One day, John finds himself interrupted in the midst of a lovely and relaxing afternoon to be dragged out the door by an eager, practically-bouncing-in-anticipation flatmate.
"Come on, John!" Sherlock says, a rare genuine smile on his face as he tugs on John's wrist, John staggering down the stairs after him. "It's an eight at least! We've no time to lose! Lestrade can't have all the fun!"
"Alright, alright, slow down you maniac," John laughs at Sherlock's giddiness. It's unusual to see the man so expressively enthusiastic, at least lately. There's been a distinct lack of good cases for an entire six weeks straight with no sign of the drought letting up, and thus Sherlock's experiments have gotten more and more creative - not to mention dangerous - the more bored he has become. So seeing him like this, answering his calling, is a relief and overall just makes John smile.
But for once, Sherlock's uncanny cab-summoning abilities fail him. They stand on the pavement for nearly ten minutes watching the cab-deserted street before both turn to each other, sigh and make for the underground with unison shrugs.
This is the first sign of real trouble... not that could they know it.
John follows Sherlock through the bustling Baker Street station, down the stairs and onto one of the platforms, one which John assumes is the right one. Sherlock usually knows where he is going, after all. It's a Circle line train, John notices as he and Sherlock are crammed in with the rest of the rush hour commuters, and that sounds right.
It's not.
He quickly realizes this, when the train arrives at Edgware Road. Right line of the Tube, but there is one problem. Their destination, Bethnal Green, is in the opposite direction. It takes a moment, but he finally catches Sherlock's eye, nodding toward the doors. In response, once he realizes the same thing John has, Sherlock rolls his eyes and tries to make his way out, pushing roughly through the sardine-packed crowd, when-
"Stand clear of the doors! Mind the closing doors!"
They slam shut before Sherlock can force his way around a particularly impassable clump of map-clutching tourists, and so instead he is forced to slump against the nearest pole, scowling. In the couple of minutes between there and the next station, John makes his way slowly around the people in between him and Sherlock and strategically positions himself by the doors, one hand hovering near Sherlock's arm so he can grab him and drag him out if he needs to.
Then, the intercom comes on and their journey takes yet another turn, pardon the pun.
"The next station is Paddington. Change for-"
"Oh, no," John mutters.
"What?" Sherlock's eyes latch onto him immediately.
"Let's not get off here," he says quickly, seeing the beginning of the crowded platform rushing toward them. It already looks like a nightmare, and not one John has any interest in dealing with.
Sherlock looks at him in surprise. "What? Why not? We can get a train that's going in the other direction this way-"
"Because, Sherlock, I hate Paddington station," John interrupts. "I think everyone does. It's massive, not to mention it's rush hour right now! Do you really want to try to navigate that beast?"
"What do you suggest we do, then?" Sherlock frowns. "Wait until Hammersmith and turn around then?"
"No, of course not, but-"
"John. We are on a time limit," Sherlock reminds, in a faux-patient voice. "We can easily turn around here. Imbeciles manage to get through Paddington everyday without undue trouble. Therefore we can do it too."
John nods. It sounds reasonable enough. He and Sherlock have gotten out of worse situations than a little traffic before.
It's a shame when optimists have to face the reality that is rush hour at Paddington Station.
They get off the train at last, John mostly relieved to get some fresh air (well, relatively fresh), but before he can do more than sigh in relief and then check his pockets to ensure no pickpocket had gotten brave, Sherlock takes off, sweeping through the crowd with stubborn determination only Sherlock Holmes on a mission can exhibit.
"Oi, wait up," John sighs again, smirking a bit at Sherlock's eagerness. In spite of their somewhat annoying delay, the consulting detective is still practically bouncing on the way to a promising new crime scene. He dodges around people with expert ease, probably due to his height and freakishly-good observation skills. John has more trouble, but manages to at least keep the taller man in sight.
Paddington is utter chaos, full of people dragging absurdly large cases behind them and dashing about in all directions with no real sense of order whatsoever. The various platforms ebb and flow with traffic as trains come and go, but the crowds never seem to go away entirely. The signs for the various trains and their destinations add to the seemingly unending number of obstacles John has to navigate around. For several tense moments, he becomes entirely separated from Sherlock and freezes, confused. If he loses Sherlock in this mess, there is a not-at-all-impossible chance he will never find him again, and that Sherlock will have solved the entire bloody case by the time John manages to catch up. Luckily (and it's the only bit of luck John seems to have encountered since he left the house), moments later he catches sight of a billowing dark coat. He grins. Thank goodness for Sherlock's innate melodramatic streak. No one else has that coat, and even if they do, no one can wear it in such a way that makes it look more like a vampire cape than anything else.
He catches up by some miracle just in time to find Sherlock leaping onto a train. John just barely has time to get on before the doors slam, and in fact it does catch painfully on his shoulder for a second. He yanks loose, half-collapses against the opposite doors, and turns to look at a rather breathless Sherlock, who is wedged in next to him.
"Right train?" John asks as he tries to catch his breath, rubbing his pinched shoulder.
Sherlock nods. "Circle and District line eastbound, didn't you notice?"
"Not really, I'm relying on you and your massive brain mostly."
Sherlock smiles, looking a bit smug at the praise. "See? That wasn't so bad."
"Just don't make me do it again." John sighs, feeling like he's finally getting his breath back. "That was quite the obstacle course."
"It wasn't too hard though. I told you, even imbeciles can do it."
"Oh, and you're an example?" John teases.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John can tell he isn't truly irritated. He's still too excited about the promise of a difficult case at the end of all this madness.
Sadly, that positive mood doesn't last long.
Sherlock's phone buzzes as the train stops at the next station, an occurrence that distracts them both. How he gets signal down here, John will never know. It definitely is impossible for anyone else.
"Hello?" Sherlock answers, then rolls his eyes. "I told you, I'm on my way. The Tube is madness right now. I'll get there in due time, just don't let anyone touch anything!" He scowls. "I don't care that they're trained professionals, it's an eight! You have to wait for me!" He hangs up angrily.
John raises his eyebrows. "Lestrade, I take it?"
"He's getting impatient, but it's not as if this madness is my..." Sherlock trails off, staring at the map on the wall of the train in sudden realization. And any trace of good humor he might have had minutes before evaporates into nothingness.
"What?" John asks, dread filling him.
"We're on the bloody District line," Sherlock hisses, yanking at his hair in exasperation. "How did I miss that? Stupid, stupid! We'll have to change lines again."
He pushes himself upright with a sound not unlike a growl and makes to head for the door, but before he can do so John grabs for him. "Wait-"
"Attention," the driver's voice cuts in, crackling over the speakers. "Apologies for the slight delay. We're being held at a red signal, but we should be able to move shortly."
"Come on, John, we still have a chance to get off." Sherlock looks at him beseechingly.
"Sherlock, let's just wait." John tries to explain. He actually has a plan, for once.
"We can't," he snaps back. "Lestrade is waiting!"
"But-"
"Come on."
"No, let's wait until Notting Hill Gate!" Stubborn git.
Sherlock freezes, considering. John takes the opportunity to elaborate. "What would we do if we got off here? It's Bayswater, all we could do is turn around and go back the way we came. If we wait until the next stop we can just take the Central line all the way there."
Sherlock looks horrified and not a little irritated at the prospect of being on one line of the Tube for nearly a dozen stops, but he nods after a moment. "Fine."
John smiles, glad they've finally reached a solution. "Great. Now could you sit back and relax?"
His six-year-old flatmate harrumphed. "No."
"Of course not." John chuckles.
The train ends up sitting on the platform for over ten minutes. The conductor comes on several more times, saying the same thing basically each time - red signal, should be moving soon, et cetera. However, it turns out that there has been a signal failure at South Kensington, causing severe delays on the District line. Sherlock doesn't say anything, just clenches his fists and glares fiercely at nothing in particular. John just pops in earbuds and ignores him.
After a quarter of an hour, they get moving again, and John smiles encouragingly at Sherlock. All he gets is a dirty look in response.
"Come on," he says, nudging Sherlock's arm. "You can't blame me for this."
"Can't I?"
Instead of replying, he just chuckles.
The switch to the Central line at Notting Hill Gate is blissfully smooth, but it seems Sherlock's mood has not improved. Especially when a pair of children sit on either side of him, separating him and John for three stops. They squeal and giggle and bounce about, which actually reminds John a bit of Sherlock's behavior this morning. He catches his flatmate's eye and grins; the contrast between Sherlock's storm cloud expression and the kids' bright eyes makes for interesting viewing.
The children get off, trailing after their mother with quite a lot of giggling, which enables John to slide into the seat next to Sherlock, who doesn't spare John a glance, apparently very interested in staring daggers at the other side of the train.
Honestly, John is not all that irritated, more amused.
"Let me guess," he says. "You deleted how to ride the tube?"
In response, Sherlock's cheeks redden, just slightly, but enough that John notices. "Don't be absurd. That even I deem to be important."
"Mmhmm," John nods, as if he has accepted this answer as anything other than the embarrassed cover that it is, then sits back and relaxes, well aware he has saved what is left of their day because of his travel plan. His, not Sherlock's.
During the next few stops he calmly ignores the seething Sherlock next to him, whose hackles he can feel rising with every stop the train makes. He silently reminds himself to never again let Sherlock go so long without a good case; obviously it makes him more anxious and irritable than John wants to deal with.
However, now that they've gotten well away from Paddington and are over halfway to Bethnal Green, John is feeling much better, and lets his mind drift to the case. Sherlock has told him nothing about it, really, and the suspense is oddly enjoyable. It shows him how much he has missed the cases too.
Somewhere between Oxford Circus and Holborn, John is distracted from his speculations by Sherlock, who's still sat beside him, and who's apparently been keeping up a running commentary under his breath this entire time. Amused by the detective's distinctly-sulky expression, John strains to listen...
"Bloody idiots can't even board a train properly..."
"Why does it have to be so noisy? Impossible to think here. I can't hear my own thoughts at this point..."
"And who decided this seating arrangement makes sense? Just install more handholds - more efficient if everyone stands anyway..."
"Honestly, must these children play their music so loudly? I can hear every word. So inconsiderate..."
"Yes, yes, 'mind the gap between the train and the platform.' Really? How novel! I haven't heard that fifty times today..."
John bites his lip to keep from laughing. Sherlock sounds exactly like a grumpy child who has reached the point at which he feels irrationally angry at everything. Which isn't an entirely inaccurate description, to be honest... Sherlock's reminded him of a six-year-old multiple times today, after all.
"Sherlock," John murmurs, nudging his arm ever so gently. "You need to calm down, yeah? We're well on our way now."
"Oh, do shut up, John. I'm allowed to be irked just now."
"But I thought you were excited to have a case?"
"Yes," he says with an incongruous scowl. "Pleased to have a case, yes. Not pleased to have to take this wretched form of transportation to get there! Especially when everything is going wrong with it! It is without doubt the most annoying invention known to mankind."
John raises an eyebrow. "That's not histrionic at all, you know. You'd be rubbish at theatre."
Sherlock shoots him a look that says clearly shut up now while you're only in mildly dangerous waters. John smiles at him with an innocent look, then turns back to staring at the shoes of the person sat across from him. Everyone has their Tube faces on, except Sherlock, who goes back to muttering angrily under his breath. John just leans back in the seat again and allows the rattle of the train and his flatmate's frustrated stream-of-consciousness become white noise. It's odd that this should be relaxing. Well, it's also amusing, too. Or rather, Sherlock is, child that he is.
Besides, in a situation like this, when it seems some force is trying to ensure they do not make it to the first case in six weeks, there are only two valid reactions. Either let it ruin your entire day, or laugh at it.
Obviously, Sherlock is opting for the former.
It takes ages, but they finally make it to the Bethnal Green station. Sherlock is the first one through the doors, rocketing out like he has been trapped in a pressurized container. Which, in a way, John supposes is correct. Shaking his head fondly at his eccentric detective, John follows and has to laugh at Sherlock's nearly-exaggerated expression of exasperation when he sees that the escalator is broken down.
John just claps him on the back and begins to trudge up to the surface. "Come on!" he calls back to the pouting genius, grinning to himself.
He's such a bad person, he knows, for needling his best friend when the poor man is so obviously almost at the end of his rope. It's just so easy to tease Sherlock right now. How can he help it?
When they reach the top of the escalator, Sherlock appears ready to explode at anyone who even looks at him funny. John just heads for the exit, knowing a nice murder is certain to get Sherlock's mind off the trying journey they've just finished. He pauses to wait for Sherlock to catch up, then together they head for the exit. To win some points back in his favor, he gestures ahead and allows Sherlock to head through the barrier first.
And at last, a look of relief etched onto every inch of his face, Sherlock presses his Oyster card to the yellow reader, and steps forward to leave, when-
Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!
John really should not be amused, but he can't really help himself, a sentiment which has rapidly become his motto of the day. The machine has - for some reason - rejected Sherlock's card. It does that sometimes, to everyone, for no reason at all much of the time. Probably Sherlock has been too eager to step forward through the turnstiles and thus not held his card down long enough and that is causing the problem.
But the moment the red light appears on the reader, John sees Sherlock's face crumple. He drops his gaze to the ground and sighs, then slowly turns and slumps against the wall. John huffs and follows, bending over the utterly fed up-looking form of his friend.
"Come on, Sherl-"
"Shut up."
"But-"
"I'm not going anywhere, John."
"Oh come on, after all the effort to get here, you're just going to give up now? Just try your card again-"
"I don't want to." He sounds defeated.
"What, you're going to just let Lestrade fend for himself on this one?" John tries not to grin; it is clear, after all, that Sherlock is entirely fed up with everything and is going off on a bit of a tantrum. But John knows the case will cheer him up, if only he can get the madman off the floor and back outside.
Sherlock looks up at him, a scowl on his face. "My card didn't work."
John smiles, trying to look reassuring. "I know, but you know these reader things. Just try it again."
"No, it's clear. The universe has decided I'm not supposed to solve this crime."
"Oh bloody hell," John rolls his eyes. "Fine." Before his companion can react, he plucks the card out of Sherlock's fingers and heads for the exit, where indeed the card works on the second try.
John turns and can't help but chuckle at Sherlock's blue-green eyes, wide with astonishment. After a moment of shock, the detective springs up and dashes after him, though he is stopped by the barrier. "John!" he cries, indignant. "You took my card."
"Calm down, you prat," John chortles, holding out his own card over the barrier. "Just use mine, and let's get out of here."
It may have been amusing, but John will admit, as he and Sherlock head into the light on the surface, that he is glad it is over.
Let's not do that again any time soon, he silently vows. Sherlock might blow a gasket.
Later...
John is dead on his feet. It's been nearly twenty hours since they escaped the Tube, and he hasn't slept more than probably fifteen minutes here and there the entire time. He can barely remember what sleep feels like at this point.
Not that the case was a bad one. The contrary. Full of the twists and turns and complexities Sherlock lives for, not to mention a nice dose of danger, thanks to the violent weapons dealers. In fact, John had to shove Sherlock out of a bullet's path at one point, which he does not exactly appreciate. Git. Not to mention they've been dashing about almost all of the east end. Still, it has been a good case, just the kind Sherlock has needed for weeks now. Maybe now he will stop blowing things up in the kitchen for a while.
John frowns. Sherlock Holmes, stop experimenting? He really did need sleep... He is obviously losing it.
Lestrade finally lets them leave, though it is after a fairly lengthy scolding for Sherlock, consisting mostly of "what the bloody hell were you thinking?" and "I told you to wait for me to come back you up!" and "you could have gotten killed, you idiot!" and "are you trying to give me a heart attack?!"
John had stood there and tried not to fall asleep standing up.
Now, thankfully, they are headed home, and John is already daydreaming about his bed and his pillow and how warm and soft they will be...
A crash startles John out of the almost-nodding off he is slipping into. "What the-?"
Thunder, he realizes. And a moment later, rain pours down in what seems like a solid, cold sheet.
Great. After the journey here, John doesn't think he wants to imagine what the journey back will be like with this weather.
Sherlock huffs in frustration, looking over at John helplessly for a moment. Then, he grabs his arm and tugs the sleepy doctor along with him. "Come on, John."
He follows Sherlock to a main road, rather zombie-like, and watches as the detective tries and fails for almost fifteen minutes to hail a cab.
His luck is not with him today, is it, John thinks to himself with a yawn. Maybe two more minutes, and then he'll have to intervene. But the only suggestion is...
Great.
John counts out two minutes in his head, both as a last chance for a cab to show itself and also as a desperate effort to stay awake. Then, he braces himself.
"Sherlock," John says tentatively around his clattering teeth. "It's freezing out here, and we're both soaked now. Also, we're both exhausted because of trudging around half the city today, and I know you're going to crash the second you sit down. Can we just get another means of transportation home? Please?"
"No, no. The nearest bus stop that will take us toward home is nearly a half mile away, and even then after that we'll have to take a second bus," Sherlock rattles off without hesitation, not taking his eyes off the road, as if willing a taxi to appear for them. "And since we've been, to use your words, trudging around half the city today, I assume you'd rather not have to walk more than necessary?"
John sighs and tenses slightly in anticipation of what he knows will not be a welcome suggestion. "Well, actually... I wasn't talking about taking a bus."
A few seconds of silence pass, during which John watches Sherlock's shoulders tense. Slowly, he spins about to face John, his face almost deadly with seriousness and determination. He looks incongruously furious, since to any sane person John's suggestion really isn't all that bad...
Then again, that presupposes either of them is sane.
"No." Sherlock growls low in his throat, voice barely audible over the downpour.
"But-"
"Absolutely not."
"Sherlock, it's quicker!"
"Quicker?" His laugh is mocking and incredulous. "No."
John sighs. He is just so cold and tired, and the way Sherlock is acting right now is going to start wearing him down quite soon if this doesn't stop. "Listen," he tries again.
"I said no!" Sherlock snaps. "I refuse to ride that... that... Monstrosity again!"
"Stop being so dramatic!" John bursts out, trying - once again - not to smile at his absurd flatmate, irritation somehow fading in the wake of Sherlock's histrionic description of the Underground. "It's pouring rain, we're both knackered, and there's a good chance even if we see a cab they won't take us since we're soaked. And," he barrels on as he sees Sherlock starting to try to resume his protesting. "The buses are really inefficient from here, it would take us ages like you said. So unless you want to stand here all night waiting for a cab in this misery they call weather, be my guest. I'm taking the-"
"Don't say it."
John does laugh this time. "Oh, I'm not allowed to say it now, am I? Tube."
"Shut up!" Sherlock glares.
"Tube."
"John!"
"Tube!"
"You are childish!"
"I am?" John laughs. "You're one to talk."
"John, I will not ride that horrid thing again." He crosses his arms, angry expression somewhat lessened in potency by the rain water streaking down his face in rivulets and dripping from his sopping hair. John is surprised he doesn't stomp his foot, and bites his lip so he doesn't laugh at the mental image he's just conjured up.
"So how do you plan to get home then, your highness?" John crosses his arms in a mirror of his flatmate, knowing Sherlock is banking everything on a highly unlikely taxi ex machina. He knows they both probably look mental, standing the the pouring rain and having some sort of strange stare-down.
"I can wait," Sherlock says too quickly, and John sighs. It seems he doesn't actually have a plan beyond avoid the tube.
"Alright," John shakes his head, a smirk fighting for dominance on his lips. "See you at home, if you ever get there."
He turns and heads toward the end of the block, where the truly welcome sight of the red and blue Underground sign beckons. At least it will be warm and dry down there. Anything that goes wrong, if anything is planning to, John is prepared to deal with. After this morning, he feels ready for anything the Tube can throw at him. Obviously Sherlock feels differently, but that is his problem, not John's. John has plans to get home.
Just as he is turning his thoughts to a lovely daydream about tea and a hot shower, and bed of course, a dark car pulls up, equidistant between him and Sherlock. He pauses, glancing at it, then starts in realization and stops altogether.
The car window rolls down and an amused smirk greets both men from within. "Hello, John. Brother dear. It seems you two are in need of a ride."
"Oh no," John hears Sherlock moan.
"Mycroft," John grins, so grateful for once for the rather omniscient elder Holmes. "Blimey, for once it's great to see you. Thanks."
He is just about to make for the car door when from out of nowhere Sherlock's hand yanks him - hard - in the opposite direction. "Nope."
"Sherlock," John squawks in annoyance. "What do you think you're-?"
"Anything, even the blasted Tube, is better than riding home with my brother!"
And John can't help but burst out laughing.
A short while later, they are settling into seats on the tube line that will take them directly home, both relieved it isn't as crowded as they had feared it would be. John gets comfortable - well, as comfortable as one can on public transportation. At least, he muses, Sherlock seems calmer than he has all day.
"You're ridiculous, you know," John mutters, smiling softly. "Mycroft was just trying to be helpful. Not everything he does has a secondary motive. Well, a lot of it..." he yawns. "But still."
He's let his eyes flutter shut at this point, but when Sherlock doesn't reply, he frowns and cracks an eye open. "Sherlock, are you even listening to me-?"
He stops and smiles as a pile of curls suddenly lands on his shoulder. Sherlock has drifted off while pressed up against John and is currently dead to the world. John shakes his head, affection surging through him, and lets his detective slumber on.
FIN.
I didn't mean for the title to be a knockoff of a Star Trek episode title, but it just sort of happened. As for the Tube lines and such, I do hope I got things right, considering I am not a Londoner.
I would love to hear your thoughts on this, so please leave a comment!