Protectors
Chapter One
A/Ns at end
John had only gotten as far as yelling "Vatican-" when the bombs exploded. Really, he thought he had more time than that. He thought there was time for the codes and that they'd have time to take cover. Idiot. Moriarty knows Sherlock's darkest secrets, of course he knows our shout for battle stations.
That poor girl had died because of him. He'd seen the sniper's light on her chest, he'd tried to warn Sherlock, and he realized his mistake with the prescience of the battlefield. In time to watch it, but not prevent it. He would have sworn he had heard that shot in time to start moving.
He had been knocked off his feet, but not unconscious, just disoriented. Injuries? Legs, arms, both moving, I don't feel anything internal, breathing is painful but not limited. You're not dead. Get your eyes open. Now! The ex-soldier blocked off the thought of pain and was rising from the ground as his eyes cracked open. Dust was still settling, two of the columns had shattered, but the room seemed unlikely to collapse on itself. A pile of chairs and furniture surrounded him, probably why he wasn't more badly hurt.
As for where the girl had been, there nothing he could look at without gagging. Dental records gonna be the only way. He grimaced and started walking. Jesus, they might not even find those. Worse than the IEDs.
Training had taken over as he began to jog towards the last place he has seen Sherlock. Smoke was billowing out the vault ahead of him beginning to cloud the room and burn his throat. He had to get there, make sure he hadn't gone and gotten himself killed. Sherlock had been between the two blasts, first the vest lashed around the girl, then whatever had been placed inside the vault. Incendiary bombs were most likely based on the target. Either was capable of killing someone at close range. Incendiaries were capable of it long after the initial blast. He needed to get them out before the smoke got too thick.
"John!"
He whipped about, somehow Sherlock was already up, seemingly uninjured, and striding towards him. His shout was impatient, like he had been yelling and John hadn't heard. The detective looked him over, pulled something from the doctor's shoulder, clapped a piece of fabric over John's face, and without explanation started dragging him towards the staircase. The pair was barely halfway up when firefighters began rushing down, clad in suits and breathing masks. Lestrade got the message then, good. The thickening black smoke that engulfed them was only going to get worse until they made it outside.
The world lurched around him suddenly.
John was struggling to think clearly. Something on the rag? No. The smoke? Concussion?
They reached the two story foyer of the bank. The smoke abated a bit. John could actually see his friend beside him once more. The idiot had only bothered with one mask. Sherlock could barely have breathed since they started running.
What the hell is going on?
John's world was beginning to go grey, narrowing to a pin-point ahead of him. He stumbled once, twice, and then Sherlock was pulling John's arm over his shoulder. As cold air hit his face, new hands, new arms wrapped around him, and Sherlock pulled away coughing heavily.
As his mind cleared, thanks he was sure to the oxygen mask over his face, the voices became distinct once more. "Because I did not get drugged."
"You're going to Hospital too."
"No."
"Sherlock."
"After."
"After what?"
"I need to get inside that vault. The firemen should have it cleared in less than an hour."
"My God Sherlock. You were just in an explosion, let my boys look at this one for you. You can come back after."
"Lestrade, do be quiet."
John reached up to the shelf above him in the back of the ambulance, and dragged himself to sitting. Sherlock turned and his eyes picked up that intense otherness they got when he was deducing. John tried to maintain a look of determination before he started arguing, but was cut off.
"Yes John, you have to go to the hospital, you were knocked unconscious-"
"N'wasn't"
"-but more important is the drug you were hit with just before the explosion. The dart has already been sent to Molly, but you will need to be taken there as well so it's effects can be counteracted.
"Shehlah-Sher-Sh-Sherl" Why isn't my mouth working? The detective turned back, waiting. "Wha-?"
"I stepped behind a column." John frowned, more confused. "I did hear you, John." With that he spun and walked back to the fire chief. Greg shoved the EMT back into the ambulance and slammed the doors.
When John Watson found his way back to consciousness, it was without the grating haze that had been building since exiting the bank with Sherlock. He was in a private room at Bart's. No ventilator, but a heart monitor on his chest and two IVs, one per arm. I'm breathing fine, so I guess it's not smoke inhalation. But no meds on the stand, just fluids. So why? Ah, that makes more sense. The dialysis machine was humming as it cleaned his blood beside him. The pain was still present though.
"Hullo?" he called, thinking he had heard someone behind the curtain. "Molly?"
"Oh! John. You're awake."
"Yeah, do you want to tell me whats going on?"
"Yes, uh, well we haven't identified what was on the dart that hit you, so they wanted to play it safe. It doesn't seem like it was a high dose of anything, or particularly toxic, more like a mild sedative. You've been asleep for about nine hours, but that's partly the explosion. They didn't want to cause a reaction so no pain meds until it gets cleared. Mary came by with Mycroft a few hours ago, she was here for a long time, but then the hospital started to get busy, so, well you know." John nodded. "Oh, and Sherlock texted me. Apparently there isn't much left of your phone, so he sent a new one over for you."
She held out a mobile, a match to his last one, and then set it on the bed when he didn't grab it after a moment.
"How much longer do they want me to stay?"
"A few days."
"Ha, no. How long before I can leave?"
"They just took another blood sample to the lab. A few hours." She smiled, that strange strangled smile of hers. "You have some mild burns on your hands and face-from the blast I assume, and you've a few cuts. You are going to have a headache soon, if you don't already, and visible or not you're bruised head to toe."
"I am a doctor, Molly."
"I know, but, you can bad as him John, and I just wanted to remind you that, well that you might need more than a night's sleep before you chase after him again."
John grinned wanly.
"I'll come visit again later, John."
As she left he turned towards the mobile sitting on the bed. He hadn't wanted to admit how much he hurt, and since he couldn't see a bag of IV meds, he knew that they weren't willing to cross drugs until whatever was in his system had cleared. He'd known that before Molly had said.
Knowing didn't stop him feeling like he had been hit by a train.
It took a few deep breaths to shut down the part of his head that was muttering non stop about the pain. It took a few more for him to acknowledge that the headache was not going away.
"Jeee-sus" He sighed to the ceiling. This was the first time he had been stationary for so long since this started.
It had been just over six weeks since Sherlock had shot Magnusson in the head to protect Mary. Six weeks since his forced exile had been aborted by the dramatic return of Jim Moriarty. One month since a bomb had gone off on the runway of Heathrow airport. One month since Moriarty had sent that phone with that taunting, threatening, awful invitation. An invitation that Sherlock found irresistible. Moriarty had invited the East Wind out to play, and Sherlock was more than happy to oblige him; at first.
Much like the game he had played before, Moriarty was toying with the detective, giving him just enough information to solve the puzzle before time ran out. Unlike last time, the crimes were all upcoming not in the past. All they had to go off was what that madman gave them.
The first two attacks Sherlock solved, just. The bomb in the tube station had been luck, not that the prat would admit it. Luck that they found the answer, and luck that they found the bomb before it detonated.
Then came the third. At first John was almost feeling confident, but twelve hours went by with no explanation for the drawing and the message. Sherlock was so far into his own world John couldn't have forced the man to rest with anything shy of a sedative. They didn't start to unravel the puzzle until two hours before the deadline. It wasn't enough time.
That student did more than we did.
A fourteen year old was wearing the bomb. He was pushed out of a car in front of his younger brother's school during an assembly; he had saved more people than they had.
Under orders to walk inside the gymnasium he had refused. John had seen the security footage. The young man stood for a moment, talking to someone who wasn't there. A point of light appeared on his chest. He had hesitated, then turned and run towards the carpark. Six people died. Better than it could have been. What did Sherlock estimate? Five hundred dead? Jesus, I had never seen him like that. He'd failed, he knew it, and despite what he said it was obviously eating at him. Though whether it was guilt or outrage at Moriarty besting him, John was not sure.
The fourth, well, Sherlock was determined. Moriarty's plot was unravelled, a cordon was cinched around Pentonville, nothing happened. John managed to get him back to the flat after that day. With a few threats he got a meal into him, and got him into bed.
That was when John's world had changed.
He had barely seen Mary since Heathrow. Sherlock had needed him almost non stop. Not seeing her husband had not stopped Mary Watson from helping him. She had done research on every case, sending blasts of texts as she found something new. Half of Sherlock's lab equipment was sitting in John's kitchen now. None of the three of them had spoken a word about her past, Sherlock had just turned to her during the first puzzle, and asked for every location within London that fit his parameters. She had been helping since.
John liked it more than if she had been running after them, slowed down by how large she had become. Her in the line of direct danger would be more than he could handle. Her being nearby danger because of him was bad enough.
As he left the cab he could see something stuck to his door, probably a delivery note or one of those obnoxious flyers that were always getting crammed into the handle. When he got closer, that been obviously wrong. The envelope was stuck to the door with a short blade. "The Watsons" His hand went towards it, then hesitated, Sherlock's voice in his head insulting him. So, he snapped a few quick photos, pulled the envelope out without touching the knife, and stepped inside. He still remembered the bitter taste in his mouth as he called for Mary. Thankfully she answered quickly, stepping out of the bedroom. Turning his attention back down, he opened the envelope as Mary watched, confusion on her brow giving way to anger a moment later.
Their favorite picture from her ultrasound a few days earlier was inside, scrawled over it in red, She's cute.
Sherlock was there twenty minutes later, but harassing the OB/GYNs office staff turned up nothing. He had grabbed the detective that night, pulling him into the kitchen and started yelling. The memory still brought a flush of embarrassment to his cheeks. How angry he had gotten, how much blame he had foisted onto this man that had grown increasingly tense during the diatribe, how after a few minutes Sherlock had interrupted him. "Mycroft" was all he had said at first, but then his phone came out, and he did something John had not ever expected to see.
"Mycroft, and I need something from you. Please."
John's flush of embarrassment at the memory intensified. He had never heard Sherlock's voice unstrung from its usual net of acrimony. Yes, he hesitated a fraction of a second to say please, but it was said. Mycroft must have understood the depth of meaning it conveyed, because just two hours later there he was, trailed by a second car containing Anthea. John had kissed Mary goodbye, and promised that he would be back with her before the baby came. Then she was gone, hidden as well as the British government was able. It had removed a huge part of the anxiety that had been building inside John.
He and Sherlock had never spoken of it, but John knew his friend had put himself in his brother's debt, deeply so. If there was something Sherlock enjoyed less, John did not know what it was. Mary texted him the next day from wherever it was Mycroft had placed her, telling him to find a box she had left in the closet. He had of course, expecting photos, or letters.
He hadn't expected what he could only think of as the equivalent to his medical bag, but for an international criminal. Three guns, silencers, a couple of tiny GPS trackers, a set of epi pens minutely labelled with their contents, several of which he had to look up, and several manilla folders. Each had a passport with his face and someone else's name. Each had had a packet of vital records, and each had a few thousand pounds in that country's currency.
Several hours passed before he put himself back together and brought the lot of it back to Baker Street. It had been Sherlock who had pointed out that it had been assembled before the wedding. He also mentioned it was a kit for him alone in case an enemy came after her.
It made him angry, but reminded him how much she loved him.
John exhaled some of his stress, still staring back at the history that had brought him to this hospital bed.
Three more events in the last month.
Two he stopped.
This last one, an attack on a bank, specifically the vault below the building, they couldn't stop. Sherlock had been sure it was a heist not a bombing, so there they went to try to catch whoever was sent. Anyone Moriarty sent was of interest to Sherlock. There were too many questions he wanted to ask.
They wouldn't have gone in otherwise. Well, he had asked Sherlock about a bombing in particular, Sherlock had been confident in his assessment. Damn his confidence.
That young girl, that was what had told them it was different. That it wasn't a heist. That Sherlock was wrong.
Tears were streaming down her face, her hands were cuffed behind her back: she couldn't have gotten out of the vest even if the sniper had not been targeting her chest. A very young girl with blonde hair. No, I can't focus on this right now. Phone, messages, Sherlock, Mary.
He finally picked up the phone, cramming the memory of that girl aside.
Messages.
Records were destroyed. No evidence.
SY to attempt recovery. Unlikely
SH
Mary has been informed. Will visit
SH
No new contact. No new case yet.
Text when conscious.
SH
Molly says you are on dialysis.
Text when conscious.
SH
Try to come visit me John. They wouldn't let me stay with you. contact Mycroft.
Love you - Mary
Why are you not conscious yet?
SH
May have a lead re: U/S.
Text when conscious.
SH
Text when Conscious.
SH
He started to laugh, but cut it off when the motion hurt his entire body. Either something had happened, or, being emotionally a machine, this was Sherlock's version of showing concern. This was the first time he had actually been blown up following the detective. John took pity on his friend.
Conscious.
What's happened?
JW
Finally his doctor came in with his lab results. Young man, probably fresh out of residency, so John knew his situation couldn't be too dire. Sherlock is rubbing off on me. The doctor had come with good news, his blood was clear.
"So?"
"So now we can get you some pain meds. We can get you disconnected from the machine." John gestured to the IVs and Doctor Andrews, obviously intimidated, buzzed a nurse. "You'll be here overnight for observation at least. I'd prefer you not leave until the lab identifies what was given to you."
"I'd prefer otherwise."
"Hospital policy is -"
"Voluntary discharge can circumvent policy."
"I cannot advise you -"
"I can fill out the paperwork, or I can just leave, Doctor." The mobile buzzed.
221B.
SH
They haven't discharged me yet.
JW
Make them.
SH
"John-Doctor Watson, you know perfectly well you'd recommend the same."
"Most likely." John started taking out his IVs.
"You haven't even had pain meds."
"I'll be fine." He said, swallowing the lie, and clinging to the thought of the kit he had at the flat. The Bart's doctor shook his head, muttering about doctors being "the worst kind of patients" and reached into his coat pocket, grabbing a bottle and a prescription pad.
The mobile buzzed again.
Molly is bringing you the forms.
SH
I am handling this. Would you relax?
JW
Unlikely.
SH
John frowned.
Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man, but his intolerance against the needs of others did not often apply to those in hospital beds.
You do recall why I am here?
The explosion? Unknown poison? Ring a bell?
JW
He realized after sending that Sherlock may have just admitted to concern.
"John, Sherlock asked me to bring you these." Molly handed him the folder of forms. John glanced at his phone again. No answer, and Sherlock had been on rapid response. "You should at least stay until we finish the labs. It won't take much longer."
"Nope."
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Once he had established that he intended to leave within the hour, and once Molly had made it clear to Andrews and the subsequent nurses that there would be no talking him out of it, it took little time to get away. Although, as he looked over the discharge paperwork, it was easily the most sarcastic set of notes he had ever seen put to paper. "Against recommendation" ... "might want to consider stronger pain medication" …. "declined Dr suggested pain treatment" …. "recommend psychological evaluation" John was not inclined to disagree with that last one as the cab hit a bump and pain nearly knocked him out.
Outside the flat, he paused, the door knocker was aligned. Thanks to Sherlock's endless diatribes, he frowned.
"Hello Mycroft." He announced as he walked up the stairs.
"He's more observant than you give him credit for Sherlock." John reached the doorway in time to see Sherlock's smirk.
"What do you have?" John dropped the bag and folder from the hospital on the table and reached for a glass of water.
"One of the receptionists was found dead."
"From Mary's doctor?"
"Inside her flat. Single shot to the head. High powered rifle based on the entry wound. Dead at least a week. Lestrade's people found her, his people tainted the scene. Likely conclusion is that Moriarty had her killed. Either she was the source or she knew who the source was." John nodded. "Mycroft's people are looking into it."
"Not you?" He hesitated at that, then dismissed the reluctance. This was his wife, and child. If it was going to be investigated, he wanted the best to be working on it. That meant Sherlock.
"I believe we can trust the British Government to go through their filing cabinets. Files are their sovereign territory." More nodding. "They should have them within a few hours." Sherlock took a step closer, and John saw him start deducing. Ducking his head down really did not stop Sherlock's game, only delayed him for a moment and forced him to affect a bizarre lean and head tilt. It took him a moment, and John attempted to busy himself getting a glass of water. Whatever his observations found, he kept to himself. His brother had the decency to perform his deduction more subtly.
"No ideas yet on why?"
Mycroft spun his umbrella in his hand, "Perhaps Moriarty was simply sending you his glad tidings in his own peculiar way, John."
"Mycroft, text me when you have something." Sherlock handed his brother an envelope and the Holmes boys stared at each other for a few seconds.
At the moment, John had lost his patience with both of them. One was making light of a threat by quite possibly the most dangerous man in the world. The other harassing him out of his hospital bed over information that required no action from him. Does he think I needed to be told in person? Did he think I was going to go after them tonight?
Sherlock shoved the bottle of pills against the untouched glass of water and dropped into his chair. John joined him in his own chair a moment later, pills working their way towards the pounding in his head and the impressive ache that flared with movement. Silence held for a while. Heavy fog was rising outside. In the dark it was crowding around the windows, making the street lamps little more than glow in the haze.
Sherlock twitched a bit.
"What?"
"Molly hasn't texted yet."
"Yeah so?"
"They haven't identified the toxin on the dart yet. Just that eliminates all of the more common options. Not that I would expect Moriarty to employ anything common. I suppose it could be a compound of several unusual sedatives, but the real question is why? Slow acting sedative deployed just before blowing you up with a bomb. Two bombs. No, there must be something missing. The sedative effects could be secondary. The primary focus of the dart could have been to put something in motion in the future, rather than the immediate future. Hmm." Up went his hands, steepling under his chin. Staring across at John as thoughts flashed over his face, he was poised, about to jump up.
"You need to get rest Sherlock."
"Case isn't over yet, John. Pieces are still missing. "
"It's over."
"The toxin-"
"Didn't have any impact. It doesn't matter."
"You being dosed with an unknown substance doesn't matter? Excellent, this should open up all manner of experiments I would like to try."
Great, he's in one of these moods again. Alright, new approach.
"When was the last time you ate? Three days?"
"Slows me down, John."
"Case ended, you can take the time to eat a bloody sandwich."
"Out of food."
"Take-away."
"Closed."
"Right. Christ, Sherlock, If I get you a damn sandwich will you just eat it?"
Impudent. That's the look he gets.
"Fine."
So up John got, back to the kitchen where there was plenty of food, thank you very much. Bloody. Oblivious. Helpless. Twat of a man. Can't even make a damn sandwich. What? Did he think Mycroft is going to mock his addressing basic human needs? Idiot. Bread knife? Ah. Probably best I don't contemplate smacking him with this. There, that counts as a sandwich.
"Eat." was all he said as he tried to sit back down without the pain overwhelming him again. The medicine had yet to dissipate the ache.
The detective sat perched, nibbling at the sandwich like a bird, continuing to watch his former-current since I can't go back to me and Mary's place-flatmate.
John would have preferred to go to bed and try to sleep off the pounding in his skull, but Sherlock had that look. So he waited while his friend analyzed and postulated theories and thought, all of it silently. However, the doctor's hovering presence and disapproving countenance kept the man nibbling as he thought.
He's probably going over the bank. Whatever was destroyed in that vault must be driving him mad. Ah, yeah, there's that twitch, something's gotten under his skin. Is this the whole reason he made me come back early? So I could sit here like his skull? Insufferable git. I'll need to talk to Mycroft about visiting Mary. Anthea had brought him a handwritten note at one point. Apparently Mary was not willing to say anything that could be used to find her in a text or call. She had to be going a bit crazy there. Wherever there was. John knew she had helped Sherlock track the kidnap victim, but none of them had not caught that the daughter had the same name, and almost no presence in the records.
No. Still am not going to think about that. Think about Sherlock. Good, that's nearly two bites from anyone else. I wonder if I can convince him to drink one of those concentrated protein smoothies I used to have in my e-rations. Probably not. I'll order some in anyway. Might be able to find something similar at the shops. God my head hurts. Damn drugs. Damn me for refusing the narcotics. It's not like Sherlock is going to pinch them. First, I know he prefers something stronger, and second we've got a case, sort of, which is his something stronger. Ow. Doesn't look like I'll hardly get sleep tonight.
Huh, that's there that head tilt again. What the hell is he deducing now? That I've got a jackhammer in my skull? Oh, yes, very clever Sherlock. Well done, two bombs, unknown drug, how remarkable that you deduced I've got a headache.
John was so enjoying his little scripted conversation he was caught off guard when Sherlock spoke.
"You have a headache." John was too stunned at his own accuracy to respond. "Why did you refuse the opioids? They would be far more effective at offsetting your-discomfort." Discomfort? What was he about to say?
"Didn't want them."
"Why?"
Really?
"Slows me down" he said sarcastically. But not a lie.
A bit more of the sandwich vanished.
Another bizarre head tilt. His eyes had an intimidating intensity when he was like this.
"Because of the case? No. The case is at a lull. Following his usual approach, Which we have no reason to suspect he will deviate from, we have at least 34 hours before he begins his next game. You've never shown any proclivity towards recreational use so that isn't it. You have no allergy to be concerned with. So, it was a choice not a necessity. You don't want to be slowed down. You said it sarcastically but you often use sarcasm to mask your real intent. You really don't want to be slowed down." If his head tilted much further John was sure it would just pop off. "Alternately, you were concerned that having opioids in the flat would cause me trouble. Hm. Don't be so simple, this case is far too interesting."
"Going to eat any more of that? Or just planning to collapse midway through the next case?"
"Too slow to save someone?"
I was too slow at the bank.
"Eat."
Back to silent thought.
Eventually most of the meal was gone, and the remainder was dropped to the side table.
"Too slow to save me? You weren't. Unlike you I took your warning and got behind a column. "
The glare John gave his idiotic friend was one that used to freeze servicemen in place. Sherlock just lifted an eyebrow.
"If you are experiencing guilt over the victim, you should know there was no way for you to have saved her."
"No."
"You believe you need to protect me."
"I just didn't want them, Sherlock."
"Why?"
"I'm sure you'll wake me if we hear anything from Mycroft or the Yard. G'night."
A/N: Ok, it has been a very very very long time since I have posted to ff. I've barely written at all in many years. So, bring on the critique. I already have another eight thousand words down, but this is what I what I am happy with so far.
I expect this to be about ten chapters, and I will warn again THIS IS GOING TO BE VERY DARK. Like, I might have to move it to Ao3 to post it in full. What will happen here will be an edited version of what is currently in my mind.
I'm not kidding about this, I'll do terrible things them. Abandon ship now if thats a problem.
Also, Many thanks to Birdie7272 for her story "Fantasty, Nightmare, Reality" which kept me up all night and got me writing again.