(A/N: Another overwhelming response. Not to the magnitude of Locked in Each Other's Gaze, but that's been around longer so that's fine. :3 Thank you guys so much for the reviews and favorites and follows and stuff, so here's the next part.)John feels he has the right to panic now. He waited all night for Sherlock to come in through the front door, loud and obnoxious and very much alive. Yet he never did. And now John has a stiff neck. And he is cranky and tired. And so on edge he's almost falling off.
John paced the flat, back and forth and back and forth, his mind racing as he tried to conceive excuses for Sherlock's tardiness. He found another clue, no he would be back by now. Lestrade called him in for another case, no he would have texted me to join him. And anyways, Lestrade knew they were working on something for Mycroft. John had reached the front door. He turned, about face, and made his way back again. There has to be a reason. He can't have gotten injured or kidnapped or drugged or killed and lying in a ditch deadsomewhereand-John shook his head hard, running his fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp lightly. God, he needed to focus. He needed tea. John turned again and dashed to the kitchen, his leg twinging. NO! You will NOT act up when Sherlock needs me to be at my best, he mentally chastised the limb. After a minute or two, John was in his seat, feet anxiously tapping the floor, tea warming his hands and scalding his tongue. Just what he needs to draw him back to reality.
When John was first deployed in Afghanistan, all fresh-faced and ready to serve Queen and country, he'd been shocked at the brutality, the savagery. Battle wasn't glorious. It was bright days with the wind rubbing your very essence away with the sand and dark nights with the cold numbing you to the bone. It was the sun burning and drying you inside and out. It was gunshots and explosions and red red red everywhere. It was everything but what John expected.
But that was fine. John learned to cope. He learned to focus on saving the life in front of him instead of worrying over the thousands of other lives he had no say in. He learned to go without a shirt when he could during the day and to brave the harsh cold of the night with just a shirt. He learned to black out the faces he strikes down and the lives he lose. John learned that nothing drew him out of a panic like adrenaline and pain. And if he wasn't out on the field where both were in abundance, John would make himself some tea or coffee, nice and hot and fresh, and sip, letting the boiling brew burn his tongue and draw him out of whatever stupor he'd found himself in.
So hot tea was just what he needed. John was awakened by the pain. Not John Watson, ever loyal friend of Sherlock, or Doctor Watson, the wonderful practitioner with the steady hands and kind words, but Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, the loyal killer with the steady hands and hard eyes. That was the John Sherlock needed right now.
Okay. Review the facts and don't let sentiment cloud your judgment, John told himself, almost hearing Sherlock's own baritone muttering, 'Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is for the weak.' Oh, how wrong he was. John knew that caring was an incentive, the extra push that you could use to get you on your best game. Letting your emotions and feelings overwhelm and control you is dangerous, not the feelings themselves.
Thinking back, John knew that Sherlock left the flat at around 2000 hours the night before and it was 0600 hours now. That was an estimated 10 hours that Sherlock has been out. It would normally take him maybe an hour or two to get in contact with a number of people in his homeless network, at least long enough to set a net of observers. But, John halted in the middle of the track he'd been pacing, Sherlock didn't expressively say he was going to contact his homeless network. Which was worryingly true.
The night before, after he and John had returned from another complimentary dinner at another restaurant owned by another person Sherlock had helped in some way (this one Thai), Sherlock had gone immediately to his room, barely taking the time to shed his coat and scarf and discard them on the couch. And in his room he had remained, even after John offered fresh tea through the closed door. John had lingered after receiving an adamant "NO" and heard a good bit of rustling and crashing. Then, maybe an hour or so later, Sherlock had emerged, quickly pulled on his coat and scarf once more, and mumbled something about going out to get some information and being back in about an hour.
At the time, John had assumed Sherlock meant his homeless network, but now… John leapt to his feet and dashed to Sherlock's room. He'd only been in there once and that was to put the drugged detective to bed after their first run-in with Irene Adler, but based on glances from the hallway it was usually kept clean: an inexplicable neatness in comparison to the chaos of the living room and kitchen. Now it was in complete disarray.
Boxes and papers were strewn about, covering the bed and floor, and the closet was thrown open revealing neatly hung jackets, but empty shelves. John's eyes trailed all about the room, his mouth agape. "What the-?" John murmured as he took a few cautious steps in. Then his eyes found a small section where the papers had been pushed back, leaving a patch of wooden floor peeking through and one lone box.
Two steps. That's all it took for John to reach the small box. That's all it took for John to see all the different business cards, restaurants and lawyers and both small and large businesses, all sorted alphabetically by type. That's all it took for John to notice that the cards were open to 'D'. That's all it took for John to make the connection.
John knelt by the open box, thumbing till he ran out of names he didn't recognize and pulled the handful out. Dashing back to the living room, John lay out the cards side by side on the coffee table and pulled out his mobile, speed dialing Mycroft. He answered, calm and collected and drawling out John's name as usual.
"I need you to tell me the locations of all the people whose names I give you," John ordered, not bothering to explain.
"Now John," Mycroft said condescendingly; John could easily hear the smirk. "I am not a lackey for you to order around, nor will I stand for you to call me at any hour. I do have a job to attend to and, unlike Sherlock, I do sleep on a regular basis." John grit his teeth. Rules be damned.
"Mycroft," the Captain had emerged and wasn't going anywhere. John was beyond caring how many rules were broken. He would find Sherlock and Mycroft will help. "Your brother, my best friend, has been missing for a maximum of 10 hours and, considering the case you so ungratefully dumped onto our laps, I think it is safe to assume that he is in danger." John's voice lowered to a dangerous level. "So you will do as I ask and give me the most recent locations of all the names I supply." Silence echoed over the line.
"Alright," Mycroft said softly, all sarcasm replaced with seriousness. "I am at my computer. What are the names?" John gave a curt nod, even though no one could see him, and began rattling them off. Mycroft would quickly respond with a street address, having located them using a mixture of his records and CCTV, and John would scribble down the address given and quickly pin it up on the map. They continued like this for a few minutes when Mycroft paused. "John," his voice was still soft, almost anxious. "These are all people arrested for possession. What does this have to do with Sherlock?"
John paused and stared at the last card in his hand, the address written in bold angry letters, holding back a bitter laugh. "About how many years would you say your brother used?" he asked. Mycroft was silent. "All through uni and a good bit after, I would expect." John did laugh this time and it came out just as bitter and dark as he'd anticipated. "And how many dealers did you pick up to protect your little brother?" Silence. "And how many of those dealers are on this list of names I gave you tonight?"
Finally Mycroft spoke, his voice still quiet but more stern like it usually is. "All but three." John waited for him to continue. "And two of them are still in jail." John exhaled slowly through his nose, letting some of the tension in his shoulders fall away. He'd silently hoped, but was just as afraid that Mycroft had missed one. That Sherlock had been able to keep one secret, under wraps, untouchable.
"Who?" John asked as he pinned the last card up. The dealers were widespread, but John could catch a pattern anyways. They were clustered together in three separate groups: one probably near the university Sherlock attended, one almost definitely near a rehab in the middle of country, and the third all throughout the London area. "Where?"
John faintly heard Mycroft's fingers hitting keys heavily. "He was always one of Sherlock's favourites. He contacted Sherlock as soon as he heard Sherlock was out of rehabilitation." Mycroft grew quiet for a minute. "His name is Douglas Harper. I was only able to convict him for possession once, when Sherlock was just starting out, but he grew cautious soon after." John inhaled and exhaled. Keep calm… "The last time he was seen by one of the CCTV cameras was about three days ago, near Waterloo Bridge on the South Bank." John turned and, seeing red, threw his mobile at the couch.
He paced back and forth, breathing heavily and tugging at his short hair. John couldn't focus, panic was setting in. Gotta find Sherlock. Must find Sherlock. Damn my rules. Damn the law. Law… John blinked, mind clearing long enough for him to hear muffled yelling. Shit. Mycroft. He lunged to the couch and grabbed his phone, pulling it to his ear.
"John! Are you okay!" Mycroft was shouting still, causing John to flinch away from the receiver.
"I'm fine. I'm fine," he assured him. "Just threw my phone at the couch. Thought it was better than shooting holes in the wall," he gave a weak chuckle. It wasn't true. John hadn't thought. He had acted on his anger without a second of consideration to the consequences. That's the second time Sherlock has caused him to do that. The first was so long ago, when a cabbie had threatened Sherlock's life in the first twenty four hours of John knowing him. John had broken three rules that night. "Mycroft. I have to find Harper. I'm sure Sherlock went to him." John had to stop and take a breath. "I'm sure he knows what happened."
Mycroft gave a small noise of assent. "I'll text you a picture of him. Another thing John, he prefers Douggie, so be sure to ask with that name." A small giggle escaped John's lips, but quickly died. "What?"
"Nothing," John huffed. "Just… Douggie the druggie. Made me laugh a bit." Mycroft just harrumphed. "I'll find him, Mycroft. Don't worry."
"Of course I worry, John," Mycroft responded gravely. "But for the poor fools that took Sherlock away from his doctor." John had to smile. "Good-day, John. I expect to be kept informed."
"You will," John assured.
"And John?" Mycroft sounded like he was smiling, but he didn't smile. Not really… "If you do anything… frowned upon, try not to get caught." He grew marginally quieter, "I'm not sure how well Sherlock would take losing you, for any amount of time." With that he hung up before John could even think to reply.
Not seconds later, the mobile buzzed and John opened the received text and attached picture. It was small and slightly grainy, but John could still make out the heavy brow, full lips, thick nose that had been broken multiple times, wide jaw, and strong cheekbones. Douggie also sported short bleach-blond hair that was slightly longer on top and an earring on one ear with a stud on the other. John could easily identify him in a crowd.
Tucking his phone back in his pocket, John reviewed the map once more, jabbing a finger at Waterloo Bridge. 'About an hour,' Sherlock had said. So, knowing he left his wallet on the kitchen table, Sherlock had to go by foot. John looked at Baker Street and the surrounding area. There's not too many places he could walk to and back in an hour and not be spotted by CCTV. Keeping his right finger on the South bank end of Waterloo Bridge, John grabbed a few red thumbtacks from behind him. He quickly pushed them in the prospect places.
Three of the five intersect with another person's territory, so they were out of the running. One of the remaining three was
impossible to reach from Waterloo Bridge without passing through an area with surveillance. Two areas left. Right. John set the boundaries to memory before turning about face to prepare. He was getting Sherlock back. At any cost.
(A/N: Now if y'all were paying attention you'd see that this part has that teaser quote I gave you some time ago. Glad you made it this far. :3 Don't forget to review. Now, to address the guest that reviewed [thanks btw]: I'd have to say I agree with you. I'm enjoying writing this story a bit more than