breathing for fear of ruining the glossiness with his tears.
“I think, John, in order to move on, Sherlock’s things need to go. Don’t you agree?”
John hasn’t been treated this gently since the first few weeks after Sherlock’s death. It’s oddly pleasant. He hadn’t thought that it was the sort of thing you’d miss. But he doesn’t want to follow her suggestion all the same.
“No.”
“John.” Again, so gentle. “Do you want to move on?”
There, that’s a question. John doesn’t want anything except Sherlock back.
“John. Sherlock is gone, he’s not coming back, but you still have your life. It wouldn’t be disrespectful to his memory if you moved on. Don’t you agree?”
Memory. Sherlock’s memory. It’s a little too much for John and he cuts their meeting short not even bothering to cook up an excuse. Ella merely sighs and gives him her personal number and tells him that he can call her if he wants to talk. He takes the slip of paper and goes straight home.
Two days later, when he catches himself practicing what he would say to Sherlock when - when? - he came back, he rings Mycroft and asks him if he has any space for Sherlock’s things. Mycroft seems to have expected this as he expects everything and accepts, adding that John can feel free to withhold any keepsakes, like his clothes and the back of John’s neck responds with a sudden flush as he realizes that Mycroft must know - must have always known - the depth of his feelings for his brother. Boxes arrive the next day and John begins to pack. Packing takes about a week because John can’t pack a single box without taking breaks and going on long walks. John had thought that he had accepted Sherlock’s death.
He had thought that he had accepted Sherlock’s death and had even flattered himself that he was moving on.
---
The last box.
The flat looks neat for the first time since John saw it and there’s one last box. John hasn’t asked Mycroft how he knew exactly how many boxes to send. The air in the room is stifling and John takes a walk.
London is drizzly, as seems to be the perpetual state these days, John doesn’t really notice any other type of weather other than drizzly, he wanders aimlessly, looking at the brightly lit shops on the sides of the road and he smiles, realizing that Christmas time is near. John always did love Christmas. He wishes Sherlock were here to play carols on his violin.
“Spare change, sir?”
John startles nearly out of his skin and whirls around to see a girl there, in rags. It’s not unusual, but something unsettles him and he frowns and walks rapidly away. His heart starts to hammer.
He doesn’t sleep at all that night. He tosses and turns and watches the room being suddenly illuminated by a pair of headlights, almost like in a fever.
The girl. In the rags. She has the same starved expression. She’s looking at him expectantly. He suddenly shivers.
John sends all of Sherlock’s things away, except his violin.
Spare change.
Something is very, very wrong.
Sherlock.
---
The next morning, it’s the same girl. Wherever he goes, it’s the same girl.
“Spare change, any change, sir?”
John turns startled eyes on her and backs away a few steps. He wasn’t wrong, it’s the same girl. John leaves again. He doesn’t have the strength for this. He’s going mad. He turns ridiculous theories over and over in his head, he doesn’t leave the flat and he spends all of his time looking out of the window as if he expects something to happen. Ordinary sounds startle him. He’s going mad. He can’t help feeling as though there’s something urgent he needs to be doing, all the time. Something pressing.
John laughs, the sound is foreign as well as disturbing, even to his own ears as it rings around in the empty - empty? - flat,” Sherlock, I’m going mad.”
He lies down on the couch, shivering and waiting for dawn.
Every day, it’s the same girl.
---
“John, you missed our last two appointments.”
John looks up, it’s Ella. He has no recollection of coming here. How did he get here? Cab? Sherlock would know.
“Sorry,” he apologizes politely.
“What were you thinking about, just now?” Ella asks. She has a pen and her notepad in her hands.
Suddenly John wants to tell her. He wants to say the words out loud and he wants her to refute them so that he can move on, he has no energy left.
“I think Sherlock is alive.”
Ella raises an eyebrow about one-eighth of an inch, she’s a professional but John can tell that she’s barely concealing exasperation.
“Last time you were here, you expressed that people showing that they care about you makes you feel cared for, didn’t you, John?” Her voice doesn’t even rise.
“Yes.”
“Also, you said that since people stopped visiting, you felt lonely.”
Had he? John doesn’t remember telling her that. But he also doesn’t remember what day it is.
“Yes.” He sighs.
“So, is it possible that you’re inventing an excuse, subconsciously of course, for people to come see you?”
Or I’m going mad, John thinks.
He leaves. Meetings with Ella are always short. He doesn’t think she can help him anymore.
---
Three weeks later, three long, sleepless, shivering weeks later, John turns around violently and hisses at her,” Who are you? What do you want?”
She doesn’t appear surprised or even threatened. “Spare change?”
“What for?”
“A cup of tea, of course.”
“Look, whoever you are, stop following me,” he snarls,” Stop it, it’s not funny. He’s gone.”
She looks disappointed at that, he thinks.
His heart doesn’t stop pounding for five hours and he doesn’t sleep again that night.
Something is very wrong.
---
John gives in.
He doesn’t mean to, every day before leaving for the clinic, he tells himself firmly that he isn’t going mad and that he would not take a step back, no not when he’s doing so well, but he gives in.
She’s waiting for him, looking just the same as always. John shudders from head to toe, nearly drowning in staggering hope. But he can’t give in today. Not today.
The next time he sees her, he fishes in his pocket and yanks out as much change as will fit in his fist and drops it in front of her. He waits patiently for her to collect all the coins but she simply walks away after that.
John goes home that night, feeling more disappointed and defeated than he had expected to. As he had suspected, it’s only his overactive imagination, playing tricks on his mind. Somehow, it’s as if Sherlock had died again. No, it’s worse. He promises himself, in the quiet, haunting darkness of the flat that he would gather the remaining pieces of his life and move on, definitely this time. Tomorrow.
---
He has no time to start rebuilding his life for the next day, he sees her again.
He runs to her, heart beating almost too loudly in his chest, mentally cursing himself for starting this horrid business again, for giving in to his heart which is half crazed with desperation, but she motions for him to follow and takes off at a slow jog. John follows her through London’s streets, remembering the first time he had chased after Sherlock. He almost smiles, remembering the rapid intensity with which Sherlock had rattled off the street names and anticipated the red lights, remembering how impressed and shocked he had been and is so lost in thoughts of Sherlock that he doesn’t realize that she’s led him to the railway tracks from his second case with Sherlock. The one with all the Chinese symbols. The one with Sebastian and his slimy smiles and insinuations, Sebastian who pretended to know Sherlock.
A sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead but it’s not from the vigorous walk.
Sherlock.
He knows where to look. The girl’s vanished.
Sherlock.
He turns a corner and there it is.
Dear God, please Sherlock.
Scrawled across several other graffiti, in yellow paint.
Sherlock loves you.
---
John knows that he isn’t mad. He knows what he saw and he knows Sherlock well enough to know that there probably is an excellent reason why he felt he had the need to hide. But, as with all things related to Moriarty, John is extremely afraid for Sherlock’s sake. He doesn’t mention the incident to anyone but knows that Mycroft at least suspects from the way he looks shrewdly at John sometimes. John is too afraid to tell anyone for fear that he’ll blow Sherlock’s cover. He wants Sherlock to come back to him. So that he can tell him he loves him too.
He can’t be sure, of course, that Sherlock is alive.
---
For the first time in months, John Watson has had a good day.
London is bustling with brisk people and brisker automobiles, the weather is quite lovely, there’s a little line to the ATM but John doesn’t mind waiting. There’s a slightly harried looking mother in line in front of him with a little girl in her arms, dozing fitfully on her shoulder. John smiles at the toddler and waves slightly. She darts a missing-toothed smile in his direction.
John walks home with almost a skip in his step and stops at the door of 221, Baker Street to root around in his pockets for the keys. After fishing it out, John reaches out a hand to the door, but stops short when he sees that it’s open. John goes stock still. Mrs. Hudson never leaves the door unlocked, not after what had happened with The Woman and the agents who were after her. The incident had left her shaken and suspicious; although Sherlock’s job brought him in contact with a lot of people with far too much money, power and violent tendencies, the attack on her had been the worst. Instantly, John knows something is wrong. He looks up and down the street but doesn’t spot anything out of the ordinary, just a few people walking about.
He stands outside the flat for the longest time, before pushing the door open as slowly as possible and peeked inside, silently. He slips in and looks up the stairs leading to the flat. Nothing looks out of the ordinary and John wonders if it’s him again, making mountains out of molehills or it’s Sherlock, finally returned. John shakes his head and climbs the stairs.
When he enters, Moriarty is sitting on his couch.
John almost forgets to breathe. But why not? he thinks, feeling hysteria bubbling up from his chest and into his throat, why not, if Sherlock is alive, why not Moriarty?
Moriarty turns, focusing a slimy smile his way, the same one he had aimed at John before drugging and kidnapping him, the one that sends shivers racing up John’s spine, not that he’d ever show it.
“Johnny.” His tone is almost affectionate, like he’s missed John.
John has been trained by the army. If deductions and light-speed conclusions and vast knowledge of the world are Sherlock’s forte, escape routes are certainly his. He looks around the room once and has identified three exits, two risky, another quite less, within the span of thirty seconds. There’s no one else in the room but John knows from previous experience that the building is probably under siege, every corner watched by snipers or worse, assassins. He’ll take his chances.
Moriarty grins.
“Come on, Captain John Watson, the window’s being watched. You’ll be goo on the pavement before you can say,” here his face flits once, the expression of burning hate and madness,” Sherlock loves you.”
John sighs.
Sherlock had to take the risk, he supposes, but he really ought to have known better. Moriarty had eyes and ears everywhere. Even Sherlock vast homeless network wasn’t hidden from him. It would be his undoing. John only hopes that Sherlock has had the sense to escape and hide himself, bury himself deep as could be humanly possible.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” Moriarty purrs, standing up to circle the sofa and touch Sherlock’s violin. John nearly blanches at the sight of his fingers running along something that was Sherlock’s. “You’ve not said anything.” There’s that false, revolting pout in his voice and John just wants it to be over.
“What do you want?”
The laugh that echoes in the flat is crazed and John shudders again,” Want! What do I want! Alright, I’ll make this simple, Doctor.” Moriarty lifts the violin up with ease and flips the bow around, drawing it against the strings. The sound that emerges is similar to the one cat’s make, if they were being tortured. John closes his eyes. The sound of Sherlock’s violin comes to his memory.
“Put it down.”
“What?” Moriarty is faux-confused,” What, oh this? Dear Sherlock’s violin? Where is he, by the way? I’ve missed him terribly, did you know?”
John sighs, almost glad that this was the information that Moriarty wanted, something that he had no knowledge of, Sherlock had seen to that.
“I don’t know where he is.”
Moriarty nods, pityingly,” I know that. He didn’t tell you. Then again, I don’t suppose I’d inform my dog if I’m going out,” he sneers,” I’d just pat him on the head, lock him in and be on my way.”
John refuses to open his eyes,” Why are you here?”
Suddenly, Moriarty is very close, John can feel his breath on his cheek, not even aware that Moriarty had set down the violin and moved. He very carefully manages to keep his eyes shut.
“There is a tribe, in the Himalayas, a tribe of hunters…” His voice is a low, venomous hiss.
John is so very tired.
“… And they need tiger skin to keep warm in the winters but the tiger is a predator and man’s tools are worthless. When they can’t hunt tigers, John, when they fail to hunt a tiger, do you know what they do?”
John would like very much to go to sleep.
“They tie out their best goat to a tree and they wait."
He feels a sudden pinching sensation in his left arm and all fades to black.
Stupid, stupid John.
---
John wakes up in a moving van and his first thought is Christ, where’s Sherlock? And his second is dear lord my head really hurts.
His mind, groggy and dull from the drug they had pumped him full of - it has to be someone else who gave him the drug, Moriarty never gets his hands dirty, someone else who was hidden in the flat? They had got his vein on the first try - wonders just what he could possibly give them, it was highly unlikely that Sherlock, wherever he was, would even be privy to John’s abduction; he really was quite useless. He wants to say as much but can’t for the gag. His wrists and ankles are tightly bound too. The van has no windows and John can’t raise his head enough to catch a glimpse of the driver. This one has no visible way out.
The van starts to slow down. John immediately closes his eyes and sags. He’s going to get out of this one before Sherlock gets caught by this madman. Dear lord, how?
They haven’t bothered to blindfold him. John’s not sure what that means, but he knows enough to know that it’s not good.
Someone’s hands are on him and they drag him over a sharp shoulder, grunting with the effort and John tries not to grin, making himself dead weight. If he’s going to have to go down, he’s going to make it as abominably difficult for them as possible. He feels himself being moved and flung down on something hard. If he had Sherlock’s skills, he thought regretfully, he’d know exactly where he had been taken, by the bumps on the roads or something. There’s a sound of a door slamming shut and John waits for a few moments making sure he’s completely alone before daring to open his eyes. The room is almost completely dark and John’s tired throbbing eyes take a few minutes to adjust. It’s some sort of a narrow cell, he realizes, with a tiny window right at the top with bars and a door. John knows these kinds of rooms, they are torture rooms.
John wonders if this is Moriarty’s grand plan, something this pedestrian, to torture John until Sherlock comes. For his sake, John hopes that by the time Sherlock hears of these proceedings John will have escaped or died, he really doesn’t mind either one at this point in time. But he thinks that his hopes of it being quick will be invariable dashed.
---
On the first day, John gets no food for more than thirty hours.
“Why do people do it?
“Do what, Sherlock?”
“Call each other inconsequential, incomprehensible endearments, even when they’ve been assigned specific names, though I must concede that they are most tedious and when they aren’t, they’re worse than - “
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock, can’t you ask a question like a normal person?”
“---“
“Oh alright. It’s for the other person’s benefit, it makes them feel special.”
“Even though they’ve no doubt been used on several people before and probably will used on several people after them?
“---“
“But, thank you. I think I understand. Even though it’s ridiculously sentimental.”
“Go away, Sherlock.”
On the second day, a group of masked, tall men come in with knives and they cut his arms. John can only see their eyes. One of the men have blue ones.
“I never did get round to asking you, did I, Sherlock? Whatever happened between you and Mycroft for you to resent him so much?”
“Other than him being a secretive, lazy, fat, foolish, manipulative - “
“It’s because he’s cleverer than you, isn’t it?”
“---“
“Now, Sherlock, I didn’t mean - Stop looking at me like that! I didn’t mean anything by it…”
“---“
On the third day, John doesn’t know what they do, but his arm throbs, it’s definitely broken and the only thing on his mind is Sherlock.
“---“
“I know you want to ask, John, just ask.”
“Was she telling the truth? You’ve never…?”
“Oh just say it! Never had sex! Sex! Yes, what of it?”
“No, I just - “
“Yes? You what? What of it? Why should I have to bow down to society’s little stereotypes and pigeon-holes, having sex left and right in uni and school and with whomever is slow enough not to run away - Stop smiling!”
“Sherlock, you’ve never done it because you were looking for the right person, you, the person who characterizes every single thing ordinary people do as boring and sentimental and ridiculous, you were waiting for the right person!”
“I shan’t talk to you ever again.”
“You’re a child. Tea?”
On the fourth day, John sobs aloud,” Sherlock, I can’t - Sherlock, I can’t anymore, please - “
No more memories come to his pain-addled, half-crazed mind and everything aches and John doesn’t understand why Sherlock won’t come.
On the fifth day, Moriarty loses his patience.
“What do I have to do, John?” He grabs John’s hair, now matted with blood and yanks his head back painfully so he can see the other men in the tiny room, masked and robed like always and their eyes are burning and John closes his eyes,” What do I have to do, Sherlock? Do I kill your little pet and hang him out for everyone to see? Do I cut his heart out and feed it to the dogs? Where is he?”
John wants to laugh and he does so, right in Moriarty’s face.
“Tell me now, where he is. Or I’ll cut your throat right here, I’ll do it.”
John doesn’t open his eyes or his mouth. This is it then, he thinks, regretfully. He’ll never see Sherlock again and he’ll never get a chance to kiss him or hug him or run his fingers through those wild black curls and he’ll never get to hear the sound of the violin or Sherlock’s affectionate chuckle. There are probably worse ways to go.
Moriarty barks something at a man in the room on his way out. French. How odd.
Someone forces him to stand on legs that felt like noodles and he keeps slipping down, but the man keeps him upright with a tight, unyielding arm around his waist. There’s a knife against his throat almost immediately and John knows that the slightest movement will cause the sharp edge of the knife to sink into his throat. John forces himself to keep his eyes shut. He doesn’t want the last thing he sees to be Moriarty’s dead eyes.
Instead, he forces to the surface, a memory of Sherlock.
I love you, he thinks, it’s always been you, Sherlock, from the first moment we met. More the fool me, never having the courage to tell you.
Harry would wonder, perhaps. And Mrs. Hudson. Probably Lestrade and Mycroft too.
Sherlock. Goodbye.
John draws in a breath and purses his lips. None of them would have the satisfaction of seeing them quiver. He compels himself to breathe slower.
His last.
He’s ready now.
The only sound he can hear is his own hammering heart.
---
He’s so focussed on the knife now definitely drawing blood that he doesn’t realize that the arm around his waist has gone from restraining to almost an embrace.
---
Suddenly there is cloth against his ear; he can feel lips under them.
---
“It’s alright, love.”
---
His eyes fly open and he jerks his head around. He knows that voice, even as a whisper. Grey eyes. Inches above his own. Crinkles around the corners.
---
All in a single second, the arm around his waist twists him so that he’s out of the way, fluid and almost choreographed and the man throws the knife at the other, blue-eyed one standing at the entrance. It hits him perfectly in the chest, buries itself to the hilt. His eyes widen for a second and then he falls to the ground with a thud, blood pouring out. John stumbles to his knees, legs weak and shaking, still not fully comprehending and puts his hands over his ears, futile really, it does nothing to block the sound of the rifle or pistol shot so close by. Moriarty’s men make confused and outraged noises all around him but within the span of three minutes, they’re all silenced, knives buried into two of them, a bullet in another and a swift punch to the jaw for the remaining four.
Sherlock - Sherlock, Sherlock, oh it’s Sherlock, how can that even be? - staggers to his feet and turns around to face John, putting his arms around his waist and pulling none too gently until John can lean against his body, practically spitting at him,” I told you to run!”
John breathes hard, he just has to know, he just has to see, he fumbles with the knot at the back holding the cloth mask together with trembling fingers and tugs it free, revealing first a head full of black curls and then, a nose and bloodless lips, those lips. John sobs out loud and sags with relief and joy, grabbing the beloved face in his hands, kissing it wildly, madly, laughing hysterically,” Oh Sherlock, Sherlock - Sh’lock - “
Sherlock cradles him to his chest, carefully like a treasure and he throws his arms about Sherlock’s neck and holds on tight, feeling fingers run through his hair. But even through the intoxicating haze of joy and Sherlock’s smell, he knows that practically they can’t stand here forever locked in a tight embrace. Moriarty must have more men here, wherever here was and they’d never leave.
And of course that’s when he hears sirens.
“We’re safe,” Sherlock is panting into his ear, chest heaving against his,” It’s alright, we’re safe, we’re safe…”
---
John wakes up in a hospital.
He lifts his heavy heard blearily and glances around the white room smelling like disinfectant and then down at himself; he’s dressed in a hospital gown, left arm in a splint - ah, it was broken then - and whole body aching with no doubts the countless cuts on his chest, legs and face. None severe but definitely a couple needed stitches. Overall prognosis: quite alright. Outside the door, he can hear raised voices arguing and he smiles sleepily. Trust Sherlock to only be back for a couple of hours and make the nurse staff hate him already.
“ - just because I haven’t signed a tedious piece of paper, really the rules are quite extraordinarily tiresome and I’d be more concerned about the patient three rooms down if I were you, he’s not in any pain, he’s faking it for the drugs, never mind how I know. Now, if you’d just move aside - “
And the door flies open and Sherlock is standing at the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face while a red-faced nurse sputters behind him.
“Sir, I really must insist - “
Sherlock shuts the door in her face, without bothering to turn or even drag his eyes away from John’s.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything and John takes the opportunity to look him over. He looks the same, except thinner, if that could be possible and there’s a fading bruise on his throat - John swallows, he’s been strangled - still gorgeous, still Sherlock and John sits up and careful not to pull on the IV holds out his good arm. His chest aches when Sherlock’s face goes slack with undisguised relief and he launches himself into John’s arms with the speed of a frightened cheetah and John clutches him tight, unmindful of the tears running down his face or the growing wetness against his chest. And, just like that, words are unnecessary, except for Sherlock’s whispered sorry, I’m sorry.
After years in the army, after Afghanistan and shots and injuries and scars and starry desert nights, after wars and quarrels and death, after stitching soldiers up, after having to watch most of his friends blown up or shot, after squeezing his eyes at bloodied dog tags, after everything, he’s finally allowed to have this.
His miracle.
It’s four hours before Sherlock stops shaking and closes his eyes in fitful slumber when Mycroft shows up, umbrella in one hand. He studies the two of them for a second, Sherlock’s legs twisted impossibly into the metal chair and John’s face goes red at the scrutiny and he stutters,” He’s - um, he’s out cold, I’m afraid. I’ll tell him to - ah -”
“Not necessary,” Mycroft assures him and comes to stand by the bedside and rest his free hand against the riot of curls now occupying John’s lap. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes while John clears his throat, feeling as though he’s interrupting something here when Mycroft lifts his hand and brings it down rather hard on the top of Sherlock’s head. John doesn’t know if it’s the indignant sound that he makes or the blow that wakes Sherlock up but he does, with a surprised yelp that has John chuckling despite himself.
Sherlock lifts his head to scowl at his brother and Mycroft frowns right back,” You had no right, Sherlock.”
His voice is calm and measured as usual but Sherlock’s eyes widen,” I didn’t - “
“Yes, I know very well what you did and did not do,” Mycroft snaps and cuffs him again,” You could have - no, you should have come to me.”
Sullen, Sherlock leans further into John’s chest, tightens his arms and pouts at his brother, or as close as Sherlock Holmes can come to pouting anyway and John grins. ” You should be thanking me profusely, he might have killed you too, you know. Besides, might I just remind you that it was you who provided him with the necessary information to - “
“Very well,” Mycroft looks thoroughly put off and he straightens his back,” I did apologise for that… aberration.”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, loftily,” You did,” and both the Holmes brothers study each other for a long moment before Mycroft stalks out and Sherlock then turns his face fully into John’s chest, rubbing at it like a giant spoiled cat. John threads his fingers through the curls at nape of his neck and presses a kiss absently onto the crown of his head, while a thought occurs to him.
He grins widely.
“You said you loved me.”
“Well,” Sherlock starts,” Wrote it, technically, and that wasn’t me, I had to pay a man a ridiculous amount of money to - “
John cuts him off, knowing that if he didn’t this would go on for the rest of the night and maybe even well into tomorrow and he hugs Sherlock close, revelling in the feel of strong, thin arms around him, he whispers,” Say it again.”
“As I was saying before I was interrupted, I never did actually say - “
“Sherlock.”
“Yes, alright, alright,” Sherlock clears his throat,” I love you. There.”
John closes his eyes and breathes in once, settling his head atop Sherlock’s.
Sherlock loves you.
“You never said before…”
“Neither did you,” Sherlock murmurs.
“I’m quite sure I’m meant to be mad, Sherlock, you let me believe… you let me think you were dead for so bloody long - “
“I’m sorry,” comes muffled from somewhere near his chest. Sherlock seems incapable of emerging anytime soon. It really isn’t fair that John can’t stay mad at him, not after hearing that voice and dear God, is Sherlock going to exploit it later,” I didn’t think you cared. Not as much as I care for you.”
John’s heart twists and he really wants to see Sherlock’s face but he makes no effort to lure him out, suspecting that Sherlock would only find this easy to say as long as he didn’t have to look directly at John.
“More,” he whispers, tugging on one black curl to make sure Sherlock is listening.
“Couldn’t possibly,” Sherlock whispers back and John laughs out loud. Are they really having the love you no I love you more conversation? That too on a hospital bed after a visit from Mycroft? After Sherlock convinced him he was dead and then came back? Never a dull moment with this madman.
Sherlock frowns at him, no doubt suspecting that a joke has been cracked at his expense and John smiles reassuringly before lying back down on the hospital bed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, you lunatic. Nothing at all.”
Sherlock will have to explain everything whether he likes it or not, but later. Later.
---
If Lestrade’s honest with himself, he’s really very mortified.
Of course, he had known that Sherlock wasn’t a fake, couldn’t have possibly been, but he had let himself doubt for just a bit, had allowed himself to be swayed and it wasn’t right. People rarely get second chances and he recognises this to be one. Taking a deep to brace himself, he pushes the door open and runs up the stairs as he had an age ago and enters, not bothering to knock and immediately gets an eyeful of Sherlock and John in what appears to a very passionate embrace and his jaw drops open in disbelief. Well, well. This was certainly an interesting turn of events.
John spots him first and squeaks, breaking out of Sherlock’s arms red-cheeked to stumble into the kitchen, mumbling something about tea.
Sherlock puts his hands in pockets as coolly as ever and looks him over,” Inspector.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, uncomfortably and clears his throat,” Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”
Sherlock looks at him sharply as if judging whether this would be an issue but whatever he sees appears to satisfy him and he nods once,” Thank you. Wife’s away, I see.”
Lestrade frowns.
“Loose thread form where you’ve tried - and failed - to sew a button back. And you don’t appear rushed, simply uncomfortable so you’re clearly visiting socially and to apologize, which is completely unnecessary, let me assure you, anyone with an average intelligence would have jumped to the same conclusion.”
Lestrade can’t help but stare for a second and then he half-grins,” Same as ever, I see.”
John chooses this moment to come back into the room, hair hastily smoothed back and offers Lestrade a cup of tea.
“Lestrade is here for a social visit, John,” Sherlock says, clearly having lost interest and goes to stand by the window and fiddle on John’s laptop. John shuffles his feet and finally meets Lestrade’s eyes with an awkward smile,” Social visit?”
“Um - yeah. Just wanted to invite you and Sherlock to this year’s Christmas party, we’re having it this Saturday instead of next week.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah… Lots of folks going home for the holiday, so…”
“Yeah,” John says, glancing at Sherlock,” Yeah, I think we’ll come. Thank you. Thank you for…”
“Oh not at all. Right then.”
“Yes, right.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock explodes from where he’s standing,” Must I be the only adult? John, Lestrade is very sorry that he thought I kidnapped children and the like and Lestrade, John accepts your apology and he’ll no doubt drag me to your Christmas party, as if I haven’t been through enough of them already and if either of you think for a second I shall be performing with my violin for the twerps at Scotland Yard, you’re sadly mistaken and go on, don’t you have a bit of gossip to spread?”
John almost looks apologetic. “It’s a bad day indeed when Sherlock Holmes is the only adult in the room,” he says wryly, earning himself a huff from Sherlock,” We’ll see you, yeah?”
Lestrade holds his hand to be shaken and he’s on his way.
Just like olden days, then.
Sherlock flings himself onto the sofa and holds out a hand, imperiously,” Where were we?”
John grins at him and tilts his head, pretending to consider,” I believe you were talking about kissing me.”
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, noting that John isn’t making a move,” We’ve encountered a geographical problem.”
John leans even more firmly next to the door,” Indeed we have. And how do you plan to remedy that?”
“John.”
“Hmmm.”
“John.”
“Yes, Sherlock?”
“Jooooohn.”
John shakes his head fondly,” Lazy bugger.”
“Come here, John.”
John very childishly shakes his head.
Sherlock moves the very minimum amount to grab hold of John’s hand and yank him over the arm of the couch to fall directly on top Sherlock’s body. John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s and closes his eyes. Black curls tickle him and Sherlock’s arms go all the way around his waist, pulling him flush against him.
Sherlock’s lips, oddly shy, brush his and John smiles.
--- END ---