John's feet jarred against the cold stone floor as he ran, sending small shock waves through his legs with every step. His dress shoes were not built for running. His suit was not built for running. John was concentrating on these things rather than the thoughts that were trying to intrude.
30 minutes.
That was the maximum amount of time he had calculated since Sherlock could have been caught.
30 minutes was not so long he kept telling himself and yet... 30 minutes was plenty of time.
Plenty of time for so much to have gone wrong, for so much damage to have been done.
He did not even entertain the possibility that Sherlock might be dead. Not even his darkest intrusive thoughts were that cruel.
John ran.
He found Sherlock in a dark stone room. It was full of dust, achingly cold, with no windows. John had been geared for a fight but clearly Mycroft's work had gotten here ahead of him. The adrenaline surged out of him and he dropped to the floor next to his collapsed friend. Something was clawing up John's throat, trying to push its way out of his mouth, making it difficult to breathe. He took in the smears of blood around Sherlock and the scuffs in the dust. Clearly his friend had been trying to move. Curiously that detail, Sherlock left injured and desperately trying to crawl across this awful floor was what made John angry. But he didn't have time to be angry yet, hadn't even had time to be fully realise he'd actually found Sherlock.
John was a professional. He had been a doctor in some of the most difficult circumstances imaginable. Which was why when he turned Sherlock over and Sherlock's eyes met his, when Sherlock recognised him, when Sherlock said "Hello," in that far away voice, John simply carried on with his medical assessment. Because if he thought too hard about any of this he was pretty sure he'd cry. Or vomit. 50/50 really.
John had imagined seeing his friend again for over six months. That had actually become a possibility the evening he had desperately confronted Mycroft and got through to him. John had imagined finding Sherlock and telling him he could come home a thousand times. He had wanted to save him from the demons he had gained from what had happened to him in Serbia the first time. He had wanted to get him back to Baker Street and see Sherlock sat in his chair in his dressing gown, irritable at not being able to smoke. Sherlock Holmes safe because John Watson would be there to keep him safe. He had imagined the many caustic greetings Sherlock would have for him, but the relief and happiness that would underlie that.
What he hadn't wanted to imagine was what lay before him now. The Sherlock in front of him was already beaten and broken. They had got to him first. Yes they hadn't had him for the weeks or months John had feared, but they'd managed to do plenty of damage. And Sherlock had been on his own for months before now. Alone with no hope of rescue.
Which is why Sherlock was looking up at him in recognition, but without really believing John was there.
John was a professional though, so no matter how much that hurt he methodically checked Sherlock's injuries. Sherlock had some cracked ribs but none had punctured a lung yet and his breathing was easy. John carefully set Sherlock's broken right wrist to one side as he used torn pieces of his jacket to bind the injuries bleeding most heavily. A stab wound in the lower abdomen was causing John the most concern right now, but he decided he could risk moving Sherlock.
As he worked John was talking to his friend gently and continuously.
"Yes Sherlock it's me, I'm here, Mycroft's here, we're going home. We're going home and we're having tea. And you're going to tell us how clever you were and..."
And on and on, enough to keep Sherlock awake, but apparently not enough to get through to him.
-/-
Not-John was being a very good doctor. Sherlock decided he really must congratulate his subconscious on such an accurate hallucination, he hadn't even known he knew that much first aid.
Not-John was being very calming and that was helpful because Sherlock was in a lot of pain. A frankly ridiculous amount of pain. He would have quite liked to pass out and not deal with any of it but clearly his subconscious was keeping him awake.
Then Not-John said his brother had come to rescue him and Sherlock almost laughed. Really, Mycroft? Mycroft had travelled to Serbia with John to rescue him? Maybe this hallucination needed some work after all.
