Chapter 7

Author's note: M/M sexytimes alluded to herein. You have been warned.

A round of applause, please, for strangegibbon, who continues to make this story much better than it would have been otherwise. All mistakes are entirely my own.

Seven hours into an ice storm that gridlocked London, Mycroft's phone pinged.

Find him. SH

# # #

John was a dick for about twenty minutes. That's what he gave himself in circumstances like these, when Sherlock did something very Sherlock and John knew he couldn't reasonably expect anything different but he had to let himself be pissed off about it: he could be a dick for twenty minutes. Maybe a little longer under extreme provocation.

So for twenty minutes (more or less) he walked (okay, stomped) away from the man he'd told repeatedly he wasn't leaving, because he was furious and feeling manipulated and the alternatives were doing something terrible to Mrs Hudson's walls or saying something to Sherlock he would later regret. He took the route to the footbridge he liked because the boards made satisfying thumps when he clomped over them.

On his second trip over the bridge, he stopped and leaned against the handrail, looking down at the water and blowing out his breath. The rain had turned to sleet, so he'd have to start back soon. Time to stop being a dick and think it all through.

Sherlock was a master liar and manipulator and John knew it as well as anyone, but...no. He'd been sincere when he'd taken John to bed, when he'd said he hated wanting something so ordinary as a commitment but wanted it anyway. John didn't doubt he'd played every bit of it for maximum effect, but he'd long ago accepted he lived with a drama queen.

No, what pissed him off was being played for a fool by both Sherlock and Mycroft as part of their eternal game of one-upmanship. Well, Watson, if the shoe fits...

Once upon a time, before he'd met the Holmeses, he'd been considered a reasonably clever bloke. He doubted he'd ever feel that way again.

He ought to send a text. Sherlock was likely still in the middle of his experiment and hadn't even noticed John had gone, but he ought to text anyway. He'd left the shopping on the kitchen floor.

He pulled out his phone and slowly fumbled through texting OTOT WKLGN, PTU AAWY MILLK with half-frozen fingers, backspaced, managed OUT WLKIN and dropped the damned slippery thing. When he bent to pick it up, the worn tread of his shoe slid on ice and he pinwheeled wildly before falling against the handrail. His foot kicked the phone, which skittered over the side of the bridge and hit the water with a plop.

Shit.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the handrail. He was going to have to wade in and search for his phone, then walk home with squelching shoes, trousers, and sleeves in the sleet because no taxi driver was going to stop for him. And his phone wasn't even going to work once he found it. Well, Sherlock would enjoy playing with the carcass.

Gritting his teeth, he plunged into the frigid water, squinting up at the bridge and trying to estimate where the phone had fallen. It should be right...about...here. He stuck his arms into the soft, mucky bottom and rooted around, arching his neck to keep his face out of the water.

"Oi! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Something huge, white, very angry, and fast beat the shit out of him. Somehow, feathers were involved.

# # #

Mycroft's people traced him to a magistrate's, where he'd been scheduled to receive an ASBO. A note in the report stated the man had minor injuries and a possible concussion but had refused medical treatment, saying he was a doctor and lived with a flatmate experienced in first aid.

So he had intended to return to the flat five hours ago but never arrived.

# # #

John gingerly palpated his swollen cheek and marinated in the chilly, muddy puddle on the plastic chair. He'd had no idea birds could hit that hard. Swans always looked so graceful and serene, just bundles of fluff placidly floating along. Turned out they could slug like sodding cricket bats.

Harassing the swans. He was going to get another ASBO, and it was going to be for harassing the bloody swans that had knocked him near-senseless. He glanced again at the Audubon calendar hanging behind the constable's desk and knew he had no chance of getting out of this one. His requests to make a phone call had been punted into administrative limbo and he was certain that if he tried to make an issue of it the constable would find a reason to leave him sitting in his wet pants for another three or four hours.

He wished he had something for this headache. He needed to get home. He'd told Sherlock he wasn't leaving. He'd been gone for hours now and he really needed to get home. The milk was going to go off.

# # #

The homeless network hadn't spotted him and was increasingly unlikely to do so as individual members were forced to look for shelter from the ice storm.

John would not voluntarily remain out of contact for this length of time under these circumstances, therefore something was preventing him from communicating.

And Moriarty was still out there somewhere.

Sherlock paced, hands raking through his hair, mind spinning wildly.

# # #

When he was finally released, he limped along the pavement, half-squinting against the freezing sleet splattering down around him and trying to flag a cab. He was soaked through and shivering and his knee hurt like mad from the swans' attack. He thought one had hit him with a wing there; he gritted his teeth every time his patella shifted and thought longingly of a warm auto. Naturally, they were few and far between.

In the time it took him to hail a ride, he could have walked home on a better day, one without ice or a swollen knee. He was beyond being annoyed by then and was just grateful to be inside the cab.

"Two twenty-one Baker Street," he told the cabbie, and the woman said, "Can't go straight there, mate. Accidents everywhere on this ice, blocking the roads. I'll have to take you by side streets."

"Yeah, that's fine," he said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. "Would you mind turning up the heat?"

Damn this headache, anyway. It was okay. He'd be home soon, and then he'd get a hot shower, some tea, paracetamol, and dry pants, and sit by the fire and explain to Sherlock why you didn't get married because your brother gave your lover a very nice piece of body armour, although he himself was becoming increasingly unclear on why that was so.

# # #

Using his release time as a starting point, they were eventually able to locate CCTV footage of a very bedraggled and limping Dr Watson getting into a cab and then set about following the cab's progress. The many accidents on the roads and the smeared-image quality of footage filmed through heavy sleet made this more difficult than it should have been.

# # #

John jerked awake as the cabbie said, "Well, looks like you'll be my last fare of the day. Storm's shutting everything down."

"Huh," he said, scrubbing at his eyes and wincing at an unexpectedly sore cheekbone. He was finally starting to feel warm, which meant he'd been in the cab a lot longer than the trip should have taken. Oh, right—blocked streets.

"Damn it," the cabbie muttered under her breath. John craned his neck and saw three cars skewed across the road ahead. Unless the cab went up on the pavement, there was no getting through that. She tapped the brakes and the whole car lost traction on the thick layer of ice, sliding gracefully sideways until jolting lightly up against a bollard.

Swearing, she got out to inspect the damage. John thought he ought to do the same, but didn't want to risk his knee on that ice if he didn't have to. He peered through the windscreen and saw people standing calmly on the pavement near the three cars ahead. Nobody badly hurt, then.

The cabbie stuck her head back inside. "Just the frame," she told him. "We're fine. I'm going to try to shift—"

John was thrown hard against his door as a sliding yellow Audi slammed into the cab. "Shit," he hissed, eyes squeezed shut, reminding himself that had not been an IED, "oh, shit."

"Fuck," said the cabbie. She lay curled protectively around her arm on the pavement where she'd been thrown when the cab rocked upon impact. John fumbled for the door latch, slid as soon as he stepped out of the cab, and ended up on his knees beside her. "Jesus Christ," he groaned, and they grinned at each other through gritted teeth and laughed.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Fine. You?"

"I heard it crack. Wrist. Tried to catch myself."

"This is your lucky day; I'm a doctor."

"Really lucky." She jerked her chin up the street. "Here's an ambulance. Must've already been coming for them." She tilted her head towards the cars that had blocked the roadway.

John prudently waited until the ambulance came to a complete stop before helping the cabbie up and limping to the paramedics. "Broken wrist here. Anything more serious up there?"

"Lumbar sprain, sounds like. Rob'll take care of that. Let me see your wrist." He deftly got the cabbie's coat off and slid on a splinting cast. "Up you get, now," he told her, and he and John helped her into the back of the ambulance. Once she was settled, he said to John, "Looks like you got knocked about a bit."

"I'm fine."

The paramedic gave him a once-over. "Don't think so, mate. You look like a damaged knee and a head injury to me."

"I'm fine. A swan hit me earlier." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than John knew what was coming. Sure enough, the medic smoothly backed him into a seat, shone a penlight torch in his eyes, and ran fingers over his skull. "A swan," he said mildly. "Big yellow one?"

"I'm not disoriented. Yellow was the car; the swan was white. I'm a doctor. I know I'm fine."

"You've had two knocks to the head, then?"

Shit, shit, shit.

# # #

An accident report filed for the cab John had taken allowed them to find the relevant CCTV footage. It appeared he had voluntarily entered an ambulance to assist a patient and had then been refused exit. It was not clear if force or coercion had been involved.

# # #

John really couldn't blame the man. If their circumstances had been reversed, he'd also have threatened to sit on a patient with double head injuries only hours apart, one of which had occurred in an auto accident, unless said patient agreed to be seen by a doctor. A doctor who was not sharing a concussed brain with the patient.

He rubbed his sore face again and once more wished for dry pants. "Okay. Can I borrow your phone? My, uh, my flatmate'll be wondering where I am."

Three minutes later, staring blankly at the phone in his hand and realizing he couldn't remember Sherlock's number (which was not, of course, in the Contacts list, and why had he expected it to be?), he sheepishly conceded that the paramedic might have a point.

# # #

The ambulance had made very slow progress; accidents blocked streets all over the city and treacherous curtains of ice on the road surface kept traffic to a crawl. Only emergency vehicles were permitted to be out.

When at last the ambulance had arrived at the hospital, John had walked from it under his own power and apparently of his own free will. His limp was considerably worse. Probably legitimately seeking treatment, then.

If that was the case, why wasn't he in the hospital records?

# # #

Impossible not to remember the last time this had happened.

He kept the drapes drawn and stayed away from the windows, but couldn't stop the mad pacing. Think, you dolt. This isn't a pointless Yard case. This is John. Think.

But there were no data from which to form hypotheses, and no mind, however brilliant, could deduce from thin air.

# # #

Mycroft unsteepled his fingers, opened his eyes, and said, "Have Lestrade of the Yard sent to UCH to look for John Watson. Tell him not to rely on admission records; physically search for the man."

He stepped into the hallway to phone his brother. "Stay at the flat and don't go haring off," he said. "I may have located him and it would be beyond ridiculous to miss him in passing. Furthermore, you and I are going to discuss revised security measures because this absurd series of coincidences could be deliberately manufactured with remarkable ease."

# # #

Greg found him sitting on a bench in front of a vending machine.

"Jesus, there you are. Have you gone into witness protection?"

"Hi, Greg. Have you got change? I'm dying for coffee."

"Yeah, well, I mention this on the off chance it'll keep my arse from being called out to find you next time, but you might have wanted to check yourself in before you went wandering around."

"There was a queue. I triaged myself and went for coffee until it cleared out."

"Apparently you got here three hours ago."

"Hunh." He seemed to lose focus for a moment and then asked brightly, "Do you have any change? I really want coffee. And clean underpants." (You don't want to know, Greg told himself firmly. You'd regret asking.) "Can I use your phone? I tried to call Sherlock earlier, but I forgot his number."

"It's on the website, isn't it?"

"Oh. Right." John sighed. "Guess I'd better let them get a CT scan."

His unofficial orders had been quite clear: Get John home at once unless it was medically necessary he stay at the hospital. If he needed anything to make that happen, it would be provided. He was not to concern himself with paperwork or policy.

"Here, call him. I'm going to get your scan set up."

# # #

In short order, John had been scanned, physically examined, cleared to leave, and given a painkiller for his knee. He had declined to take a prescription for the same back to the flat.

"This will dope him up a bit," the doctor cautioned Greg. "He'll be wobbly and unco-ordinated, and he's already unsteady because of that knee so be careful to support him even if he doesn't seem to need it. Are you certain he won't take the tablets? He's going to hurt like hell tomorrow morning."

He agreed with John; they were pretty sure Sherlock wasn't interested in painkillers, but why tempt fate?

# # #

"Swans are shit. Hate bloody swans. Bloody vicious fucking birds. Did you get me coffee? I hope I was nice to you."

Apparently John was chatty when he was high.

"Oh, God, I want a hot shower. I want, wanna put my feet right into the fire. That would feel so good. And dry. I remember dry. Dry was nice."

Greg thought he should be recording this. He could play it at the next post-case pub meet.

"Shit, Sherlock's feet are gonna be cold. 'S like a vampire or something. And he sticks 'em anywhere warm, Greg. I mean, no consideration at all, just none."

No. No. Now that image was in his brain and it was never going to come out.

John's voice dropped into a throaty register. "But oh, God, Greg, I'm, I'm telling you, you really, really want a blowjob from a bloke with a serious oral fixation. You don't know. You don't know."

"Bloody hell, please shut up right now and I mean RIGHT FUCKING NOW."

"I'm just sayin', when a bloke can give you a hickey on your cock—"

"Oh, Christ."

Author's postscript: Gratitude to everyone who favourited and alerted. Love and hugs and profound thanks to everyone who reviewed; you help me improve my skills with each chapter, and I can't tell you what that means to me.