Alleyways and Payphone Calls
A/N: This mostly wrote itself. Mostly. I suspect it's been waiting to burst out since last December. No brit-picker, because I would scare away British friends if I had any. So please let me know if anything is glaringly wrong.
Spoilers: Near the end. Though if you haven't watched all the episodes by now, get off fanfiction and fix that.
Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to the lovely Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Any dialogue you recognize is Not Mine.
Moats & boats & waterfalls,
alleyways & pay phone calls
I've been everywhere with you
-Home, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
It's the first time John has relaxed since his forced return to London. Sherlock sprints ahead of him, mapping out the crisscrossing alleyways and streets in that gigantic brain of his. It is quite extraordinary.
"This way, John!" Sherlock pants.
John, who has taken a wrong turn, rights himself and hurries after this strange consulting detective he's just met (when was that, just yesterday?). It's the first time he's run since Afghanistan, he realizes. He throws himself into the chase, adrenaline junkie he is.
Twists and turns, narrow alleyways and low rooftops. Finally, jumping in front of that taxi.
"Welcome to London!" Sherlock is saying. John is laughing (god, it's good to laugh).
It's the first time he feels he can actually carry on in London, chasing after serial killers through inky darkness. Welcome to London. It would all be fine.
Later, back in 221B, he will be fairly shocked when Angelo returns his forgotten, apparently useless, cane.
He will take the room upstairs, thank you Mrs Hudson, prepared to follow the detective through more uncharted alleyways. Because somewhere along the line, John has decided he trusts Sherlock Holmes.
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The first time Sherlock insists it could be dangerous. One time it actually is.
There's a lot of blood. Three knives lie between two heaps on the cold rubble of the alleyway.
John wishes he had been faster. But he is lucky he even deciphered Sherlock's text ('HLEP KNIFE ANGELOS'). And even luckier he found the correct alleyway.
He leans over the heap wearing the Belstaff (blood-stained, he'd have to go to the cleaners this week), checking vitals. Sherlock has a long gash spanning his cheekbone. Several more across his throat. All shallow, thank god. Bruises are already forming on that pale neck where fingers squeezed too tight. The git is alright.
John is propping the hurting Sherlock up, arm over shoulders, so he can breathe properly. Doctor mode, on. He cleans up Sherlock as best he can in the dim light.
"Lestrade is on his way," he shoots a glare at the unconscious figure feet away.
"John," Sherlock rasps, "you got my text."
John rolls his eyes. Stating the obvious, not good. He sighs, reeling in emotions. John is furious.
"Mind telling me why the hell you ran off alone?" Eyes narrowed, in control.
Sherlock blinks twice, confused.
"The case John, don't be an idiot."
John doesn't want to punch a wounded man, so he gets up to keep an eye out for Lestrade.
"Since you have absolutely no sense of self-preservation whatsoever," John finally says, "I only ask that you don't leave me out of it. I could have stopped this."
Sherlock tries, and fails, to ignore John's commanding tone, his face and neck stinging. He would never admit John has a point. Dull.
The gashes leave no scars, but John does not forget. He vows to be more diligent. Sherlock would not leave his sight.
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One time it's frightfully cold and John's leg is seizing up, stiff and useless. He knows it's in his head (mostly), but damn, it hurts.
Sherlock sprints ahead, focused elsewhere (The Case, John, The Case!), long legs carrying him deeper into the alley.
John grits his teeth and follows, slowing down despite his efforts.
The next stride has John's leg shooting with pain, which is fine – it's all fine, when he lands on a nasty patch of ice. With a strangled 'urmph!' he topples over, skidding to a halt. Embarrassed, he wishes to lie there forever. What would Sherlock say – his blogger can't even keep up. Eyes close in disgust.
Some tense moments later, careful hands are pulling him up. One snakes around his waist while the other rests John's arm over a helping shoulder.
John is floored.
Sherlock came back for him.
"The killer?" he wonders, disbelieving.
"Can wait." Tone dismissive.
"Sorry," John mumbles, disappointed in himself.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock instructs, squeezing John's good shoulder.
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One time they aren't even on a case, just bored to tears (translation: Sherlock's bored, inducing hair-pulling and tears of frustration on John's side).
Someone had suggested the whiskey. Followed by vodka they pilfered from Mrs Hudson's liquor cabinet.
Someone else had suggested they leave the flat.
Which led to the proposal of seeking out the criminals. Why wait for news of a Case to reach 221B? Bypass The Yard. More efficient.
Somehow they find Raz, forever carrying that infernal yellow spray paint. The good doctor seems fond of it, rambling on about smiley faces and damn holes in the wall. Both men are utterly pissed, to Raz's eternal amusement, so he happily gives John his last can of yellow spray paint.
The two stumble off, giggling like mischievous school boys.
Away from Mycroft's CCTV cameras, Sherlock and John stand in an alleyway, the wall bolstering them up.
Giggling – not laughing – John surveys his work, which is validated by Sherlock's dry chuckle. Both are pleased.
"My turn." Sherlock snatches at the spray paint.
By the time they are finished, they have laughed themselves to tears.
The wall now reads, "MYCROFT HAS SEX WITH CAKE". A large yellow blob is also present, clearly Mycroft. Sherlock remembers to snap a picture and text it to his brother dear.
The graffiti will be gone in the morning.
A shame, really.
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One time they are hot in pursuit, and it is imperative that their man – just a kid, a teen, really – doesn't realize he's being followed. If all goes as planned he will lead them directly to the headquarters of the local street gang turned drug cartel, responsible for the made-to-look-accidental overdoses on the rise.
Sherlock, the precision instrument, is staring off into the maze of twists and turns. Suddenly: "Dammit, John."
The chase halts, reverses. Sherlock sees something – no, observes – John doesn't.
"He's coming back this way. Standard procedure, overshoots destination, doubles back, just to be safe." The words are flying, spitting from his mouth. Sherlock miscalculated.
Sherlock miscalculated.
"So he's coming this way." John states, more for himself, but Sherlock still gives him The Look that means: 'yes, very good, do keep up'.
Both take in their surroundings, thinking hard. No time to retreat, he'd see them running, too suspicious. No fire escapes, no accessible windows. No bins to hide behind, or in. They're trapped.
They stare at each other, John's eyes wide, Sherlock's narrow. Neither wants to hurt this boy, he's just a pawn in the organization – desperately needs money, alcoholic father, despondent mother, three, no four, younger siblings. He's their only in at the moment, and it had taken a whole week for the Homeless Network to get them this far. Further delays were not to be tolerated.
John can finally hear the patter of running feet. Closer.
Still staring at Sherlock, he receives another Look. One that seems to say: 'sorry, no choice'.
Before he can puzzle over this, John is shoved against the nearest wall, hard.
He gasps, breath fleeing. He doesn't have the chance to catch it back, Sherlock's fault, as foreign lips crash into his. A pause in the action as they pull back, only to shower his lips and jaw with more (surprisingly adept) kisses.
John, back ramrod straight against the wall, accepts them stoically. He lets the shock sweep over him, all trains of thoughts derailed. No, no, no, just for a case, The Case, something logical, a distraction, think case, Sherlock's thinking of The Case. He is riding a roller coaster that never came out of its drop.
Suddenly that drop angle changes, steepness increasing, dangerously fast, as Sherlock's teeth come in contact with his lower lip. All together now, both moving; John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John. Hands carding through hair – oh god, those curls.
John's ears are not so full of Sherlock that he misses the snicker as feet patter by. Those Cupid's bow lips trail languidly up his jawline as the ride comes slowly screeching to a halt. The sound of feet fades away.
Sherlock pulls back so that he is no longer flush against John, but no so far that John can move away.
"He doesn't suspect a thing," Sherlock explains, hushed. John can feel the heat coming off of Sherlock's face, and wonders vaguely how red it is, but it's too dark to tell. "Come along John," Sherlock steps away completely, "we'll lose the trail."
Right then, that's right, The Case, hiding in plain sight, it was all A Distraction for The Case, silly John.
"John."
He meets those silver-grey eyes that are giving him another Look. It means: 'Don't be an idiot, John'.
Sherlock's fingers twine through his own, dragging him along through the alleyway.
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…
The next time they find themselves in hot pursuit in one of London's dark and winding alleyways, they hold hands. John knows he should feel awkward, because of the location (another alleyway) and things left unsaid (the snogging). Instead, he feels the holes of their broken conversations these past few days fade away; the darkness of the alleyway filling, masking, patching them up.
John can't be sure who reached for whose hand first. It hardly matters; the mutual action speaks volumes in the silent alleyway (save quickened breaths and falls of shoes). The Talk can come later.
Right now, they need to catch a murderer.
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…
This time is different. This time people will definitely talk.
Gunshots fly into the sky.
"My hostage!" cries the man cuffed to him.
"Hostage yes," he agrees. "That works, that works."
They run.
"Take my hand!" Sherlock demands, just this once, as they dart into the nearest alleyway. John complies.
Everything is jumbled. Fleeing, instead of pursuing; a different type of thrill, the wrong one. More dangerous, more to lose.
John is grateful for the cuffs, for Sherlock's hand in his. It tethers him to home, one last time.
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Some nights John wanders through empty alleyways.
When things become too much, he runs. Like before.
John tries not to live in past, rather focus on the day at hand, but god it's hard. Memories everywhere, threatening to besiege him.
Like now, shaking a can of spray paint in a deserted alley, ruefully thinking this is not that first time.
Carefully, he spells out the words. Making them bold, deliberate. He's not as talented as Raz and his mates, but he's gotten better through practice.
The script reads, in obnoxious yellow: "MORIARTY WAS REAL."
He does it for himself, every now and again. To remember, to pay tribute.
Hard to believe, impossible really, that it's been three years. John has done his best to carry on, to not return to the state he was in when Sherlock first found him. An empty shell. Even though he's lost Sherlock, he can still function. John reminds himself of this frequently; he isn't convinced it's helping.
John rests against the graffitied wall, thinking. He loses track of time.
There's a noise eventually, no longer alone, accompanied by hesitant shuffling.
John glances up, and sees a ghost.
The consulting detective and his doctor-blogger reunite in an alleyway. It's as good a place as any.
John pelts the apparition with the empty paint can, hard.
He then gives his right hook a go – half to determine whether the detective is solid and not, in fact, conjured by his overtired mind – and feels rather than hears the breaking of cartilage followed by the spurting of sticky blood.
"What. The fuck. Sher – ?" he can't say his name. It's too much.
A few unbidden, hot tears have leaked down his face. Proof that Captain John Watson, MD, is completely knackered.
He rubs them away, since when had he become so soft? John is shattering before the very man who had broken him and who he'd tried so hard to patch himself up for.
The former detective sits down next to John, tentatively. He's reset his nose and is holding its bridge to stem the flow of blood.
"John."
The rolling baritone is different than he remembers, less sure, emotion seeping through the calculating cracks. John resists the urge plug his ears at the sound. Instead, he buries his head in his hands.
The hesitant explanation comes. Hesitant because they both know it's inadequate. Three targets, three gunmen apparently. Forcing him to choose, Moriarty, forever the sick bastard. Molly helped with the illusion; John cannot believe it never slipped. Next he went underground, working to destroy what remained of the consulting criminal's expansive network.
"Why so long?" John has to ask.
"It wasn't – easy." John notices how his voice begins to crack on the last beat. John sees how much he is trying to hide, ashamed of what he has had to do in the past three years.
John sighs, wishing he could stay angry. He clears his throat.
"I told you once not to leave me behind," he begins. "You should have brought me along. Would've been easier."
"John –"
John cuts him off, that strangled emotion. He understands; it's more than clear.
"You knew I that would've said yes, we could've made me disappear easily. Yet you didn't ask –why? Deduction, you didn't want me there. But why? You once called me a conductor of light. You need me. Conclusion, you thought I'd be better off without you. To keep me safe," John sounds like the detective at a crime scene. Each thinks it is amusing, but neither is up to joking just yet. "You didn't think to compare physical and emotional safety. Obviously."
"John, I am sorry," he says slowly, deliberately, as if everything hangs on this moment. Which it probably does.
John stands. Sherlock frowns, resigned.
The good doctor turns, looking down (for once) on his friend.
John holds out his hand. Sherlock takes it.
"Let's go home, Sherlock," he is saying.
They do, taking the shortcut through the alley and over the rooftop.
A/N:
If convenient, please review. If inconvenient, review anyway.
~YIEQ