It had started out as a favor for Lestrade. At first glance the case had seemed absolutely and utterly boring to Sherlock, but John convinced him to do something nice for the DI, and now there was nothing that the good doctor regretted more.
About half way through the case the suspect learned that the police were getting close to him, so he decided to up his game, in a way even Sherlock did not see coming, at least not to this extent. As they pulled up in front of the suspects flat with two more cars, a rather old and shabby looking building, the suspect himself came running out and everybody stopped dead in their tracks, most of all Lestrade, who almost fell to his knees at the sight, John being the only thing that kept him standing as he rushed forward.
Jeff, the suspect, was holding onto a little girl's upper arm, who couldn't be older than eight, with his left hand, and was holding a knife up to her throat with his right. However, it wasn't that sight alone that froze them all but what the little girl had cried out looking at Lestrade.
"Daddy! Help me! Please Daddy!" She was sobbing and reaching her little, shaking hand out toward her father, who was in turn staring at her white as a sheet with utter horror, his hand outstretched, as if he thought if he tried a little bit harder he could reach her and keep her safe from this horrid man. Jeff had learned who was on his case and had taken the most important thing in the world to the Inspector, his little girl, his only daughter and child. His Eliza.
It was quiet for far too long before Lestrade managed to speak in a whisper, "Eliza." Then with a barely contained sob he pleaded, "Please let her go. She's not involved. Please just let her go and don't hurt her." There were tears running down Lestrade's cheeks as he rasped desperately, "Please!" No one even bothered bringing their guns up. Lestrade's little girl was being used as an effective shield. No one would point their gun in the little girls direction.
Jeff laughed a horrible laugh that spoke of his cruelty and ignorance and bellowed in a triumphant, ignorant voice, "Oh, you know what I want Detective. You can have…this thing," he looked down at the little girl in disgust, "if you let me go and promise not to come after me." He made a fake pouty face, "Or I can just kill little Elizabeth right now, so you can watch her die, if you'd prefer." A wicked and repulsive smile spread across his face.
No one noticed Sherlock disappear. John was still keeping Lestrade on his feet. Sherlock had snuck around the back of the building and pulled himself through a window that was poorly locked. He swiftly and silently crept through the flat and was standing in the doorway as Jeff brought the knife up slightly to slash the little girl's throat. Lestrade, crying, pleaded with the man, "Please, I'll let you go, you'll walk free, and no one will come after you, I promise! Just please don't hurt her, don't hurt my baby girl! Please…" But Jeff wanted to kill her now, he wanted to see the pain it would cause everybody watching his little show, especially the Detective Inspector. Sherlock could read this from behind the man in his body language so he didn't hesitate. He strode forward and brought the gun he had nicked from John level with the man's head and pulled the trigger.
As the man fell forward Sherlock grabbed the back of his pullover and pushed him to the side so he would not fall on little Elizabeth. Within a second Lestrade had run to his little girl and scooped her up in his arms, giving her the tightest hug he could without hurting her as she sobbed into his chest. John was right on his heels, and after making sure little Elizabeth was okay, physically at least, and making sure Jeff was truly dead, he slowly approached his friend who was standing as still as a statue, the gun dangling from his hand at his side.
John could actually see everything running through Sherlock's mind for once. The carefully crafted walls were gone, and that scared him. He knew how important those walls were to Sherlock. He'd only ever seen them slip slightly a few times for only brief glimpses, and that was something hardly anybody could say when it came to Sherlock, but now, now there simply were no walls. They had completely crumbled; they had come crashing down the second Sherlock pulled that trigger. John took the gun from Sherlock's hand and put it back where he'd had it before Sherlock pilfered it.
Sherlock looked broken as John stared into his unseeing eyes, and he didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to fix a broken Sherlock. John could see almost every negative emotion a person can possibly feel on his friends face, all at once. John couldn't think of anything to say so he took Sherlock's hand that had been holding the gun, it was shaking, and led him away from the scene. He knew that technically Sherlock had to stay to give his statement, but he also knew that Sherlock needed to be away from the dead man, and he trusted Lestrade to understand that.
And Lestrade did understand, as did every other officer there. As John was leading Sherlock away even Donavon gave Sherlock a faint smile, the most she could muster in the situation, and a nod of the head. No matter how much she normally loved to give him a hard time, and call him a freak, she had to admit that what he had just done was something she'd never be able to do without it costing her far too much. She would never have been able to save Lestrade's little girl in Sherlock's place. She would have hesitated and that hesitation would have been the difference between an evil, vile man dying and a bright innocent little girl.
It was silently decided that no one would bother Sherlock or John until the next day and they stayed true to that decision. It was Lestrade, accompanied by his daughter, that showed up the next day at 221B Baker St. John answered the door looking exhausted. Trying to sound cheerful Lestrade greeted him, "Hello John. How is he?" His smile faltered briefly, "I have to take his statement. I'm afraid it can't wait any longer."
John stared at him blankly for a moment before starting a little and saying, "Oh…yeah…kay. He's upstairs in the flat." He paused before adding, "Come on in." As Lestrade walked passed him and started up the stairs Elizabeth turned back to John and put her hand out, startling him so much he jumped a little at the little girl's rapid movement.
"I'm Elizabeth Lilly Lestrade, but most people call me Eliza or Ell. We didn't really meet properly before you and Mr. Sherlock were gone." She halfheartedly smiled up at John, obviously still suffering quite a bit from the turmoil of the day before.
John took her hand and gently shook it; rather amused by how grown up the eight year old was acting. "John Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you Miss. Lestrade." He gave her his most warm and comforting smile. Elizabeth's smile became more truthful before she walked up the stairs, still holding John's hand as they did.
When they entered the room Lestrade was standing off to the side of the door as if he didn't want to wander further in. John understood he was nervous about disturbing Sherlock, so letting go of Elizabeth's hand he strode forward, putting his hand on Lestrade's shoulder briefly, before getting to the windowsill Sherlock was sitting in as he blankly staring out the window. John put his hand on Sherlock's back before speaking.
In a soft voice he said, "Sherlock. Lestrade has to take your statement now. He's very sorry, but it can't be put off any longer." John paused when Sherlock showed no sign of movement and added, while moving his hand to squeeze Sherlock's shoulder lightly, "He brought Elizabeth with him." That seemed to work as Sherlock moved his eyes from the window to look at John, then Lestrade, and finally settled on the little girl he had saved. She was beaming up at him from behind John, as she had crept forward and taken his hand again. Sherlock faintly smiled back. She took this as enough of an encouragement to leap forward, while still not letting go of John's hand, and hug the Consulting Detective from the side, awkwardly as he was still seated, and john's hand was stuck in the middle of it. At first Sherlock was startled, but a real smile crept on his face as he hugged the little girl, and John's hand, back.
After a moment Lestrade cleared his throat and John took this as his cue and said, "Well then, Miss Eliza, there is a lady down stairs that can't wait to meet you. What do you say we go and pay her a visit while Mr. Sherlock and your father have a chat about work stuff?" Elizabeth nodded enthusiastically and the good doctor and the little girl were soon from the room, gone to see Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock and Lestrade were silent for a moment before the DI spoke, half whispering, "Thank you, Sherlock…for saving my little girl. I don't know what would have happened, what I would have done if anything had happened to her." He looked up from the spot of the floor he had been staring at and looked Sherlock in his grey-blue eyes. He tried his best to smile despite the last twenty four hours.
Elizabeth and John had hot coco with Mrs. Hudson as the detectives relived the moments they most wanted to forget, and soon John, Sherlock, and Lestrade found themselves stuck in a group hug with the little girl as they said good bye outside of the flat.
"See ya later Greg." John bent down so he was more level with Elisabeth and extended his hand to her, "Again it was a pleasure to meet you Miss. Lestrade." He offered the same warm comforting smile as she took his hand and shook it before trapping him in another hug. John made her feel safe and comfortable, like he was one of her uncles.
Then she walked over to Sherlock and pulled on his sleeve so that she could give him a hug too. He bent down and gave her a hug as she whispered an almost silent thank you in his ear. Then Lestrade was holding her in his arms as they retreated back to his car and she yelled back to the two men, "Bye Uncle Sherlock! Bye Uncle John! See you later!" Then smiling she added, "Love you!"
The two men could not help but smile as they yelled back across the street, "Bye Elizabeth! Love you, too!" It did not seem out of place to hear John say this to someone, but strangely, in this case, it seemed just as natural for Sherlock to be saying it too. They may not have known the little girl long, but in the short time they had all been through a lot together.
The glow the little girl left behind did not last long however. Both men were exhausted. John had spent the whole of the night in the sitting room keeping Sherlock company as the man could not find sleep. The moment that they got back inside the flat John went to make more tea and Sherlock collapsed on the couch. He was asleep by the time John came in with two cups. He placed Sherlock's down on the coffee table as he sat down in his armchair to read a book. The detective had been asleep for a good hour before he started fidgeting. He was making a face like he was about to cry, and he kept mumbling things like no, don't, and stop. It was obvious the man was having a nightmare so John put his book down next to Sherlock's now cold tea, and tried to wake him. "Sherlock, wake up. It's just a nightmare." He shook his shoulder a little. That seemed to make the nightmare ten times worse as it caused Sherlock to yell out in his sleep. John panicked a little, knowing what it's like to be stuck in a nightmare, so he sat down next to Sherlock on the couch and shook both of his shoulder. "Sherlock, you have to wake up, it's just a nightmare. Wake up Sherlock!" He was starting to sound hysterical.
Finally Sherlock jolted awake, sitting up, and almost head butting John. When he was able to get hold of his mind he could see John looking at him with that paternal concern Sherlock had seen so often when John was talking to the family of a victim. That's when Sherlock realized he had been crying in his sleep, and to his horror, he had not stopped when he awoke. John saw this and wrapped Sherlock in a hug, holding his head to his chest as Sherlock curled up against him like a little boy might and cried. John was flattered that Sherlock was letting him comfort him like this, but it was heartbreaking to see the detective so utterly broken.
Sherlock fell asleep again as John soothed him, rubbing his back, and keeping one hand on Sherlock's head to keep it against his chest as he hugged the gangly detective close to him. The nightmares did not come back, and John stayed like that for hours, fearing if he moved he would wake him up. He didn't mind. He just sat there, Sherlock cradled against him, as he read his book or just used the time to think. When Sherlock did wake up he at least seemed calmer. John could still see everything going through his mind, but at least he had gotten some sleep.
Sherlock seemed a little embarrassed at what he would call a display of weakness, but still sent John a silent thank you for being there to comfort him. He had never been so grateful to see John as he was when he woke up from that nightmare. No one except his brother had ever done something like that for Sherlock before. He felt guilty though as he saw John was barely fighting off sleep. He had to let the doctor get some rest before he passed out so Sherlock sent him upstairs to his room for some rest and told him he would be going out anyway when John tried to protest, but when Sherlock was striding to the door he gave up the fight and headed upstairs.
When Sherlock got outside he didn't know what to do. He had not actually been planning on going out; he had simply said it to get John to go to bed. It was nearly eleven at night, what could he possibly do at that hour? He started down the street with no destination in mind when it started to rain, and he had no choice but to duck into a pub since he had not brought an umbrella. He chuckled to himself when that made him think of his strange older brother. Mycroft always had an umbrella, rain or shine. However the pleasant thought only made it worse when the horrible ones came crashing back. Sherlock figured since he was there he might as well have a drink or two or ten, he lost count.
The bartender finally cut him off after he fell off his stool. When the drunken man would not stop giggling long enough to answer any of the bartenders questions he took the man's phone off the counter where it had been sitting and hit speed dial one.
John woke to the sound of his phone going off. Someone was phoning him. No one ever phoned him, aside from his mother and father, and on rare occasions Mycroft. He stared at the screen groggily for a moment before registering it said Sherlock.
A bit confused he answered, "Hello?" He was staring at the clock in confusion. It was passed one in the morning.
A voice he had never heard before came from the other end, "Ah, yes. This is Mike from the pub off Dunbar Street. I think I have one of your… uh…friends here. He is rather plastered, can't even stay up on the stool. I think he said his name is Sherlock." The man paused and John could tell he was listening to something, and just barely audible he could hear Sherlock saying his name in the background.
John could not believe what he was hearing, but at the same time he could. Sherlock was in a bad state; John should have known he would try to turn to something. "At least he didn't turn back to drugs." John thought to himself. Sighing he told the bartender he would be there in a few minutes to pick his friend up.
The second that John came through the door he was greeted with a very loud, and slurred, "JAAAWWWWNNNN!" from Sherlock. The detective staggered over to him and put his arm around his shoulder, mostly to steady himself. Then he announced to the few people left in the pub, "Jaaawwwn is a doctor. He's my liddle blogger!" Then looking at John like you might a dog that just did a trick he said, "Aren't ya Jawn?" Then he smiled and started to fall forward. John caught the half unconscious man and after a quick thank you to Mike he was half dragging Sherlock home.
As John helped Sherlock out of his shoes and socks he tried not to be reminded of Harry. He tried not to draw any parallels between her and his friend. He just tried to be understanding, for he truly did understand. John himself was scarred from what had happened outside that rutty flat, and he wasn't even the one who had to pull the trigger. He understood why Sherlock was breaking and was determined to fix him, even if it meant the walls went back up and he would lose all of the insight he had been getting of his friend since the day before.
John made sure that Sherlock fell asleep on his side; making a wall of pillow's behind his back so he could not roll over in the night. John new what to do, he had done it hundreds of times for Harry before. He left a bucket at the side of the bed and a glass of water on the bed stand and went to go and try to sleep himself. He wasn't asleep long before he heard the sound of feet rushing from the room below his. He swung his feet out of bed and made his way down stairs to help Sherlock, who he found in the fetal position on the ground in the bathroom. He had dealt with this part far too many times as well, so he silently sat down against the bathroom wall and put Sherlock's head in his lap as the poor detective whimpered. John fell back asleep still caressing Sherlock's hair, trying to sooth him.
John was woken up by his watch going off. It was time to go to work. Sherlock was still asleep in his lap and he wished he could phone into the surgery sick, but he knew that due to all the times he called in because of cases he was close to getting fired. He had no choice so he slipped Sherlock's head onto some towels and left the bathroom to get ready for work. When he left, Sherlock was still fast asleep so he stopped by to ask Mrs. Hudson to check on him every once in a while.
John spent his day distracted, only finding enough energy to actually focus when he had a real patient in front of him. Mycroft wouldn't stop phoning him, and making him repeat everything, from what happened outside that rutty flat to John having to retrieve a drunken Sherlock from the pub, and spending the night comforting the man. Mycroft didn't make John focus on the first part though, he was more interested in the fact his brother had been drunk.
"What do you mean he couldn't stand straight? Do you mean that literally or figuratively?" Mycroft sounded more curious than concerned.
"Well, both, really. He was gone mentally, at least as gone as a genius can be, and I had to literally hold him up all the way to the flat, and up the stairs, until he collapsed into bed." John was tired of repeating himself so with a sigh he said, "I really do have to go Mycroft. I have to get back home to make sure your brother is okay. I highly doubt he is accustomed to the hangover he is bound to have."
Reluctantly Mycroft let him go with a final, and surprisingly genuine, "Thank you John, for being there for my little brother. I don't think anybody but me has ever been there for him like that, and I doubt he would let anybody else close enough to help anyway." With that he hung up and John was left gawking at his phone for a moment before grabbing his beige jumper off the back of his chair and heading home.
He arrived to the smell of bacon cooking and curiously wandered over to the kitchen. Sherlock was darting about making what appeared to be breakfast at five in the afternoon. Sherlock didn't look up at John from the bacon he was flipping but motioned for him to take a seat. Sitting down John asked, "When did you wake up Sherlock?"
Sherlock waved a hand impatiently and answered, "I don't know, three hours ago maybe."
He was really focusing on the bacon, but that did not stop John from asking, "Why are you making breakfast at five in the afternoon? Or better yet, why are you cooking at all?"
Sherlock put the bacon on a plate and put it on the table with the egg's, toast, hash browns, and orange juice that were already there. He sat down before answering rather sheepishly, "Well, I know that you missed breakfast this morning so I wanted to make it up to you. After all it was my fault." He looked down at the fork he was fiddling with, "and I also wanted to thank you for, you know, all you've done for me. Not only the last little while, but since I met you in the lab at Barts." Looking up at John, who was completely dumb struck, he added, "So, thank you, John."
John managed to pull himself together enough to say, "Your welcome, Sherlock." Then he was handed a plate full of all of his favorite breakfast foods, he wondered briefly if Sherlock knew that before telling himself, 'Of course he knows that, it's Sherlock', and digging into his meal with a satisfied feeling as he saw Sherlock actually eating as well. John tried to tell himself that things would be okay now.
But he was mistaken. That night John was woken up by his friend screaming in his sleep. He ran down to Sherlock's room as fast as he could, nearly falling down the stairs, and found the poor man sitting up, wide eyed with fear, and once again there were tears on his face. John didn't hesitate, but went to Sherlock's bedside and sat on the edge. He put his hand on Sherlock's back and asked, knowing what the answer would be, "What's wrong?", then before waiting for the answer asked, "What's happening in your nightmares?"
Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he just looked at his friend as more tears threatened to break loose, so John moved so he was half propped up against the beds backboard and brought Sherlock into another hug, putting the detective's head against his chest again, stroking Sherlock's hair. He had just given up on getting an answer when Sherlock whispered, "I keep dreaming that I hesitate, and he kill's her, and then Lestrade pulls out his gun, and he…he… he winds up dead too, and it's like I can't move. I'm just watching as people kill themselves, or HE kills them. Then it's just us. You, me, and HIM." Sherlock stopped for a moment, every time he mentioned Jeff it was with a disgusted voice. He took in a deep breath, "Then he has the knife to your throat, and I'm behind him again, but it's like I can't pull the trigger, no matter how hard I try, and he…he…he kills you John," Sherlock was sobbing, and he whispered, "He killed you." John wrapped his arms around him tighter.
Resting his chin on Sherlock's head he whispered back, in the most soothing and comforting voice he had ever used, "It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here. I'm alive, and so is Elizabeth, and Greg, thanks to you. THAT MAN," He used the same voice of disgust, "is dead, and he won't ever hurt anybody again." But John was wrong, and he knew it. Even though the man was dead he was hurting Sherlock right now, and John. Greg and his daughter would be scarred for life, as would most everybody who was there that day. But mostly he was hurting Sherlock, and for that reason John would never stop cursing the man who had caused all of this.
Sherlock fell asleep in John's arms as he continued to stroke his hair and whisper every soothing thing he could think of. Eventually John found himself falling asleep too and welcomed it gratefully, but to soon found his watch going off again, telling him it was time for work. He gently removed the still sleeping Sherlock from his chest and got ready for work. This time the phone calls from Mycroft started the second he had left Sherlock's room making him wonder if there were cameras around the flat.