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Geoff was quite pleased when Sherlock stopped talking. Cuffing them together meant that the thin pest couldn't get away, but it also meant that he couldn't either. He had been aware that the fallout from Sherlock's tantrum of last month had still been affecting John – the doctor had been sad behind the banter and discussions they'd held over their weekly pints and the former army surgeon had yet to attend a crime scene with Sherlock. Geoff hadn't pried and John hadn't indicated that he'd wanted to share and they'd both been more than happy to talk about work and football and debate the merits of various films and music.
He was well aware that the man beside him was searching the platform, or as much of it as he could see each time they pulled into a new station. Truth be told, he was looking as well, trying to locate the face of the man that had sent them into hiding with only a word. Such was his trust in John Watson – he would walk away from his duties without second thought after receiving a one word text with no explanation.
At Baker Street, Sherlock leaned forward as if he was going to get up and Lestrade noted that there was a man who bore striking resemblance to their mutual friend on the platform. He gripped Sherlock's wrist tightly and there was a soft growl and then weight across Geoff's lap. Pet had arrived and was apparently sitting on Sherlock as well if the thin mans muttered complaints were any indication.
"Lestraaaade," Sherlock whined but the doors closed and the train moved on without the man who looked like John getting on. Sherlock squirmed and then went a funny colour as Pet growled. The mystery behind that expression was solved when the younger man squeaked, "Claws!"
"Sit still Sherlock, you're attracting attention," Geoff chided softly, letting Pet rest its head on his leg with a grumble of contentment. He hadn't felt any claws, but that didn't mean anything as he wasn't trying to get up against Pets wishes, "Did it not occur to you that John sent Pet to lead us to him?"
Sherlock stilled: a sulky look on his face. Geoff sighed and looked at the tunnel wall flashing past the carriage, which was only half full at this time of day. He had a sudden thought that now he knew what a young – or younger – Sherlock must have looked like when being disciplined by his parents. Sherlock gave him a dismissive sniff when he sniggered and Geoff brought his free hand up to check on his phone once more. The action reminded Sherlock to check his and they spent a few quiet minutes catching up with the available news.
It wasn't good. The riot at the hospital was threatening to spill over into the streets. Geoff checked his personal inbox and discovered several texts from both his team and his supervisor demanding his location. He didn't answer, though the consequences for this would be unpleasant. However, he couldn't see any other course of action at the moment. Sherlock was in his care and if John said to hide, then that was what he would do.
"Sherlock, what about my family?" Geoff muttered as another platform hove into view. Sherlock glanced away from his phone for a moment with a frown.
"If he's sent us into hiding, he's done the same for them, though Mrs Lestrade thinks that the text to gather the children and lock up the house came from you. John has had that system in place for months now, ever since the first time you realised he was … special," Sherlock replied, a hint of reproach in his voice, "He would never endanger your family, Lestrade Surely the security you saw him installing in your front room is proof enough of that?"
Geoff nodded, slightly ashamed. The Mage of London had set fire to his own blood to install protective wards in Geoff's house. Further proof that John would not endanger the mundane people he worked with should not have been needed. In his defence, it was Geoff's family that he was worried about: even with John's protection Geoff knew himself well enough to know that he would not be satisfied as to their safety unless he was present.
They sat in tense silence for three hours. Geoff's phone got so insistent that Sherlock finally advised him to turn it off – all the better to avoid being tracked by the Yard. When Geoff pointed out that the CCTV cameras would have registered them as they entered the Tube he got a pitying look from the curly haired man beside him. Apparently either Sherlock or his influential brother or possibly even John had buggered the security system in their favour. Sherlock's phone was quiet, though the consultant refreshed the news pages every ten minutes or so.
Finally, as they came to Temple, Pet shivered, then stirred and got off Geoff, which was a relief because he'd begun to overheat. It took a firm hold of the hem of his jacket and led the way off the tube. To keep the cuffs discrete, Geoff took hold of Sherlock's hand which so startled the other man he followed along without too great a fuss. Pet led them through to the other platform and pressed them both up against the wall. Sherlock opened his mouth to complain again, but was interrupted when someone dropped their shopping. Apples and oranges went everywhere, distracting the public from the fact that the wall appeared to have simultaneously melted and swallowed a consulting detective and the Detective Inspector that was cuffed to him.
For a brief moment Geoff panicked, then a familiar hand steadied him and a familiar voice spoke in his ear.
"Easy there, you two."
Geoff's wrist was pulled at an awkward angle as Sherlock turned and latched onto the half seen figure, the dim light – apparently coming from a candle floating near John's shoulder – making details difficult to pick up.
"What the hell is going on, John?" Geoff asked and reached for his key as Pet rumbled beside him, "Where are we?"
"Yes, you're very clever," John sounded indulgent and his hand ran over empty air, the action resulting in a satisfied purr, his other arm wrapping around Sherlock.
"We're in the space between the walls," John replied at length, "I've enlarged it temporarily. Once we leave it will go back to its usual dimensions and the structure isn't compromised."
Geoff nodded. Typical of the Mage to hear the questions that weren't asked as well as those that were. He released Sherlock's wrist with a sigh of relief – he'd had to hold onto Sherlock's hand to avoid drawing attention to the cuffs and the genius had fidgeted with his fingers the entire time – before uncuffing himself and putting the metal away.
"You're hurt," Sherlock sounded upset, which was understandable, really. Sherlock did not cope well with John being anything other than a hundred percent. Geoff shot John a surprised look, which was waved off.
"A minor cut, that's all," John replied, "Let go, Sherlock. We have to move."
"What the hell is going on?" Geoff asked, not bothering to dispute John's estimation of his injuries right this second. John was a worse patient than Sherlock when it came right down to it, which meant that they would have to keep a close eye on him. Wielding difficult magic always took a lot out of John, to the point where he burned body mass in an effort to sustain his casting, so the sooner John could relax this current spell, the better.
"I'll tell you when we're in a secure position, Geoff," John sighed, "Your family is safe and so is Mrs Hudson, Sherlock. We are not safe though and we need to get moving. Now."
Sherlock let go reluctantly, keeping one hand fisted in John's jacket. Geoff reached out and caught a handful of Sherlock's coat as they moved sideways through the narrow space, unwilling to be separated from his two companions.
The space between the walls was filthy, which made sense when Geoff stopped to think about it. He took especial care not to rub against the surfaces around them, partly because he didn't like the look of it and partly because he didn't know when his next change of clothing would occur. The 'bubble' of space they stood in moved along with them, spreading the walls apart ahead of their slow pace and allowing the walls to spring slowly back into place once they had passed. Geoff wasn't sure if the slow pace was down to the need to preserve the bubble or John's injury but knew better than to ask.
The less they taxed John while he was actively sustaining magic, the quicker they'd get to whatever safe place John had arranged for them. There was a time and a place for conversation and Geoff knew it, no matter what insults Sherlock had spouted over the years. Pet pressed against Geoff's leg at intervals, herding him along with quiet urgency.
They edged along in single file, going not only forward towards the Thames but also down, until the smell of water and sense of damp was right overhead. They had long ago stopped walking between walls, instead sidling between layers of dirt and rock until the front of the bubble apparently burst and John tugged them forward sharply into a cavern of sorts. The candle floated forward and settled on a bench, joined by dozens of others to light the impossible space. It was tiled; though the tiles were so grimy their colours were unrecognisable and had a gutter running down one side.
"There used to be all sorts of tunnels running under the Thames. This is one of the abandoned ones, used originally for pedestrians. We're in a way-station of sorts," John said quietly and settled on a second, candle-free, bench. Geoff looked both ways but was unable to spot any damage or blockage. Whatever had caused the tunnel to fall out of use wasn't immediately visible. It was a sort of creepy feeling, as if the dark was concealing things.
There were books stored here, in metal trunks with modern seals and clasps, as well as what Geoff had come to recognise as 'ingredient chests' where John stored things for his casting and brewing. There was a bundle of blankets and a pile of clothes as well, which indicated that John had spent some time down here, doing who knew what. Sherlock pounced on a first aid box – the modern markings incongruous in the dim light – and turned to his lover with a demanding expression on his face.
"Let me see," he growled. John sighed and parted the front of his coat, revealing the scrubs he wore at work. There was a disquieting blood stain on the right hand side and Sherlock tugged the material up cautiously.
"That's a stab wound, not a cut," Geoff didn't bother to hide his irritation with people who disguised the severity of their injuries. A glance at Sherlock's face showed more emotion than the genius was wont to display under usual circumstances, which was a surprisingly good deterrent where John was concerned. He plucked a candle from its resting place and held it out to give Sherlock better light to work with.
John was silent through the cleaning and application of sterile-strips that held the edges of the wound together. He assisted with the positioning of the dressing and averred that there were no other injuries for Sherlock to fret over, changing into the clothes he'd left behind previously and eventually decoying his partner to the blanket pile, where the two men leaned against each other quietly.
Pet joined Geoff on the now empty bench and he put the candle on the far arm, stroking his hand over Pet's head lightly and fixing John with his best interrogators look. It was rather disheartening to see the Mage grin in response instead of cracking, but then John started speaking and Geoff forgot his disappointment.
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