Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Ten
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter Ten;
It had been more than two years since Greg had slept in a bed. A proper bed, with sheets and pillows and everything. He awoke reluctantly, luxuriating in the soft duvet against his feathers. He nuzzled into the fabric and spread his wings wide, letting them rest bonelessly over the dips and rises of John's makeshift nest.
'Is it time?'
He opened his eyes and saw John perched on the edge of his seat, staring at him.
*Yeah, yeah.* He grumbled. *Give us a minute, would you?*
John licked his lips. 'Please…I can't. Just…take me to him. Please.'
Greg sighed. *Look…I know this is…difficult for you. Just let me feel this for a minute and we'll go.'
John sighed and slumped into the chair. 'Look at me. I'm talking to a sodding bird.' He let out a helpless giggle. 'I don't even know if you can understand me like this.'
*Wrong way round, mate.* Greg muttered. *Oh, this should be fun.*
'Um…I know you can't…listen, if you can understand me, snap your beak once.'
Greg snapped at the air as though biting through a particularly wriggly field mouse.
'Right, okay. Um…once for yes, twice for no. The standard method, I guess. Is your name Greg Lestrade?'
Greg snapped at the air.
'Right, yes. Are we in London right now?'
Greg made a quite heroic attempt at rolling his eyes and bit down on nothing, twice.
'Got it. Okay.' John levelled his gaze at Greg, and something in his eyes made Greg want to hide under the covers. They weren't dead...but there was nothing like life in them. They were empty eyes.
'Are they hurting him?'
Greg hesitated. He snapped the air once.
John didn't flinch, but something flashed behind those empty eyes, something cold.
'Do they know I'm coming?'
And Greg didn't even have to think about that one. He gave a single snap.
John's whole body shifted, loose in a very dangerous way. His limbs settled into something comfortable and poised. Greg had seen the firearms unit head out for a raid once, and John reminded him of them. He had that same grim certainty on his face, the kind you got when you knew you were probably about to kill someone, or to die, regardless of how hard you tried to prevent it.
Greg had never known that feeling. Not really. Sure there's always the chance, even if you're just another uniform, and Greg had been certain when Moran's gun had come down on the back of his head that his number was up, but he'd never gone to work with the very real knowledge that blood was probably going to be spilt, and there was an equal chance of it being his.
*You're too young for those eyes, John.* He said. *Fuck, I'm to young for them.* He flapped his wings to help him get to his feet and bobbed his head. *Come on. It's time you two saved each other already.*
John sighed and rubbed his fingers over his temples. 'No more putting it off, I suppose.' He said.
He stood, and carefully bundled Greg into his arms. The discs dangled on their dirty chain from the falcon's clutching foot, and they bobbed and swayed as John moved silently down the hall to his own bedroom.
From his seat on John's desk, Greg watched the young soldier move with efficient, single-minded purpose. He said nothing, didn't so much as glance in Greg's direction, as he pulled a fresh set of fatigues from a drawer.
John dressed with brisk, practised movements, only bothering to speak whilst down on one knee to lace his boots.
'The bike is yours.' He said. 'I won't need it after this, if all goes to plan. Ride it or sell it, I don't much care, but it's yours.'
Greg's heart kicked in his chest, and he gaped at John. Of course, falcons can't really gape terribly well, but the sentiment was there.
'Leathers. You're…you were, covered in them. They've seen better days, so they're not for show. You ride. Better than me, I'll wager. You're a police officer, so you've got a protective streak, and you flew out here, waited around for the perfect opportunity, and attempted a night time ambush of an active soldier all for Sherlock's sake. You said yourself I don't have whatever it is that frees you, so it's not even a little selfish.' He stood and stared Greg in his raptor's eyes. 'You've been watching over him, taking care of him. All this time. He wasn't alone.' He licked his lips, the first sign of vulnerability since he'd stood up from the chair. 'The sodding bike is yours, Lestrade.'
*How--you--but I--* Greg sputtered, and he swivelled his head in agitation.
'Don't look at me like that. I grew up with Sherlock and Mycroft. Do you really think Sherlock would have fallen for me if I were an idiot? I'm not a Holmes but I'm not stupid.' And he smiled, and Greg understood Sherlock's pining just a little more, because a smile like that could put wind under your wings.
John held out an arm, and Greg half jumped, half glided onto it, landing with far more frantic flapping than he felt was necessary.
~~~
'John, please, I only want to understand.' Mycroft pleaded.
'Yeah, and that kills you, don't it?' John sniped. He didn't want to be cross with the man, but he was well out of patience and Mycroft was standing in the way. 'Look, I barely understand any of it myself, but I know enough to see that it's the best lead so far. I'm taking it.'
Mycroft blanched and grabbed hold of the handlebars. John revved the engine at him in annoyance, and was rewarded with the tiniest of flinches. 'John. Think. You're prepared to venture into a completely unknown location without backup and without a plan on the trail of a bird.'
'Yep.' John confirmed. 'Now let go.'
'A bird, John.'
'A falcon, in fact.' John pointed out, baring his teeth in what could charitably be called a smile.
'It's. A. Bird.'
'Yes.' John said. 'It's a bird. And it had this around its neck.' He tossed something small and shiny to Mycroft.
The elder Holmes caught the casing and held it up. His face and his body went still an instant later. He'd found the initials engraved on the side: S. M.
'John…'
'I'm going, Mye. When mum and Harry wake up, tell them I've gone to a meeting with Harlan. Don't get their hopes up.'
Mycroft's hands reappeared on the handle bars, and John groaned.
'What about my mother, John?' Mycroft demanded, and John's head sank, along with his heart.
He licked his lips. 'I promised her I'd try, Mycroft.' He whispered. 'Tell her I'm trying.'
Mycroft deflated and stepped aside, and John took the opportunity to guide the bike free of the garage. He scanned the trees for PC Lestrade and found him almost directly ahead, John's tags dangling from his talons. Their eyes locked, John nodded, and Lestrade took off from the tree.
John followed him.
~~~
Flying for John wasn't easy. Greg had to keep low to the ground, far lower than he'd prefer and well below the updrafts that made flying so much easier. But John had that monster of a bike, and he kept up well enough. Greg led him north, toward London, but planned to avoid the city itself
It took much longer than if he'd flown by himself, of course. Alone, Greg didn't need to follow the roads, or avoid dense tree cover, and a journey that would have taken him a few hours by wing took up most of the day, and a great deal of that was the heavy, labour-intensive flapping falcons were shit at. He found he had to stop frequently to rest his aching joints and burning muscles, and he knew his human body was going to pay for it when he changed back.
'You're not taking me to London.' John said during one of these breaks. He had a map spread out over the windscreen on his bike. 'Mycroft would have found him if he were in London. Or at least we'd have something. Past London?'
Greg looked up from the branch where he was panting, tiny chest heaving, and snapped once.
'Right. Somewhere above London.' His finger rested on Cambridge, and he gave a sad smile. 'Maybe he stayed over after all.' He muttered.
Two snaps, and a piercing falcon glare.
'Right, sorry.' John took a deep breath and began to fold the map. 'Can you fly yet?'
Two more snaps, and Greg huddled into himself, hitching his wings up around his ears. *Sod that, mate. I'm not sure I can ever fly again.*
John sighed. 'Okay, fine. Can you make it to me, at least?'
Greg eyed the distance between his tree branch and John's outstretched arm and bit the air once.
'Okay, come on then. Sit behind the windscreen and I can take us through London. Once we're clear, you can take off again and lead me the rest of the way.'
*Are you mental? I know it's a good bike but you seriously think it can beat London traffic?*
John slapped his arm. 'Come on. It'll be…interesting to go home again.'
Greg sighed and hopped into the air. He spread his wings and flapped a couple of times and it brought him to John's arm. A moment later he was securely bundled behind the windscreen, supported and partially hidden by John's jacket.
It had been a long time since he'd felt the comfortable drone of an engine beneath him, even longer since he'd been enough of a passenger to enjoy it without focussing on the road in front of him, and he'd drifted into something of a doze by the time John came to a stop in front of a weathered but clean looking building on Montague Street.
*What are we doing here, soldier boy? This is really not the time to be checking up on your mates.* Greg protested. *We've got places to be, annoying genius boys to save!*
John, naturally, couldn't hear him. He got off the bike and removed his helmet, then he just sort of…stood there, for a while.
*John?*
John left Greg sitting on the bike and walked up to the door. Silently, he rested a hand on the worn wooden surface and bowed his head.
'I can't marry him.' John said, quiet enough that if Greg were human, he wouldn't have heard him. 'Not officially. But I'd hoped…maybe someday. He'd call me a predictable idiot for it but…I want all that. I want the rings and the pointless ceremony and the food and I want to see my mum crying and laughing at the same time. I want Harry standing next to me and telling me to grow a pair to stop me shaking. I want…' He took a long, shaky breath. 'This is our flat. He doesn't know about it. It's his dad's sort of…rest of your life present I guess. It's not much, I mean there's a bedroom and a bath and then a sort of…everything else bit, but what else do you expect starting out in London? He'll hate it, I'm sure. But it's ours. For however long it lasts, it's ours.' He rested his forehead against the door and let out a long stream of air.
He laughed then, but it was a bit too wet to be believable. 'I've only kissed him once. I spent my whole life hating him, and I couldn't be rid of him. Now when I love him so hard it's killing me, I can't seem to catch him. It's sick, innit? Bloody typical.'
*John…*
'What if it was all a dream, Lestrade? What if all that time apart we just built each other into these fantasies we'll never live up to? What if all this love we're haemorrhaging is just a very pretty lie? I can't--if he sees me and realises what a mistake he's made…I don't think I can survive that.'
*Christ, mate. If you knew…he's gone on you. Round the bend, off his nut crazy about you. Why the fuck do you think I'm doing this? For a laugh? Stop moping like you're in a soap opera and get your arse back on this bike!* He let out a brief shriek for emphasis, and so John would actually notice he was there.
John turned and smiled, or something like it. 'Yeah, I guess you're right. It's time we ended this.'
Greg really, really wanted to properly roll his eyes. Christ, give a man someone to talk to who can't talk back and suddenly he feels the need to monologue.
Or maybe John was just a crazy fucking sod who liked to talk to himself. Either/or, really.
~~~
When they were free of London, Lestrade led him further north, away from urban centres. The city traffic had eaten into their time, and it was already late afternoon by the time Lestrade stopped for one of his rests.
The bird was agitated, shuffling from side to side on his branch and bobbing his head up and down. John leaned against the bike and watched him.
'We're close, aren't we?' John asked.
Lestrade clicked his beak once.
John peered around. As country roads went it was nothing special. There were still houses about for fuck's sake. It was a nowhere road with nothing in the way of space, certainly not the kind of area where one could hold two or more human beings captive without being noticed. Well, at least it didn't look it. But Lestrade continued to fidget and glance aside to a distant and seemingly tiny copse of trees.
'There?'
Another beak snap, and more agitated bobbing.
'Right.' John said. He got out his gun, checking the clip and the chamber, getting it ready to fire at a moment's notice, before putting it back in the holster. He ran a systematic check of each concealed knife on his body, making sure they could be drawn easily and instantly should he need them. When he'd finished that, he looked up to see Lestrade staring down at him, eyes unnervingly intense and unblinking, as only a bird of prey can do.
But there was something in the tilt of the PC's head that gave him an almost mystified air, and John blushed. 'Look,' he said. 'You've been watching, right? So you know…what I do.' Fuck, and now he was explaining himself to a bird. Again. This was his life.
'Just stop looking at me like that, okay?' John snapped. 'I don't know what he's told you, but I'm not--' He broke off and took a moment to try and ease back the tension. 'I had to. He won't understand it, but I had no choice. He said…he knew it'd change me. He promised he'd still…' He couldn't finish, so he just kicked the front tyre of his bike, then leaned over the handlebars and cradled his head in his hands.
'I just need to do this. I can't afford distractions. I just…all that matters is saving him. Right. Enough resting, Lestrade. We're going.'
One snap, and the falcon took off again, heading straight for the copse.
John drove the bike as close to the trees as he could get it, then killed the engine and pocketed the key. Lestrade was waiting for him on a thin tree branch beside two sickly looking birch saplings which bowed together into something of a natural arch.
John raised his eyebrows. 'This?' He asked. 'A bit obvious, isn't it?'
But Lestrade didn't pay him any attention. The bird's head was raised and cocked to the side, his eyes closed as though listening intently. His feathers ruffled for a moment, then he opened his eyes and his beak, letting it hang wide in what John desperately hoped was meant to be a bird-ish grin.
Then Lestrade jiggled his head up and down rapidly and snapped his beak in a steady, enthusiastic beat: yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.
John took a deep breath and stepped through the arched trees.
Nothing happened.
Lestrade ruffled his feathers again and snapped his beak twice in rapid succession, a very emphatic 'no'. He hopped to the end of his thin branch, then angled his body to fit between the right-most birch and the equally sickly but unconnected tree beside it, and made a sort of gentle hop.
The air swallowed him, and he was gone.
John blinked, then shrugged his shoulders and angled his own body so he could sidle between the two seemingly unconnected trees, and stepped to the side.
The world pressed against him, the very air suddenly thick and clinging. His lungs compressed and his skin tightened, and then he was through, on the other side of whatever had kept Sherlock hidden from him.
Turned out, it was a wood. A proper, sprawling, ageless wood full of towering trees and thick undergrowth and the myriad sounds of British wildlife. He looked around, dazed, until he found Lestrade perched on a tree high above him, the dog tags glinting in the dim light filtering through the canopy.
John licked his lips, letting the reality of this place settle around him, then nodded to the bird.
'Lead on.'
~~~
Greg could bathe in the sensation he felt at being once more connected to Sherlock and Molly's minds. It was glorious, warm and rich, to not be alone anymore.
But there was no time to dwell on that. He had a job to do, and a soldier boy to lead through the morass. So he sent the message ahead, finally able to bridge the gap and brush his own thoughts against Sherlock's, fragile and tentative as a spider's web, but just as hard to ignore.
*I've got him, kid. We're on our way.*
Sherlock's replay came not in words, but in a dizzying upswell of emotion like he'd never received from the lanky teenager before. The sheer, intoxicating flood of joy, terror, excitement, anxiety and almost debilitating love shone out like a signal fire across the distance, and Greg followed it, John Watson following close on his tail feathers.
~~~
*Are you all right?* Sherlock demanded, pacing along the water's edge.
'Yes, Sherlock. I'm fine.' Molly sighed. 'Just like I was fine this morning. And last night. And yesterday morning. I am no less fine now than I was fourteen hours ago.' She paused. 'How are you?'
*Sick.* Sherlock replied. *Dizzy. Terrified. And…fuck it's so difficult to keep my feet on the ground, Molly! I feel I could fly to Peru and back without struggling for breath. I…I almost think I can feel him getting closer. Oh God, Molly! He's getting closer!*
'Do you think you're ready?'
Sherlock tossed his head. *No. Never. And…always. I don't--* he broke off, distracted by the feeling of Greg's thoughts alighting over his mind.
*How are we for time?*
Molly cut in before Sherlock could answer. *We have plenty. The sun's still setting. The moon will be a while yet.*
*Good to know. We're about a third of the way through. Fuck but this forest is big from down here. Molly?*
*Yeah?*
*Make it a good one, eh?*
Sherlock glanced at Molly, and she smiled, her cheeks tinted pink. *I will.*
~~~
John pressed on through the dense foliage, frequently looking up to make sure he still had the falcon man in his sights. It was rough going, and John couldn't help but wonder if Lestrade was purposely leading him the hard way. Surely Sherlock's abductors had an easier way to get in and out than this. It looked as though his were the first human feet ever to walk here.
But then, that was probably for the best. John certainly didn't want to run into any enforcers before he could reach Sherlock, and he definitely didn't want to lose whatever element of surprise he had. Even so, it was clearly getting dark and this forest seemed to just go on and on and--
No. Wait. Ahead, just ahead, John could just make out something glittering and golden. He moved in closer, and now he could see a sort of path, broken twigs and bent grasses, earth compacted underfoot enough times to make John's journey much, much easier.
The trees were less dense now, and John could see further ahead.
Water.
Around Lestrade's neck, there had been water.
This water shimmered, gold and bronze under the setting sun. It was almost painfully bright after the dim, murky light of the forest, and John had to squint his eyes until they adjusted. He flexed his fingers and drew his gun, just in case.
Closer, now. He could see the water's edge, the small waves lapping against a pebbled shore. He heard the now familiar flapping of Lestrade's wings, and then…something else. Something bigger, softer, a gentle hush like sinking into a feather mattress. Shadows moved over the water's surface, and through the gaps in the trees, John caught a glimpse of pure, snowy white, a flash of onyx black, and John knew. He knew, deep in his gut, why Sherlock couldn't leave this lake.
He licked his lips, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then he walked to the edge of the treeline and stepped out of the forest.
~~~
Chapter Eleven
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
Chapter Ten;
It had been more than two years since Greg had slept in a bed. A proper bed, with sheets and pillows and everything. He awoke reluctantly, luxuriating in the soft duvet against his feathers. He nuzzled into the fabric and spread his wings wide, letting them rest bonelessly over the dips and rises of John's makeshift nest.
'Is it time?'
He opened his eyes and saw John perched on the edge of his seat, staring at him.
*Yeah, yeah.* He grumbled. *Give us a minute, would you?*
John licked his lips. 'Please…I can't. Just…take me to him. Please.'
Greg sighed. *Look…I know this is…difficult for you. Just let me feel this for a minute and we'll go.'
John sighed and slumped into the chair. 'Look at me. I'm talking to a sodding bird.' He let out a helpless giggle. 'I don't even know if you can understand me like this.'
*Wrong way round, mate.* Greg muttered. *Oh, this should be fun.*
'Um…I know you can't…listen, if you can understand me, snap your beak once.'
Greg snapped at the air as though biting through a particularly wriggly field mouse.
'Right, okay. Um…once for yes, twice for no. The standard method, I guess. Is your name Greg Lestrade?'
Greg snapped at the air.
'Right, yes. Are we in London right now?'
Greg made a quite heroic attempt at rolling his eyes and bit down on nothing, twice.
'Got it. Okay.' John levelled his gaze at Greg, and something in his eyes made Greg want to hide under the covers. They weren't dead...but there was nothing like life in them. They were empty eyes.
'Are they hurting him?'
Greg hesitated. He snapped the air once.
John didn't flinch, but something flashed behind those empty eyes, something cold.
'Do they know I'm coming?'
And Greg didn't even have to think about that one. He gave a single snap.
John's whole body shifted, loose in a very dangerous way. His limbs settled into something comfortable and poised. Greg had seen the firearms unit head out for a raid once, and John reminded him of them. He had that same grim certainty on his face, the kind you got when you knew you were probably about to kill someone, or to die, regardless of how hard you tried to prevent it.
Greg had never known that feeling. Not really. Sure there's always the chance, even if you're just another uniform, and Greg had been certain when Moran's gun had come down on the back of his head that his number was up, but he'd never gone to work with the very real knowledge that blood was probably going to be spilt, and there was an equal chance of it being his.
*You're too young for those eyes, John.* He said. *Fuck, I'm to young for them.* He flapped his wings to help him get to his feet and bobbed his head. *Come on. It's time you two saved each other already.*
John sighed and rubbed his fingers over his temples. 'No more putting it off, I suppose.' He said.
He stood, and carefully bundled Greg into his arms. The discs dangled on their dirty chain from the falcon's clutching foot, and they bobbed and swayed as John moved silently down the hall to his own bedroom.
From his seat on John's desk, Greg watched the young soldier move with efficient, single-minded purpose. He said nothing, didn't so much as glance in Greg's direction, as he pulled a fresh set of fatigues from a drawer.
John dressed with brisk, practised movements, only bothering to speak whilst down on one knee to lace his boots.
'The bike is yours.' He said. 'I won't need it after this, if all goes to plan. Ride it or sell it, I don't much care, but it's yours.'
Greg's heart kicked in his chest, and he gaped at John. Of course, falcons can't really gape terribly well, but the sentiment was there.
'Leathers. You're…you were, covered in them. They've seen better days, so they're not for show. You ride. Better than me, I'll wager. You're a police officer, so you've got a protective streak, and you flew out here, waited around for the perfect opportunity, and attempted a night time ambush of an active soldier all for Sherlock's sake. You said yourself I don't have whatever it is that frees you, so it's not even a little selfish.' He stood and stared Greg in his raptor's eyes. 'You've been watching over him, taking care of him. All this time. He wasn't alone.' He licked his lips, the first sign of vulnerability since he'd stood up from the chair. 'The sodding bike is yours, Lestrade.'
*How--you--but I--* Greg sputtered, and he swivelled his head in agitation.
'Don't look at me like that. I grew up with Sherlock and Mycroft. Do you really think Sherlock would have fallen for me if I were an idiot? I'm not a Holmes but I'm not stupid.' And he smiled, and Greg understood Sherlock's pining just a little more, because a smile like that could put wind under your wings.
John held out an arm, and Greg half jumped, half glided onto it, landing with far more frantic flapping than he felt was necessary.
~~~
'John, please, I only want to understand.' Mycroft pleaded.
'Yeah, and that kills you, don't it?' John sniped. He didn't want to be cross with the man, but he was well out of patience and Mycroft was standing in the way. 'Look, I barely understand any of it myself, but I know enough to see that it's the best lead so far. I'm taking it.'
Mycroft blanched and grabbed hold of the handlebars. John revved the engine at him in annoyance, and was rewarded with the tiniest of flinches. 'John. Think. You're prepared to venture into a completely unknown location without backup and without a plan on the trail of a bird.'
'Yep.' John confirmed. 'Now let go.'
'A bird, John.'
'A falcon, in fact.' John pointed out, baring his teeth in what could charitably be called a smile.
'It's. A. Bird.'
'Yes.' John said. 'It's a bird. And it had this around its neck.' He tossed something small and shiny to Mycroft.
The elder Holmes caught the casing and held it up. His face and his body went still an instant later. He'd found the initials engraved on the side: S. M.
'John…'
'I'm going, Mye. When mum and Harry wake up, tell them I've gone to a meeting with Harlan. Don't get their hopes up.'
Mycroft's hands reappeared on the handle bars, and John groaned.
'What about my mother, John?' Mycroft demanded, and John's head sank, along with his heart.
He licked his lips. 'I promised her I'd try, Mycroft.' He whispered. 'Tell her I'm trying.'
Mycroft deflated and stepped aside, and John took the opportunity to guide the bike free of the garage. He scanned the trees for PC Lestrade and found him almost directly ahead, John's tags dangling from his talons. Their eyes locked, John nodded, and Lestrade took off from the tree.
John followed him.
~~~
Flying for John wasn't easy. Greg had to keep low to the ground, far lower than he'd prefer and well below the updrafts that made flying so much easier. But John had that monster of a bike, and he kept up well enough. Greg led him north, toward London, but planned to avoid the city itself
It took much longer than if he'd flown by himself, of course. Alone, Greg didn't need to follow the roads, or avoid dense tree cover, and a journey that would have taken him a few hours by wing took up most of the day, and a great deal of that was the heavy, labour-intensive flapping falcons were shit at. He found he had to stop frequently to rest his aching joints and burning muscles, and he knew his human body was going to pay for it when he changed back.
'You're not taking me to London.' John said during one of these breaks. He had a map spread out over the windscreen on his bike. 'Mycroft would have found him if he were in London. Or at least we'd have something. Past London?'
Greg looked up from the branch where he was panting, tiny chest heaving, and snapped once.
'Right. Somewhere above London.' His finger rested on Cambridge, and he gave a sad smile. 'Maybe he stayed over after all.' He muttered.
Two snaps, and a piercing falcon glare.
'Right, sorry.' John took a deep breath and began to fold the map. 'Can you fly yet?'
Two more snaps, and Greg huddled into himself, hitching his wings up around his ears. *Sod that, mate. I'm not sure I can ever fly again.*
John sighed. 'Okay, fine. Can you make it to me, at least?'
Greg eyed the distance between his tree branch and John's outstretched arm and bit the air once.
'Okay, come on then. Sit behind the windscreen and I can take us through London. Once we're clear, you can take off again and lead me the rest of the way.'
*Are you mental? I know it's a good bike but you seriously think it can beat London traffic?*
John slapped his arm. 'Come on. It'll be…interesting to go home again.'
Greg sighed and hopped into the air. He spread his wings and flapped a couple of times and it brought him to John's arm. A moment later he was securely bundled behind the windscreen, supported and partially hidden by John's jacket.
It had been a long time since he'd felt the comfortable drone of an engine beneath him, even longer since he'd been enough of a passenger to enjoy it without focussing on the road in front of him, and he'd drifted into something of a doze by the time John came to a stop in front of a weathered but clean looking building on Montague Street.
*What are we doing here, soldier boy? This is really not the time to be checking up on your mates.* Greg protested. *We've got places to be, annoying genius boys to save!*
John, naturally, couldn't hear him. He got off the bike and removed his helmet, then he just sort of…stood there, for a while.
*John?*
John left Greg sitting on the bike and walked up to the door. Silently, he rested a hand on the worn wooden surface and bowed his head.
'I can't marry him.' John said, quiet enough that if Greg were human, he wouldn't have heard him. 'Not officially. But I'd hoped…maybe someday. He'd call me a predictable idiot for it but…I want all that. I want the rings and the pointless ceremony and the food and I want to see my mum crying and laughing at the same time. I want Harry standing next to me and telling me to grow a pair to stop me shaking. I want…' He took a long, shaky breath. 'This is our flat. He doesn't know about it. It's his dad's sort of…rest of your life present I guess. It's not much, I mean there's a bedroom and a bath and then a sort of…everything else bit, but what else do you expect starting out in London? He'll hate it, I'm sure. But it's ours. For however long it lasts, it's ours.' He rested his forehead against the door and let out a long stream of air.
He laughed then, but it was a bit too wet to be believable. 'I've only kissed him once. I spent my whole life hating him, and I couldn't be rid of him. Now when I love him so hard it's killing me, I can't seem to catch him. It's sick, innit? Bloody typical.'
*John…*
'What if it was all a dream, Lestrade? What if all that time apart we just built each other into these fantasies we'll never live up to? What if all this love we're haemorrhaging is just a very pretty lie? I can't--if he sees me and realises what a mistake he's made…I don't think I can survive that.'
*Christ, mate. If you knew…he's gone on you. Round the bend, off his nut crazy about you. Why the fuck do you think I'm doing this? For a laugh? Stop moping like you're in a soap opera and get your arse back on this bike!* He let out a brief shriek for emphasis, and so John would actually notice he was there.
John turned and smiled, or something like it. 'Yeah, I guess you're right. It's time we ended this.'
Greg really, really wanted to properly roll his eyes. Christ, give a man someone to talk to who can't talk back and suddenly he feels the need to monologue.
Or maybe John was just a crazy fucking sod who liked to talk to himself. Either/or, really.
~~~
When they were free of London, Lestrade led him further north, away from urban centres. The city traffic had eaten into their time, and it was already late afternoon by the time Lestrade stopped for one of his rests.
The bird was agitated, shuffling from side to side on his branch and bobbing his head up and down. John leaned against the bike and watched him.
'We're close, aren't we?' John asked.
Lestrade clicked his beak once.
John peered around. As country roads went it was nothing special. There were still houses about for fuck's sake. It was a nowhere road with nothing in the way of space, certainly not the kind of area where one could hold two or more human beings captive without being noticed. Well, at least it didn't look it. But Lestrade continued to fidget and glance aside to a distant and seemingly tiny copse of trees.
'There?'
Another beak snap, and more agitated bobbing.
'Right.' John said. He got out his gun, checking the clip and the chamber, getting it ready to fire at a moment's notice, before putting it back in the holster. He ran a systematic check of each concealed knife on his body, making sure they could be drawn easily and instantly should he need them. When he'd finished that, he looked up to see Lestrade staring down at him, eyes unnervingly intense and unblinking, as only a bird of prey can do.
But there was something in the tilt of the PC's head that gave him an almost mystified air, and John blushed. 'Look,' he said. 'You've been watching, right? So you know…what I do.' Fuck, and now he was explaining himself to a bird. Again. This was his life.
'Just stop looking at me like that, okay?' John snapped. 'I don't know what he's told you, but I'm not--' He broke off and took a moment to try and ease back the tension. 'I had to. He won't understand it, but I had no choice. He said…he knew it'd change me. He promised he'd still…' He couldn't finish, so he just kicked the front tyre of his bike, then leaned over the handlebars and cradled his head in his hands.
'I just need to do this. I can't afford distractions. I just…all that matters is saving him. Right. Enough resting, Lestrade. We're going.'
One snap, and the falcon took off again, heading straight for the copse.
John drove the bike as close to the trees as he could get it, then killed the engine and pocketed the key. Lestrade was waiting for him on a thin tree branch beside two sickly looking birch saplings which bowed together into something of a natural arch.
John raised his eyebrows. 'This?' He asked. 'A bit obvious, isn't it?'
But Lestrade didn't pay him any attention. The bird's head was raised and cocked to the side, his eyes closed as though listening intently. His feathers ruffled for a moment, then he opened his eyes and his beak, letting it hang wide in what John desperately hoped was meant to be a bird-ish grin.
Then Lestrade jiggled his head up and down rapidly and snapped his beak in a steady, enthusiastic beat: yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.
John took a deep breath and stepped through the arched trees.
Nothing happened.
Lestrade ruffled his feathers again and snapped his beak twice in rapid succession, a very emphatic 'no'. He hopped to the end of his thin branch, then angled his body to fit between the right-most birch and the equally sickly but unconnected tree beside it, and made a sort of gentle hop.
The air swallowed him, and he was gone.
John blinked, then shrugged his shoulders and angled his own body so he could sidle between the two seemingly unconnected trees, and stepped to the side.
The world pressed against him, the very air suddenly thick and clinging. His lungs compressed and his skin tightened, and then he was through, on the other side of whatever had kept Sherlock hidden from him.
Turned out, it was a wood. A proper, sprawling, ageless wood full of towering trees and thick undergrowth and the myriad sounds of British wildlife. He looked around, dazed, until he found Lestrade perched on a tree high above him, the dog tags glinting in the dim light filtering through the canopy.
John licked his lips, letting the reality of this place settle around him, then nodded to the bird.
'Lead on.'
~~~
Greg could bathe in the sensation he felt at being once more connected to Sherlock and Molly's minds. It was glorious, warm and rich, to not be alone anymore.
But there was no time to dwell on that. He had a job to do, and a soldier boy to lead through the morass. So he sent the message ahead, finally able to bridge the gap and brush his own thoughts against Sherlock's, fragile and tentative as a spider's web, but just as hard to ignore.
*I've got him, kid. We're on our way.*
Sherlock's replay came not in words, but in a dizzying upswell of emotion like he'd never received from the lanky teenager before. The sheer, intoxicating flood of joy, terror, excitement, anxiety and almost debilitating love shone out like a signal fire across the distance, and Greg followed it, John Watson following close on his tail feathers.
~~~
*Are you all right?* Sherlock demanded, pacing along the water's edge.
'Yes, Sherlock. I'm fine.' Molly sighed. 'Just like I was fine this morning. And last night. And yesterday morning. I am no less fine now than I was fourteen hours ago.' She paused. 'How are you?'
*Sick.* Sherlock replied. *Dizzy. Terrified. And…fuck it's so difficult to keep my feet on the ground, Molly! I feel I could fly to Peru and back without struggling for breath. I…I almost think I can feel him getting closer. Oh God, Molly! He's getting closer!*
'Do you think you're ready?'
Sherlock tossed his head. *No. Never. And…always. I don't--* he broke off, distracted by the feeling of Greg's thoughts alighting over his mind.
*How are we for time?*
Molly cut in before Sherlock could answer. *We have plenty. The sun's still setting. The moon will be a while yet.*
*Good to know. We're about a third of the way through. Fuck but this forest is big from down here. Molly?*
*Yeah?*
*Make it a good one, eh?*
Sherlock glanced at Molly, and she smiled, her cheeks tinted pink. *I will.*
~~~
John pressed on through the dense foliage, frequently looking up to make sure he still had the falcon man in his sights. It was rough going, and John couldn't help but wonder if Lestrade was purposely leading him the hard way. Surely Sherlock's abductors had an easier way to get in and out than this. It looked as though his were the first human feet ever to walk here.
But then, that was probably for the best. John certainly didn't want to run into any enforcers before he could reach Sherlock, and he definitely didn't want to lose whatever element of surprise he had. Even so, it was clearly getting dark and this forest seemed to just go on and on and--
No. Wait. Ahead, just ahead, John could just make out something glittering and golden. He moved in closer, and now he could see a sort of path, broken twigs and bent grasses, earth compacted underfoot enough times to make John's journey much, much easier.
The trees were less dense now, and John could see further ahead.
Water.
Around Lestrade's neck, there had been water.
This water shimmered, gold and bronze under the setting sun. It was almost painfully bright after the dim, murky light of the forest, and John had to squint his eyes until they adjusted. He flexed his fingers and drew his gun, just in case.
Closer, now. He could see the water's edge, the small waves lapping against a pebbled shore. He heard the now familiar flapping of Lestrade's wings, and then…something else. Something bigger, softer, a gentle hush like sinking into a feather mattress. Shadows moved over the water's surface, and through the gaps in the trees, John caught a glimpse of pure, snowy white, a flash of onyx black, and John knew. He knew, deep in his gut, why Sherlock couldn't leave this lake.
He licked his lips, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then he walked to the edge of the treeline and stepped out of the forest.
~~~
Chapter Eleven