This last chapter unifies and completes the storylines of both MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING, as it, in fact, picks up from the last chapter of MISSING IN ACTION.

As always, your reviews fuel my creativity. I cannot do this without you in mind, so please share what you think.

ACTION In MISSING

Chapter 5

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"John?"

"John!"

Why did the coaxing sound of his name seem both muffled and resonant? Like sound coming through his stethoscope?

Sherlock?7

Dreaming, John Watson blinked awake to the familiar voice.

Where am I?

Enfolded in the arms of the consulting detective, the weary doctor's head had slumped against the chest of his friend, his cheek brushing the soft fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

It took him a moment to remember how he got there…

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The last three injured passengers from the Underground derailment required the most critical care before they could be moved. Two women with suspected neck injuries were secured on boards by paramedic teams, but the last, Gladys Beddows, remained trapped.

With permission granted by the officials, John was allowed to keep his promise. It did not matter that he was just a surrogate for her lost son. He didn't care. It was the right thing to do, and he wanted to do it.

He stayed beside her on the floor, observing the rescue efforts from the ground—armies of booted feet quickly stepping past in what seemed like organized chaos—but he reserved his attentions mostly to the elderly lady whose trembling hand he patted soothingly.

"Are you still in pain?" John had checked to ensure that her medical team kept the dose balanced between managing her acute pain and keeping her responsive. Bruising was evident on her calf, but her ankle and foot were out of view under the collapsed seat.

"N' more. Can't feel my foot... What if …?" she couldn't finish. Her eyes were swimming in tears, her lower lip quivering in fear. She was doing her best not to sob uncontrollably.

"Ahhhh, Gladys, I know it's unbelievably frightening right now," he whispered gently. "You have been amazing so far. Just a little more now, okay? First, we get you out of here, huh? Then the doctors will have a look at hospital. I have seen good medicine work miracles, so don't lose heart just yet, okay?"

In sympathy, real tears clouded his own eyes, which he wiped on a frayed sleeve. What an enigma he was. Whilst as a professional, Dr. Watson knew how to connect on an emotional level when his patients needed it, yet as John Watson, he struggled with expressing his personal feelings especially with those he loved the most. "So tell me a little more about yourself. We might as well get acquainted proper."

When her energy allowed, she chatted about her family, good memories about her son, but mostly about her youth and her budding career as a dancer. When she tired, she dozed restfully, without grimaces twitching her faded cheeks—a good sign that her medication was appropriate for her pain levels.

As he lay there quietly beside his sleeping patient, snippets of memory conjured vivid recollections from his own life: first as a surgeon saving lives. He missed this—his adrenaline spikes, sharpening his medical skills to perform heroic deeds under attack. Trained as an army doctor at St. Bart's and signed on with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, he had worked very hard to become a man of worth, a respected Captain. At the height of his shining army career, golden boy Dr. John Watson was defined by his accomplishments, by his sterling record, by the brotherhood of soldiers with whom he formed friendships quickly and to whom he had committed his LIFE in service.

It all ended in one defining moment that brought him low, figuratively and literally. In a pool of his own blood, he lay upon the ground, fire lancing through his shoulder, darkness shutting off the glaring sun.

After many months of rehabilitation and finally being invalided, the army doctor discovered his greatest losses—his worth, his confidence, his friends, all gone with the career he called LIFE. Instead, a civilian now, he remained in the muted shadows as a "nobody," discarded, worthless and "unattached," Without a LIFE and no longer "the kind to make friends easily" (as Mycroft had observed at their first meeting). He was "feeling so alone."

Gladys woke again from a short nap. "Oh…yes. I enjoyed Irish step dancing..." her voice wavered with exhaustion, but she resumed the conversation exactly where it had left off, to John's amazement. "Branched into English Lancashire Clog dancing," she sighed, "but it was scandalous of me—a woman—to want to do tap—it was mostly for men!" Her pale blue eyes grew distant as she searched her memories. "My family misunderstood. The English style of tap…so light and elegant, is more classical!" Eyelids, like crepe paper, closed again as she managed a weak smile. "My family objected. But I mastered it anyway…and I was damn good."

John chuckled, admiring her strong spirit and sharp mind. She would need both for recovery.

"Your turn." She nodded drowsily at John. "More about… your dancer friend."

"Oh…right! Before the wedding, we tried to keep the dancing lessons secret to surprise my fiancée, who is now my wife, Mary. It was really exceptionally decent of him to give me ballroom lessons…" John trailed off. Gladys was asleep again.

In the privacy of his thoughts, John recalled with regret that, once again, he failed to speak his thanks aloud. Sherlock had shown great patience in teaching him, offering criticism tempered with praise and encouragement. Devoid of snide utterances or derogatory remarks, the consulting detective was a different man as a dance instructor. They practiced graceful steps, correct posture and hold, so John could lead his bride during their wedding day dance with confidence. More touching, Sherlock composed a unique work for the violin, which he played in their honor: the man had a heart as extraordinary as his mind, despite his own claims to the contrary!

At last, the emergency teams arrived to cut the pinned woman from the wreckage. John gently rubbed Gladys' hand, waking her enough to observe her alertness, and assuring her the work would be quick. It was! As soon she was freed, the paramedics immediately stabilized her, prepping her damaged limb and crushed hip for transport out and away for urgent medical care. The pace was hectic, yet their action cautious, and John followed resolutely, whenever possible keeping her hand clasped in his, as they found their way to the surface and an awaiting gurney.

Night had descended with a foggy chill, but bright lamps created a direct runway for passage of the last casualties to the ready ambulances.

During one brief pause, John removed the whistle from his neck, coiled it into a ball along with its string, and placed it in the woman's hand. "Do me a favor, Gladys dear." He folded her fist closed. "Hold this for me. I don't need it anymore, and I will probably lose it. You can give it back when I visit you in hospital. It actually doesn't even belong to me. So you will be helping me get it back to its rightful owner."

"God love you, so like my good son. God rest his soul." Her eyelids flitted closed as the IV painkillers kicked in once again. Her words were soft and dreamlike. "You will come back… to me?"

"Of course! Of course I will." John couldn't help but feel he was speaking on behalf of her son with his answer. "Okay! Ready, now? It's our turn—Go!"

A sudden uproar of cheers, hollers, and applause accompanied the paramedics, patient, and doctor as they raced toward the ambulance. Metronet teams, Met officials, volunteers, and first responders shouted with tremendous relief as the last victim, rescued from the derailment site, headed away.

Sprinting along with the gurney, John kept his grip firmly around the boney hand, although Gladys had fallen asleep before they reached the open doors of the ambulance. Once they loaded her in, there were no words of goodbye, except the paramedics shouting "thanks, Doc." He was left standing alone, the connection finally broken, the chill of the winter night immediately creeping into his weary limbs.

Then he heard his name in that unmistakable voice, spoken in a way he had never heard before.

"JOHN!"

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"John!" It was an echo from a recent memory.

"John, are you alright?"

"Hmmmm? Fine." He had been asleep on his feet. Just for a moment, the comfort and safety of his friend's hug worked like a sedative. John blinked again trying to get his bearings, aware now that he was draped in Sherlock's long coat, covered by another blanket, and held up by his tall friend.

"Sorry." He mumbled with some embarrassment, trying to break away.

"Don't be." The baritone voice gently broke with a soft cough, cloaking the emotional register, followed by a distinctive clearing of the throat, then Sherlock steadied John on his feet before letting him stand free.

"Normally NOT disposed to taking a kip in people's arms…standing up… and in public. Ask Mary. " John massaged his head in bewilderment, disheveling his close-cropped hair. Wispy blond spikes stood on end. "But then again, as you're so fond of telling me, guess I'm NOT normal."

Sherlock's eyes twinkled with amusement, but he forced control over his emotions to remark impassively, "There is no need for apologies. You are worn out, and I am not. You need rest. I rarely do. You have at last surfaced…after the hours I've spent here wondering where you were, but it is precisely why I am here—for you. It's simple logic."

"Reason or no, kipping in any man's arms is just as like to rekindle idle gossip and dinner conversation … especially when it comes to us. Here! Take this before we get into trouble. I'll keep your scarf." John quipped in half jest, removing Sherlock's coat from his own shoulders and trading it for the blanket Sherlock had been wearing instead. Doubling up both blankets, even with the scarf, might not be enough against the chill, but John expected they wouldn't be lingering much longer. Maybe I could locate my jacket?

As he looked at his Belstaff with uncertainty before slipping it on, Sherlock leveled his voice in dead seriousness. "Does it matter? People will always believe what they want, even when the facts prove otherwise."

"What are the facts?" John raised his eyebrows, curious. Sherlock was not sporting with him.

Turning up his collar against the cold, Sherlock hesitated and swiftly dropped his gaze. "You are my one and only Dr. John H. Watson. No one and nothing will change that." When he slowly lifted his eyes again, John's face was blushing, his smile elated, his deep blue eyes staring back at Sherlock with wonder.

John was stunned by the genuine expression of sentiment that came from Sherlock Holmes and focused on his friend's face. In the harsh emergency lights, John could see the familiar ice blue eyes, the set of the full lips, high cheekbones, fair skin made paler by raven curls that framed the thin face. From such a description, an NSY artist might translate a likeness in a recognizable rendering, but it would not have captured what John actual saw.

Too often, Sherlock, you have chided me, 'You can see everything, John, but you fail to reason from what you see. Don't be hurt, you know that I am quite impersonal. No one else would have done better. Some possibly not so well. But clearly you have missed some vital points…'

Clearly John did not miss the vital points in Sherlock's countenance. For a third time since John's return from the Underground that evening, the consulting detective had ceased to be a reasoning machine and betrayed his capacity for human love. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which would customarily turn away with disdain from any expressions of commitment, fidelity, and abiding affection—and yes, love—("Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.") was revealing such depth of feeling.

At last, John saw the unmistakable proof of Sherlock's humanity which he had always believed existed, ever since Sherlock gave him the first inkling in the dawning of their partnership:

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'So! Didn't take me long, John, to decide... about YOU.'

Working surveillance that was incredibly tedious, at least to John, they were sitting in complete darkness at 2:30 a.m, sipping tepid coffee in paper cups, purchased hours before from the local bistro. The room they booked in the inn, 'coincidentally' overlooking the client's home, had two beds, and one in particular was calling John's name. However, Sherlock was on a CASE and didn't permit sleep. The moonless night would make any lights from the house immediately obvious—as long as they remained in the dark as well—and then the game would be on. Jittery with excitement in anticipation of final proof, substantiating his magnificent deduction that would seal the case, Sherlock, of course, had no trouble staying alert and paced the floor. John, on the other hand, was constantly nodding off in a nearby armchair.

Again the rhythmic breaths of sleep arose from John, prompting Sherlock's impatience. With his statement, that seemed to come from nowhere, the consulting detective deliberately threw the 'weary dog' an interesting bone to chew.

'Huh? What?' John snorted and shook his head.

'I said, it didn't take me long to decide.'

Their words floated in the darkness, mere sounds had to substitute for all lack of visual cues.

'Decide? About me, did you say? How's that?'

'You were there in the lab at St. Bart's, John, when I asked Mike Stamford to borrow his phone. He declined with an excuse…not the truth, mind you. You—a perfect stranger—offered your phone. Most people wouldn't have. Why did you give me your phone?'

'Because you needed it?'

'Do you always lend your phone to people?

'Guess so. Dunno. If they need it. Well, depends on who they are.'

'But in this case, you didn't know who I was.'

'Right, true. But Mike knew you.'

'But you didn't know me. Did you trust Mike's judgment? He didn't think I was worthy enough to have his phone.'

'Well, Mike had suggested I meet you…we talked about sharing a flat—as you were looking and had just mentioned it to him that very day.'

'So you lent me your phone on the possibility that I might be your flatmate?'

'You're overthinking this, Sherlock.'

'It's what I do.'

'Primarily, I lent you the phone because you asked.' John yawned and stretched. 'Maybe, I lent you the phone because, on a subconscious level, I was making a gesture of goodwill…and perhaps, it was also a test, if we were going to be flatmates…to observe your reaction. You were polite and thankful. Y'see, first impressions are not always correct.'

'A-Hah!'

'Ahah, what?'

'That's what I thought…you WERE observing me…without realizing it, but you were using your faculties to make a judgment call about a perfect stranger you had never before seen. Good for you, John. And you were a good judge of character, insightful!'

'I just said I got the wrong impression… about you being polite.'

'But beyond that, you instantly knew you could work with me.'

Blinking, John still couldn't see much, but it helped clear his thoughts. 'Don't think I knew...maybe felt, maybe hoped.'

'What most people attribute to instinct and feelings is really their minds deducing facts.'

'You think so?'

'Obvious, isn't it? Your motives weren't strictly kindness. They were part practicality, too! When did you finally decide in my favor?'

'Who says I've made that decision?'

'No. really. When did you decide I passed your test?'

'Again, you ASSUME you've passed my test.'

John sensed that if they could see each other, Sherlock would be giving him one of his stern looks. The consulting detective's words proved John had deduced correctly.

'You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor, John, against which I must learn to guard myself.'

Chuckling heartily, John savored his amusement with additional sighs and snickers. There was an echo of laughter, softer, from Sherlock.

'Okay,' the doctor finally relented. 'When did you pass my test…? Hmmm. Well, that's harder to say.'

'Why?'

'So much happened from the moment you asked if I had been in Afghanistan or Iraq...your deductions about me, your invitation to work the case…our ridiculous taxicab chase…you made me laugh so hard, and my laughing made you laugh…little things. Little things began to add up to bigger things. I thought you were extraordinary in what you do, but you were so arrogant and obnoxious to everyone. People kept warning me to stay away. The more they pushed, the more stubborn I became. The fact that you were aware of everyone else's bad opinions about you, and that you didn't care one wit—everyone was an idiot— intrigued me. More amazing, you kept asking me for my opinions, even though I was just as much an idiot as everyone else, but you seemed to care about them. Or at least listen to them.'

'So you accumulated data to deduce you opinion… about me.'

'In the normal way. It takes time. It couldn't be instant like you do it. I haven't always been correct when I make quick decisions, but I have learned that observations do help a person get to know another better and even come to care…'

'Usually don't let my observations result in caring.'

'Usually?'

'Never mind. And what was your opinion?'

'I realized you needed help. My help. You said it yourself, you couldn't work with Anderson. You asked me. But there was more. You needed someone who could guide your through the maze of contradictions of human nature…because you didn't get it. As brilliant as you were, you were an idiot, and friendless, just like me.'

'Hmmm. So when you realized I was an idiot you decided in my favor?'

'When I realized you were an idiot because you didn't have a friend, that's when I decided…and because, when I called you an idiot, you liked it and laughed. We laughed together. We were on even ground. You understood me. I was beginning to understand you. We could be friends.'

Sherlock inhaled, but said nothing.

'Now, it's my turn. When did I pass your test?'

'There were many tests, John. Some you didn't pass...'

'Right, then. Okay…but the first time? When was that?

'You passed with "Er, here. Use mine.'"

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An extraordinary insight, like a shiver along his spine, rippled through John Watson as he recalled the strange conversation they had years ago. They had made great progress since then. Never dreaming his expectations about Sherlock could be surpassed, John needed to acknowledge this stunning truth as he stood opposite his best friend—reading him.

"Sherlock," John fumbled for the right words, struggling to overcome his usual reticence, but regrets from his Tube derailment ordeal loosened his tongue. "I…I can't thank you enough… for giving me tonight…something I've never had before—even when I returned from the service —a brother to welcome me home…"

"It's okay, John." Deeply touched, Sherlock was immensely pleased by the word 'brother,' since he had just made the same inference earlier that night. Rewarding his 'brother' with a rare affectionate smile, Sherlock intoned, "Welcome home. Oh, yes! Hang on!"

With running strides, Sherlock crossed the distance toward an official seated at a table. Wildly gesturing arms and a steady finger pointing toward John looked peculiar from the distance. Sherlock seemed to be tap dancing his way through a conversation in a magnificent display of conviction and purpose. Several others were pulled into the discussion. Nods were exchanged, a box was retrieved, and Sherlock picked through its contents. When the official ticked off his clipboard, Sherlock came bounding back, with something in hand.

"Here. Your jacket. And wallet. Please, don't lose this again." His sideward glance could not hide his smile of extreme satisfaction. "Now, let's get you home…to Mary."

It took longer than usual for John to suppress his private smile and grateful heart behind a straight face. Once in the taxicab, pleasantries visited the light sleep that quickly overtook the weary doctor. This is all so perfect. Hmmm. So perfect. Too perfect! A dark thought undercut his happiness with sudden worry and woke him with a start.

This can't last! Happiness never does!

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A.N. For a fanfiction "exploring what poor Mary was going through as she waited for word," check out TOO MUCH TO ASK. Keeping within the BBC backstory of Mary M. Watson, TOO MUCH TO ASK is a companion piece to MISSING IN ACTION and ACTION IN MISSING. Special thanks to englishtutor for suggesting it.

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