John was examining an older woman with a cough when he heard it.
John.
It was almost a prayer. He could feel the weight of the thought against his mind. It tasted... like Sherlock. He focused on the man, and Sherlock came into His View. The detective was cuffed to a radiator in a small, dark, room. He was in pain, and obviously had been beaten.
John started - he hadn't known Sherlock was on a case. He tried to keep the man in his periphery if there was a significant chance at danger, but didn't usually bother on a day to day basis.
He finished up with the woman quickly, diagnosing her bronchitis without going through the usual routines that most doctors would need to be sure.
"Sarah, I have to go - I just got a call from Sherlock, and it sounds like he's in trouble. My shift is almost over anyway, can you take the last few patients?"
He barely waited for Sarah's begrudging sigh of assent before he was out the door, waving at the nearest cab. Though he normally let Sherlock hail them, he could demand attention when he desired. The cab moved quickly through the unusually light London traffic, John's need to find Sherlock expediting their path. He pulled out his phone and called Lestrade's familiar number.
After the first ring, the D.I. picked up. John cut off his usual greeting, talking quickly.
"Greg - Sherlock's being held prisoner in a warehouse a few blocks from Westbourne Park. I'm heading there now to get him out - I'll meet you there."
"He's been what? John, don't do anything - "
John hung up abruptly as the cab pulled up a few blocks from the warehouse. John leapt from the car, tossing money behind him. As he walked briskly towards the lot, he pulled the whole building up in his View. There were two thugs with guns standing guard outside of the room containing Sherlock, an office of some sort. A few more gang members were scattered throughout the warehouse, most congregated in a large central area where they were loading up boxes of what John assumed was contraband.
He considered his options. He had managed to keep his otherworldly nature hidden from everyone in his current life; and he'd rather keep it that way. For one thing, Mycroft Holmes knowing about the power of Gods? He shuddered at the thought. So what to do here? While within His power, most would not think that John Watson could simply waltz into the middle of a gang's hide out, take them all out, and stroll out uninjured. He also didn't want to risk Sherlock being used as a hostage when the police arrived. So stealth was probably his best option.
John walked around the warehouse until he was somewhat close to where Sherlock was being kept. Going unnoticed would be fairly simple, save for the two guards directly outside the office, and he could manage them. He chose a window. It was, as he Willed, unlocked, and he cracked it open, hoisted himself up, and crawled through, dropping silently into the empty hallway on the other side. This would be the tricky part. Pulling out his gun (cheating slightly, since a moment ago it had been buried in a drawer, back at Baker Street), he crept towards the corner where he knew the two guards would be on their guard.
John focused for a moment, and the fire alarm went off. The two guards glanced at each other, then one nodded at the other and went to investigate, walking off in the direction opposite of John.
Distracted by the noisy alarm, and looking where his partner had just disappeared around the corner, the remaining guard didn't notice John's movement until he was already on top of him. John slammed the man into the wall, twisting his arm behind his back, and held the gun to his head. "Keep quiet, or you'll regret it," he hissed. The guard went still. John quickly disarmed the man (including the second gun in a holster, hidden on the thug's calf), and motioned for the him to open the door. As soon as the thug pulled out his keys, John cracked him over the head, knocking him unconscious.
John opened the door carefully, and therefore narrowly avoided being rushed by Sherlock. The detective had picked his cuffs and gotten himself free, and had been poised to tackle his capturers despite his injuries.
"Keep it down!" John whispered sharply, motioning for the detective to follow him. Sherlock stared at John in surprise, then nodded and followed him out into the hall, limping slightly. They passed by the unconscious guard - the other one hadn't returned yet - and snuck down the hall to the window through which John had entered. Helping the injured detective climb through first, John quickly followed, and the pair held still in their position by the side of the building, waiting to see if anyone came looking for them. When no further alarm was raised (other than the still blaring fire alarm), they hustled across the lot and dashed off, until they could round a corner and were out of sight down an alleyway a few blocks away.
Panting slightly, Sherlock almost collapsed onto the ground, clutching his broken wrist. John knelt down beside him and started examining his injuries.
"I called Lestrade," John stated, hand on Sherlock's chin as he inspected the man's bruised and bloodied face and his split lip. "He'll likely be here in 5 minutes or so."
Sherlock nodded, caught his breath, then sat up, leaning against the alley wall for support. John braced himself, sensing the onslaught of questions about to come his way, even as he worriedly continued to check the extent of Sherlock's wounds, mentally prodding them so that the pain would ease somewhat.
"How did you find me?" Sherlock demanded.
"You aren't the only one who can do a bit of detective work," John hedged, continuing his examination.
"Yes, but you had no reason to look for me, I'd only been there a couple hours, at most. That gang was trying to go unnoticed, they wouldn't have contacted you for ransom. And to get here by this time, you must have left your job early. You didn't even go back to the flat - you came directly here from the clinic. As if you knew exactly where I was. So again, HOW? It wasn't Mycroft - if he'd known I was in trouble, he would have sent his own team, not you. Unless I'm missing something, and I don't think I am, there was literally no reason for you to be looking for me, nor any practical way for you to find me here."
"I'd rather... it isn't important, Sherlock. I found you, OK? Can you leave it at that?"
Sherlock's mind was racing, thoughts focused on the entirety of his knowledge about John. In other circumstances, such attention could have been quite pleasant, but as it was, the focus was almost accusatory. John watched as scattered images flew across the detectives mind and were near-instantly dismissed while the man went though possible explanations. John winced, dismayed that such suspicion (the like he hadn't felt since that fiasco at the pool) was directed his way.
It was clear that the detective was not going to let this go.
"FINE! I'll explain. Just... just stop that, please." John rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the cacophony.
Sherlock looked puzzled, but gratified, and waited expectantly. His thoughts slowed somewhat, but were still entirely focused on John.
John sighed. He'd thought about telling Sherlock before this, but had always decided against it. He was happy with how things were. If Sherlock took it the wrong way, John would be forced to move on, take up a new life and form. But he couldn't leave the detective's questions unanswered - he had revealed too much in his rush to save his friend. With any other man, John could probably have explained the whole thing away with excuses and distractions, but Sherlock was too sharp for that. He hesitated a moment longer, but ultimately decided on the truth.
He drew a deep breath.
"You called me." John stated it as a fact, unassailable.
"I what? I did no such thing, they broke my mobile."
"You called to me. You were thinking of me and wondering if I'd find you. Hoping I would. Honestly, I probably would have checked up on you anyway if you'd been gone for an unusual amount of time, but when you call my name like that, it grabs my attention."
Sherlock stared, and said, slowly, "You aren't making any sense, John."
"Let me show you, then. May I take care of your injuries?"
"Hm? Yes, fine - do you have your med kit with you? I didn't see it. I suspect my lip will need some stitches. And my wrist seems to be broken. Show me what, exactly?"
"That's not quite what I meant. Watch." John lifted a hand to Sherlock's face, gently touching his split lip. It wasn't strictly necessary, but the touch made it more evident what he was doing, and what his intent was. It had been a while since he had healed anyone so obviously, but that was due to wanting to avoid attention more than any particular difficulty.
Sherlock continued to stare at John, confused and clearly wondering what John was doing, then his eyes widened. His uninjured hand flew to his mouth, pressing his fingers to his lips. His mouth was completely healed. Or rather, it seemed as if it had never been injured in the first place.
"What...? How...?"
"Hold still. Let me take care of your wrist, and the rest of you."
Sherlock blinked, as suddenly his pain from the bruises, broken bones, and scrapes disappeared.
"I wouldn't want to keep you from your violin for as long as it takes a wrist to heal naturally, since I'm already at it," John smiled slightly at the sleuth.
Sherlock stood up and stretched out his arms, examining his formerly broken wrist, then started to prod his torso, searching for any remaining signs of injury. Finding none, he whirled and turned his attention once more towards John, fiercely.
"That's ... I would say that this is impossible, but..."
"But it's only very, very improbable, yes."
"What did you do? How could you possibly do that?"
"That's a bit difficult to explain, Sherlock. I promise I'll tell you, but is now really the time? Lestrade will be here any minute, and we really should go talk to him. You must understand I don't really want this getting out."
Sherlock looked as though he wanted to object, but instead pressed his mouth in a tight line and nodded reluctantly, allowing himself to be led back to where the police would soon be congregating.
John sighed. He had a very brief window to get his thoughts in order and to figure out exactly how to explain things to the great detective.
