The Adventure of the Civil Partnership Chapter 17 Ripples - Part A
Sherlock and John are hunting a kidnapper who has been taking newlywed couples across the Greater London Area and Sherlock has the perfect way to flush him out. Warning: Pre-Slash/Slash of Sherlock/John Work in Progress - Very Slow Updates
Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
Beta: Ivory Winter - All mistakes are mine.
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Chapter 17 Ripples
Some small distant part of John knew that he was hallucinating, but that knowledge didn’t help him escape them. Soldiers, some of them old friends, paced through his room bleeding, screaming, railing at him, demanding to know why he hadn’t fixed him, accusing him of being useless, a failure. John could smell the acrid air of the desert, feel the sand under his boots, the heat of the daytime sun pounding down, alternating with the freezing cold of the night. Then insurgents were tying him down, gabbling meaningless words at him, and pain flooded him, radiating up from his leg. Oh god, he had been shot again.
And then he was back on the street outside St. Bart’s, watching Sherlock fall, listening to Sherlock on the mobile, wanting to know why John hadn’t been quicker, why he hadn’t stopped him from dying. Unexpectedly he was once more back in the desert, mortars falling, and there in front of him was Sherlock, bleeding into the unforgiving sand. He screamed for his supplies, calling for hemostats and bandages, but no one would reply. He didn’t understand what he had done with his kit, and then he realized he couldn’t get to the Sherlock, he couldn’t move, he was trapped. John panicked. John must have been captured, he was going to be tortured and Sherlock was going to die. Die because John couldn’t get to him, because he allowed himself to be taken.
Suddenly he wasn’t alone, Sherlock was there standing between him and the soldiers pacing angrily in the room, the insurgents holding John down, in front of the dead Sherlock on the sidewalk, the dying Sherlock in the desert. He was vaguely aware that all three of the Sherlocks he was seeing couldn’t actually be there, just like part of him knew the soldiers and insurgents weren’t real, but he didn’t want this newest Sherlock to go away. It was so nice not to be alone with his demons and the feel of Sherlock’s hand holding his, Sherlock’s lips pressing occasionally to his knuckles, and the hand on his forehead that was so comforting. He knew the Sherlock talking to him wasn’t his Sherlock, just as he was aware that his Sherlock wasn’t actually bleeding out on the sandy floor, because his Sherlock would never say such wonderful words, murmuring over and over that John was not to leave, that John needed to fight to stay with him, that Sherlock needed him, that he had something important to tell him if he would only come back. The imaginary Sherlock held back the sand and blood with his words, giving John the strength to force the images away.
John thought that maybe this Sherlock would forgive him if he explained, would understand that John hadn’t meant to tell him what Sherlock wouldn’t want to know. “Sorry…Didn’t mean to tell you…didn’t want to burden you…forgive me…sorry…sorry…love you…sorry…wouldn’t have bothered you with it…couldn’t let him hurt you…please forgive me…love you too much…” John muttered over and over to the Sherlock next to his bed, begging to be forgiven, to not have to leave, wishing that the comforting words he imagined in reply could actually be real as he finally slipped into blessed darkness.
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John opened his eyes to a stark white ceiling, sighing as he discovered he was once again lying in a hospital bed, trying to remember what he was doing there. The memories returned, coming back to him in a rush - Sherlock lying injured on the floor, the knife fight, and then waking in that chair, the tortuous interview that followed, the desperate fight to escape. Knots appeared in John’s stomach, remembering what he had been compelled to reveal to keep Sherlock safe, what Sherlock now knew.
John forced himself to look around his room, to once again take in his surroundings, not performing a threat assessment this time, but distracting himself from pain. He found himself in a rather nice private room, so nice it could double as a bachelor flat with John’s spacious bed, a well-proportioned couch with pillows and a throw, and nice sized table with chairs - Mycroft must have felt obligated to step in. He wondered how much pity the erstwhile British Government was feeling for him to put Sherlock’s overly emotional ex-flatmate up in this room. The only thing not present was John’s temporary husband.
John supposed he should be grateful to have time to prepare himself to face Sherlock and the consequences of John’s unruly feelings. He took a ragged breath and pushed that thought aside. He needed to focus on assessing his medical condition. His self-examination revealed that the superficial knife wounds on his chest and arms had been cleaned and bandaged, a few of the deeper ones had been sutured. His leg wound had been cleaned and bandaged with a couple of drains coming out of it. That, along with the multiple saline IV lines laced with antibiotics and vague memory of delirium nightmares, was a pretty clear indicator that he had been right about the septicemia. He sighed, acknowledging to himself that the limp was going to be real again, at least for several weeks. John tried to sit up and reach the end of the bed to snag his chart but the aching in the cuts over his ribs and his leg convinced him that this was a bad idea.
Without anything else to distract him, John’s thoughts inevitably circled back to his flatmate. Sherlock knew and he couldn’t handle it. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that John couldn’t control his wayward heart, John knew that. But since John refused to make the man uncomfortable, he was going to have to make some decision about what he was going to do when released from the hospital. If John was nothing else he was a solider - he would keep moving forward, the question would be how and where. John wondered vaguely, gazing at his bare ring finger, if Mycroft had already filed the paperwork for their divorce. And if Sherlock would just arrange for his stuff to be moved while John was in the hospital or if he would let John apologize and say goodbye.
At least with this separation, John would know Sherlock was alive and well; that was better than last time. Perhaps eventually Mrs. Hudson would forgive him enough for faking their relationship and John’s soon to be abrupt departure from Baker Street to have pity on him and occasionally tell him how Sherlock was doing. Thank goodness for Mrs. Hudson. John was sure the genius would need everything she could give to make sure he ate enough and occasionally slept.
He started when Sherlock abruptly whirled into the room. Catching himself, John quickly blanked his expression to hide his emotions from the consulting detective while watching Sherlock stand motionless, apparently stunned that John was awake, his face taking on an air which John didn’t recognize or understand. Sherlock strode to his side, his countenance becoming more controlled but with a hint of concern that John hadn’t expected. John’s jaw dropped slightly, unable to grasp the fact that Sherlock was even here, not only in the room with him but gazing at him with worry.
The consulting detective gripped John’s ringless left hand in his right, his left hand rising to John’s forehead, presumably checking his temperature. “Excellent. You’re finally fully aware. I apologize for not being here when you woke. I knew I shouldn’t have let those bunglers convince me it was appropriate to leave the room to discuss your test results, they could just as well have updated me here. How does your leg feel?”
John sat frozen, continuing to stare at the consulting detective, unable to process the situation. “John? What’s wrong? John, can you understand me?” Sherlock’s hands shifted to rest on his face, which he tipped upward, allowing the detective to peer intently into John’s eyes. “They assured me that you had not been hyperthermic long enough to cause permanent damage to your brain,” Sherlock demanded, agitation evident.
John forced himself to answer, focusing on the medical, shoving his emotions to the back of his mind, his hands coming up to remove Sherlock’s from his face. “I’m fine, Sherlock. The leg aches a little and I’m slightly disorientated. Give me a moment, I just woke up.” John tried a reassuring smile, which apparently didn’t help much judging by the look on Sherlock’s face. “Given that I was hallucinating pretty badly the fever must have been quite high for a while there, huh?”
“41 degrees Celsius.”
John started, “Christ. Good thing we busted loose when we did then, huh, or Reid would’ve had half his job done for him by the wound.” Sherlock glared, apparently not enjoying John’s gallows humor. John decided to ignore Sherlock’s expression and waved a hand absently at his surroundings. “How long have I been here, wherever here is, anyway?”
“We’re in a private hospital in Bishop's Stortford.”
“Bishop’s Stortford! Wait, isn’t that the town the Ashdowns and Reid were all from? How did we end up here?”
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose at this sudden inquisition. “Patience, John. The farm Reid took us to was his second cousin’s, which, as I suspected, is roughly twenty-five minutes outside of Bishop’s Stortford. We arrived at the hospital a little over thirty-six hours ago. Your fever broke completely approximately twelve hours ago and these rubbish doctors immediately gave you something to make you sleep. They insisted it was important in order for you to recover your strength once you were out of danger.”
Sherlock left hand retook John’s while he continued speaking, and the other slowly carded through John’s hair, adding to John’s confusion. “You managed to give me quite the scare, oh husband of mine. You were unfortunately correct about the septicemia, and these incompetents remained unable to inform me if you would respond to the antibiotics until you finally did. The final culture report is due back soon, but the doctors insist you’re doing well. Your most recent lab work shows that your kidney and liver functions appear uncompromised, and your white blood cell count is elevated which they assure me prove that your body is working efficiently to fight off the infection.”
John was only half listening to Sherlock’s detailing his medical condition, more focused on drinking in the sight of Sherlock in his room. A Sherlock who wasn’t avoiding him, a Sherlock who had apparently forgiven him, perhaps even had deleted his awareness of John’s emotions, a Sherlock that John could stay friends with. The consulting detective continued to look at him, puzzlement visibly growing. “You still appear to be exceptionally disorientated, are you certain you’re feeling all right? Should I call for the doctors?”
“No, no, I’m just tired. They’ll want to examine me again now that I’m awake, but there’s no rush and I would prefer to be a little more prepared before being descended upon.” John noticed Sherlock wincing slightly when the man shifted his weight, prompting him to ask, “Sherlock, are you okay?”
John frowned, looking closely at his flatmate. He didn’t remember Sherlock being severely injured but his memory of the abduction wasn’t perfect and his fever had already been rising when they broke free, he could have easily missed something. There was a bandage on Sherlock’s forehead over the cut John remembered, and John could see the outline of more bandages under his tight shirt. “Did he break your ribs? How’s your heart?”
“I’m fine, John. Numerous cracked ribs, but no dislocated fractures, and my EKG showed no abnormalities. I have bruised kidneys, and some useless internist insisted on sewing up the cut on my forehead.”
“Quite rightly too,” John said, nodding to himself, awash with relief. “That’s good. What are they giving you for pain? And you’re drinking plenty of clear liquids? That will help flush your system and dilute the blood in your urine a bit, make it somewhat less painful to use the loo, although it will probably be several days to a week for that to clear entirely. Standard three to five weeks for your ribs to set? What about any sign of pneumothorax?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did deign to reply to John’s questions, “Yes, Dr. Watson. I’m keeping myself well-hydrated on clear liquids. And they’re giving me Tramadol for the pain, although given that both Mycroft and Lestrade individually informed them of my history, they’re providing me with only one dose at a time and charting all of them as I’m technically still a patient here, despite the fact that I removed their exasperating IV. And I have no indications of pneumothorax on my radiographs, and yes three to five weeks for my ribs to heal. Satisfied?”
John huffed slightly at Sherlock’s spiel, but didn’t feel it was worth the effort to argue with him, so he nodded and inquired, “Right then, what happened to Davis Reid?”
Sherlock didn’t reply immediately, but reached behind himself with his foot to snag a chair closer to John’s bedside, the movement causing him to lean forward slightly and John saw a flash of silver swing around his neck. John frowned and looked closer. Sherlock was wearing John’s wedding ring on one of the chains Molly had gifted them. He looked up questioningly at Sherlock, who smiled back. “Ahh…yes, Lestrade retrieved our wedding rings when he and the forensics team began taking apart Reid’s cousin’s farm. He agreed to return them once they were processed for fingerprint evidence. At the moment he has already compiled sufficient evidence to convict Reid of more than seventeen murders, and not incidentally our kidnapping, without them remaining in evidence.”
John stared, suddenly taking in that Sherlock’s ring was back on his left hand. Why would Sherlock have put the ring back on? The case was over. Wouldn’t he have told Lestrade what they had done to solve it? He reveled in divulging the details of his plans and enjoying everyone’s reactions. Thoughts chased themselves around John’s confused and tired brain, while Sherlock continued, “Lestrade also left me updated case notes that indicate Anderson’s team is showing a surprising level of competence in the ongoing excavations at Reid’s home and at his cousin’s farm. Of course we’ll have to examine the farm ourselves once the doctors release you.”
John frowned; Sherlock’s words seemed to suggest that he hadn’t returned to the farm. Although Sherlock was rarely concerned about the details of the crown prosecution, he tended to want to ensure he had full command of all the data available. John supposed since he had solved the case by capturing Reid, the rest was significantly less interesting to him, and he wanted to avoid some of the boring evidence-gathering bits. “Did they find Mr. Williams’ daughter and son-in-law?”
“Unknown,” Sherlock replied, shifting in his chair, starting to raise his right leg to rest on his left knee before wincing and laying a hand on his ribs, setting his foot back on the floor. Through it all his hand still remained clasped around John’s. “Lestrade’s notes indicate that Reid was slightly more careful in his choice of burial sites. Although, once again bodies are marked by rose and yew bushes, he spread them out in a small copse of woods behind the farm house. So far, five additional bodies have been discovered by Toby the cadaver dog and the ground penetrating radar, but they have only explored about a third of the woods. Additionally, Lestrade informs me that they don’t have enough trained personnel to start excavation at the new sites until sometime next week.”
And that might explain Sherlock’s presence here instead of at the farm. Of course, it didn’t explain the rings, or why the genius was holding his hand. John wasn’t even sure where to go from here. Should he ask about the rings, should he ask about the divorce, the case, the handholding, for a doctor? Finally when he couldn’t bear the silence anymore, “What happens next, then?”
“I assume that you could answer that question better than I,” Sherlock pronounced. “I imagine your useless doctors are going to require you to stay here for several more days until the drains are removed, at which point you will be discharged back to Baker Street on copious amounts of medication. Once home Mrs. Hudson will commence hovering over you making endless cups of tea and declaring not to be our housekeeper while fluffing pillows. Lestrade will require us to fill out mountains of paperwork and lecture us repeatedly about going undercover without informing him, and in approximately nineteen days we will go on our honeymoon, again presuming your doctors clear you for travel.”
“Our honeymoon?” John gabbled out after a long moment.
Sherlock frowned, apparently irritated. “John, I really am going to insist that we call the doctors sooner rather than later if you insist on asking inane questions. You booked our honeymoon yourself. Remember hoi polloi avoidance and hard drive defragmentation?”
“Yeah, but,” John started, only to stutter to a stop when a nurse entered the room.
“Oh! Dr. Watson, you’re awake,” the young women exclaimed, Sherlock’s eyes rolling, presumably at the statement of the obvious, before she turned a scolding tone onto the man still holding John’s hand in a loose grasp. “Mr. Holmes, you promised Dr. Egan that you would hit the call button the instant he was conscious. It was the only reason he allowed Dr. Watson to be moved out of the ICU and into this private room.”
Sherlock managed to shrug haughtily without replying even as she quickly bustled over to the phone, paging the doctor and beginning to record John’s vitals.
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Onward to Chapter 17 Ripples Part B