Fic - As the Shadows Fell - John/Sherlock - PG-13
Title: As the Shadows Fell
Author: lotherington
’Verse: WWII AU: Long Ago and Far Away. Set two years after Far Distant Shores.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: WWII AU. April, 1943. John is reported as missing during the final stages of the North African Campaign. From London, with Mycroft, Sherlock does all he can to find him.
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Descriptions of injury
Word Count: ~1,850
Notes: Title is from The White Cliffs of Dover by Vera Lynn. Beautiful artwork is by the fabulous and talented detectivelyd (DeviantArt / Tumblr) - thank you so much!
April, 1943
Bletchley
'What are you doing here?' Sherlock demanded, eyes narrowing as he walked into his room at Bletchley Park and saw that Mycroft had taken up residence in the sunken armchair, surrounded by Sherlock’s books and instruments for various experiments. Sherlock dumped the stack of papers he was carrying onto his mahogany desk and pushed his hair back off his forehead. 'Are they quite managing without you in your little war bunker?'
His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbow. He wore a navy sleeveless jumper and his old Harrow tie in a windsor knot, a sour expression on his face as he rifled through the pages of cyphers and notes he’d just brought in, ignoring Mycroft.
'Sherlock.' Mycroft stood up, his hand tightening on his umbrella. 'Sherlock, I've something rather--'
Stiffening, Sherlock turned to face his brother. His eyebrows pulled together.
'What's happened?' he murmured, stepping closer to Mycroft. 'What's happened to him?'
Mycroft glanced at the ceiling, then met Sherlock's eyes. 'Doctor Watson... John... he's... he's missing. I'm sorry, Sherlock.'
There was a horrid, heavy silence for a moment.
'You promised me,' Sherlock growled, his eyes dark, his teeth bared. 'You promised me you would keep him safe, you said you'd do everything you could--'
'I have done, Sherlock,' Mycroft bit out. 'I am. I am trying to--'
'You will find him,' Sherlock said, his voice little more than a whisper, his nose a mere inch away from Mycroft's. 'I don't care how much it costs, I don't care how much of your time, how many of your resources it consumes. Do you understand?'
Mycroft pressed his lips together and nodded. 'You'll help?'
'Of course I'll help,' Sherlock snarled, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his desk chair and pulling it on. His mouth and brow were both set in a firm line, his face taking on a haunted expression that made him look ten years older. Putting his hat on, he shoved some of his papers as well as a few things out of his desk drawer into a bag. 'Come on,' he barked at Mycroft, glaring over his shoulder at his brother. He threw the door open and strode through it, leaving Mycroft to follow.
***
London
Three days later, as soon as Sherlock, Mycroft, and Mycroft's small team of trusted operatives received news that Captain J. H. Watson, RAMC, had been found injured just outside Tunis, Sherlock was ordered back to Bletchley Park.
'I shan't go until I've seen him.' Sherlock fumbled with his lighter, speaking around the cigarette in his mouth.
The room they were in was underground; small and cramped and windowless. The walls were a dirty beige with posters and instructions tacked to them, curling at the edges. Tables lined all four walls, machines for communication and code-breaking crowded on top of them, wires thick and thin running between the huge metal bodies of the machines. Lights blinked and flashed on several.
'You'll do as you're told, Sherlock,' Mycroft said, leaning across the large table in the middle of the office, his hands resting on top of several maps of Tunisia. Red pins marked the places where they’d managed to communicate with someone about John’s whereabouts. A light hung low over the table, casting a strange yellow glow across both of the brothers' features. 'I need you at Bletchley, the country needs you there, and Dr. Watson certainly doesn't need you badgering him whilst he recovers.'
'I don't care about this Godforsaken country, Mycroft!' Sherlock roared, throwing his lighter at the wall in a fit of temper. 'I don't care!'
'Then care about John.' Mycroft frowned and leant closer to Sherlock, dropping his voice. 'If you give yourself away there's nothing I can do to help you. You aren't two boys at school - this isn't Harrow, this isn't Oxford,' he hissed. 'You think everyone would be as forgiving as I if they were to find out?' His chest and arms strained against the material of his waistcoat and shirt, his blood-red tie and the shadow from the low light darkening his eyes, giving him a fierce look
Sherlock drew himself up and inhaled deeply from his cigarette, a foreign look in his eye. When he spoke, a short while later, his voice was low and hard. 'I'm to be kept informed. As soon as he wakes from surgery you're to send a car. There will be no hospital staff in or around his room from the time I arrive until the time I leave.'
Mycroft looked to consider for a long moment. 'Alright,' he finally said.
Nodding, Sherlock straightened his tie and pulled his coat and hat on, picking up his briefcase. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red from lack of sleep, his hands trembling slightly from too many cigarettes and not enough food.
'I'm not going back for you,' he murmured. 'For you, or for me, or for the work, or for this bloody mess of a country.'
'For him,' Mycroft replied. 'I understand. He'll be grateful.'
Sherlock threw himself across the table, his hands landing with a loud smack less than an inch away from Mycroft's. 'You have no idea what he will or will not be,' Sherlock snarled, his eyes flashing. 'No idea, Mycroft. Is that something you understand?'
Mycroft blinked once, observing Sherlock calmly. He stepped back, away from the table. 'There is a car for you outside. I'll telephone through when his aeroplane lands.'
'See that you do.' Coat whirling, Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
***
The hospital smelt like John. Breathing in the smell of disinfectant and carbolic soap, Sherlock’s chest tightened at the thought of he and John being in the same building together, within walking distance, within touching distance for the first time in over two years.
Barely able to contain himself, Sherlock strode through the long corridors of the hospital, following the directions that Mycroft had given him, committed to memory that morning. The bottom half of the walls were a pale, medicinal green, the paint flaking away in several places. Doctors in their white coats, the kind that John had once worn, and nurses in their smart uniforms hurried up and down the main corridor, in and out of the various wards that branched off it. Sherlock broke into a run on the final staircase to the ward John was on, throwing himself through the double doors once he reached the top.
‘Name?’ The severe-looking Sister of the ward demanded when Sherlock reached her desk. He sighed in irritation.
‘Sherlock Holmes.’
Wounded soldiers lay in beds just behind the Sister’s shoulder, frail and hurt. Crimson blossomed at the temple of one, through the pristine white dressings wrapped around his head. One moaned. Another cried out for a nurse.
‘And you’re here to see?’
‘John Watson,’ Sherlock said shortly, his attention snapping back to the Sister, his body tight and tense.
‘This way, if you will, Mr. Holmes.’ The Sister began to walk down the corridor, Sherlock quick behind her. ‘Make sure Captain Watson doesn’t exert himself, he’ll be needing all of his strength for his recovery.’
‘Yes, I am aware, thank you,’ Sherlock snapped as they walked together. The Sister arched one of her eyebrows at his tone, and Sherlock raised both of his by way of reply.
They came to a stop outside a wooden door at the very end of the corridor. The Sister rapped sharply on the door and opened it, sticking her head inside. ‘A Mr. Holmes for you, Captain Watson.’
She stepped back and motioned for Sherlock to go in before marching off back towards the main part of the ward.
Sherlock stood frozen just outside John's door. He swallowed down the sick feeling in his stomach, his chest, his throat, the back of his mouth. John remained out of Sherlock's sight and Sherlock remained out of John's.
'...Sherlock?' John's voice was tired, weak.
'John,' Sherlock breathed, still outside the door. 'Oh God, John.' He screwed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, pressing his fingertips against his eyes, pushing down until he saw stars.
'Sherlock,' John sighed.
Sherlock leant against the wall next to the slightly ajar door. He lifted his face to the ceiling. 'John, God, John, it's been so long.'
There was quiet from the little room. Quiet, until -
'Well, aren't you coming in?'
Slowly, Sherlock stepped away from the wall. He wrapped his hand around the door handle and pushed it open a little wider before he took two tentative steps inside the small room.
Letters and the occasional photograph did nothing to fill the void of two long years of absence. Despite the deep tan, John's face was grey and weary against the hospital sheets. The bags under his eyes, the lines across his forehead had deepened, his lips had thinned. His eyes were tired, his posture defeated, and he looked very small and weak in the metal bed.
Sherlock stood tall and proud and haughty, his college tie from Oxford fastened around his neck. His hair was slicked back, no wild curls framing his face. His reddened eyes stood out amid the deathly pallor of his skin.
John laughed; a broken, humourless sound. His tongue swept across his lower lip.
The familiar action tripped a switch inside Sherlock’s mind. 'John,' he whispered, his voice cracking. He slammed the door shut and covered the distance between them in three steps, grabbing John's face in one hand and clutching the back of his skull in the other. Crushing their mouths together, Sherlock breathed in deeply through his nose, his chest heaving as he pushed his tongue past John’s lips, as he ran his fingers down John's face, through John's hair.
'John, John, I love you, I love you, I'm so sorry I never said it,' Sherlock gasped against John's cracked, dry lips, pressing their foreheads together, closing his eyes and feeling John's nose, John's mouth against his.
'Two years is a very long time,' John murmured, bringing his scarred, work-worn right hand to touch Sherlock's face.
Sherlock nodded frantically and pushed his lips against John's again, just to feel, to be convinced that John was there with him, heart beating, blood pulsing through his veins: safe and home and alive.
'I'm here,' John whispered. 'I'm here.' His hand moved to stroke Sherlock’s hair and the soothing, familiar touch brought Sherlock to his knees, gasping for breath as he rested his head in John’s lap; dry, relieved sobs racking his body. ‘I’m here,’ John said, stroking Sherlock’s hair and the back of the elegant hand that clutched John’s thigh. ‘I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.’
Author: lotherington
’Verse: WWII AU: Long Ago and Far Away. Set two years after Far Distant Shores.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: WWII AU. April, 1943. John is reported as missing during the final stages of the North African Campaign. From London, with Mycroft, Sherlock does all he can to find him.
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Descriptions of injury
Word Count: ~1,850
Notes: Title is from The White Cliffs of Dover by Vera Lynn. Beautiful artwork is by the fabulous and talented detectivelyd (DeviantArt / Tumblr) - thank you so much!
April, 1943
Bletchley
'What are you doing here?' Sherlock demanded, eyes narrowing as he walked into his room at Bletchley Park and saw that Mycroft had taken up residence in the sunken armchair, surrounded by Sherlock’s books and instruments for various experiments. Sherlock dumped the stack of papers he was carrying onto his mahogany desk and pushed his hair back off his forehead. 'Are they quite managing without you in your little war bunker?'
His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbow. He wore a navy sleeveless jumper and his old Harrow tie in a windsor knot, a sour expression on his face as he rifled through the pages of cyphers and notes he’d just brought in, ignoring Mycroft.
'Sherlock.' Mycroft stood up, his hand tightening on his umbrella. 'Sherlock, I've something rather--'
Stiffening, Sherlock turned to face his brother. His eyebrows pulled together.
'What's happened?' he murmured, stepping closer to Mycroft. 'What's happened to him?'
Mycroft glanced at the ceiling, then met Sherlock's eyes. 'Doctor Watson... John... he's... he's missing. I'm sorry, Sherlock.'
There was a horrid, heavy silence for a moment.
'You promised me,' Sherlock growled, his eyes dark, his teeth bared. 'You promised me you would keep him safe, you said you'd do everything you could--'
'I have done, Sherlock,' Mycroft bit out. 'I am. I am trying to--'
'You will find him,' Sherlock said, his voice little more than a whisper, his nose a mere inch away from Mycroft's. 'I don't care how much it costs, I don't care how much of your time, how many of your resources it consumes. Do you understand?'
Mycroft pressed his lips together and nodded. 'You'll help?'
'Of course I'll help,' Sherlock snarled, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his desk chair and pulling it on. His mouth and brow were both set in a firm line, his face taking on a haunted expression that made him look ten years older. Putting his hat on, he shoved some of his papers as well as a few things out of his desk drawer into a bag. 'Come on,' he barked at Mycroft, glaring over his shoulder at his brother. He threw the door open and strode through it, leaving Mycroft to follow.
***
London
Three days later, as soon as Sherlock, Mycroft, and Mycroft's small team of trusted operatives received news that Captain J. H. Watson, RAMC, had been found injured just outside Tunis, Sherlock was ordered back to Bletchley Park.
'I shan't go until I've seen him.' Sherlock fumbled with his lighter, speaking around the cigarette in his mouth.
The room they were in was underground; small and cramped and windowless. The walls were a dirty beige with posters and instructions tacked to them, curling at the edges. Tables lined all four walls, machines for communication and code-breaking crowded on top of them, wires thick and thin running between the huge metal bodies of the machines. Lights blinked and flashed on several.
'You'll do as you're told, Sherlock,' Mycroft said, leaning across the large table in the middle of the office, his hands resting on top of several maps of Tunisia. Red pins marked the places where they’d managed to communicate with someone about John’s whereabouts. A light hung low over the table, casting a strange yellow glow across both of the brothers' features. 'I need you at Bletchley, the country needs you there, and Dr. Watson certainly doesn't need you badgering him whilst he recovers.'
'I don't care about this Godforsaken country, Mycroft!' Sherlock roared, throwing his lighter at the wall in a fit of temper. 'I don't care!'
'Then care about John.' Mycroft frowned and leant closer to Sherlock, dropping his voice. 'If you give yourself away there's nothing I can do to help you. You aren't two boys at school - this isn't Harrow, this isn't Oxford,' he hissed. 'You think everyone would be as forgiving as I if they were to find out?' His chest and arms strained against the material of his waistcoat and shirt, his blood-red tie and the shadow from the low light darkening his eyes, giving him a fierce look
Sherlock drew himself up and inhaled deeply from his cigarette, a foreign look in his eye. When he spoke, a short while later, his voice was low and hard. 'I'm to be kept informed. As soon as he wakes from surgery you're to send a car. There will be no hospital staff in or around his room from the time I arrive until the time I leave.'
Mycroft looked to consider for a long moment. 'Alright,' he finally said.
Nodding, Sherlock straightened his tie and pulled his coat and hat on, picking up his briefcase. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red from lack of sleep, his hands trembling slightly from too many cigarettes and not enough food.
'I'm not going back for you,' he murmured. 'For you, or for me, or for the work, or for this bloody mess of a country.'
'For him,' Mycroft replied. 'I understand. He'll be grateful.'
Sherlock threw himself across the table, his hands landing with a loud smack less than an inch away from Mycroft's. 'You have no idea what he will or will not be,' Sherlock snarled, his eyes flashing. 'No idea, Mycroft. Is that something you understand?'
Mycroft blinked once, observing Sherlock calmly. He stepped back, away from the table. 'There is a car for you outside. I'll telephone through when his aeroplane lands.'
'See that you do.' Coat whirling, Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.
***
The hospital smelt like John. Breathing in the smell of disinfectant and carbolic soap, Sherlock’s chest tightened at the thought of he and John being in the same building together, within walking distance, within touching distance for the first time in over two years.
Barely able to contain himself, Sherlock strode through the long corridors of the hospital, following the directions that Mycroft had given him, committed to memory that morning. The bottom half of the walls were a pale, medicinal green, the paint flaking away in several places. Doctors in their white coats, the kind that John had once worn, and nurses in their smart uniforms hurried up and down the main corridor, in and out of the various wards that branched off it. Sherlock broke into a run on the final staircase to the ward John was on, throwing himself through the double doors once he reached the top.
‘Name?’ The severe-looking Sister of the ward demanded when Sherlock reached her desk. He sighed in irritation.
‘Sherlock Holmes.’
Wounded soldiers lay in beds just behind the Sister’s shoulder, frail and hurt. Crimson blossomed at the temple of one, through the pristine white dressings wrapped around his head. One moaned. Another cried out for a nurse.
‘And you’re here to see?’
‘John Watson,’ Sherlock said shortly, his attention snapping back to the Sister, his body tight and tense.
‘This way, if you will, Mr. Holmes.’ The Sister began to walk down the corridor, Sherlock quick behind her. ‘Make sure Captain Watson doesn’t exert himself, he’ll be needing all of his strength for his recovery.’
‘Yes, I am aware, thank you,’ Sherlock snapped as they walked together. The Sister arched one of her eyebrows at his tone, and Sherlock raised both of his by way of reply.
They came to a stop outside a wooden door at the very end of the corridor. The Sister rapped sharply on the door and opened it, sticking her head inside. ‘A Mr. Holmes for you, Captain Watson.’
She stepped back and motioned for Sherlock to go in before marching off back towards the main part of the ward.
Sherlock stood frozen just outside John's door. He swallowed down the sick feeling in his stomach, his chest, his throat, the back of his mouth. John remained out of Sherlock's sight and Sherlock remained out of John's.
'...Sherlock?' John's voice was tired, weak.
'John,' Sherlock breathed, still outside the door. 'Oh God, John.' He screwed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, pressing his fingertips against his eyes, pushing down until he saw stars.
'Sherlock,' John sighed.
Sherlock leant against the wall next to the slightly ajar door. He lifted his face to the ceiling. 'John, God, John, it's been so long.'
There was quiet from the little room. Quiet, until -
'Well, aren't you coming in?'
Slowly, Sherlock stepped away from the wall. He wrapped his hand around the door handle and pushed it open a little wider before he took two tentative steps inside the small room.
Letters and the occasional photograph did nothing to fill the void of two long years of absence. Despite the deep tan, John's face was grey and weary against the hospital sheets. The bags under his eyes, the lines across his forehead had deepened, his lips had thinned. His eyes were tired, his posture defeated, and he looked very small and weak in the metal bed.
Sherlock stood tall and proud and haughty, his college tie from Oxford fastened around his neck. His hair was slicked back, no wild curls framing his face. His reddened eyes stood out amid the deathly pallor of his skin.
John laughed; a broken, humourless sound. His tongue swept across his lower lip.
The familiar action tripped a switch inside Sherlock’s mind. 'John,' he whispered, his voice cracking. He slammed the door shut and covered the distance between them in three steps, grabbing John's face in one hand and clutching the back of his skull in the other. Crushing their mouths together, Sherlock breathed in deeply through his nose, his chest heaving as he pushed his tongue past John’s lips, as he ran his fingers down John's face, through John's hair.
'John, John, I love you, I love you, I'm so sorry I never said it,' Sherlock gasped against John's cracked, dry lips, pressing their foreheads together, closing his eyes and feeling John's nose, John's mouth against his.
'Two years is a very long time,' John murmured, bringing his scarred, work-worn right hand to touch Sherlock's face.
Sherlock nodded frantically and pushed his lips against John's again, just to feel, to be convinced that John was there with him, heart beating, blood pulsing through his veins: safe and home and alive.
'I'm here,' John whispered. 'I'm here.' His hand moved to stroke Sherlock’s hair and the soothing, familiar touch brought Sherlock to his knees, gasping for breath as he rested his head in John’s lap; dry, relieved sobs racking his body. ‘I’m here,’ John said, stroking Sherlock’s hair and the back of the elegant hand that clutched John’s thigh. ‘I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.’