Author's Note:This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...
**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!
(HUGE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE THAT HAS LEFT A REVIEW! YOU'RE THE REASON THE STORY CONTINUES TO POST CHAPTERS SO QUICKLY. :) Also, no beta...just a reminder on that. Sorry for any mistakes.
PLEASE REVIEW:Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!
Disclaimer:Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.
This chapter is before the climax of the story, so it's just to explain where John and Sherlock are at, internally, before the action starts…just a friendly warning.
Chapter 9
Moran's Revenge
John leaned against the pale yellow wall in the hallway, his phone pressed tightly against his ear, listening as Mary talked about her day. The hospital was pretty quiet at the moment. Perhaps it was due to the rather unfortunate fact that it was nearly 2:30 in the morning. The staff had dimmed the lights in respect of those that needed to keep their doors open for medical reasons, but still wanted to sleep without lights glaring in their eyes all night.
"He's awake?" Mary finally asked, the excitement in her voice was somewhat infectious and John could not help the warm feeling that settled in his stomach. She really was something, his Mary.
"Yeah, he woke up about an hour ago." The statement felt like an affirmation that Sherlock was truly back. And it felt good.
"How is he? Is he okay?" John recognized the concerned tone of a nurse in Mary's tone and smiled. Once a medical professional, always a medical professional. He thought silently.
"He's a right mess. But he is showing improvement."
Mary laughed. "That's 'John speak' for he'll live." She effortlessly interpreted what he meant without even trying. "How about you? Are you okay? You sound tired."
John considered her question for a moment. He was tired. No, not just tired, he was exhausted. He'd been through the emotional ringer over the last three days and he was fairly certain it wasn't over yet. At some point he and Sherlock were going to have a conversation about all those little 'battle-wounds' he had collected since he'd been…dead.
But as his eyes scanned the silent, darkened hallway of Barts hospital, John could admit, at least to himself, that things were good. He had Mary. He had his best friend back. A person, that he'd thought, he would never share a meal with again, or an adventure.
"John?" Mary's soft voice pulled him out of his pensive thoughts.
"I'm okay." She didn't immediately respond, which meant that she didn't quite believe him. "I really am okay, Mary. I didn't think I would be. But I am. He's alive and he'd back. Right now that's all I can ask for." He wondered how on earth he had managed to get everything he had ever wanted. John Watson didn't generally have good things in his life. His sister was an alcohol abusing, mean-spirited person and his parents were dead, good riddance to the bastard his father had been. But now he had Sherlock back and he had Mary, life was pretty damn good. A small part of him, the cynical part wondered when the other shoe would drop and destroy this happy moment. "I had better get back in there before he tries to turn the morphine pump into his own private drug donation device."
She laughed. "Alright. I love you." Mary said and then yawned on the other end of the line.
John said softly. "I love you too. Go to sleep, I'll call you in the morning." He pressed the 'end' button and started to slide the phone back into his pocket.
A slight stinging in the back of his neck caused him to reach up and swipe at the offending spot. Immediately his vision started to grey out, spiraling into a single point and his legs turned to jelly. John slid to his knees and then continued the downward momentum until he landed in a heap on the floor just outside Sherlock's room. As he started to fade into the darkness that was inevitable, he saw several booted feet heading toward him. This was not going to be good…and then John knew no more.
Several men, dressed in hospital attire, minus the boots that looked military, carefully lifted John onto a gurney. They covered him with a white blanket and within seconds, the doctor appeared to be just another patient. They immediately pushed the unconscious doctor toward an unknown fate.
221B 221B
Lestrade scrubbed his hand down his stubbled face. He stared at the amber colored liquid in the cheap glass before knocking it back and setting the empty glass on the battered table. It had been a rough week. Work had been tough with two kidnapping cases that left no clues and looked to go unsolved by Scotland Yard. He would generally have taken the evidence to Sherlock, but the consulting detective was in no state to help anyone. He'd barely survived the last seventy-two hours.
The tiny flat was sparsely furnished; with table in the kitchen slash dining area, a couch that doubled as the bed, and a pathetically small television. After the divorce it had been all that he could afford and since he spent almost no time at home, it had been fine. He had spent the intervening years struggling not to become the clichéd detective. The one that goes home to an empty flat and drinks himself to sleep at night just to silence the ghosts in his head.
One of those damn ghosts had a deep baritone voice and blamed him for not saving his life. Greg couldn't count the nights that he'd laid awake staring at the stained ceiling, listening to the rain outside and replaying the entire scenario with Sherlock and Moriarty in his head. He'd been searching for the one moment that he could have stopped the whole thing in its tracks.
He wasn't one of those cops that felt the need to be right all the time or that couldn't ask for help. That was one of the reasons he had the highest solved crime rate in the yard. He would reach out and ask for assistance if it would help solve the case. But when Sherlock had died, it had left a hole in Greg that had been difficult to fill. Alcohol helped, but it didn't alleviate the guilt he felt for not saving his friend.
Yes, he considered the great Sherlock Holmes a friend, a very inconsiderate, downright rude, and arrogant friend…but still a friend. He shook himself from the thoughts and reminded himself that Sherlock was not dead. The bastard had faked his death and then shown up 3 days ago half dead after a car almost sent him to the grave for real. Greg hauled himself up onto unsteady legs and stumbled toward the couch. He fell onto the course fabric and sank into a familiar alcohol induced sleep.
His ringing cell phone destroyed his well constructed plan of a drunken sleep. Greg picked the evil little device up off the floor and squinted to see the screen. First thing he noticed was that the call was from Sherlock. Second thing he noticed was a missed text that was also from Sherlock with one word...
*HELP!
221B 221B
Earlier that evening...
Sherlock allowed his gaze to roam over the tall mahogany bookshelves. They were once again stacked full of facts and every important detail he'd amassed over his life. This room, 'the John room', was his favorite of all the rooms he had built over the years. In spite of the glaring fact that it was also the newest, it had an older feel to it that he loved. Sherlock couldn't stop the small smile that crinkled at the corners of his pale eyes as he looked at the order he had managed to reestablish. Things were not in the exact same places as they had been before, but there were again, well organized and he was fairly certain he could find anything should he desire.
The only thing that seemed to be missing was his mind palace version of John. Perhaps that was because now he had the real thing back? He wasn't sure and the uncertainty irritated him a bit. He moved to the leather chair in front of the fireplace and sank into it, steepling his fingers beneath his chin to contemplate his new lease on life.
His body was still broken out there in the real world and that small fact was tiring him out in his mind palace as well. He ignored the sharp stab of pain that radiated along his side and the odd sensation that was pulling near his ribs. Sherlock understood the science by which a lung was re-inflated allowing the fluid to drain from the body in order to avoid infection and place less stress on the organ as it healed.
But that wasn't what he was here to contemplate. Sherlock now knew the name of the man he needed to find and kill. But he was, currently, not at his best. Unfortunately, this meant that he couldn't just go popping after the man, he was going to need help. And while Sherlock would prefer to have John there watching his back, he wasn't sure if bringing the man that the assassin was supposed to kill 'to' the assassin assigned to kill him, was such a good idea. A bit like delivering a pizza to a man that wasn't supposed to eat carbs. Chances were that the man would take advantage of the pizza. Huh, comparing John Watson to pizza...I think perhaps, I might have a bit too much morphine in my system. It was not, afterall, good for working.
So…that meant that he needed to involve someone else…Lestrade.
221B 221B
Sherlock blinked several times as he pulled out of his mind palace and landed back in a world of pain. He grimaced as he reflexively reached for the morphine pump and the stopped when he realized that he was alone in the room. He wasn't exactly sure how long he'd been inside his own thoughts, but he was certain that John should have returned from his call with Mary. And yet…Sherlock was most definitely alone. His gaze shifted to the small window, the sun was fully up so it had been hours, not minutes. Where are you, John?
A knock at his door had his eyes flashing over with the expectation of seeing the former army doctor. He was more disappointed than he could possibly say when it was only the day nurse coming to check on him.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" She busied herself with changing his saline drip and taking some readings from the machines next to the bed. "We're going to take the tube out this morning. It'll be a bit uncomfortable, but the doctor thinks it would be best."
Half an hour later…
Sherlock would take a bullet wound over having a chest tube pulled out. The pain that little piece of plastic produced was unlike anything that he'd ever felt. And if he never felt it again at any point in his life…he would be fine with that. The doctor had used a local anesthetic and then stitched the two-inch incision closed. The nurse, from Suffolk originally, and in the process of ending an unhappy relationship if her hair was anything to go by, changed the bandage on his arm while he watched.
"There now…that should feel a lot better." She turned a false smile in his direction. Personally, he thought she was trying too hard. If she was unhappy, she should simply stay home and avoid other people all together.
Small talk. Why is it that everyone feels the need to fill these silences? Can't they just do their job and leave? Sherlock thought with irritation.
"Where's John?" he quickly bypassed her comment with a question of his own.
"Oh, Dr. Watson hasn't been here all morning."
Sherlock shifted as she drew a vial of blood. "All morning?"
"Yeah. I haven't seen Dr. Watson since last night." She shrugged and left.
Sherlock couldn't turn the morphine pump down fast enough. He needed his brain at peak performance and morphine was not good for working. Where had John gone? Why would he leave? Had something happened with Mary? His coat was draped over the back of the white chair, ignoring the pull of the needles that were taped to the back of his hand; he shifted until he could reach his Belstaff. Inside the inner pocket was his phone.
He dialed John's number. A ringing just inside his door caught his attention and Sherlock rolled his eyes. The walls of this institution really did need to be thicker. He could hear everything going on the rooms near his. And frankly he didn't want to listen to the woman next-door cry anymore. He blew out an irritate breath and dialed again after John's cell went to voicemail. The second time he dialed he heard the phone ringing again…
John's phone. Sherlock struggled up and out of the bed. His legs nearly collapsed beneath him as he tried to stand. There was a fiery burst of pain from his feet and the extremely unpleasant sensation in his arm where the stitches pulled. He hadn't even managed to get off the bed when his injuries reminded him that he was in the hospital for a reason.
Mycroft pushed the door open and immediately frowned when he saw his brother half in and half out of the bed. "Should you really be doing that?"
Sherlock glared at him. It would figure that his rubbish older brother would show up to see him in his current vulnerable position. "If you're not here to help me, you can leave."
"Perhaps if I knew what the objective was, I could offer assistance?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side. He'd done that since Sherlock was little, it was his way of disapproving of his little brother without saying it out loud.
"By the door."
Mycroft's gaze dropped to his feet. It only took a moment for him to see the phone lying next to the floorboard. He picked it up and stepped into the room, pushing the door closed behind him. "I assume this is what you were attempting acquire?"
"Well I certainly wasn't coming to open the door for you." He shot back. Sherlock was lashing out and it was a bit irrational, but he didn't care at the moment. Something must have happened to John. He settled back into the bed and held his hand out. Mycroft crossed to the chair and then dropped the phone into his palm.
Sherlock immediately thumbed the button and the phone flared to life. There were two missed calls and a text message. The missed calls were from Sherlock…but the missed text? That was from Mary and she obviously, judging from the message, hadn't seen John all night.
"Something's happened." Sherlock whispered. His heart started hammering in his chest and the monitor next to the bed alerted his older brother to the increased activity of the organ.
"I assume this involves John Watson?"
Sherlock's pale eyes flickered up. "Obviously." He bit out angrily. "Did your people find Moran?"
Mycroft shook his head. He didn't look any happier about revealing the failure than Sherlock was at hearing it. "So the man Moriarty hired to kill John Watson is here in London and now John is missing." Sherlock ground out and he was, again, struggling up out of the bed. "Fairly certain there's a connection there."
For once Mycroft did not do the rational thing. He did not force his little brother back into the hospital bed and inject him with a sedative. Sherlock would never forgive him if John died. And he had to agree that the balance of probability suggested that James Moran had indeed taken the doctor.
"What can I do?" he was already pulling his phone from his suit jacket pocket. Mycroft's blue eyes were sincere as he offered without reservation the help that Sherlock so desperately needed.
"Call Lestrade. And get me the hell out of here." The determination in his words belied the physical appearance of his transport.
"The first is easy. The second? Not in your best interest, brother mine." Mycroft looked a bit uncomfortable denying Sherlock his second request.
"Either you get me out of here. Or I'll sign myself out against medical advice. Either way, I am going to find my friend." He was deadly serious and the chill emanating from his pale eyes froze any argument Mycroft was about to make. "At least this way, you get to keep an eye on me."
His brother raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You hate that I do that."
"Yes, I do. But I can't help John if I bleed out somewhere because I've ripped my stitches or my lung collapses again. I might stubborn, but I'm not stupid." Sherlock watched as his honestly landed heavily on his brother. "Or suicidal…"
"I was informed by the staff that they only just removed your chest tube less than an hour ago. Do you really think this is the best idea?"
Sherlock groaned. "Probably not. But if we wrap my chest tightly, it should stabilize the broken ribs and offer support for the healing lung. I'm not going to running across rooftops, but I'll live." His brother's eyes narrowed. "I will be careful." He offered, trying to placate the concern still radiating off Mycroft. "And I won't ditch Lestrade. Promise."
Mycroft sighed. "This is not a good idea. Mummy won't be pleased."
'Then I suggest that we don't tell her." Sherlock answered immediately. "What is it you always say? Sometimes ignorance is a kindness."
"When have I ever said that?" The elder Holmes asked with a sneer.
"Two years ago, when you suggested that we keep John out of the Lazarus plan." Sherlock's baritone was flat and slightly angry as he glared up at his brother. He held out his hand, Mycroft pressed his lips together and reached out to help his younger brother to his unsteady feet.
221B 221B
The world was a spinning at a dizzying speed that made John want to vomit. His head was throbbing and he was soaking wet. He shifted and water splashed around him immediately alerting him to the change in his location. That brought him into awareness and he struggled to stand up. The last thing he remembered was talking to Mary on the phone outside of Sherlock's room. Oh God…Sherlock…this has to be to get to Sherlock. Because there was no better way to bring the consulting detective running that if John was used as bait.
Dammit…
He couldn't see a damn thing, but he was obviously somewhere with standing water. His right leg was chained to the bottom of…wherever the hell I am. He stood up, but John wasn't able to move more than a foot in any direction.
He patted down his jacket in the vain hope that his mobile phone would still be there. It wasn't.
"Help!" he called out. His plea reverberated through the area, but there was no answer. "Can anyone hear me?!" John leaned back against the wall, it was stone, he noticed. He hated the darkness, always had. Ever since his last mission in Afghanistan, the one that had resulted in his being invalided home…with a bullet in his shoulder and his health irretrievably damaged. "Please God…don't let me die." He muttered softly.
TBC…
Author's Note: Please take a moment and let me know if you're still interested in the story. It would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.
