Misdialed - Sherlock/John fic - Chapter 10
Title: Misdialed
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 26,731
Current Chapter Count: 10/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- -- --
Chapter 10
Work was a welcome reminder of the real world. John had never thought work would be so inviting. He always expected to love his work, saving people's lives or making the passing easier. He always expected to be useful and wanted by his patients. He'd even expected some people to hate him for their loved ones dying. He'd never expected to feel relieved by walking in the front doors of a hospital. Familiar, comfortable, but never relieved. And yet that was where he found himself on day three.
It was a relief to know that this was a hospital and people died in hospitals. People were also saved there. It was like John's second life, away from the murder scene shots and the people dying because of his investigation. At the hospital, he put those thoughts away and focused on his patients.
Unless, of course, Sherlock texted him. That's when he'd find a moment to check his phone and reply.
Sherlock was fine, as usual, and knew only a few basics. The files were attacked, that's why he needed to make copies. That's all Sherlock knew. He didn't know about the threatening phone call. He didn't know about the meeting with Ian. He only knew about the bomb in the police department.
"Dr. Watson?" a woman called. John jumped from his thoughts and smiled at her.
"Oh. Sarah, I told you to just call me John," he said. She smiled back but then frowned.
"I was going to, but you looked so serious that it didn't seem to fit. Are you alright?" Sarah asked, gently touching his arm. John drew what comfort he could from it, but it felt like trying to suck pudding through a straw.
"I-I'll be fine. I got a bit of a fright the other day. Bomb went off in the building I was in. Oh no, don't look like that. Only the bomber got hurt, but it did leave a few of us rattled," John explained. It was only the start of his worries, but if he wasn't going to let Sherlock in on the rest, he'd be damned to let anyone else know the full extent of the problem.
"Oh my God," Sarah gasped all the same. "Well if you need to unwind, just let me know. I'll treat you to drinks or something. Okay?"
"Okay," John said, but Sarah pulled her hand back as though she could feel the emotional distance between them.
John wanted to accept her offer. He knew if he did, he could probably get laid, but he also knew he'd be tense until he could hear Sherlock's voice over the phone. Only the thought of Sherlock brought any true calm to him. Just texting wasn't enough right now. However, Sherlock was busy. He'd said not to call until the later part of the day. John's shoulders bunched up every time he looked at the clock and saw how slow the hands moved around the circle.
"I'll call you," John said. "If I need anything, I mean." and he gave an encouraging smile.
"Okay, good," Sarah said and smiled. She nodded and then turned to go see to her next appointment. She stopped then and turned on heel. "Ahhhh, I almost forgot. Molly wants to see you in the morgue. I don't know why."
Then they waved at each other and she was gone. John's chest went hard. Even though he knew Sherlock had died months ago by Moriarty's planning, he still heard 'morgue' and thought he'd find Sherlock's body down there.
Shaking it off, John checked his schedule. He had no appointments for an hour. He could spare Molly some time. Then he was off, walking briskly but not in a hurry. What could Molly possibly want with John in a morgue?
As he entered the mortuary, he saw Molly puzzling over a body. As he let the door swing shut, he saw Inspector Lestrade standing across the room from her. He seemed tired as he looked at John and then nodded with a soft smile to Molly. Molly tried to smile at John but it flinched off her face when she began to talk.
"Hello, Dr. Watson. I know we haven't met a lot, but I really admire your work. You're a great doctor. I haven't had any of your patients in here," she said. John opened his mouth to reply but Lestrade cleared his throat. "Oh right. So, Inspector Lestrade just arrived with the med team that brought in a body. He said he wants to talk to you."
"Who died?" John asked. Adding Lestrade in the picture made the idea that this body would be Sherlock even brighter in his head and he had to beat it back and remind himself that it wasn't possible. Then again, it wouldn't be the first impossible thing to happen to John in the past few months.
"Ian Monkford," Lestrade said.
"The... The man who killed Jasmine Sheffield?" John asked, incredulous. "Impossible. I just spoke to him yesterday."
"Yep, and they found his body this morning in his cell," Lestrade explained and walked closer to the body on the table.
"Official cause of death is poisoning," Molly said, pulling the sheet down from poor Ian's face. "Haven't figured out how it got into his system, though. I only know it almost definitely wasn't through the mouth."
John stepped close and looked over the body without touching it. Molly pulled the sheet down to Ian's waist to give John more to look at. John shifted and looked over both sides before returning to his original position and pointed to Ian's shoulder.
"What's that?" he asked, drawing attention to a small puncture wound.
Molly bent to check while Lestrade resisted the urge to get in the way by poking his nose into their business. Molly touched the wound with her gloved finger and made a curious noise.
"It's a needle hole," she said. "I've seen similar holes on drug addicts..."
She trailed off and looked uneasily over at Lestrade. He shook his head and waved off whatever idea they'd both shared. John looked between the two and stood up straight.
"What?" he asked. Lestrade went to shake his head again, but John interrupted the motion. "No, seriously. What have I missed?"
"Sherlock - well it was probably before you knew him. He used to do drugs pretty regularly. Before I knew him as a detective, I knew him as an addict. Caught him buying, but he'd been clean for almost three years when he... you know," Lestrade explained.
"Wow. You're right. I had no idea," John said, running a hand through his hair. Lestrade let out a stream of air from his nose.
"John, look," he began and picked a folder up from an empty table. "The ID for the suspect in the street shots came back, but I'm worried about giving it to you."
"What? Why?" John asked. Molly gently moved John away from the table so she could test the new entry point.
"Well to be frank, people keep dying around you, don't they? This is two deaths this week. I'm almost worried I'll die just by holding these photos again," the inspector explained, holding up the folder.
"You saying you think I had something to do with these deaths?" John asked, knitting his brow in a glare.
"No. No, of course not. I'm just saying that someone obviously doesn't like this case being tampered with," the older man said. "Just... be careful." And he held out the documents for John.
"Thank you," John said, taking the folder. "Can you do me a favor and try to keep news of this from hitting the papers and stuff?"
"I'll do my best," Lestrade promised, but the way he looked at John felt like someone saying goodbye and sorry at the same time.
-- -- -- --
Lestrade said he'd keep things out of the media, but John understood that would be difficult. The whole police force was undergoing examination for leaks and rats. Even Lestrade had to be inspected, and they had not been happy when they found out about John and even less happy when they learned about Sherlock. It had been news to John as well, that Sherlock had been a sort of secret helper of the police and that all the files John had been looking at were illegally collected.
Moriarty knew all of it, of course. He'd texted John every hour on the hour from the time he got off work that night until he went in the next morning to remind John that he knew everything he'd done or was doing, everywhere he was and where he family lived. He knew it all - except of course, about the ID they had on him in the photos. He never mentioned it, and John hoped to keep him in the dark about having IDed him. He didn't want to know what Moriarty would do to him or his sister or even his family up in North York. But the 'teasing' messages through the night with photos of his family kept John up with nightmares. That was how day four had begun.
But none of that, none of the death threats or the stalker photos or the bombs or dead bodies, mattered at all, because when John slipped off his coat and stepped into a linen room, his phone vibrated and the voice that answered back to him made everything melt away.
"Hello?" John answered, sitting against the back wall of the silent but fluffy room. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a tight sigh.
"John," Sherlock replied as was customary.
He began to rant about Lestrade and Mycroft and the petty boringness of life, and John soaked up every word. He tilted his head back and looked to the ceiling, surprised by the way his eyes stung like he wanted to cry. His chest heaved with the relief of hearing Sherlock's voice, a relief he had not expected to hit him so hard. They had not spoken in over two weeks. It had been only text messages. At first John could handle it, but not after this week. And hearing Sherlock speak, John realized he found solace and companionship in this voice. It was deep but not entirely smooth. It was usually bored or annoyed but sometimes excited. It was fast, never slow. And John loved the form that came with it. The pressed collars and the dark curls and the pale eyes and the cheekbones you could cut yourself on.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock was asking, and John realized he'd started crying silently. No sobs or anything, but his face was wet. He took several deep breaths and shook his head.
"Just... keep talking, please," he said and wiped at his face. "I just... it's been a hard few days and I... I just wanted to hear you talk."
Sherlock paused for a moment and then took a breath. "Did I do something?" he asked. "In your time, I mean. I haven't done anything to you in this year. But I'd like to know if I'm the reason behind your stress right now."
"No," John said forcefully, shaking his head. "No, it's not you. It's not. I mean, maybe a bit of it is, but no. No, not at all. I'm just under a lot of stress. I just need you to distract me."
"Did you watch the match yesterday?" Sherlock asked. John snorted.
"Oh please. You didn't watch the match yesterday. What makes you think I did?" the doctor asked and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
"Nothing. You said to distract you. I was making conversation. And it worked. You laughed," Sherlock replied. "Tell me if I'm wrong."
"No. You're right," John said and lowered his head.
For a moment there was silence where they both just breathed and listened to each other breathe. It was strange, John thought. His stress was caused by Sherlock's case box, by trying to figure out who Moriarty was so he could put the man behind bars for killing Sherlock. John's stress was caused by the way his chest felt punched whenever someone mentioned Sherlock's name and whenever he thought back to Christmas, and yet... and yet Sherlock was the only one who could lift that stress. John took a slow breath and closed his eyes.
"I miss you, Sherlock," he murmured.
Sherlock didn't answer, just continued to breathe, but that was answer enough for John right now. It wasn't a rejection. It was tacit acceptance. Sherlock was agreeing with silence. John breathed heavily as he got his chest under control and then sighed and cleared his throat at the same time.
"I only have a few minutes," John explained, dropping his head back against the wall again. "Tell me about Mycroft?"
It took Sherlock three more breaths to decide on a response. "Sure," he agreed, voice heavy, but it lightened up as he continued. "The first thing you have to understand about my brother is that he operates the British government, no matter what he says, and he's secretly poisoning your drinking water - metaphorically, of course. But he has the same effect. Mycroft is dubious and not to be trusted with a toy chess set much less a country run like one. Although his position does come in handy when I'm trying to investigate private areas."
John smiled at the ceiling as he felt his breathing even out. Listening to Sherlock was the only medication he needed right now. This was all he needed.
-- -- -- --
John was feeling so good after his conversation with Sherlock that he hardly glanced at the television in the waiting room as he was heading out the door. He waved goodbye to Sarah, who then caught him to ask about going out for drinks again, but he told her he'd have to reschedule. He wasn't tense anymore, so he didn't even want a beer or anything. He just wanted to go home and watch some crap telly. Sarah gave him a brief hug, wished him well, and John passed right under the latest news flashing on the screen without so much as an upward glance.
It was early evening, still a little bit of light in the sky. John didn't feel threatened as he walked home from work, as he did often when he didn't feel like riding in a stuffy cab. Tonight he felt good, felt safe, so he didn't see the need to pay a cabbie to take him the long way home when he could walk in a nearly straight line.
His phone went off while he was looking up at the clouds. They were visible over the roof of a nearby building and looked unusual to John, but it was probably the evening light.
"Hello?" he asked, not recognizing the number.
"I told you to stop meddling," Moriarty's voice came over the line.
"What? But I haven't done anything," John said, glancing around as he continued to walk. He was almost home. His mind told him he would be safe if he could just make it to his apartment.
"Oh Doctor Watson. Don't you watch the news? You gave the police my picture. You got my name and then my photo? Sherlock really laid some good groundwork for you. Unfortunately, it's going to be the death of both of you. If I detect one more whiff of you on this case, I'll have to start aiming the big guns at your family. You know I can," Moriarty warned.
"Wh-what about this time?" John asked. "Just a warning?"
Moriarty laughed, loudly and for far too long. It chilled John's spine, nearly squishing the warmth in his chest that Sherlock had renewed.
"Oh John, John, John," Moriarty sighed. "I warned you. I told you I would stop you. I told you I'd-"
"Burn me," John murmured, eyes widening and heart speeding up. He hurried down Baker Street until he got the corner where he could see his apartment. "Oh Christ," he gasped.
"This is my last warning, Doctor. Do watch who's toes you walk over from now on." and Moriarty hung up.
"You- You bastard!" John cursed even though he knew the call was over. His eyes were fixed on the awkward clouds he'd seen before, which originated from John's apartment. A fire consumed the whole corner where John's window used to be visible.
John rushed forward to the building. People, some residents that he recognized, were crowding on the street and crying out. In the distance, John could hear the fire trucks. His heart hammered in his chest and he shoved through the crowd, forcing his way into the building despite people's yells for him to stop.
He couldn't, though. Everything he owned was in that apartment. Everything he held dear. John crashed through his heated door and dropped the floor to get below any smoke. The flames started by the windows, feeding themselves and licking up the glass. They spread from there around the building, destroying John's television and starting to drop onto his bed in the far corner.
"Shit!" John cursed, squinting against the heat as he hurried to his bed. He pulled his laptop from the side desk, still unharmed, and set it on the floor beside him. The bed was going up quick, but John grabbed the mattress and threw it off the bed. As the flames smashed into the wall and hissed angrily, he turned his eyes to the bed frame. There, still pinned against the frame near the side table, were Sherlock's photos. He snatched them up and slid them into the space on his laptop between the screen and keyboard.
As a batch of flames dropped near him from the roof, John jumped up and hurried for the door. Most of his property was up now, lost to ashes, but he could save the small pieces of Sherlock his still had. He coughed harshly as he rushed down the stairs and back out into the street. A woman put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from falling over as he coughed. A man nearby sneered at him for endangering his life for his laptop. John didn't care. He had Sherlock's pictures and he had his laptop, with his notes and his documents about the case and his work. Everything else was entirely replaceable. Even the documents were replaceable, but those photos were not.
John pulled out his phone as he stumbled away from the group and the firemen who were jumping off the trucks. It rang twice and then Sherlock picked up. At first, John couldn't say anything, just coughed into his hand and leaned against the nearest wall.
"John, what's happened? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, and his honest worry touched John in the deepest part of his heart.
"F-Fire," John wheezed. "My apartment."
"Are you alright?" Sherlock rushed out. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need to call Mycroft?"
John shook his head and coughed again. "Sherlock... it was arson. Moriarty... the man behind the police station bombing..."
Sherlock's voice was deadly serious. "Run, John. Get away from there. Go somewhere no one would expect to find you." After a moment where John only let out a cough, Sherlock added a soft "Please."
John nodded and pressed his lips together. "I will," he said. "I know a place."
Even Sherlock seemed relieved by that thought, and John pushed away from the wall, heading away from the fire before anyone could remember to tell the firemen that John had be inside.
-- -- -- --
Preview, Chapter 11:
"What do you mean 'clearly not interested'?"
"I've seen the way you look at those photos. And even if that wasn't it, you give more attention to your phone than to any girl that comes up to you."
He wanted to know, damn it. He wanted to know how Sherlock died and when so he could start trying to change it, but Mycroft wasn't budging. John wanted to know, but he didn't want to call Moriarty for the answer. He didn't want to give that psycho any more power than he already had.
Being in Sherlock's flat, listening to Sherlock play the violin, and seeing Sherlock's detailed mess was almost too much. John took a shuddering breath. He could see Sherlock playing in the window by the radio.
"Don't look too dazed," Sherlock said.
Click HERE for Chapter 11!
Click here for the Masterpost!
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Current Word Count: 26,731
Current Chapter Count: 10/?
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I don't even totally own the idea. :P
Warnings: Character Death
Summary:
AU John needs a new phone, one that doesn’t bend time and have an amazing man on the other end who claims to be the world’s greatest detective, except that he can’t figure out how he called Dr. Watson instead of his brother. However, with a criminal mastermind on the loose, John's phone connection may be the only thing that can save him.
-- -- -- -- --
Chapter 10
Work was a welcome reminder of the real world. John had never thought work would be so inviting. He always expected to love his work, saving people's lives or making the passing easier. He always expected to be useful and wanted by his patients. He'd even expected some people to hate him for their loved ones dying. He'd never expected to feel relieved by walking in the front doors of a hospital. Familiar, comfortable, but never relieved. And yet that was where he found himself on day three.
It was a relief to know that this was a hospital and people died in hospitals. People were also saved there. It was like John's second life, away from the murder scene shots and the people dying because of his investigation. At the hospital, he put those thoughts away and focused on his patients.
Unless, of course, Sherlock texted him. That's when he'd find a moment to check his phone and reply.
Sherlock was fine, as usual, and knew only a few basics. The files were attacked, that's why he needed to make copies. That's all Sherlock knew. He didn't know about the threatening phone call. He didn't know about the meeting with Ian. He only knew about the bomb in the police department.
"Dr. Watson?" a woman called. John jumped from his thoughts and smiled at her.
"Oh. Sarah, I told you to just call me John," he said. She smiled back but then frowned.
"I was going to, but you looked so serious that it didn't seem to fit. Are you alright?" Sarah asked, gently touching his arm. John drew what comfort he could from it, but it felt like trying to suck pudding through a straw.
"I-I'll be fine. I got a bit of a fright the other day. Bomb went off in the building I was in. Oh no, don't look like that. Only the bomber got hurt, but it did leave a few of us rattled," John explained. It was only the start of his worries, but if he wasn't going to let Sherlock in on the rest, he'd be damned to let anyone else know the full extent of the problem.
"Oh my God," Sarah gasped all the same. "Well if you need to unwind, just let me know. I'll treat you to drinks or something. Okay?"
"Okay," John said, but Sarah pulled her hand back as though she could feel the emotional distance between them.
John wanted to accept her offer. He knew if he did, he could probably get laid, but he also knew he'd be tense until he could hear Sherlock's voice over the phone. Only the thought of Sherlock brought any true calm to him. Just texting wasn't enough right now. However, Sherlock was busy. He'd said not to call until the later part of the day. John's shoulders bunched up every time he looked at the clock and saw how slow the hands moved around the circle.
"I'll call you," John said. "If I need anything, I mean." and he gave an encouraging smile.
"Okay, good," Sarah said and smiled. She nodded and then turned to go see to her next appointment. She stopped then and turned on heel. "Ahhhh, I almost forgot. Molly wants to see you in the morgue. I don't know why."
Then they waved at each other and she was gone. John's chest went hard. Even though he knew Sherlock had died months ago by Moriarty's planning, he still heard 'morgue' and thought he'd find Sherlock's body down there.
Shaking it off, John checked his schedule. He had no appointments for an hour. He could spare Molly some time. Then he was off, walking briskly but not in a hurry. What could Molly possibly want with John in a morgue?
As he entered the mortuary, he saw Molly puzzling over a body. As he let the door swing shut, he saw Inspector Lestrade standing across the room from her. He seemed tired as he looked at John and then nodded with a soft smile to Molly. Molly tried to smile at John but it flinched off her face when she began to talk.
"Hello, Dr. Watson. I know we haven't met a lot, but I really admire your work. You're a great doctor. I haven't had any of your patients in here," she said. John opened his mouth to reply but Lestrade cleared his throat. "Oh right. So, Inspector Lestrade just arrived with the med team that brought in a body. He said he wants to talk to you."
"Who died?" John asked. Adding Lestrade in the picture made the idea that this body would be Sherlock even brighter in his head and he had to beat it back and remind himself that it wasn't possible. Then again, it wouldn't be the first impossible thing to happen to John in the past few months.
"Ian Monkford," Lestrade said.
"The... The man who killed Jasmine Sheffield?" John asked, incredulous. "Impossible. I just spoke to him yesterday."
"Yep, and they found his body this morning in his cell," Lestrade explained and walked closer to the body on the table.
"Official cause of death is poisoning," Molly said, pulling the sheet down from poor Ian's face. "Haven't figured out how it got into his system, though. I only know it almost definitely wasn't through the mouth."
John stepped close and looked over the body without touching it. Molly pulled the sheet down to Ian's waist to give John more to look at. John shifted and looked over both sides before returning to his original position and pointed to Ian's shoulder.
"What's that?" he asked, drawing attention to a small puncture wound.
Molly bent to check while Lestrade resisted the urge to get in the way by poking his nose into their business. Molly touched the wound with her gloved finger and made a curious noise.
"It's a needle hole," she said. "I've seen similar holes on drug addicts..."
She trailed off and looked uneasily over at Lestrade. He shook his head and waved off whatever idea they'd both shared. John looked between the two and stood up straight.
"What?" he asked. Lestrade went to shake his head again, but John interrupted the motion. "No, seriously. What have I missed?"
"Sherlock - well it was probably before you knew him. He used to do drugs pretty regularly. Before I knew him as a detective, I knew him as an addict. Caught him buying, but he'd been clean for almost three years when he... you know," Lestrade explained.
"Wow. You're right. I had no idea," John said, running a hand through his hair. Lestrade let out a stream of air from his nose.
"John, look," he began and picked a folder up from an empty table. "The ID for the suspect in the street shots came back, but I'm worried about giving it to you."
"What? Why?" John asked. Molly gently moved John away from the table so she could test the new entry point.
"Well to be frank, people keep dying around you, don't they? This is two deaths this week. I'm almost worried I'll die just by holding these photos again," the inspector explained, holding up the folder.
"You saying you think I had something to do with these deaths?" John asked, knitting his brow in a glare.
"No. No, of course not. I'm just saying that someone obviously doesn't like this case being tampered with," the older man said. "Just... be careful." And he held out the documents for John.
"Thank you," John said, taking the folder. "Can you do me a favor and try to keep news of this from hitting the papers and stuff?"
"I'll do my best," Lestrade promised, but the way he looked at John felt like someone saying goodbye and sorry at the same time.
-- -- -- --
Lestrade said he'd keep things out of the media, but John understood that would be difficult. The whole police force was undergoing examination for leaks and rats. Even Lestrade had to be inspected, and they had not been happy when they found out about John and even less happy when they learned about Sherlock. It had been news to John as well, that Sherlock had been a sort of secret helper of the police and that all the files John had been looking at were illegally collected.
Moriarty knew all of it, of course. He'd texted John every hour on the hour from the time he got off work that night until he went in the next morning to remind John that he knew everything he'd done or was doing, everywhere he was and where he family lived. He knew it all - except of course, about the ID they had on him in the photos. He never mentioned it, and John hoped to keep him in the dark about having IDed him. He didn't want to know what Moriarty would do to him or his sister or even his family up in North York. But the 'teasing' messages through the night with photos of his family kept John up with nightmares. That was how day four had begun.
But none of that, none of the death threats or the stalker photos or the bombs or dead bodies, mattered at all, because when John slipped off his coat and stepped into a linen room, his phone vibrated and the voice that answered back to him made everything melt away.
"Hello?" John answered, sitting against the back wall of the silent but fluffy room. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and let out a tight sigh.
"John," Sherlock replied as was customary.
He began to rant about Lestrade and Mycroft and the petty boringness of life, and John soaked up every word. He tilted his head back and looked to the ceiling, surprised by the way his eyes stung like he wanted to cry. His chest heaved with the relief of hearing Sherlock's voice, a relief he had not expected to hit him so hard. They had not spoken in over two weeks. It had been only text messages. At first John could handle it, but not after this week. And hearing Sherlock speak, John realized he found solace and companionship in this voice. It was deep but not entirely smooth. It was usually bored or annoyed but sometimes excited. It was fast, never slow. And John loved the form that came with it. The pressed collars and the dark curls and the pale eyes and the cheekbones you could cut yourself on.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock was asking, and John realized he'd started crying silently. No sobs or anything, but his face was wet. He took several deep breaths and shook his head.
"Just... keep talking, please," he said and wiped at his face. "I just... it's been a hard few days and I... I just wanted to hear you talk."
Sherlock paused for a moment and then took a breath. "Did I do something?" he asked. "In your time, I mean. I haven't done anything to you in this year. But I'd like to know if I'm the reason behind your stress right now."
"No," John said forcefully, shaking his head. "No, it's not you. It's not. I mean, maybe a bit of it is, but no. No, not at all. I'm just under a lot of stress. I just need you to distract me."
"Did you watch the match yesterday?" Sherlock asked. John snorted.
"Oh please. You didn't watch the match yesterday. What makes you think I did?" the doctor asked and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
"Nothing. You said to distract you. I was making conversation. And it worked. You laughed," Sherlock replied. "Tell me if I'm wrong."
"No. You're right," John said and lowered his head.
For a moment there was silence where they both just breathed and listened to each other breathe. It was strange, John thought. His stress was caused by Sherlock's case box, by trying to figure out who Moriarty was so he could put the man behind bars for killing Sherlock. John's stress was caused by the way his chest felt punched whenever someone mentioned Sherlock's name and whenever he thought back to Christmas, and yet... and yet Sherlock was the only one who could lift that stress. John took a slow breath and closed his eyes.
"I miss you, Sherlock," he murmured.
Sherlock didn't answer, just continued to breathe, but that was answer enough for John right now. It wasn't a rejection. It was tacit acceptance. Sherlock was agreeing with silence. John breathed heavily as he got his chest under control and then sighed and cleared his throat at the same time.
"I only have a few minutes," John explained, dropping his head back against the wall again. "Tell me about Mycroft?"
It took Sherlock three more breaths to decide on a response. "Sure," he agreed, voice heavy, but it lightened up as he continued. "The first thing you have to understand about my brother is that he operates the British government, no matter what he says, and he's secretly poisoning your drinking water - metaphorically, of course. But he has the same effect. Mycroft is dubious and not to be trusted with a toy chess set much less a country run like one. Although his position does come in handy when I'm trying to investigate private areas."
John smiled at the ceiling as he felt his breathing even out. Listening to Sherlock was the only medication he needed right now. This was all he needed.
-- -- -- --
John was feeling so good after his conversation with Sherlock that he hardly glanced at the television in the waiting room as he was heading out the door. He waved goodbye to Sarah, who then caught him to ask about going out for drinks again, but he told her he'd have to reschedule. He wasn't tense anymore, so he didn't even want a beer or anything. He just wanted to go home and watch some crap telly. Sarah gave him a brief hug, wished him well, and John passed right under the latest news flashing on the screen without so much as an upward glance.
It was early evening, still a little bit of light in the sky. John didn't feel threatened as he walked home from work, as he did often when he didn't feel like riding in a stuffy cab. Tonight he felt good, felt safe, so he didn't see the need to pay a cabbie to take him the long way home when he could walk in a nearly straight line.
His phone went off while he was looking up at the clouds. They were visible over the roof of a nearby building and looked unusual to John, but it was probably the evening light.
"Hello?" he asked, not recognizing the number.
"I told you to stop meddling," Moriarty's voice came over the line.
"What? But I haven't done anything," John said, glancing around as he continued to walk. He was almost home. His mind told him he would be safe if he could just make it to his apartment.
"Oh Doctor Watson. Don't you watch the news? You gave the police my picture. You got my name and then my photo? Sherlock really laid some good groundwork for you. Unfortunately, it's going to be the death of both of you. If I detect one more whiff of you on this case, I'll have to start aiming the big guns at your family. You know I can," Moriarty warned.
"Wh-what about this time?" John asked. "Just a warning?"
Moriarty laughed, loudly and for far too long. It chilled John's spine, nearly squishing the warmth in his chest that Sherlock had renewed.
"Oh John, John, John," Moriarty sighed. "I warned you. I told you I would stop you. I told you I'd-"
"Burn me," John murmured, eyes widening and heart speeding up. He hurried down Baker Street until he got the corner where he could see his apartment. "Oh Christ," he gasped.
"This is my last warning, Doctor. Do watch who's toes you walk over from now on." and Moriarty hung up.
"You- You bastard!" John cursed even though he knew the call was over. His eyes were fixed on the awkward clouds he'd seen before, which originated from John's apartment. A fire consumed the whole corner where John's window used to be visible.
John rushed forward to the building. People, some residents that he recognized, were crowding on the street and crying out. In the distance, John could hear the fire trucks. His heart hammered in his chest and he shoved through the crowd, forcing his way into the building despite people's yells for him to stop.
He couldn't, though. Everything he owned was in that apartment. Everything he held dear. John crashed through his heated door and dropped the floor to get below any smoke. The flames started by the windows, feeding themselves and licking up the glass. They spread from there around the building, destroying John's television and starting to drop onto his bed in the far corner.
"Shit!" John cursed, squinting against the heat as he hurried to his bed. He pulled his laptop from the side desk, still unharmed, and set it on the floor beside him. The bed was going up quick, but John grabbed the mattress and threw it off the bed. As the flames smashed into the wall and hissed angrily, he turned his eyes to the bed frame. There, still pinned against the frame near the side table, were Sherlock's photos. He snatched them up and slid them into the space on his laptop between the screen and keyboard.
As a batch of flames dropped near him from the roof, John jumped up and hurried for the door. Most of his property was up now, lost to ashes, but he could save the small pieces of Sherlock his still had. He coughed harshly as he rushed down the stairs and back out into the street. A woman put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from falling over as he coughed. A man nearby sneered at him for endangering his life for his laptop. John didn't care. He had Sherlock's pictures and he had his laptop, with his notes and his documents about the case and his work. Everything else was entirely replaceable. Even the documents were replaceable, but those photos were not.
John pulled out his phone as he stumbled away from the group and the firemen who were jumping off the trucks. It rang twice and then Sherlock picked up. At first, John couldn't say anything, just coughed into his hand and leaned against the nearest wall.
"John, what's happened? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, and his honest worry touched John in the deepest part of his heart.
"F-Fire," John wheezed. "My apartment."
"Are you alright?" Sherlock rushed out. "Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need to call Mycroft?"
John shook his head and coughed again. "Sherlock... it was arson. Moriarty... the man behind the police station bombing..."
Sherlock's voice was deadly serious. "Run, John. Get away from there. Go somewhere no one would expect to find you." After a moment where John only let out a cough, Sherlock added a soft "Please."
John nodded and pressed his lips together. "I will," he said. "I know a place."
Even Sherlock seemed relieved by that thought, and John pushed away from the wall, heading away from the fire before anyone could remember to tell the firemen that John had be inside.
-- -- -- --
Preview, Chapter 11:
"What do you mean 'clearly not interested'?"
"I've seen the way you look at those photos. And even if that wasn't it, you give more attention to your phone than to any girl that comes up to you."
He wanted to know, damn it. He wanted to know how Sherlock died and when so he could start trying to change it, but Mycroft wasn't budging. John wanted to know, but he didn't want to call Moriarty for the answer. He didn't want to give that psycho any more power than he already had.
Being in Sherlock's flat, listening to Sherlock play the violin, and seeing Sherlock's detailed mess was almost too much. John took a shuddering breath. He could see Sherlock playing in the window by the radio.
"Don't look too dazed," Sherlock said.
Click HERE for Chapter 11!
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