A/N: Woot! Chapter 10. Almost halfway through the story. :) I've been pretty busy today but, hey, still found time to update this. Please enjoy.
I don't own Sherlock.
Realization flashed in John's eyes. He froze for a moment, staring at Sherlock in something close to shock. It was brilliant, of course. Completely brilliant of Moriarty. But why hadn't they expected this? And why hadn't Sherlock told him the moment he'd gotten the messages? If anything bugged him more than Mycroft's disappearance, it was this. They were partners, weren't they? He'd almost say partners in crime, but that just didn't work out. The thought that Sherlock would keep something like this from him hit him hard, but he didn't say anything, only forced himself to nod.
"Anthea, keep your people searching for him," Sherlock commanded, frowning a bit at the look on John's face. He was only slightly confused by it but brushed it off. Perhaps he was just seeing things.
"Yes, of course," Anthea nodded and took her leave, leaving the two men alone in the flat. They stared at each other, speechless, daring the other to speak first. A few moments of tension-filled silence passed before Sherlock finally gave up and, frustrated, asked, "What?"
"Why didn't you tell me?" John's voice was steady, but the irritation and hurt there was clear. The detective looked rather shocked at this question. He hadn't even once thought to wake the doctor, it hadn't seemed important at all. So why would John be so irritated with him?
"You were sleeping," Sherlock pointed out as if it would answer everything.
"Then why didn't you wake me?"
"Because it didn't seem important," his tone was flat, but at least his words were honest. Sherlock hesitated for a moment - actually hesitated - and then forced himself to speak again. "And because I wasn't sure who he meant by 'they.'"
"And you think…" John trailed off, realization sparking in his eyes again. Sherlock nodded and he drew a deep breath. They. They. Sherlock had thought of him first, and yet he hadn't even thought of himself as a possibility. A shot of fear unexpectedly hit him - he'd already dealt with Moriarty once, and he'd witnessed exactly what happened when the man wanted to 'play.' Of all things, he definitely did not want to end up like Lestrade, or wired with enough bombs to blow up all of London again. It all made sense now, he realized.
"Yes." Sherlock nodded, relieved that he didn't have to explain his motives to John. That was one of the reasons he liked the man: John was ordinary, yes, but he was no fool. Throughout the years he'd met men like him, but, for some reason, none of them stuck. He never did well with the few that matched his intellect - they only annoyed him further - and others, far more ordinary than John, just bored him. Somehow the Doctor was a median and he liked that.
"So what do we do next, then?"
The detective thought for a moment before shrugging. "You aren't worried at all? Interesting."
"Not really. Well, I suppose, yes, but worrying's not going to help any. And you obviously want to find Mycroft. So, what is our next order of business?"
Sherlock took the pager back from John, turned it over in his hands and then shrugged grudgingly. "We wait."
Of all things, Sherlock Holmes hated waiting. He hated feeling vulnerable, like he couldn't do anything before the rest of the world did. And Moriarty seemed to know that, because he was definitely delaying. Every few minutes, Sherlock would grab the pager from his pocket and look at it again, only to be disappointed with the blank screen that greeted him. It felt like days before there was actually any sign, and by then, he was so tired of it that he thought he'd imagined the beep.
"Sherlock!" John called at him, eyes wide and hands pointing to the pager. "Sherlock, it just beeped at you. Didn't you hear it? Pick it up! It could be helpful."
"What? Oh," he couldn't believe that he hadn't really noticed it. His hands shot forward, grabbing for the device. It was already showing signs of being badly handled, but he didn't really care. He scanned the message quickly before throwing it to John as it played a second time.
"'Sherlock, hold on to your pets,'" he read aloud, frowning at the message. "'They always seem to go astray. And then there's your brother… did you really think he was safe?'" John shot a quick, worried look at Sherlock, but there was no emotion on his friend's face. "'Never fear, dear, I said they. Hold on to your other pets. And in the mean time, let me give you some friendly advice…'"
"'Recharge and return,'" Sherlock muttered, finishing for John. He ran his hands through his dark curls, but even when he dropped them back to his lap they were twitching with nervous energy. "But what does it mean?"
"Recharge… Maybe he wants you to sleep?" John suggested. "Maybe he's telling you Mycroft's safe enough for you to sleep for now."
"Possible," the detective agreed, "but how does he expect me to sleep? Recharge… recharge… fine, I can do that… But return. What does he mean, return? I don't understand!"
For good measure, he tossed a pillow across the room, satisfied when it hit the wall and then bounced to the floor. John, on the other hand, looked less than satisfied. He approached Sherlock, and, as the detective simply looked at him in confusion, grabbed the man's wrist. He pulled Sherlock off the couch and towards his bedroom, letting go only when they were in the entrance. "Go. To. Bed. Recharge. Mycroft is strong, he'll last."
"But I don't need sleep on a case!"
"Don't give me that. Everyone needs sleep. Now, go," John pointed at the other man's bed, a stern expression on his face. It was hard not to laugh at the situation. Surely it sounded like so many argument he'd had as a child, fighting his parents to let him stay awake. Except now he'd taken on the parent role, and, well, the child was no child at all.
"Not here," Sherlock growled, pacing back into the living room and flopping down on the couch. "If you're going to force me to sleep, Dr. Watson, then you're staying in the same room, and I'm sure you'd be much more comfortable if it wasn't the bedroom."
"Funny," John rolled his eyes, falling onto a chair himself. "But sleep, Sherlock. You can think when you wake up. Let your mind rest for a few."
"I'm always thinking," he muttered, but his eyes shut anyway.