I need to thank everyone who has supported and encouraged me – Secretmoustache, MapleleafCameo, Jack63kids – everyone who had reviewed and commented (please keep it up – so motivating!) – and to those whom I've been unable to respond to directly (no PM) – I wish I could!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Still wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!
John's eyes flew open and he lay gasping for air like a diver who had been under the surface for too long. He struggled against the restraints still holding him captive in the bed. Greg reached over swiftly and pressed the call button beside the bed, summoning medical assistance.
"No, no, no, no!" the voice was rough, like it hadn't been used in years, the body struggled against his restraints.
"John, easy now," Greg's hand moved from the call button to John's chest in an attempt to reassure.
"No! I won't do it! You can't…." the shouting stopped as suddenly as it started. John's eyes closed briefly, the long lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks, and he drew a deep breath. When he opened them again a familiar face was peering worriedly down at him. "Hello."
Sherlock smiled. "Welcome back, John." Anything else he might have wanted to say was interrupted as both the nurse and Dr Rachmann came running into the room and hustled him away from the bedside.
"Ah, you're awake!"
"Well that was obvious!" John's mind answered, but no sound passed his lips.
"How are we feeling?"
"I'm feeling like crap!" the mind answered again "Can't speak for you though!" His eyes closed, and he lay there enduring the inane chatter and the prodding and probing of the doctor's examination, wishing they would just go away! Eventually they stopped pulling him around and he heard the sound of footsteps crossing the room. Cautiously he opened his eyes again – damn! The doctor with the crappy bedside manner was still there! And just to reinforce that opinion…
"There we go!" "Where?" "Doesn't that feel better?"
"Thirsty!" John felt if he had to converse with this idiot it might as well be something productive.
"Ah!" Rachmann reached around to the jug and glass that stood on the bedside table. He poured a glass of water and held it to John's lips – lips that remained stubbornly pressed shut.
Finally Sherlock could stand it no longer. "For God's sake!" in one fluid movement reached in to release the straps holding John down, slipping an arm under his friend's shoulders and lifting him gently. Taking the glass from the doctor he offered John the drink he so obviously needed.
With a grateful smile he drank deeply, allowing Sherlock to hold the glass to his lips until it was empty. "Thanks!"
Rachmann fussed about for a while longer, asking questions that John barely thought about as he answered – yes he was comfortable thank you, no he didn't really remember what happened, and yes, of course, if he needed anything he'd press the call button that the doctor placed on the bed near his hand – before advising the other men in the room not to overtire the patient and leaving them in peace.
In the silence that followed his departure John's gaze flicked around the room, took in the straps that still lay across the bed, the bruises that circled his wrists, before coming to rest on Lestrade. The older man looked uncomfortable. John looked away again, this time moving his head slightly to look at his flatmate. Sherlock just looked tired. John frowned. What had he missed? Why was he in hospital anyway?
"What happened Sherlock?"
Silver-grey eyes looked down at him, trying to calculate how much he should tell him.
"Surely it can't have been that bad?" John spoke again, breaking the strained silence. He looked at Lestrade again. "Greg? What's going on?" his head ached he felt as if he'd been trampled by a herd of elephants – he blinked as his mind supplied the picture that illustrated that thought (where the hell had that come from?) but it was gone in a heartbeat, to be replaced by a niggling thought that made itself at home in his mind. "Why are you here Greg? What's wrong?"
He didn't miss the look that the two men shared either, but before he could comment Sherlock pulled his chair closer to the bed and sat down.
"It's not that we don't want to tell you John, we will. It's just that we can't tell you everything. We need you to try to remember…"
"Look mate," Greg interrupted "It's been a long night," he looked at his watch, it was nearly mid-morning, "actually it's been a long fifteen hours or more. You need to rest. Sherlock needs to rest. God help me, I need to rest! Let it be for now…"
"I can't Greg." John said quietly, "I've been restrained in a hospital bed," he lifted his hands briefly, "'cuffed too at some point by the look of these bruises. You don't exactly look as if you're here for a social call or to enquire after my health – am I under arrest?"
Greg swallowed hard. "You were. Not now though, John, we're fairly certain…."
"Of course you're innocent!"
"Not an idiot Sherlock." John sighed "Scotland Yard wouldn't arrest me without good cause. What did I do Greg? You might as well tell me."
Greg turned and walked to the window, rubbing his face with both hands. He stood for a moment looking out of the window, seeing nothing, before puffing out his breath and turning to face the man in the bed once more. "We thought you'd tried to kill Sherlock."
"What?" John's eyes swivelled to his flatmate, scanning the thin frame. Seeing no obvious injury his gaze narrowed and he looked Sherlock in the eye. "Why would he think that? I'll ask you again, what happened?"
Instead of answering Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "You're not planning on arresting him again then?" Greg's answer was a tired shake of his head. "Then piss off and get that rest you've been complaining about."
"Sherlock…"
"No John, he's probably right, I should go. I'll have reports to catch up with, including the one for this mess. Sherlock can fill you in with what detail he thinks fit." He moved to put a hand on John's arm "Sorry mate, I don't know what else to say! It's been …" he let the sentence tail off as he turned to leave, pausing at the door to advise Sherlock to try to get some rest before walking slowly away.
As the door closed behind him John turned his gaze back to his friend. "Where?"
"Where what?"
"Like I said Sherlock, I'm not an idiot. I can't see any obvious signs of having hit you, or trying to strangle you, so I have to assume I tried to shoot you?" There was no response, so he continued "That they arrested me means either they caught me trying to kill you, or that I did in fact shoot you, so I'll ask again – where?"
Sherlock drew in a deep breath. "You're right, John. Let me tell you what I can…."
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Anthea and Mycroft sat on opposite sides of the highly polished conference table, a mass of papers spread between them. The information Mycroft had requested early that morning had arrived at last, and led to a frantic paper chase through departmental records and personnel files. Now the pieces of the jigsaw were finally coming together.
"Sir" Anthea held out a computer printout for Mycroft to see, a frown creasing her normally smooth brow. Mycroft took the paper and read it carefully. Once or twice his eyes flickered to his normally unflappable assistant, noting the frown that was still sitting on her usually serene face.
"This is fairly conclusive." he said finally, putting the paper on top of the pile in front of him. "What else?"
"This is who authorised that particular piece of information to be accessed." In her hand Anthea held a signed request, and a personnel profile. "I'm sorry Sir."
Mycroft went very still, only the angry flare of his nostrils showed that he was even still breathing. After a very long moment he reached forward and picked up the telephone and punched in a number, speaking coldly and quietly to the person at the other end of the line. "I want a security lockdown. No one in, no one out of the building, and I want the head of security in my office in five minutes!"
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Anderson had arrived at the office to find everyone had already heard about the evidence he had discovered. With a self-satisfied smile he walked to his desk, hoping that his work would impress a certain dusky skinned detective sergeant – he was to be disappointed however, as Sally Donovan was furious that his discovery meant that she had to re-open the file on the case.
It wasn't all bad however. Lestrade had recommended him for a commendation for his fieldwork, but better than that, the next time Mr Sherlock Snotty Holmes came into the Yard he would have to thank him! That was worth the lost night's sleep!
He was just settling in for a comfortable daydream about how he'd make the consulting detective squirm when Sally tapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon Superman – we've had a shout. Body washed up on the South Bank!"
Ah well, the dream can wait….
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Memory came back slowly, but gradually both Sherlock and John were able to piece together the events of that night. Now they sat in the living room of 221b (Mycroft had arranged for the carpet to be thoroughly cleaned before the flatmates left the hospital), with Mycroft and Lestrade sitting at either end of the couch listening to them lay out the facts.
John's rubbed at his shoulder absent-mindedly as he recalled the sting of the injection Katerinochkin had given him. He frowned a little, there were still gaps in his memory that worried him, there was some important information he had wanted to give Sherlock when he returned to the flat that night.
Into the silence that had settled over the room Mycroft spoke. "John, I owe you an apology."
John's eyes widened dramatically. "Really?"
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, but this had to be done. He may have enough belief in his own rightness to sink a battleship but underneath it all he was a fair man, and despite the comical face John was pulling right at this moment he knew he had to say this. "I accused you unfairly. I'm sorry. I allowed my concern for Sherlock to colour my judgement, I grasped at information I should have known to be flawed. That was wrong of me." There! He'd said it! The silence seemed to stretch to infinity, then
"Okay!" John nodded "Fair enough."
Both Sherlock and Mycroft wore matching frowns – this wasn't the reaction either of them expected! John laughed.
"What? You'd prefer me to be angry? I didn't know anything about it so why let it worry me? In fact my last clear memory was of talking to Kallie….." he stopped suddenly, staring off into the distance.
Sherlock leaned forward "What about Kallie?"
"Who's Kallie?" Greg asked
"Homeless network" Sherlock said economically, not taking his eye from John's face.
"Oh God!" John groaned suddenly, dropping his head into his hands "Kallie!" He turned desperate eyes towards Sherlock. "That was the news I had for you! Shit!" He stood up and walked to the window. "Katerinochkin is building up a network of street dealers, using homeless people. Some of the network had been approached but refused to get involved. It was Kallie that picked up the connection, that realised what they are trying to do." Looking at the Detective Inspector he asked quietly "Have you had many homeless deaths lately Greg? Overdoses?"
Greg nodded "Yeah, a few."
John turned back to Sherlock. "Kallie thought they were using these kids, then paying them off in pure Angel Dust. They wouldn't have stood a chance!"
Sherlock looked to his brother "Can you help? If we can pick them up on the CCTV…"
Mycroft was already moving. "I'll let you know what we find." He said as he left the flat.
Greg stood too. "I'd better be going…um.. and…er, thanks Sherlock, about that thing with your brother…."
A slim hand was waved dismissively "I couldn't let him have you sacked or demoted over this.." he paused, then grinned up at the man from the Yard "after all, who else would give me work?"
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A short while later the flat was quiet and John, still suffering the after effects of the various drugs he had been given had succumbed to sleep in his favourite chair in from of the fire.
Sherlock had decided against starting any new experiments, he wanted to stay close as he knew that John was still having vivid dreams brought on by the hallucinogenic nature of the PCP, so he settled himself to sort the mountain of papers on his desk. He was reaching for another pile of potential cases when his hand brushed against a particularly large stack of notes and the fell to the floor making a rather loud fluttering sound.
"Jesus!" John leapt out of his chair staring wildly around him. "What the hell…."
"John? Are you okay?" Sherlock stared at him in concern.
"Yeah," a sheepish grin graced his face "Just dreaming again."
"Care to share?" Having ascertained that they were generally harmless, Sherlock had found some of John's drug induced dreams to be quite entertaining.
"Some woman had me imprisoned in her attic – and it was filled with bats! That noise…." His eyes met Sherlocks, and they dissolved into giggles.
A while later, when they had calmed down, John busied himself making tea. Returning to the living room he handed Sherlock a cup and then seated himself opposite his flatmate.
Sherlock took a tentative sip of the hot drink. "I confess, I almost wish I hadn't disabled Mycroft's surveillance equipment – we wouldn't have needed to prove your innocence. Just don't tell him I said so!"
As John nodded his agreement, Sherlock's phones pinged with an incoming text.
TOO LATE. MH
