The hard, black stone was numbingly cold. John Watson had sunk to his knees in shock, subconsciously mirroring his friend. Stunned and confused, his dark blue eyes, still wide with horror, continued to stare at Sherlock's back. John kept his arms raised but the weight of despair caused his shoulders to momentarily falter and drop, much as they had on that hellacious day in front of St. Barts. The seven stone steps of the patio loomed before them like a chasm, and the helicopter continued to whip ripples in the grass of the obscenely vast lawn, the turbulence as violent as the turmoil in John's stomach. The urgent commands - pleas - from the loudspeaker echoed in his ears. With that one bullet, their world and everything they'd fought for was laid waste, utterly destroyed.
"Sherlock!" he shouted, not able to keep the panic out of his voice. Black hair, coat and scarf whipped around Sherlock, but the man made no move, no sound to signify that he'd heard. John watched numbly, aware of the six police surrounding them, and of the marksmen's rifles trained on his friend. Three of the police advanced up the steps.
One went to the fallen blackmailer whose head now lay disgustingly in a pool of his own wretched blood; another kicked away John's gun that Sherlock had dropped after he'd fired; the third cuffed the tall detective, who offered no comment or struggle.
John followed Sherlock's gaze and saw that the brothers' eyes were locked on each other. John frowned. To his physician's eyes, Mycroft appeared to be still feeling the effects of the sedative - the elder Holmes faltered as he exited the helicopter, then he held tight to the door. John wondered if it was to steady himself or to prevent him from running to his brother's side. Mycroft's face was blanched, traces of the horrified expression still lingering. John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he thought that if he could, it would break him.
Now, with Sherlock secured, John didn't protest when rough hands grabbed his wrists, twisting his arms behind his back, ratcheting up the pain as his left shoulder was manhandled into the awkward position. His right leg trembled, treacherously threatening to buckle as he was hoisted from his knees.
The sound of the rotors was dying now that the engine had been cut. It left an awful silence of the kind heard in the aftermath of shattered lives. The police led the two handcuffed men down the steps. As John came abreast of his friend, he called out to him again. "Sherlock! What the hell-? Please, for God's sake, talk to me!" Sherlock turned his head away. Their comportment couldn't have been more different - John Watson's was violent, protesting, while Sherlock Holmes' was docile, accepting.
Now shock creased the doctor's face as he realized that they were being led toward different police cars.
"No! No!" he shouted, fighting to pull away from the officers. "Sherlock!" He lunged forward, managing to pull away from one man. The officer was on him in a millisecond. Still, John continued to struggle, desperation written in every movement, his lungs aching from the strain. He was wrestled to the ground. "No, he's my friend. He's my friend. Please. Please, let me just ..."*
His words were cut off when the officer jammed his knee into John's back, and he cried out.
"No! Stop it!" Sherlock shouted. "Mycroft, call off your goons! John! John, don't resist!"
Despite his pain, his chest swelled when he heard Sherlock come to his defence and fought against restraining arms. Then Mycroft's commanding words cut though the sounds of the struggle.
"Do not harm Doctor Watson! He is not to be harmed in any way!"
The officer removed his knee but held tightly to the doctor's arm. After a moment, he helped John to his feet, but the struggling man was still straining against their arms, trying to get to Sherlock's side. "We need to ride together. We have to! We have to talk! Sherlock! Mycroft!"
John Watson was a man of action, someone used to the battlefield whether in Afghanistan, a hospital, clinic, or the streets of London. Blood never made him falter, but helplessness was his worst nightmare, and now, in this moment, it was in full bore, leaving him charged with adrenalin but unable to act. The Army doctor and the British Government locked eyes. Mycroft shook his head fractionally. John desperately wanted to trust Mycroft with Sherlock's welfare, but could he? After all the scorn Sherlock and Mycroft had shown toward each other? The mutual distrust? The doctor sighed heavily, and his fighting stance fell away, giving way to an uneasy surrender. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a steadying breath, reclaiming his self-control.
"Let go of me," he ordered. The two officers looked to the senior Holmes, who nodded his permission. John shrugged free of their grasp and watched in pained silence as Sherlock was ushered toward the police car. As Sherlock's head was pushed down for him to enter, he turned toward John and shouted over his shoulder.
"It had to be done." Sherlock looked unrepentant. And desolate.
*This is a deliberate use of the same dialogue John spoke in trying to get to Sherlock's body after the fall.
