Something new. This happens when I am watching Doctor Who and inspiration strikes me in the meantime...

Mentions of torture, though nothing graphic. Friendship, no slash.

Enjoy.

I'll Always Come For You

Part 1

John Watson's heart had stopped three hours ago.

It had been fluttering unsteadily, in fact, since that very moment when Lestrade had called him, had informed him that Nicholas Wilson had broken out of prison, a rapist, who had, years ago, been sent to jail because Mary Watson, his wife, and one of her friends had testified against him.

Days later, it had received its first shock when Lestrade had phoned him again, had informed him that Wilson was probably after Mary, after Mary and maybe, just maybe, after their daughter.

Then it had been able to calm down a tiny bit, calm down because Sherlock, since John had told him, of course, stupid, in retrospect, so very stupid, had arranged for Mary to be brought to a safe place, a place only he and John and Mycroft knew about, together with their little daughter.

It had been fine, with Sherlock and Mycroft and the Yard all working on catching Wilson, on finding him.

Fine. At least that was what John had assumed.

Until Lestrade had called him, asking anxiously if Sherlock was with him - who wasn't.

John's heartbeat had accelerated, a cold stone had located itself where his stomach had used to be, jelly replacing his brain.

Sherlock.

Not even two hours later, he had, pacing, having left at least ten messages in reply to Sherlock's voicemail and having sent close to forty texts, received another phone call, and when he had heard Mycroft's voice, he had known that something was wrong.

Because apparently, Wilson had Sherlock.

The mobile gliding out of his numb hands, John's heart had stopped.

That had been three hours ago.

Three hours.

And more than six, according to the CCTV recordings Mycroft had discovered, since Wilson had got hold of Sherlock.

"He wants information," were Mycroft's words while John was pacing, pacing around, forcing air into his lungs.

"Information?" Greg echoed, once seated behind his desk, but now, too, walking, walking around in his office, scratching his head every ten seconds.

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed, sitting perfectly calmly. "Information on your wife, John. On where she is hiding."

John's head shot up, and for a moment, he believed to have felt a short flutter of life in his chest once more.

Until he realised the full meaning of what Mycroft had said.

Information.

As soon as one had read through the crimes Wilson had been convicted of, had seen how he had got hold of Sherlock - had lured him, together with a companion, into a narrow alley, had knocked him out with some kind of bat, had packed his lifeless body into a small car and driven off -, it became clear that him wanting information would not be drinking tea. Would not be asking nicely, politely, pleasantly. But would consist of torture, of violence.

And not only information, but information on Mary. On the presumably safe place she was staying at with their daughter.

"We have, of course, removed her from the house already, somewhere else," Mycroft explained only seconds later, and somehow, this sentence made John only more sick.

Because it implied that Mycroft assumed his brother would talk. Assumed Wilson would make him talk. And John did not want to imagine how much it took to get Sherlock Holmes to spill secrets.

A short nod was all he managed towards Mycroft, all he managed at all.

"So he'll…," Lestrade began, silencing himself. "He'll torture him? Sherlock, I mean? Just because he thinks Sherlock knows where Mary is?"

John's ears desperately did not want to hear anything, did not want to hear at all, did not want to hear Mycroft's short answer: "I am afraid so, yes."

Lestrade cursed. John did not even flinch, just continued his pacing. Two days ago, he had sat right in front of this desk, together with Sherlock, talking about Wilson. Together with Sherlock.

"Wilson is not a patient man, I gather as much," Mycroft went on, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

John stared out of the window, concentrated on every tiny stain on the glass. Minimal. But existing.

As were their chances, probably.

"We will have to be quick."

Three hours ago. Seven hours ago, more than seven, in fact, John had last seen his best friend.

Seen him and stormed off, in fury, in rage, in anger.

"Calm down," Sherlock had told him.

John had huffed, exasperated, annoyed. "Calm!" he had returned, burying his face in his hands. "How could I be calm?"

"They are safe, John," Sherlock had reassured him. "I don't understand, John. Why are you still so upset? Mary and your child are safe."

"Safe!" John had exploded, pointing his finger at Sherlock. "Safe? With this maniac still out there, they're… they're not."

He remembered Sherlock's reply, in a voice so almost casual: "They are, John. Only three people know where they are, and I'll…"

"Don't you tell me they're safe!" John had shouted, losing his temper, all of a sudden, losing it.

Had shouted. Now it made him wince.

"Because they are-," Sherlock had begun again, and John very vividly recalled how he had almost thrown a fist into his best friend's face.

"They're NOT!" he had yelled, panting, breathing hard, grimacing in pain. "How could you understand, hm? You've never had to care about your wife and your child, never had to worry… How would you know about that kind of love?"

And with that, he had stormed out, his heart shattering a little because of the words he had used, words intended to hurt Sherlock, to really hurt him, because John knew, of course, always had known, that he cared. That he loved.

And yet, he had not returned to take them back. To apologise, rather, because words like these could never be taken back.

Seven hours later, he wished with all his might that he could make this moment disappear, erase it, change it. Wished he had not uttered them, not a single one of them, in the first instance. Wished he had gone back, apologised, grabbed Sherlock and had not let go of him, had protected him from what was to come. And wished to have his best friend back, safe and well.

But he could not, change anything, that was, and so his body remained numb, his thoughts dulled by horror, and his heart frozen in terror.

And Sherlock remained lost.

John did not sit around to watch Mycroft and Lestrade, to watch them doing nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing, at least, that brought them any step closer to finding Sherlock.

He had watched the video once, had stared at Sherlock's motionless form being dragged away and stuffed into a boot.

Had heard his own words ringing in his ears, over and over again. Again. Again.

The thought of what Wilson might do to Sherlock... It made him sick. It terrified him. It froze him in horror.

He had gone home, to his flat, despite Mycroft and Sherlock and Lestrade's earlier insistence that he should not, if possible, go near that place as long as Wilson was free, had grabbed his old army gun, and wandered, simply wandered the streets of London, the alley where Sherlock had been taken, the place where it had happened, that had caused his heart to stop.

And hoped, with every breath, with every fibre of his being, that his phone would ring, that it was Sherlock, saying that he was fine, that he had overpowered Wilson, that everything was alright… or that it was Mycroft, telling him they had found his brother, telling him he was OK, a bit bruised, but alive and well…

His phone did not make a single sound.

After hours, or at least it felt like hours, he sat down, on a kerb somewhere, and pulled out his phone, dialling Sherlock's number. Listening to his voicemail.

Simply listening.

And remembering the three years he had spent previously, had spent without his heart beating, too.

And buried his head in his hands, the gun securely tucked beneath his belt, and cried.

It was nearing night when he came back to the Yard, came back to Lestrade's office to find Mycroft still there, still deep in concentration, apparently, but without anything to go on. Without anything, in fact, except for the street where Wilson had got Sherlock.

Dead bodies did not need sleep, and John did not even think about sleeping that night. How could he sleep when somewhere else, somewhere close, maybe, Sherlock was suffering in the hands of a maniac?

Mary was safe, though, as Mycroft kept reassuring him. Safe. Safe, apparently. As Sherlock had told him. And in contrast to Sherlock.

The next morning found John Watson sitting on a window sill, staring out into the dawn, staring outside, blindly, seeing nothing.

And Mycroft and Greg were still as clueless as hours before.

How long could one survive without his heart beating? John wondered when the sun rose over the building opposite of him.

Three years, apparently, and longer, maybe.

Longer. Once he had the certainty that Sherlock was dead, and that Mary was safe, Mary and their baby, and that Wilson was gone forever.

Longer.

How much longer?

And how much longer now, when he did not know anything, anything at all? Did not even know if Sherlock was still alive, and had no means and no knowledge of contacting Mary.

John simply closed his eyes, but it did nothing to help him forget.

Thank you for reading. Part 2 is to follow soon. Please let me know what you think.