Alright, I've got everything fixed! Somehow, in my attempt to fix my mistake, this fic nearly doubled in length. Sorry if I've butchered anything "British", I'm american and not the best with accents, unlike some of my friends. I hope you enjoy my fic, and please review! I certainly enjoyed writing it :) Also, this fic was inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr. Just thought I ought to mention that.
John glanced at his cane, picked it up, then put it back. He listlessly wandered around the flat, then picked up his cane again. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out," he called. He was out the door before she could answer, then stopped on the doorstep. Now that he had decided to leave the flat for a bit, where should he go? He couldn't go to the hospital, they'd told him he'd be fired if he came in on his day off again. Mary was out of town, so he couldn't go visit her either. He began walking without any destination in mind.
A few hours later, John found himself before Sherlock's grave. Nearly three years later and he still couldn't hold back the sobs when he thought of his friend. He allowed himself a few moments, then started back to 221B. As he walked, he noticed the telephones in the phone booths ringing as he passed them. As he walked towards the fourth one, it also started ringing. He stopped. This was familiar. He glanced around. There were several cameras on the buildings surrounding him. They were all pointing at him. He took a step towards the phone booth, just as it stopped ringing. Brakes squealed as a car pulled up beside him.
The car's window rolled down to reveal a man holding a gun, which was aimed directly at John's heart. "Get in," the man barked. John quickly obeyed. He wished he had his gun with him, but it had been missing since Sherlock's death.
Some time later, the car stopped, and the man got out. He ordered John out of the car, and pushed him along into an abandoned warehouse, gun pressed to his back. He pushed John down into a chair and tied his hands behind his back, then exited the room. A few minutes later, another man came in. He stopped in front of John and studied him.
"So. You're John Watson, are you?" The man inquired. John nodded. "Nice to meet you. I'm Moran." He held out his hand, then laughed. "That won't work, will it?"
John glared up at Moran. "What do you want from me?"
"To be honest, you're not at all what I was expecting. But, my sources tell me you're the best way to get to Sherlock. Why he would have any interest in someone like you is beyond me."
"Someone like me?"
"Ex-military doctor, now just a regular doctor, and engaged to be married. So. Completely. Average. So tell me, how are you and our dear Sherlock connected?"
"We were flatmates. I'm afraid you've gotten one vital bit of information wrong, though. Sherlock Holmes... is dead."
"I assure you, he's not. Not unless he's died in the last twenty-four hours. He's been giving me quite a bit of trouble, he has. That man has single-handedly destroyed nearly everything Moriarty and I have worked for, and he's killed quite a few of my men in the process." Moran began pacing. "That's where you come in. I need you to lure Sherlock here, so I can end him, and rebuild everything without his interference."
"I watched Sherlock jump myself! There's no way anybody could have survived that fall!"
Moran grinned. "But Sherlock isn't just anybody, is he?"
John stared up at Moran in shock. Was it possible? Could Sherlock still be alive? Then his gaze turned fierce. "Even if Sherlock is still alive, what makes you think I'd help you?"
Moran gave a cruel chuckle. "You already are helping. I'm sure by now Mr. Holmes knows you're here, and he should be arriving any time to rescue you. He'll fail though. He won't make it out of this room alive." He gestured upwards. John looked up. Several snipers hid in the rafters of the building, each with their gun aimed either at the door or at John. Moran turned to leave, and waved cheerily over his shoulder.
"He won't come!" John yelled at Moran's retreating back. "He's too clever! He'll recognize this trap. He won't fall for something this simple!" Moran stiffened, and strode back to John. John yelped as the other man's fist connected with his cheek and knocked him to the floor. Moran righted John and the chair.
"If he doesn't want his beloved blogger to die, he will come!" He nodded up at one of the snipers. A shot rang out, and John gasped at the sudden pain in his shoulder. "Another shot, every hour, until Sherlock arrives. You'd best hope he gets here soon." He whirled and stalked out of the room.
A few hours – and as many painful but non-lethal bullets later, Moran re-entered the room. "Good news, Doctor! Sherlock is on his way!" he announced.
John raised his head wearily. The gunshots themselves may not have been lethal, but blood loss was starting to take its toll. Another shot was fired, and John tensed, but the impact never came. Instead, Moran crumpled to the ground. Past him, a tall, slender figure stood in the doorway. This new man started forward, but halted uncertainly as several red dots covered John's chest. Suddenly, there was a multitude of "BANG"s, followed by the sound of bodies and metal falling to the ground. John blacked out, unable to take anymore after his already extremely stressful day. The thin man in the door rushed to his side. He checked John's pulse then began to fumble with the ropes binding his wrists.
John faded back into consciousness, and craned his neck in an attempt to see the man behind him. The man's hands were shaking so much he was making no progress with untying the rope. "Sherlock?" John questioned
"John! Are you alright?" Sherlock replied. He gave up on the ropes and moved in front of John to get a better look at him. "I'm sorry, you weren't supposed to get involved! I didn't want you to get hurt, but it's happened anyway..."
"Sherlock, look. I'm fine. What I'd like to know is where you've been these past three years and why you let me believe you were dead!"
Sherlock scooted closer, and pushed the shirt off John's shoulder to inspect the bullet wounds. "I had to stop them. Moriarty, Moran, their whole network. I had to convince everybody I'd really died. It was the only way to keep all of you safe."
"Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped you!"
Sherlock shook his head. "Too dangerous. I couldn't risk them using you to get to me. Couldn't risk you getting hurt."
"That worked, didn't it?" John muttered sarcastically. "You'd better be glad I'm still tied up, because I'd sure like to beat the hell out of you right now!"
"It worked for three years!" Sherlock protested, the guilt evident in his eyes. He began to back away.
"No, come here. I'm sorry." Sherlock returned. John glanced down, then back up at Sherlock. "I've got to be imagining things. You jumped off a building. You're dead! There's no way you could be here now!"
The next instant found Sherlock straddling John's lap, his arms wrapped around John's shoulders, and his face buried against his neck. "I'm sorry! I didn't want to make you think I was dead, but it was the only way to keep you safe! I would have come back sooner if I could have. Moriarty's web was spread wider than I thought it was."
A few moments later, John noticed Lestrade standing by the door, doing his best to look anywhere but at the pair in the center of the room. All the other policemen were gone and the bodies had been cleared out. John sent him a pleading look. Lestrade noticed and came over to untie him. "I'll give you two a minute, shall I?" he asked once John's hands were free.
"Thanks." John nodded. Once Lestrade left, John wrapped one arm around Sherlock's waist and ran his other hand through the taller man's dark hair. "Don't worry, everything's fine now," he murmured.
A few minutes later, Sherlock noticed John had fallen silent. He pulled back and looked down at the man. John was unconscious. Sherlock jumped up and ran out in a panic to find Lestrade. Just as he exited the door, a team of paramedics rushed in.
"Sherlock, over here!" Lestrade called. "They just arrived." He nodded towards the ambulance.
"Thank you," Sherlock replied. "Do you think they would let me ride with him to the hospital?"
Lestrade chuckled at the rare concern in Sherlock's voice. "John's a soldier. He'll be fine."
"Ex-soldier. He was sent home because he was shot."
"Doesn't mean he's any weaker for it. Now get in my car. We need to go see Mrs. Hudson, then I'll take you to the hospital."
Mrs. Hudson greeted Sherlock joyfully (after punching him in the face for letting her believe he was dead). Sherlock explained what he had been doing for the past three years, then told her what had happened to John. Mrs. Hudson said she would come by the hospital in the morning, and sent Sherlock on his way with Lestrade.
By the time the pair reached the hospital, John was out of surgery and in a private room, but was not yet allowed visitors. An hour later, a nurse told them they could go in. She spared Sherlock a quick glance, and warned him not to wake the sleeping patient.
"You go ahead. I'm going home," Lestrade said. "I just wanted to be sure you were both alright before I left." With that, he turned and made his exit, leaving Sherlock to face John alone.
Sherlock went in and sat in the chair beside the bed, unsure of what to do while John was asleep. He studied the man's face for a few minutes, then jumped up and hurried out. It would likely be several hours before John woke up, so Sherlock returned to 221B. He searched the flat for a change of clothes that might fit him, and found a box in the back of the coat closet. When he opened it, he found his old clothes. Not all of it, obviously, since they'd thought he was dead and so gave most of it away, but there were a few shirts and trousers, and his blue dressing gown. His long black coat hung beside John's green one. He rooted around in the box, looking for his scarf. It wasn't there.
He grabbed a shirt and a pair of trousers, then started towards the bathroom, intent on taking a shower. A flash of blue on John's chair in front of the telly caught his attention. His scarf. Why wasn't it in the closet with everything else? Sentiment? He snatched it up and continued to the bathroom.
After a quick shower, he packed a bag for John. The man would surely be wanting a fresh change of clothes when he was released from the hospital. He glanced around the room to see if there was anything else John might want, and was surprised to see his violin sitting in the corner, along with a few beginner's books. After a moment's hesitation, he put the violin in its case and shoved it in the bag. It would give him something to do while he waited for John to wake up.
With nothing left to do in the flat, he pulled on his coat and scarf, then picked up the suitcase and went back to the hospital. He sat in the chair beside John's bed and pulled out his violin. He tuned it and began playing. He started out with some easier songs – it had been three years since he'd last played it, after all. Once he had decided his skill was still as perfect as ever, he began playing songs he remembered as being John's favorites.
A nurse came in at one point to check on John, and seemed surprised to see anyone in the room with him. She asked Sherlock to play a bit quieter, but otherwise didn't make any mention of his presence. The night wore on, and eventually Sherlock laid down his violin and slumped forward to sleep, using the corner of the mattress as his pillow.
John woke up once during the night. His hand reached for Sherlock's, and he fell back asleep with a smile on his face.
When Mrs. Hudson came in the next morning as promised, the boys were still in the same position. "Not gay my arse, John Watson," she chuckled. She left the thermos of John's favorite tea on the bedside table, then walked back out of the room.