Sherlockmas Summer Vacay fic: While the Cat's Away. 2, We're All Going on a Summer Holiday (2/2)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (explicit het)
Summary: How long can things last this time round between Sarah and John?
Betaed by the wonderful 2ndskin
NOTE: This was written for Prompt 78 of the Sherlockmas Summer Vacay festival: "John/Sarah; When Sherlock's away, John tracks her down hoping for another chance."
Part 1
April 2010
"New Zealand?" Sarah demands, and John stands in the surgery office and smiles his most disarming smile and says:
"I have an old army friend called Colin Overton who's been telling me for years that I should come down to South Island and stay with him. And now I've got two airline tickets. Business class. Will you come?"
She can't ask How can you afford it, when he's smiling for the first time in a week. But John's obviously been taking detective lessons from Sherlock, and he adds:
"The tickets are Sherlock's. The Auckland Rugby Football Union wanted him to go out there and finding a missing wing three-quarter of theirs. But he solved the problem via the internet instead."
"If I go with you, will Sherlock turn up and interfere at some point?" she asks, and realises that she's already halfway to accepting John's completely ridiculous idea.
"He won't come to New Zealand," John replies, folding his arms. "He doesn't like rugby and I don't think he cares much for sheep either." And then his smile fades and he adds quietly. "I think I, we, could both do with some time off after...after everything."
A week ago, someone strapped John into a bomb-jacket and almost blew him up; less than a month ago he and Sarah were both kidnapped. There's a wary look almost permanently in John's eyes, and Sarah doesn't think he's sleeping properly. But she doesn't know, because he hasn't been round to her flat since the day of the first explosion. She has to do something if she's going to make things work between them again. But just going away with him for two weeks holiday is completely unrealistic. The surgery couldn't possibly manage.
Except that John promptly points out that she has to take some holiday within the next month if she's going to stick to her own surgery rules on annual leave. And he has a friend of a friend who can cover for him, and Natalie will be back from maternity leave in a couple of days time...
She's forgotten that logistics comes naturally to the military. Her objections are countered with practical suggestions and she can't help noticing that John looks more alive than he's done since the bombings, back to the enthusiastic charmer that she fell so hard for. She's carried away by the project; she doesn't even back out when John reveals a few days later that Colin, whom they'll be staying with, is planning an adventure holiday for them. It's not the sort of trip she's ever imagined herself going on, but that's half the point. She's got John alongside her, and why not seize the chance to do something different? Be someone different?
***
It's only when they're in Motueka, about to collapse into bed after a day and a half of travelling, that Sarah remembers that there are some problems it's not so easy to run away from. John is just about to suggest that he sleeps somewhere else, she can tell, which is ridiculous. Whatever his problem with nightmares, she has to get used to it and now seems an opportunity. As she points out, he may not have them tonight, anyhow.
He does, but it's not as bad as she expects. He thrashes around and wakes her up, and she's slightly dazed from the jetlag, which doesn't help. By the time she's gone to the bathroom and come back, she's half expecting him to be trying to pretend that nothing is happening. But instead he's got the lights on and he's sitting on the bed, gazing into space as if still seeing things that aren't there.
"What was it?" she asks.
"It's not PTSD," John mutters wearily, "it's not the same dream every time. It's not always about the war, even when I was fighting it. But someone is in danger and I can't get to them in time. Whatever I do, it's just too late."
She rest a cool hand on his hot shoulder and tries to get her own mind into gear, waiting for him to say more. He stares into space a bit more and then finally looks round at her.
"It was the crossbow tonight," he says, and then he puts his head in his hands and it suddenly makes sense that he's been trying to avoid her finding out about that. That he's scared that his own fears will trigger traumatic memories for her. Of nearly being killed because a pack of Chinese gangsters mistook John for Sherlock.
"I don't have nightmares about that," she whispers and her arms go round him, and she hopes he can sense that she's telling the truth. Maybe she should have been traumatised by General Shan, but she isn't; her luck has somehow held.
Her brain fishes out a statistic: The prevalence of PTSD among direct victims of disasters is 30-40 percent. She's read up on the subject ever since she first met John, but it seems that's not the problem after all. Only the ordinary fears of people who lead a dangerous life. Or who love someone who does. She holds John tight and says: "I'm not dead. You saved me; you'll always save me."
Her voice sounds small and unconvincing to her own ears, but she hugs him tighter, and maybe something registers. John sighs, and says: "We should try and get back to sleep."
They lie in the dark and John curls up close to her, a hot solid arm round her waist. She wonders who's supposed to be comforting whom, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that they get through this night together. And the other nights to come.
***
John's restless the next night, but doesn't wake up, and the night after that they both sleep like the dead. Colin's taken them whitewater rafting and Sarah's so whacked she can barely get upstairs. Everything aches. And it was probably the most thrilling day of her life.
Scary as well, but in the right way. Colin and John are reassuringly calm under pressure, with the carefulness of men who've seen a lot of danger. They check their equipment carefully, they listen to their instructors.
"It's all about managing risk," Colin says one breakfast time, when they're discussing the hike he's planned for all three of them. "You can get killed crossing the road if you're careless. With something bigger, you just have to work out what might go wrong and then plan how to deal with it."
Colin is tall and thin and balding and has a limp that's definitely not just psychosomatic, because his right foot got blown off in Helmand province. He blows on his coffee and then tells Sarah: "So if I do manage to fall over and bust something today, the plan is that you stay and give me medical care while John goes for help."
"What Colin is trying to say," John replies calmly, "is that if he starts malingering, he thinks you'll be more sympathetic than I would be."
"What I mean," Colin retorts, tilting his chair back at a perilous angle, "is that Sarah must have a better bedside manner than John here. I distinctly remember lying around in a heap and Captain Watson telling me that the good news was that I still had 75% of my limbs."
Sarah grins at that, because she's getting used to the fact that army humour is even blacker than that of doctors. She'll never be part of the military world that Colin and John once belonged to. But it's made them what they are and she's starting to understand it a little, share in the camaraderie they're trying to recreate. The three of them go rock-climbing the next day, and she's hopeless at it: you need a string-bean physique to be a good climber, not short and curvy like her. But they haul her up the rock face eventually, and when Colin tells her the next thing he has planned is horse-riding, it's John who looks worried this time.
***
A week into the holiday and John's nightmares have stopped; if their nights are disturbed, it's only when they have sufficient energy left for sex after the day's exertions. John's a good boyfriend in that way, Sarah thinks, knows what she likes and how to turn her on with a look, a touch. And he's easy to get on with as well. She finds herself wondering if this might be more than just a short-term fling, if John's the impossible man it might be possible to live with. Yes, the detective work is disruptive and sometimes dangerous, but she can't imagine John being content with the mundane life of a GP. He's only really happy when there's a vague chance he might end up breaking his neck. It's a risk, of course, staying with him, but it's a risk she might be able to manage.
And then they come back home after an afternoon's kayaking and John switches on his phone to find five messages on his voicemail. All from Sherlock. The early ones announce that Sherlock has a case and John needs to come home. The last ones demand that John returns immediately: a man's life depends on it.
"He always says that," John says, as he plays the final message to Colin and Sarah. "I asked him once whose life, and he said he calculated that Donovan would snap one of these days and shoot him if I wasn't around as a witness."
"So are you going back?" Colin says, and Sarah surreptitiously sags in gratitude that she doesn't have to be the one asking that question.
"Of course not," John says. "Sherlock managed for five years without me; he'll be fine for a few more days."
***
John wakes up shouting that night, and when Sarah puts her arms around him, he can't say anything coherent for a few moments. He lies there, gasping, and then finally whispers: "I dreamt I shot the cabbie and the bomb-jacket blew up."
"What?" she says, because maybe it's not surprising that messages from Sherlock remind him of bomb-jackets, but what does that have to do with taxis?
John lies there in the darkness and tells her about the Pink Lady. She vaguely remembers the case from his blog, but now he gives her the full story. The bits that he's never written about, that she suspects he's never told anyone before.
"I shot the cabbie to stop Sherlock taking the poison," John says. "I didn't worry about shooting him; I didn't have problems sleeping that night." He pauses and then adds:
"But tonight in my dream when I went to shoot him, I saw the red dot of the laser sight and then the bomb-jacket went up. Sherlock was next to him; he wouldn't have stood a chance."
It's always other people dying that John has nightmares about, but there's something more here. He's taking much longer to calm down than he normally does; Sarah can feel him force himself not to shudder and she desperately tries to think of the right thing to say. Then she has an idea. She gets up and switches on the lights and sits next to where he's lying on the bed, not touching him this time.
"Is there someone you can phone?" she asks.
"It's the middle of the night."
"So it's early afternoon in London. If you phone up someone and check that Sherlock's OK, will you be able to sleep then?"
"I-"
"It's OK," she says. "I've...I've had dreams occasionally that I worried might be premonitions. Can you speak to Inspector Lestrange or whatever his name is and make sure that someone keeps an eye on Sherlock?"
She can see the rational part of John's brain starting to kick in, once he's got something practical to do. It takes him several phone calls, and she falls asleep before he finishes them all, but the rest of the night is quiet.
***
John looks tired in the morning, but not too bad otherwise. But things still aren't back to normal, she realises over the next few days. The nightmares have returned, but he's not telling her anything about them now, as if he's worried that he's revealed too much already. And in the daytime she sees him reach for his phone surreptitiously and then put it away if he notices her watching.
How do I manage this risk, she wonders, and decides that she has to say something.
"Are you worrying about other people back home, as well?" she asks, as she climbs out of the shower that evening. She pulls on her bathrobe, trying to look harmless, comforting. She's not some kind of jealous girlfriend who can't cope with John's concern for others. "It must be hard being half the world away from everyone again."
John is cleaning his teeth, staring into the mirror, and she watches his reflection, wondering if it will mysteriously reveal something that his closed-off real life face won't do.
"Just Sherlock," he says, rather indistinctly, and rinses out his mouth. "He's got no sense of self-preservation. I worry about him sometimes."
You worry about him all the time, she thinks, but maybe that's not surprising. How many times has Sherlock risked his neck since John's known him? Risked his neck needlessly, like with those stupid pills? And Sherlock doesn't even know how to fight properly, she remembers. She had to help out when the Chinese gangsters attacked him at the circus. Later that evening, with the crossbow about to fire, he'd fumbled to untie her and been grabbed from behind. She can feel her palms starting to sweat as that memory comes back to her. If John hadn't knocked the machine over...
And suddenly she knows what John's nightmare is, and she blurts out:
"It's the crossbow again, isn't it, in your dream? You try and save me and you shoot him by mistake?"
John's right leg buckles and his hands grip the sink to stop himself crashing to the ground. And then he stands perfectly still, and she can see the tension in his muscles as he wills himself into standing upright again. He is a soldier and he does not give up. He nods and says huskily:
"It's a dream, it doesn't make sense."
But it does, she thinks. It's Sherlock's death that John dreams about, and sooner or later it's not just going to be a dream. Work out what might go wrong and then plan for it . Sooner or later Sherlock is going to miscalculate and John won't be there to save him. She can share John with Sherlock while Sherlock's alive, but what happens if - when - he's dead? How can she be enough for John then?
"It's just a dream," John insists. "I get stressed and my mind plays silly tricks."
Sarah nods, and puts a hand round his waist, and smiles and lets him kiss her with minty-fresh breath. A few more days of holiday still, she should enjoy that at least. And maybe when they get back to London it'll all seem manageable again.
***
June 2011
"So how's the blog going?" Sarah asks, as they sit on the train. "I haven't been keeping up with it recently." Not since that awkward post after the New Zealand trip where John had announced to the world their break-up. He'd been pretty tactful about it, surprisingly, but it was still hardly something she wanted to re-read.
"I've got followers now, which is weird," John replies. "I mean not just Mike and Harry and Mrs Hudson, but people who read it for fun. Only the hit-counter doesn't work, so I don't know how many."
"Are you still blogging about your cases?" she asks. "I was always surprised the police let you do so. I thought it might be contempt of court or something."
"Well I have had some sticky moments," John says, smiling at her, and then he starts to tell her about the cases, the words tumbling out of him. He's got better at telling stories, she thinks, as she listens to him, and they're wonderful stories, of course. When he describes Sherlock "borrowing" a bus, even she has to laugh at the thought. And just for a moment, she envies John. John, who gets to chase around after a mad genius, while she sits in a surgery and dispenses antibiotics and good advice.
But then John's telling her about Gavin Roylott poisoning his stepdaughters, and she knows she couldn't cope with that. She's seen a lot of people die over the years, but deliberate murder still appals her. She couldn't lose herself in the puzzle side of a case in the way that Sherlock and John seem able to.
As if he's sensed her concerns, John switches back to telling her about the quirky cases as they rattle through Sussex. The smashed statues of Margaret Thatcher; dressing up as ninjas; the case with The Hat. She remembers again that it's fun going on holiday with him. When they get to Brighton, it's easy to find things to do together. They get fish and chips for lunch; they go for a paddle on the beach. Then they head off to the Royal Pavilion.
"What is it about George IV and dragons?" John demands, when they're walking back to the beach afterwards, giggling. "How can anyone be so obsessed with them? And the Banqueting Hall's even tackier than Buckingham Palace."
"You've been there?" Sarah asks with surprise.
"Sherlock had a case involving a member of the royal family," John replies. "And Irene Adler."
Sarah can't resist it. "What was she like?" If she can't be part of John and Sherlock's gaudy world - and she can't - she can at least get some vicarious excitement. Hear what the notorious Woman is like in real life.
"She's a horrible person," John says, the laughter dying out of his face.
"She looks beautiful in the photos."
"She's not a...nice woman," John says, and then he licks his lips and adds slowly. "She was working with James Moriarty, who bombed Baker Street. And she drugged and beat Sherlock."
Sarah doesn't know what to say. There's something raw in John's voice now, and she gets the feeling that there's a lot more he could say about Irene Adler and Sherlock. But as she waits, he shakes his head and his arm reaches out to go around her waist. She's put on a denim miniskirt for this afternoon's trip, and she's already noticed John admiring her arse.
"I guess Irene Adler's just not my type," John says, smiling down at her, and beneath the cheesy statement, she knows there's something genuine. That's it not just sexual attraction between them, but that he still cares for her, even now. If only there'd been some way they could have made it work.
***
April 2010
"Please don't worry," DI Lestrade keeps on repeating, as he sits in her surgery office. "John's going to be fine."
"So why are you here?" she demands. "I thought when you turned up...I thought he was dead."
"I'm sorry," he says, and there's something warm and calming about those brown eyes on her. "I reckoned it would be quickest if I came and collected you, but I wasn't thinking straight. The hospital say they can discharge John if he's got someone reliable to keep an eye on him overnight. But I have to get home before the wife kills me, and I can't get hold of Mrs Hudson. There's Sherlock..." His voice tails away.
"But Sherlock's not reliable," she says. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have over-reacted. If you can wait ten minutes, while I finish off here?"
Lestrade nods and waits patiently as she logs off the PC, and then phones the restaurant to cancel her reservation. It was supposed to be her first evening together with John after they got back from New Zealand. And she's going to spend it checking he's not got complications from concussion. Life is not fair sometimes, she thinks.
***
The traffic's bad at this time of the day and it takes forever to get to the Royal London Hospital. She can feel herself getting wound up as the journey stretches out, even though she knows that John is in no danger. He's sitting up in bed when she gets there, but he looks small and grey and they've had to shave some of the hair off the right of his head to put some stitches in.
"I bashed myself getting out of the river, that was all," John says, slightly raggedly. "Stupid thing to do. We had to jump off the barge because we'd been spotted, and even though we were near the bank, the current's strong. I got caught in an eddy when I was trying to get a grip onto one of the ladders."
"You jumped into the Thames?" she says bleakly. In the surgery waiting room, they have the Port of London Authority safety poster up on the wall. Do not swim in the river. The water is cold and deep. The current can travel at five miles an hour. Even fast swimmers can't beat the current. How many times has John walked past that notice? How could he not know?
"The men on the barge had guns," John says. His voice is quiet, almost calm. "And they'd have happily killed Sherlock. I didn't see any other option but to swim for it."
Neither of you getting on the barge in the first place? She looks at John, and yes, of course he knows. He's not stupid. And she waits for him to say: It won't happen again. Next time won't be like this.
Except he can't tell her that anymore, can he? Or he can, but it wouldn't be true and they both know it. It's the end of a long day, and she wishes they were safely back in New Zealand, because she can't live like this, she suddenly realises. A relationship punctuated by bombs and hospital beds and visits from policemen, till the risks can't be managed any longer, and John or Sherlock or both are dead.
"I can't do this," she bursts out, and there are tears welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry, John, I just can't keep on having this happen." She walks off and she hears John's protests behind her, but he doesn't try and follow her.
She goes to the nurse's station and tells them that she won't be able to take John home, but she'll find someone who can. She digs out Mike Stamford's number eventually and he agrees to come and collect John. When Mike turns up, he smiles a rueful smile at her, and she knows it's not a surprise to him that she's dumping John. He's known John forever, must realise that he's not a man who's good at long-term relationships. Well, except with Sherlock, of course. John and Sherlock are together for life. She just hopes that's a longer time than she fears.
***
June 2011
Sarah shifts back into the warmth of John's arm as they sit on a bench and watch the tide coming in on the beach below. Easy just to close her eyes, imagine her cares being scoured away. Under the boardwalk, down by the sea. On a blanket with my boyfriend, is where I'll be. They're a bit too old for that, but surely they can find somewhere...
"We don't have to go back tonight," she says. "We must be able to find a hotel room in Brighton."
John doesn't reply, and when she looks across at him, he's gazing at the sea as if it holds some big secret he's trying to unlock.
"Are you OK?" she asks, and he looks round, his grey eyes startled, and says:
"I was thinking about Sherlock." Then his hand goes up to his head and he almost shouts, "Shit. I didn't mean that, Sarah. I'm sorry, I really am-"
"It's OK," she says, and her fingers reach up to trace the anxious lines appearing on his face. "What are you worried about?" Something's been bugging John all day, hasn't it? Maybe if she can help solve the mystery, they'll be able to enjoy themselves properly.
"Sherlock...he said he was going to Washington, but there's something wrong. Something obvious I haven't spotted..."
"What was he going to do there? Something to do with diplomats, did you say?"
John gives a sudden gasp.
"You're wonderful, Sarah," he announces, and for a moment he looks happy. "That's what I missed. If it had been a problem at the embassy, Mycroft would have been involved and he'd have come round to talk to Sherlock in person. So if he didn't..." His voice tails off and the frown is back.
"Then he's doing something else," Sarah says, and wonders if she's about to make things worse. But she can't stop now, can she? "He might be in Washington, just not at the embassy. Are there any other clues?"
"He took lightweight clothing with him," John says. "Well, his lightest pairs of socks, at least."
Sarah's not going to ask how John knows so much about Sherlock's socks. "Anything else he took?"
"Oh shit," John says very, very quietly. "The sword." He unwraps his arm from round Sarah and stands up. Then he shuts his eyes and places his palms on his temples, as if he's trying to drag a memory out of his brain. Sarah sits there and waits, saying nothing.
"Sherlock has a sword in the living room," John says at last. "I think he got it during the Jaria diamond case. It's been sitting by the fireplace for the last week or so, like it's some kind of bizarre poker. But when I came down this morning it wasn't there."
"Are you sure?" Sarah asks.
"Yes," John says. "Sherlock's gone off somewhere hot and he's taken a sword with him."
As a pin-point deduction, it's a bit lacking, Sarah thinks. But as a statement it's distinctly alarming. There might be good reasons for Sherlock doing that without telling his best friend what he's up to, but she can't think of any of them offhand. No wonder John's subconscious has been plaguing him.
"What do you want to do?" she asks. "Is there someone you can contact, see if you can trace him?"
"If Sherlock's out of the country, Mycroft's the only one who can help," John replies. "But if I get him involved and it's a case Sherlock doesn't want him to know about, he'll never forgive me."
"Do you need to go back to Baker Street? There might be more clues there."
John shakes his head. "If there are, I won't be able to work them out. I'm no detective." He pulls his phone out of the pocket and checks it. "No messages. If he was in trouble, he'd get something through to me somehow."
If he was in trouble, you'd know about it anyhow, Sarah finds herself thinking. You'd sense it, wouldn't you? But she suspects that John's nightmares will be starting up again all too soon. She wishes Sherlock was back here, just so she could strangle the thoughtless bastard with his own scarf.
She can't say that; instead she watches John, wishing she knew what to say. John stares out at the sea for a moment or two more, and then she sees his spine straighten and his chin go up as if he's come to a decision.
"Sherlock's on his own this time," he says, and there's a determination in his voice now that suggests he's also mentally giving two fingers to Sherlock. To her surprise, he turns to her and hands her his switched-off phone.
"Did you say something about a hotel?" he asks, and she pockets his phone and stands up and wraps her arms round him. Then she blatantly gives his bum a squeeze, because this is Brighton and you're allowed to do things like that here.
"You said you had Sherlock's credit card," she says, grinning. "I'm expecting a suite at least."
John grins back at her. It can't last, of course, between them. Tomorrow, John will be fretting about Sherlock, and she'll have to go home. They can't go back to being teenagers again; those days are gone for good.
But just for now - this night - they can do what they please in some anonymous hotel room. For now, they can have everything that either of them could desire.
Rating 15 (explicit het)
Summary: How long can things last this time round between Sarah and John?
Betaed by the wonderful 2ndskin
NOTE: This was written for Prompt 78 of the Sherlockmas Summer Vacay festival: "John/Sarah; When Sherlock's away, John tracks her down hoping for another chance."
Part 1
April 2010
"New Zealand?" Sarah demands, and John stands in the surgery office and smiles his most disarming smile and says:
"I have an old army friend called Colin Overton who's been telling me for years that I should come down to South Island and stay with him. And now I've got two airline tickets. Business class. Will you come?"
She can't ask How can you afford it, when he's smiling for the first time in a week. But John's obviously been taking detective lessons from Sherlock, and he adds:
"The tickets are Sherlock's. The Auckland Rugby Football Union wanted him to go out there and finding a missing wing three-quarter of theirs. But he solved the problem via the internet instead."
"If I go with you, will Sherlock turn up and interfere at some point?" she asks, and realises that she's already halfway to accepting John's completely ridiculous idea.
"He won't come to New Zealand," John replies, folding his arms. "He doesn't like rugby and I don't think he cares much for sheep either." And then his smile fades and he adds quietly. "I think I, we, could both do with some time off after...after everything."
A week ago, someone strapped John into a bomb-jacket and almost blew him up; less than a month ago he and Sarah were both kidnapped. There's a wary look almost permanently in John's eyes, and Sarah doesn't think he's sleeping properly. But she doesn't know, because he hasn't been round to her flat since the day of the first explosion. She has to do something if she's going to make things work between them again. But just going away with him for two weeks holiday is completely unrealistic. The surgery couldn't possibly manage.
Except that John promptly points out that she has to take some holiday within the next month if she's going to stick to her own surgery rules on annual leave. And he has a friend of a friend who can cover for him, and Natalie will be back from maternity leave in a couple of days time...
She's forgotten that logistics comes naturally to the military. Her objections are countered with practical suggestions and she can't help noticing that John looks more alive than he's done since the bombings, back to the enthusiastic charmer that she fell so hard for. She's carried away by the project; she doesn't even back out when John reveals a few days later that Colin, whom they'll be staying with, is planning an adventure holiday for them. It's not the sort of trip she's ever imagined herself going on, but that's half the point. She's got John alongside her, and why not seize the chance to do something different? Be someone different?
***
It's only when they're in Motueka, about to collapse into bed after a day and a half of travelling, that Sarah remembers that there are some problems it's not so easy to run away from. John is just about to suggest that he sleeps somewhere else, she can tell, which is ridiculous. Whatever his problem with nightmares, she has to get used to it and now seems an opportunity. As she points out, he may not have them tonight, anyhow.
He does, but it's not as bad as she expects. He thrashes around and wakes her up, and she's slightly dazed from the jetlag, which doesn't help. By the time she's gone to the bathroom and come back, she's half expecting him to be trying to pretend that nothing is happening. But instead he's got the lights on and he's sitting on the bed, gazing into space as if still seeing things that aren't there.
"What was it?" she asks.
"It's not PTSD," John mutters wearily, "it's not the same dream every time. It's not always about the war, even when I was fighting it. But someone is in danger and I can't get to them in time. Whatever I do, it's just too late."
She rest a cool hand on his hot shoulder and tries to get her own mind into gear, waiting for him to say more. He stares into space a bit more and then finally looks round at her.
"It was the crossbow tonight," he says, and then he puts his head in his hands and it suddenly makes sense that he's been trying to avoid her finding out about that. That he's scared that his own fears will trigger traumatic memories for her. Of nearly being killed because a pack of Chinese gangsters mistook John for Sherlock.
"I don't have nightmares about that," she whispers and her arms go round him, and she hopes he can sense that she's telling the truth. Maybe she should have been traumatised by General Shan, but she isn't; her luck has somehow held.
Her brain fishes out a statistic: The prevalence of PTSD among direct victims of disasters is 30-40 percent. She's read up on the subject ever since she first met John, but it seems that's not the problem after all. Only the ordinary fears of people who lead a dangerous life. Or who love someone who does. She holds John tight and says: "I'm not dead. You saved me; you'll always save me."
Her voice sounds small and unconvincing to her own ears, but she hugs him tighter, and maybe something registers. John sighs, and says: "We should try and get back to sleep."
They lie in the dark and John curls up close to her, a hot solid arm round her waist. She wonders who's supposed to be comforting whom, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that they get through this night together. And the other nights to come.
***
John's restless the next night, but doesn't wake up, and the night after that they both sleep like the dead. Colin's taken them whitewater rafting and Sarah's so whacked she can barely get upstairs. Everything aches. And it was probably the most thrilling day of her life.
Scary as well, but in the right way. Colin and John are reassuringly calm under pressure, with the carefulness of men who've seen a lot of danger. They check their equipment carefully, they listen to their instructors.
"It's all about managing risk," Colin says one breakfast time, when they're discussing the hike he's planned for all three of them. "You can get killed crossing the road if you're careless. With something bigger, you just have to work out what might go wrong and then plan how to deal with it."
Colin is tall and thin and balding and has a limp that's definitely not just psychosomatic, because his right foot got blown off in Helmand province. He blows on his coffee and then tells Sarah: "So if I do manage to fall over and bust something today, the plan is that you stay and give me medical care while John goes for help."
"What Colin is trying to say," John replies calmly, "is that if he starts malingering, he thinks you'll be more sympathetic than I would be."
"What I mean," Colin retorts, tilting his chair back at a perilous angle, "is that Sarah must have a better bedside manner than John here. I distinctly remember lying around in a heap and Captain Watson telling me that the good news was that I still had 75% of my limbs."
Sarah grins at that, because she's getting used to the fact that army humour is even blacker than that of doctors. She'll never be part of the military world that Colin and John once belonged to. But it's made them what they are and she's starting to understand it a little, share in the camaraderie they're trying to recreate. The three of them go rock-climbing the next day, and she's hopeless at it: you need a string-bean physique to be a good climber, not short and curvy like her. But they haul her up the rock face eventually, and when Colin tells her the next thing he has planned is horse-riding, it's John who looks worried this time.
***
A week into the holiday and John's nightmares have stopped; if their nights are disturbed, it's only when they have sufficient energy left for sex after the day's exertions. John's a good boyfriend in that way, Sarah thinks, knows what she likes and how to turn her on with a look, a touch. And he's easy to get on with as well. She finds herself wondering if this might be more than just a short-term fling, if John's the impossible man it might be possible to live with. Yes, the detective work is disruptive and sometimes dangerous, but she can't imagine John being content with the mundane life of a GP. He's only really happy when there's a vague chance he might end up breaking his neck. It's a risk, of course, staying with him, but it's a risk she might be able to manage.
And then they come back home after an afternoon's kayaking and John switches on his phone to find five messages on his voicemail. All from Sherlock. The early ones announce that Sherlock has a case and John needs to come home. The last ones demand that John returns immediately: a man's life depends on it.
"He always says that," John says, as he plays the final message to Colin and Sarah. "I asked him once whose life, and he said he calculated that Donovan would snap one of these days and shoot him if I wasn't around as a witness."
"So are you going back?" Colin says, and Sarah surreptitiously sags in gratitude that she doesn't have to be the one asking that question.
"Of course not," John says. "Sherlock managed for five years without me; he'll be fine for a few more days."
***
John wakes up shouting that night, and when Sarah puts her arms around him, he can't say anything coherent for a few moments. He lies there, gasping, and then finally whispers: "I dreamt I shot the cabbie and the bomb-jacket blew up."
"What?" she says, because maybe it's not surprising that messages from Sherlock remind him of bomb-jackets, but what does that have to do with taxis?
John lies there in the darkness and tells her about the Pink Lady. She vaguely remembers the case from his blog, but now he gives her the full story. The bits that he's never written about, that she suspects he's never told anyone before.
"I shot the cabbie to stop Sherlock taking the poison," John says. "I didn't worry about shooting him; I didn't have problems sleeping that night." He pauses and then adds:
"But tonight in my dream when I went to shoot him, I saw the red dot of the laser sight and then the bomb-jacket went up. Sherlock was next to him; he wouldn't have stood a chance."
It's always other people dying that John has nightmares about, but there's something more here. He's taking much longer to calm down than he normally does; Sarah can feel him force himself not to shudder and she desperately tries to think of the right thing to say. Then she has an idea. She gets up and switches on the lights and sits next to where he's lying on the bed, not touching him this time.
"Is there someone you can phone?" she asks.
"It's the middle of the night."
"So it's early afternoon in London. If you phone up someone and check that Sherlock's OK, will you be able to sleep then?"
"I-"
"It's OK," she says. "I've...I've had dreams occasionally that I worried might be premonitions. Can you speak to Inspector Lestrange or whatever his name is and make sure that someone keeps an eye on Sherlock?"
She can see the rational part of John's brain starting to kick in, once he's got something practical to do. It takes him several phone calls, and she falls asleep before he finishes them all, but the rest of the night is quiet.
***
John looks tired in the morning, but not too bad otherwise. But things still aren't back to normal, she realises over the next few days. The nightmares have returned, but he's not telling her anything about them now, as if he's worried that he's revealed too much already. And in the daytime she sees him reach for his phone surreptitiously and then put it away if he notices her watching.
How do I manage this risk, she wonders, and decides that she has to say something.
"Are you worrying about other people back home, as well?" she asks, as she climbs out of the shower that evening. She pulls on her bathrobe, trying to look harmless, comforting. She's not some kind of jealous girlfriend who can't cope with John's concern for others. "It must be hard being half the world away from everyone again."
John is cleaning his teeth, staring into the mirror, and she watches his reflection, wondering if it will mysteriously reveal something that his closed-off real life face won't do.
"Just Sherlock," he says, rather indistinctly, and rinses out his mouth. "He's got no sense of self-preservation. I worry about him sometimes."
You worry about him all the time, she thinks, but maybe that's not surprising. How many times has Sherlock risked his neck since John's known him? Risked his neck needlessly, like with those stupid pills? And Sherlock doesn't even know how to fight properly, she remembers. She had to help out when the Chinese gangsters attacked him at the circus. Later that evening, with the crossbow about to fire, he'd fumbled to untie her and been grabbed from behind. She can feel her palms starting to sweat as that memory comes back to her. If John hadn't knocked the machine over...
And suddenly she knows what John's nightmare is, and she blurts out:
"It's the crossbow again, isn't it, in your dream? You try and save me and you shoot him by mistake?"
John's right leg buckles and his hands grip the sink to stop himself crashing to the ground. And then he stands perfectly still, and she can see the tension in his muscles as he wills himself into standing upright again. He is a soldier and he does not give up. He nods and says huskily:
"It's a dream, it doesn't make sense."
But it does, she thinks. It's Sherlock's death that John dreams about, and sooner or later it's not just going to be a dream. Work out what might go wrong and then plan for it . Sooner or later Sherlock is going to miscalculate and John won't be there to save him. She can share John with Sherlock while Sherlock's alive, but what happens if - when - he's dead? How can she be enough for John then?
"It's just a dream," John insists. "I get stressed and my mind plays silly tricks."
Sarah nods, and puts a hand round his waist, and smiles and lets him kiss her with minty-fresh breath. A few more days of holiday still, she should enjoy that at least. And maybe when they get back to London it'll all seem manageable again.
***
June 2011
"So how's the blog going?" Sarah asks, as they sit on the train. "I haven't been keeping up with it recently." Not since that awkward post after the New Zealand trip where John had announced to the world their break-up. He'd been pretty tactful about it, surprisingly, but it was still hardly something she wanted to re-read.
"I've got followers now, which is weird," John replies. "I mean not just Mike and Harry and Mrs Hudson, but people who read it for fun. Only the hit-counter doesn't work, so I don't know how many."
"Are you still blogging about your cases?" she asks. "I was always surprised the police let you do so. I thought it might be contempt of court or something."
"Well I have had some sticky moments," John says, smiling at her, and then he starts to tell her about the cases, the words tumbling out of him. He's got better at telling stories, she thinks, as she listens to him, and they're wonderful stories, of course. When he describes Sherlock "borrowing" a bus, even she has to laugh at the thought. And just for a moment, she envies John. John, who gets to chase around after a mad genius, while she sits in a surgery and dispenses antibiotics and good advice.
But then John's telling her about Gavin Roylott poisoning his stepdaughters, and she knows she couldn't cope with that. She's seen a lot of people die over the years, but deliberate murder still appals her. She couldn't lose herself in the puzzle side of a case in the way that Sherlock and John seem able to.
As if he's sensed her concerns, John switches back to telling her about the quirky cases as they rattle through Sussex. The smashed statues of Margaret Thatcher; dressing up as ninjas; the case with The Hat. She remembers again that it's fun going on holiday with him. When they get to Brighton, it's easy to find things to do together. They get fish and chips for lunch; they go for a paddle on the beach. Then they head off to the Royal Pavilion.
"What is it about George IV and dragons?" John demands, when they're walking back to the beach afterwards, giggling. "How can anyone be so obsessed with them? And the Banqueting Hall's even tackier than Buckingham Palace."
"You've been there?" Sarah asks with surprise.
"Sherlock had a case involving a member of the royal family," John replies. "And Irene Adler."
Sarah can't resist it. "What was she like?" If she can't be part of John and Sherlock's gaudy world - and she can't - she can at least get some vicarious excitement. Hear what the notorious Woman is like in real life.
"She's a horrible person," John says, the laughter dying out of his face.
"She looks beautiful in the photos."
"She's not a...nice woman," John says, and then he licks his lips and adds slowly. "She was working with James Moriarty, who bombed Baker Street. And she drugged and beat Sherlock."
Sarah doesn't know what to say. There's something raw in John's voice now, and she gets the feeling that there's a lot more he could say about Irene Adler and Sherlock. But as she waits, he shakes his head and his arm reaches out to go around her waist. She's put on a denim miniskirt for this afternoon's trip, and she's already noticed John admiring her arse.
"I guess Irene Adler's just not my type," John says, smiling down at her, and beneath the cheesy statement, she knows there's something genuine. That's it not just sexual attraction between them, but that he still cares for her, even now. If only there'd been some way they could have made it work.
***
April 2010
"Please don't worry," DI Lestrade keeps on repeating, as he sits in her surgery office. "John's going to be fine."
"So why are you here?" she demands. "I thought when you turned up...I thought he was dead."
"I'm sorry," he says, and there's something warm and calming about those brown eyes on her. "I reckoned it would be quickest if I came and collected you, but I wasn't thinking straight. The hospital say they can discharge John if he's got someone reliable to keep an eye on him overnight. But I have to get home before the wife kills me, and I can't get hold of Mrs Hudson. There's Sherlock..." His voice tails away.
"But Sherlock's not reliable," she says. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have over-reacted. If you can wait ten minutes, while I finish off here?"
Lestrade nods and waits patiently as she logs off the PC, and then phones the restaurant to cancel her reservation. It was supposed to be her first evening together with John after they got back from New Zealand. And she's going to spend it checking he's not got complications from concussion. Life is not fair sometimes, she thinks.
***
The traffic's bad at this time of the day and it takes forever to get to the Royal London Hospital. She can feel herself getting wound up as the journey stretches out, even though she knows that John is in no danger. He's sitting up in bed when she gets there, but he looks small and grey and they've had to shave some of the hair off the right of his head to put some stitches in.
"I bashed myself getting out of the river, that was all," John says, slightly raggedly. "Stupid thing to do. We had to jump off the barge because we'd been spotted, and even though we were near the bank, the current's strong. I got caught in an eddy when I was trying to get a grip onto one of the ladders."
"You jumped into the Thames?" she says bleakly. In the surgery waiting room, they have the Port of London Authority safety poster up on the wall. Do not swim in the river. The water is cold and deep. The current can travel at five miles an hour. Even fast swimmers can't beat the current. How many times has John walked past that notice? How could he not know?
"The men on the barge had guns," John says. His voice is quiet, almost calm. "And they'd have happily killed Sherlock. I didn't see any other option but to swim for it."
Neither of you getting on the barge in the first place? She looks at John, and yes, of course he knows. He's not stupid. And she waits for him to say: It won't happen again. Next time won't be like this.
Except he can't tell her that anymore, can he? Or he can, but it wouldn't be true and they both know it. It's the end of a long day, and she wishes they were safely back in New Zealand, because she can't live like this, she suddenly realises. A relationship punctuated by bombs and hospital beds and visits from policemen, till the risks can't be managed any longer, and John or Sherlock or both are dead.
"I can't do this," she bursts out, and there are tears welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry, John, I just can't keep on having this happen." She walks off and she hears John's protests behind her, but he doesn't try and follow her.
She goes to the nurse's station and tells them that she won't be able to take John home, but she'll find someone who can. She digs out Mike Stamford's number eventually and he agrees to come and collect John. When Mike turns up, he smiles a rueful smile at her, and she knows it's not a surprise to him that she's dumping John. He's known John forever, must realise that he's not a man who's good at long-term relationships. Well, except with Sherlock, of course. John and Sherlock are together for life. She just hopes that's a longer time than she fears.
***
June 2011
Sarah shifts back into the warmth of John's arm as they sit on a bench and watch the tide coming in on the beach below. Easy just to close her eyes, imagine her cares being scoured away. Under the boardwalk, down by the sea. On a blanket with my boyfriend, is where I'll be. They're a bit too old for that, but surely they can find somewhere...
"We don't have to go back tonight," she says. "We must be able to find a hotel room in Brighton."
John doesn't reply, and when she looks across at him, he's gazing at the sea as if it holds some big secret he's trying to unlock.
"Are you OK?" she asks, and he looks round, his grey eyes startled, and says:
"I was thinking about Sherlock." Then his hand goes up to his head and he almost shouts, "Shit. I didn't mean that, Sarah. I'm sorry, I really am-"
"It's OK," she says, and her fingers reach up to trace the anxious lines appearing on his face. "What are you worried about?" Something's been bugging John all day, hasn't it? Maybe if she can help solve the mystery, they'll be able to enjoy themselves properly.
"Sherlock...he said he was going to Washington, but there's something wrong. Something obvious I haven't spotted..."
"What was he going to do there? Something to do with diplomats, did you say?"
John gives a sudden gasp.
"You're wonderful, Sarah," he announces, and for a moment he looks happy. "That's what I missed. If it had been a problem at the embassy, Mycroft would have been involved and he'd have come round to talk to Sherlock in person. So if he didn't..." His voice tails off and the frown is back.
"Then he's doing something else," Sarah says, and wonders if she's about to make things worse. But she can't stop now, can she? "He might be in Washington, just not at the embassy. Are there any other clues?"
"He took lightweight clothing with him," John says. "Well, his lightest pairs of socks, at least."
Sarah's not going to ask how John knows so much about Sherlock's socks. "Anything else he took?"
"Oh shit," John says very, very quietly. "The sword." He unwraps his arm from round Sarah and stands up. Then he shuts his eyes and places his palms on his temples, as if he's trying to drag a memory out of his brain. Sarah sits there and waits, saying nothing.
"Sherlock has a sword in the living room," John says at last. "I think he got it during the Jaria diamond case. It's been sitting by the fireplace for the last week or so, like it's some kind of bizarre poker. But when I came down this morning it wasn't there."
"Are you sure?" Sarah asks.
"Yes," John says. "Sherlock's gone off somewhere hot and he's taken a sword with him."
As a pin-point deduction, it's a bit lacking, Sarah thinks. But as a statement it's distinctly alarming. There might be good reasons for Sherlock doing that without telling his best friend what he's up to, but she can't think of any of them offhand. No wonder John's subconscious has been plaguing him.
"What do you want to do?" she asks. "Is there someone you can contact, see if you can trace him?"
"If Sherlock's out of the country, Mycroft's the only one who can help," John replies. "But if I get him involved and it's a case Sherlock doesn't want him to know about, he'll never forgive me."
"Do you need to go back to Baker Street? There might be more clues there."
John shakes his head. "If there are, I won't be able to work them out. I'm no detective." He pulls his phone out of the pocket and checks it. "No messages. If he was in trouble, he'd get something through to me somehow."
If he was in trouble, you'd know about it anyhow, Sarah finds herself thinking. You'd sense it, wouldn't you? But she suspects that John's nightmares will be starting up again all too soon. She wishes Sherlock was back here, just so she could strangle the thoughtless bastard with his own scarf.
She can't say that; instead she watches John, wishing she knew what to say. John stares out at the sea for a moment or two more, and then she sees his spine straighten and his chin go up as if he's come to a decision.
"Sherlock's on his own this time," he says, and there's a determination in his voice now that suggests he's also mentally giving two fingers to Sherlock. To her surprise, he turns to her and hands her his switched-off phone.
"Did you say something about a hotel?" he asks, and she pockets his phone and stands up and wraps her arms round him. Then she blatantly gives his bum a squeeze, because this is Brighton and you're allowed to do things like that here.
"You said you had Sherlock's credit card," she says, grinning. "I'm expecting a suite at least."
John grins back at her. It can't last, of course, between them. Tomorrow, John will be fretting about Sherlock, and she'll have to go home. They can't go back to being teenagers again; those days are gone for good.
But just for now - this night - they can do what they please in some anonymous hotel room. For now, they can have everything that either of them could desire.