These characters in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and in their original incarnation, to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ... but not to me.
THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON
CH. 11
BIND (Chess)
To have such a vise-like grip on a position that useful moves are difficult for the opponent to find.
OooOooO
John wakes slowly. For some time, he has been aware that he is under the influence of some very good drugs as nothing much hurts – okay, amend that. Many things seem to hurt a very great deal – the doctor part of his brain tells him he has some rather serious injuries. But he is also aware that the pain is, for the moment, muted, which is - nice. Very nice indeed. He must thank whoever gave him the lovely drugs, if only he can remember how to open his eyes or to speak.
For the time being, however, he keeps his eyes closed, as he is confused about where he is and what has happened to him.
He can remember talking to someone – something about dinner later. Did theyhave dinner together? John thinks probably not. He would have remembered going out to dinner, he thinks, as he doesn't do it that very often as – someone who doesn't always like to eat, but makes certain that John eats … andwho is that exactly?
John's mind balks for a few moments but he has had experience before with rather muddled memories from the war so he does not fixate on what he supposes to be a temporary mental confusion. He lets the idea of dinner go and concentrates on the physical.
He slowly shifts his awareness to his body and tries to ascertain what hurts – and what doesn't. At the moment, there doesn't seem to be much that doesn't hurt, but again, really excellent drugs, so it's all fine.
John attempts to move around just a little and is pleasantly surprised to find he is not under restraint. Another plus, he thinks.
Why not being under restraint is a good thing, he is not entirely certain. A fellow doesn't really expect to wake up restrained but he seems to remember that this has often been the case – the waking up under restraint bit while at the same time being injured in some fashion. So being able to shift around a little is also very pleasant.
He can't move far as there seems to be bandages - rather tight ones - around his upper leg. He wonders if his old wound has been reopened somehow. And if so, how did it happen exactly?
John really wishes he could remember – anything at this point would be helpful. He tries to picture what led to him lying on a rather soft, comfortable surface – hospital bed? No, much more comfortable than that and besides, he doesn't hear the rather annoying whish of intubation or the steady beep beep of a heart monitor and other machinery.
And since when did "annoying whish" and "beep beep" become precise medical terms? Okay, let thatone go too.
The silence that surrounds him tells John he is alone. He wonders if something has happened to his hearing?
He wants to say something – anything at this point would be a bonus - but he can't seem to get his vocal cords to work. His throat appears to be sore and he seems to remember shouting at someone.
John mentally sighs and tries to clear his memory a little faster; he begins to breath in and out, very slowly, to the count of three. He at first tries the count of five, then four, but due to some – discomfort – in his lungs, and yes, there is some pain there, thank you, he is unable to take very deep breaths, so to the count of three it is.
After a minute or two of IN…one, two, three and OUT, one, two three, his mind feels a little bit clearer. So next he tries wiggling his toes, moving his feet.
Yup, all ten toes appear to be there and he is able to wiggle them, and also move his feet and ankles. There is a familiar tightness around his lower legs – compression socks. Okay, hospital it is then but with none of the usual hospital sounds and background noises. He appears to be wearing a hospital gown but can't get too involved in that either.
He hates hospital gowns – would far rather be naked – or wearing his jim jams - and that little thought threatens to give him a case of the giggles, which he thinks would be a bit not good for his ribs.
John feels clean and - nearly - comfortable ...so close to comfortable that it's all fine ... and wonders if someone has given him a bath. He must remember to thank them for that, as well. He hates being sweaty – most of the time. Seems to remember that he was very sweaty and uncomfortable for a while but decides that thought is unimportant.
John wonders if he is in a private room.
If so, does he have Mycroft to thank for the expensive gift of blessed silence – no roommate to keep telly on all night when all you want to do is sleep or keep him awake shouting down the phone at – someone?
And who the hell is Mycroft?
Toes wiggle. Excellent. Feet and ankles move. Very good. Compression socks, irritating, but probably medically necessary. When he gets to his upper legs, though, he tries to move his legs - and stops.
Pain. Okay, left leg hurts and when the drugs wear off that is going to hurt alot. Bandaging around his left thigh, accompanied by a horrid burning sensation. Okay, leave that. Try the other leg. So far, so good. Various muscle aches and pains but he seems to have some mobility.
Actually, it's all fine as I don't seem to have a cursed Foley in ...
… Oh ...
... Right ...
... Damn...
And - DAMN all over again. And bloody stinking hell !
Eyes closed, John curses to the pits of Hades whoever put in the catheter, but he keeps up the deep breathing and moves his awareness up past his waist and ever so slowly into his chest.
Bad idea. Really, truly terrible idea.
His breath catches momentarily, he gasps, then goes back to shallow breathing, and abandons the slow In and Out to a count of three.
Pain. Ribs broken…make that re-broken. He thinks maybe the C4 and C5…Hard to tell. Damn, same ones he broke last year. Another breath in. Yup. At least two cracked. Shite. Are those ever going to heal? Did he and Sherlock have a run-in with— Sherlock .
Oh my God – Sherlock !
If this is hospital, then some elegant long fingers should be brushing through his hair just about now or some rather amazing lips kissing his forehead … unless Sherlock isn't there, in which case, where is he?
Could Sherlock be – was Sherlock injured too?
At that thought, John opens his eyes.
The light is subdued. However, what light there is seems to be trying to bore its way through his brain, so he blinks once or twice and quickly takes as much notice of his surroundings as he is able. He sees a ceiling above him, pale green, which seems to fit with a hospital. And some light source to his left.
And – in the upper far corner – the distinct red eye of a surveillance camera.
He tries valiantly, but cannot move his head in either direction. The attempt magnifies the growing pain in his head. He shuts his eyes quickly.
He is not in any type of hospital room he can think of. Private clinic? Somewhere with a very deep, comfortable mattress. So, no ordinary hospital as there is no soft adjustment under him as he shifts around, no slow movement of your typical hospital bed as it inflates, deflates. No inflation at all.
He is warm, clean, fairly comfortable, seems to have his ribs and thigh bandaged. He moves his neck experimentally – little pain there on the right side, nothing major. And the beginnings of a rather spectacular headache.
He is, inexplicably, hungry.
So … Right. Obviously that dinner date with Sherlock did not happen. And just why didn't they go to dinner?
John tries to remember. Sherlock, dinner, clinic. But it's all a blank.
The doctor part of his brain kicks in and tells him not to worry about it so much. He will get his short term memory back soon. Perhaps. Hopefully.
Highly probable, at any rate.
In the meanwhile, he is under the influence of some really good drugs and he thinks he might just go back to sleep for a while and let his subconscious work on those pesky problems.
I should be worried about Sherlock, but –
He feels himself being pulled back under before he can finish that thought.
John falls back to sleep as if he were falling off a cliff. And he doesn't much care either.
OooOooO
Greg Lestrade turns over in bed, grabs his mobile off the bedside table, glances at it and swears for the fifth time in a few minutes. Sherlock has sent him eight texts in less than two minutes, each one a request – no, make that a demand for information – but has not given him any time to respond.
Damn it all to hell. He is going to throw the bloody thing into the toilet if he can't get some much needed sleep.
Where was brown envl containing dog tags found?
Have address but need exact location of envl.
Lying on ground? Desk? Countertop in
Abandoned building? Exactly where?
SH
Who delivered disc? Courier Service? If so, was courier detained?
Who ordered courier – where did they pick up? Name? Contact?
Shouldn't you be asking these questions, Lestrade?
SH
Ask Donovan when John lent her James Bond novels.
Could be important. How did JM know John liked Bond books?
WHEN did he lend them and under WHAT circumstances?
Did they have lunch? If so, where? Café? Fast food?
Obviously somewhere that CCTV could record their meeting
and see John exchange books with Donovan.
WHEN / WHERE DAMN IT?
SH
Did ballistics confirm bullet in doorframe from John's gun?
Labs come back to confirm blood is Watson's?
NEVER assume.
SH
At what point did ambulance disappear from CCTV tapes?
What street, cross street? How fast was it traveling?
Am coming in later to view tapes you referenced.
SH
Who contacted ambulance co. to determine how JM
Obtained the uniforms? Jackets?
Damn it, WHY am I doing YOUR job?
SH
Need name, address of flat mate of third victim.
Please arrange meeting for later this morning. NOW, LESTRADE.
SH
WHY AM I DOING YOUR BLOODY JOB ?
SH
OooOooO
Sherlock lies on the sofa at 221B Baker street. He is smoking, lighting each new cigarette from the previous one. On the carpet beside him are two empty bean cans, both nearly fill to the brim with cigarette butts and ash. He doesn't know what Mrs. Hudson will think of him smoking in their flat and doesn't care.
He stares at the ceiling and waits for Lestrade to get off his arse to answer his texts.
Sherlock cannot believe that he let himself use nicotine patches for so long … let himself forget the incredible edge that cigarettes give him. He feels far more focused, more aware. More awake.
John would not approve of his smoking and would bin the whole lot. And of course, all those bloody stupid laws that keep a person from smoking in their own houses or flats!
He doesn't give a damn if John would approve or not. He's keeping the cigarettes. If a certain Army doctor gets in a strop about his smoking, he can bloody well bring his arse home to do something about it.
Now.
Sherlock is itching for a fight. Lestrade interfered earlier between him and his brother. Sherlock is full up now and would gladly deck Mycroft, Lestrade, anyone. Hell, he'd have a go at Sally Donovan if he thought he could get away with it.
Bit not good. John would not approve of that thought, either.
Damn John Watson anyway. Delete that.
John – Please.
Sherlock pulls the blessed smoke into his lungs with a long, slow inhalation, then holds it before letting it go. He initially thought of reaching for something stronger but his mental image of John's face chases those thoughts out of his consciousness immediately. So that's something, he supposes. Still, the thought lingers. But he would not be any good to John in that condition, so he pushes it to the back of his mind. Until -
Sherlock raises up momentarily, lights another cigarette and lies back down, goes back to staring at the ceiling.
He thinks of the way John looked on the video - as if his strings were all cut. As if he was nearly dead…before the screaming began. Delete that – No. Do not delete that memory. Remember screaming. Use it to help you focus.
Something niggles at Sherlock's consciousness. He pulls in smoke from the very end of the cigarette, then reaches down to drop it on top of dozens of others. Hopefully, he will not set fire to the carpet this time.
He brings his hands together under his chin in his favorite thinking pose. He cannot remember a time, ever, when he has had zero clues to go on. The sheer magnitude of John's disappearance has him so on edge he basically vibrates with frustration.
Sherlock sits up abruptly, swings his legs to the ground and tears through his hair with both hands.
He needs to think. The cigarettes have helped. But now there is a buzzing sound which hovers around his head and ears. He cannot remember the last time he slept. Or ate. Sherlock realized his body is about to betray him. Already he can feel the fuzziness around the edges, the slight lack of ability to concentrate – which speaks of too little food and not enough sleep – make that no sleep and no food at all since the day before John was taken.
And when was that exactly?
Idiot – two days ago, no, not quite two days. John was taken in the afternoon, this is the very early morning of the – second day after? Yes, that's right. So John Watson has been in Moriarty's hands for not quite two days. Been operated on. Had ribs deliberately broken, cracked. Been injected with Moriarty's drug. No – wait. Never assume. Still … all the evidence points that way.
But the other three victims died from that drug.
The dose can be changed and it does not make any sense to kill John when Moriarty has made it achingly clear that he has a game on, that he will hurt John and torture John and - No. Stop thinking along those lines, you fool.
This is not helping John.
Sherlock wonders if John is alive – still - or if he's dead and if so, would Moriarty bother to gloat or would he just dump the body – JOHN'S BODY - in a skip and send a message – Delete. Delete!
Wild-eyed, Sherlock stands to go to the kitchen to find something to eat. Anything to stoke the furnace and to enable him to keep going. But the annoying dizziness assails him again and instead, he changes course for the bedroom down the hall. Once inside, he flops down on the bed - their bed - and closes his eyes.
"I will allow one hour. One hour. That's all I can spare if I am going to save John."
Save? He doesn't even know how to find him – yet.
But he has a very good idea of how to ask Jim to come out and play. After all, it worked before. It should work again.
As soon as he sleeps these sixty minutes, clears his mind, rests his brain, gives his body some food, he will implement that plan. By that time, Lestrade should have all the answers to his questions, as well.
As he allows his consciousness to slowly recede, Sherlock ticks off items on a mental agenda, putting the X's in neat little boxes. It helps him focus.
Get answers to his questions from Lestrade. Tick.
Find Moriarty. Cause him as much pain as possible and kill him. Tick.
After all, he now has a badly wounded man on his hands to care for. Someone has to take care of John. Jim does not like getting his hands dirty. And somehow, he cannot see Moran doing it. Therefore, Moriarty has people around him, people working for him. The more people the better. The more people means more chances for a slip-up, for mistakes.
Find Sebastian Moran. Kill the sod. Tick.
Find John and bring John back home. Tick.
Sherlock pulls up the memory of John, slumped in the hideous chair, his fists clenching and unclenching, even in his nightmare. His John was in there somewhere. His John was aware that something was happening to him. And he was readying himself to fight.
Good. They are going to need all the help, provided he can convince Moriarty to come out and play.
Sherlock shuts his eyes to sleep.
As he goes under, he allows himself one sentimental thought – one thought not born of logic or cold deduction, one thought aimed straight at his chosen partner in life.
"God damn you, John Watson, you will not give up. John, I am coming for you!"
Five minutes later, his mobile begins to beep with answers to his texts.
Sherlock is finally sleep.
He lets it beep.
OooOooO