Fic: Past, Present & Future (10/?)
Past, Present & Future: Chapter Ten
Rating: Explicit
Pairings: John Watson/Marcus Morstan; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Beta: lady_t_220
*
June 2013
John's phone rings just as he's leaving the clinic and he fishes it out of his pocket. The display tells him it's Lestrade calling.
"Hello?"
"John, thank God, I've been trying to get hold of you for an hour."
"I was at the clinic. What's going on?"
"Marcus is in hospital."
"What happened?" John gets out, his pulse spiking. "Is he alright?"
"He's fine, he just fell through some rotten stairs during a raid. A couple of broken ribs and concussion, but he's fine."
John's breath leaves him in a rush and the the relief makes him almost dizzy. He leans against the wall, forcing himself to take deep breaths. "Which hospital?" he asks Lestrade.
"Royal London."
John hangs up and hails the nearest taxi. The journey takes too long - far too long - but finally he's racing inside the hospital and skidding to a stop at the reception in A&E. The receptionist points him in the direction of Marcus's room and he rushes down the corridor.
He finally finds the room and hurries inside. Lestrade stands up as John enters and gives him a tired smile, slipping silently from the room. John's eyes tick over to Marcus, who is watching him with a sleepy smile. John can't help but check him over with a doctor's gaze as he approaches the bed and takes Marcus's hand. Apart from the bandage on the side of his head, he looks fine.
"Look at you," John finally says softly. "Can't leave you alone for two seconds."
"Lestrade said exactly the same thing."
John smiles and squeezes his hand. "How are you feeling?"
"High on pain-killers at the moment. It's quite nice."
"I'm sure it is. When can we take you home?"
Marcus frowns. "I think they said tonight. I can't remember."
"I'll check."
"Tell them they can let me go home because I've got my own personal doctor to look after me."
John smiles again and ghosts his hand over the bandage. Without Sherlock, he'd got used to not seeing people he cared about injured every other week. He thinks he prefers it that way.
"Although..." Marcus says. "You should see my nurse. She's very nice. It's tempting to stay."
"You sure you didn't dislodge a few brain cells with that knock to the head?" John teases.
Marcus just smiles, obviously hazy from the concussion and the medication.
"I'm just going to go chat to your nurse, alright? See what drugs they've got you on and find out about taking you home."
"Hmm. Don't run off with her though."
"I promise."
Marcus is already falling asleep when John steps out of the room. He leans back against the door and lets out a shaky breath, tension finally easing from his shoulders. Marcus is going to be fine, but this is not an experience John would want to repeat any time soon.
*
November 2014
"What are you doing here?"
Sherlock scowls up at his brother from where he is sprawled on the sofa. He doesn't even bother asking how Mycroft got into his flat.
"Sebastian Moran."
Sherlock sits up swiftly. It must be serious if Mycroft isn't even going to play his usual games.
"What's happened?"
"He has escaped from custody."
Sherlock frowns, presses his hands together. "How?"
"It seems he was given permission to attend his mother's funeral. Once the funeral was over, he managed to disarm his guards and escape."
"Idiots," Sherlock mutters, already calculating probablitites, planning contingencies.
"He'll come for you, Sherlock."
Sherlock looks up at his brother's solemn tone. He looks almost worried, which makes Sherlock both pleased and agitated.
"Of course he will. Why else would he break out?"
"You have to be ready."
"I trapped him once before, I can do it again."
"This is more... personal," Mycroft says carefully. "Before, he was under orders. Now, he will be operating on the simple desire for revenge."
Sherlock says nothing - it's true, after all, and he suspects that, driven by personal motive, Moran might be even more vindictive. Sherlock absently flexes his fingers, the phantom pain of broken bones a momentary distraction.
"I cannot keep watch all the time," Mycroft adds. "You must be careful, Sherlock."
Sherlock honestly can't remember the last time he saw his brother this perturbed. It's a little unnerving, to say the least. Sherlock could offer false promises to be careful, but they both know it would be pointless. Instead, Sherlock says nothing, and Mycroft leaves, the flat falling silent once he's gone.
*
Sherlock's patience is a finite thing and he soon grows tired of waiting for Moran to make his move. It's been three days and no sign of him. A mystery from Lestrade, even a boringly mundane one, is just what he needs to take his mind off Moran for a few hours, and when Lestrade agrees to let him see the paperwork for his latest case, Sherlock hurries over to Scotland Yard.
He soon gives Lestrade the lead he needs and Lestrade sends a team off to arrest the half-sister who had attacked Laura Knowles in order to scare her out of her share of their father's inheritance.
"Well, that was a waste of my time," Sherlock pronounces.
"You asked me, remember?" Lestrade says. "I know better than to bother you with anything less than full-on murder with a twist."
Sherlock rolls his eyes and pushes himself to his feet. "Well, if you've got nothing better for me, I'll be on my way."
"Very sorry to have inconvenienced you."
Marcus appears at the door just as Sherlock is leaving. "You done already?"
"Apparently our nasty attack is far too run-of-the-mill for Sherlock," Lestrade comments snarkily.
"I gave you your attacker, didn't I?"
"Too kind."
Marcus smiles and turns his attention back to Sherlock. "I'm just heading home, if you want a lift."
Sherlock acquiesces and wanders off towards the lifts as Marcus says goodbye to Lestrade. Marcus catches up to him just as a ping signals the lift's arrival, and they make their way down to the underground car park.
Now that the case is solved, Sherlock's mind returns to the issue of Sebastian Moran, so he is silent as Marcus navigates his way across London. Marcus, thankfully, has got very good at not disturbing Sherlock during the kind of silence that means he's deep in thought, and he says nothing until they reach Sherlock's flat.
"Here we are."
Sherlock hums and reaches out for the door handle.
"Sherlock, wait a minute."
Sherlock stops and turns to face Marcus.
"There's something I wanted to ask you." Marcus is staring out of the window, his hands flexing around the steering wheel. Something urges Sherlock not to speak up, even as the silence stretches out.
"It's about John," Marcus eventually says. "You and John."
Sherlock frowns, not sure where this conversation is going, and Marcus finally turns to him with a look of determination. "You're in love with him, aren't you?"
Sherlock freezes for a moment, and then jerkily turns his head aside. He can't think of the right thing to say, but Marcus speaks up again anyway.
"I think your silence says it all, really."
Sherlock still says nothing and Marcus lets out a little huff of breath. "I'm not angry," he explains. "I just... want you to know that I know. And that it's... okay."
Marcus pauses for a moment, and Sherlock can see him picking at the stitching on the steering wheel absentmindedly out of the corner of his eye. "And I suppose... I'm sorry."
Sherlock's gaze is drawn to Marcus, his eyes widening with surprise.
Marcus shrugs. "I've been there, where you are, and I know what it's like. So if you ever, you know, want to talk..."
Sherlock gives him a look of sheer incredulity and Marcus laughs lowly. "Yeah, maybe not then."
An awkward silence falls over them, broken only when Sherlock finally opens the door. "Thank you for the lift," he gets out tautly.
"You're welcome."
Sherlock climbs out of the car and closes the door behind him. He turns quickly and crosses the pavement and jogs down the stairs to his front door. He is almost so distracted that he doesn't notice the obvious, but as soon as he does, he freezes. His front door is ajar.
Sherlock's heart starts pounding and, for a moment, he feels only relief from the agony of waiting and not knowing. He pushes the door open and steps inside, not bothering to be quiet and not bothering to shut the door behind him. He might need an escape route anyway. He takes off his coat, hangs it up behind the door, and makes his way along the hallway.
Sebastian Moran is sitting on the sofa, the gun in his hand pointed in Sherlock's direction. "Hello, Sherlock."
"Sebastian."
Moran may once have been an attractive man, but the scar running from hairline to jaw - the scar that Sherlock gave him five months ago - makes him look like the villain he really is, especially when he smiles.
"Did you miss me?" Moran asks as he rises to his feet, the gun still aimed at Sherlock.
"Not particularly."
"You knew I would come back."
"I had hoped the French penal system would be able to deal with you, but apparently not."
Moran grins, always so pleased with himself. "I'll happily hand myself in again... as soon as I'm finished with you."
"Or you could hand yourself in now," a third voice says.
Moran's eyes shoot towards the doorway, where Marcus has appeared. Sherlock takes advantage of the distraction and rushes Moran, tackling him to the floor. The gun goes off, a flash of light and smoke in the gloom of the basement flat. The crack of the bullet flying just wide of his shoulder temporarily deafens Sherlock in one ear, his reaction automatic as his hand flies out to knock the gun from Moran's fingers. The weapon goes skittering across the untidy floor, spinning to a halt just out of reach. They grapple that way, straining and clawing for dominance, both trying to get leverage. Moran is still as strong as he ever was and a blow to Sherlock's solar plexus leaves him winded.
"Marcus!" Sherlock chokes out a little desperately, gasping for air as Moran manages to flip their positions and pin him to the floor by the throat.
The next thing he knows, there is a low thump and Moran flops heavily on top of him, limbs suddenly slack and unwieldy. Sherlock just catches a glimpse of the heavy book in Marcus's hand as he strains against the deadweight of the insensate Moran. Sherlock groans and heaves them both over, Sebastian's head making a soft thunk as it bounces against the floorboards. Sherlock knows better than to think that's enough, though, and he quickly pulls his belt off and uses it to secure Moran's hands behind his back. He won't be dazed for long, his eyelids already fluttering with returning consciousness and Sherlock takes a vicious pleasure in pulling the belt just a little too tight.
He releases the belt, breathless but triumphant, and turns to give his thanks for the timely intervention just as Marcus drops the book and sinks shakily to his knees. Marcus groans, one trembling hand pressing tentatively to his side, his fingers coming away bloody.
"Oh... fuck," he gasps.
"Marcus?"
Marcus blanches and sinks back against the sofa, staring at his hand. Sherlock rushes to him, pushing his jacket aside enough to see that the white of his shirt has already turned a blackish dark red.
"I'm fine," Marcus chokes out.
"You're fine," Sherlock agrees quickly. He presses his hand hard against Marcus's side, ignoring the low keen of pain it forces from Marcus's throat as he crushes the fabric of Marcus's shirt against the wound. He slips his phone from his pocket with his free hand. "It's just a scratch."
"Just a flesh wound," Marcus murmurs, with a laugh that quickly gets cut off by a sharp hiss of discomfort.
Sherlock dials 999 and passes on the details as quickly as he can. Marcus's hands hover uselessly over the wound, bloodied fingers leaving a sticky smear on Sherlock's wrist as he clutches at the loose edge of Sherlock's shirtsleeve. Marcus's face is creased in pain, eyes squeezing shut as breath hitches a little desperately in his lungs, the onset of shock making him pale and shivery. Sherlock leaves his connection to the operator open but drops his phone to one side and Marcus gives him a puzzled look as Sherlock urges him to lay down, head resting in Sherlock's lap.
"You know... you're not a complete bastard," Marcus gets out slowly. His breathing is erratic now and Sherlock tries to ignore the little voice in his head which says collapsed lung. He squeezes harder, ignoring Marcus's wince as he tries to staunch the flow of blood.
"Thank you," Sherlock says absently. He shrugs out of his suit jacket, flipping the fabric open and laying it over Marcus in an attempt to keep him warm.
As he pulls his free hand back, Marcus grabs hold of him again, bloody fingers slipping against his skin.
"I was right, wasn't I? Before? About- about you?"
"Yes," Sherlock says. He has bigger things to worry about right now than John's boyfriend knowing how he feels about John.
"How long?" Marcus asks. He swallows thickly, his eyelids growing heavy as he threatens to slip into unconsciousness.
"Too long," Sherlock says, before forcing himself to meet Marcus's gaze. "Almost as long as I've known him."
"But you've never... told him."
"I thought he was straight."
Marcus chokes out a single, rough laugh, his eyes slipping shut as he grows heavy against Sherlock's thigh.
"Marcus," Sherlock says, giving him a little shake. "Come on. Stay awake."
Dazed eyes flicker open again, his gaze unfocused as he stares up at the ceiling. "I don't know what John's always moaning about," he slurs. "It doesn't hurt that bad... being shot."
"You know John likes to exaggerate."
Marcus smiles weakly, and then grimaces, squeezing Sherlock's fingers almost painfully tightly. "Sherlock..."
"You're fine," Sherlock cuts in, trying to keep his voice low and even.
Marcus nods, but his lips are already turning blue and his eyes can't seem to focus.
"Marcus. Come on, Marcus." Sherlock scrabbles around wildly for something to say, anything to keep Marcus awake. "Did- did John ever tell you about the time we dressed up as ninjas?"
Marcus makes an indeterminate motion with his head, lids drooping heavily as his hand slides limply down to splay over his chest.
"It was a ridiculously simple case, really. But catching the criminals was proving difficult. It was John's idea, the dressing up. He's surprisingly clever sometimes."
Sherlock looks down when only silence greets him.
"Marcus?" Sherlock gives him a nudge. "Marcus?"
*
John's phone is just about to vibrate itself off the edge of the coffee table when he returns from the bathroom. He rushes forward and picks it up, glancing only briefly at the display.
"Greg?"
"John."
"Hi. What's up?"
"John, it's Marcus. He's... he's in hospital."
"Is he alright? What happened?" John asks, rushing across to the door and slipping into his shoes.
"He's in surgery at the moment."
The fact that Lestrade does not answer either question makes John instantly more worried. "Where are you?"
"St. Mary's."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
John hangs up and dashes down the stairs and out into the street, his heart pounding in his chest. Something is very wrong. He hails a taxi and passes the short journey in restless impatience. As soon as the taxi pulls up, he throws some money at the driver and clambers out, before running towards the main entrance.
John is finally pointed towards the trauma ward and he slows to a walk when he spots Lestrade and Sherlock sitting in the corridor outside one of the private rooms. Lestrade's face is buried in his hands so he doesn't see John, but Sherlock does and the expression on his face is like nothing John's ever seen before. Lestrade looks up just as John reaches them, and the tears in his eyes make John's legs go weak under him.
"Where is he?" John asks.
"John." Lestrade clears his throat and gets to his feet, clearly struggling for control. "I'm so sorry, John."
"Where is he?" John repeats.
Lestrade looks like he's about to lose it again, but he clears his throat and reaches out to press his hand to John's shoulder. "John... He's dead."
For a moment, the words don't seem real, and John shakes his head helplessly. He looks over Lestrade's shoulder to Sherlock, but Sherlock's eyes are red-rimmed too.
"No," he gets out as reality hits. "No."
"I'm so sorry, John. He was shot. They had to operate, but it was already too late."
The words ring in his ears. It can't be possible. He lets himself be steered into the chair Lestrade has vacated, mainly because he thinks he might fall over if he stands any longer.
"How?" John chokes out.
"Moran," Sherlock says from beside him. "Sebastian Moran."
John holds Sherlock's gaze for several long seconds, and then looks back up at Lestrade. He cannot absorb anything they are telling him right now.
"I want to see him."
Lestrade nods and beckons for him to stand, before leading him across to the room with a hand on his arm. "I'll just be out here," Lestrade says softly, then opens the door for him and moves back.
John freezes on the threshold as his eyes take in a figure covered by a hospital blanket. He closes his eyes, hoping and praying that this is all a bad dream, but when he opens them again, the room hasn't changed. He forces himself forward and comes to a stop at the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over the sheet. His hand is trembling as he finally peels back the fabric and his breath hitches as he takes in Marcus's still face.
From outside the room, Sherlock hears a broken cry and he stumbles to his feet.
"Sherlock, where are you going?"
He ignores Lestrade and keeps going until he crashes out of an exit and into the fresh air, tears threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. He skirts around the edge of the building and finally comes to a stop in a darkened corner. He rests his hands on his knees for a moment, gasping for air, shoulders shaking as he gulps down cold lungfuls of the damp London evening. He clenches his fists, gore rising in his throat as he blows out controlled streams of breath that turn to smoky white vapour from his lips. He breathes until he feels like he can stand without falling, and leans back heavily against the dirty brick, head tilted up towards the sky. With shaking hands he pulls the cigarettes and lighter he'd pilfered from Lestrade from his pocket. He shakes a cigarette free from the carton, places the tip between his lips and lights it, breathing deep to get that first potent hit of nicotine.
It is not the smell of smoke that fills his nostrils though, and in the pale light cast by a couple of faraway streetlights, he can see nothing but the dried blood encrusting the pale skin of his hands.