Ascending

Chapter 11

Sherlock woke up to the worst hangover of his life. His eyes were burning, his head was throbbing and his tongue felt dry and swollen. He tried to look around, but the light burned in his eyes.

He could hear voices in the room, but could not make out what they were saying.

Then he felt something cool and soft touch his forehead.

"Take it easy," a kind voice said, very close. "You are going to be all right."

…

John didn't know how long he had been crying. Mycroft's steady hand never left his shoulder. At long last the sobs had subsided and now he was reduced to silent weeping.

He heard footsteps approach and looked up to see the doctor in charge of Sherlock coming towards them. Mycroft stood up, but John didn't trust his legs, so he remained seated. He couldn't even bear to look at the man's face, knowing the pity in his eyes, as he was about to break the worst possible news to them.

Looking down at his feet, he heard Mycroft let out a strangled gasp.

Then he felt his hand on his shoulder again.

"John," Mycroft's voice was cracking. "You might want to hear this."

John finally looked up. It took him several moments to realise that the doctor was positively beaming at them.

"He's gonna be all right," he blurted out, when he was only halfway across the room. "He's waking up."

John didn't understand. Sherlock had been dying. Whatever poison had been in that needle, it had been shutting his body down. It had taken far too long to get him to the hospital. How could they possibly have saved him?

The doctor chuckled nervously and tried to explain. "He was never in any real danger. It was just a very powerful sedative mixed with some mild opiates. It took his body and brain for quite a ride, but did no lasting harm."

John was on his feet, grabbing the doctor's shoulders. "What?" was the only thing he could manage.

Mycroft took his arms and gently pulled him back. The doctor didn't seem to mind though. This was hardly the worst response he'd ever gotten when bringing news to family and loved ones.

"It very effectively mimicked the effects of many known poisons, but as I said, ultimately did him no harm. Except, of course, he'll be feeling a bit under the weather for a while. We gave him something to counter the drugs and speed up the recovery. He should be lucid within the hour"

The words were whirling around John's head. 'All right', 'no harm', 'waking up'. The relief was so great, that it was making him feel dizzy.

He heard Mycroft ask when they could see him, and then the world was slowly tipping over.

…

Sherlock's vision was returning somewhat, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Glad to see you are still with us, brother dear."

Sherlock groaned. "Go away." His throat was so dry, it came out more like a croak.

"Oh, don't worry, I will. I just wanted to see for myself that you actually did manage to come out of this one relatively unharmed."

"Yes, I'm fine. Just go." Sherlock waved at him impatiently. He just wanted to be left alone until everything stopped throbbing.

"Okay, I'm leaving. But you have another visitor."

Sherlock looked up hopefully, but then his face fell, as Mrs. Hudson rushed into the room, swooping down on him, almost drowning him in concern.

…

John woke up in a soft hospital bed, a very young nurse wiping his forehead with a wet cloth."

"Welcome back." She smiled at him.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

She pointed the way and John almost ran.

…

Mrs. Hudson was still fussing over him, when John appeared in the doorway. He didn't approach him, but just stood there, looking, his eyes wide, his face unreadable.

"John," Sherlock grinned at him. John just nodded.

"How are you feeling?"

Sherlock could sense that something was troubling John. Something besides concern for his well being. But with Mrs. Hudson and two nurses in the room, it wasn't the right time to explore it. Besides, his head still hurt and he was feeling tired.

"I'm okay," he managed. John nodded solemnly.

"They tell me you can come home tomorrow."

"Good," Sherlock's eyelids were growing heavy. One of the nurses approached him, checking his pupils and pulse. The other one gestured for Mrs. Hudson and John to leave.

"He needs rest," she told them.

…

John and Mrs. Hudson shared a cab home. She was twittering the whole way about poor Sherlock, and two times John actually had to bite his lip not to snap at her.

He just wanted some time alone. Time to think.

When they got home, she offered to make him some tea, but he politely declined and made his way upstairs.

Alone in their flat at last, he collapsed into a chair and let it all wash over him.

The panic, grief, relief and happiness all swirled and intermingled, and through it all, there was one singular thought growing ever stronger and more dominant, until it took over his mind completely. He was never going to forgive Sherlock for this.

…

Mycroft called him in the morning, insisting that he come along to pick up Sherlock. The car would be there at noon, so John had several hours to pace the flat debating with himself exactly how he was gonna pay Sherlock back for putting him through this. He had known since that first day that Sherlock could not resist a chance to prove that he was right, even if it meant putting himself in the way of potential harm. But this was a whole new level of stupid. There was no way that Sherlock could possibly have known what would be in that syringe. Judging from the other victims, the kidnappers intent had clearly been to kill him.

Why was he not dead?

That first time, it had been John who had saved him. But this time, and that was what hurt the most, John had been too late. He had faced losing Sherlock because he, John, had failed him. The guilt and grief had nearly driven him out of his mind. Sherlock having survived through some strange twisted miracle did not change the fact that John had not been able to save him.

Would it always be like this now? He had worried about Sherlock ever since becoming his friend, but now the concern had multiplied to an unbearable intensity. How could he carry on living with this ever-present anxiety that could so easily be turned into terror by the random acts of this brilliant reckless madman?

These thoughts led to another point that was really pissing him off: Sherlock knew how John felt, how this would hurt him. And he had still done it.

John couldn't wait to get Sherlock home and tell him exactly how he felt about him and all this.

…

Sherlock was still feeling exhausted both physically and mentally, when a smiling nurse brought him a clean change of clothes.

"You're brother is waiting to take you home," she informed him.

Sherlock almost asked if it was just his brother. When he woke up this morning, the first thought in his head had been that John was upset with him.

It hadn't quite registered, when he had seen John in the doorway to his room. He had still been affected by the drugs, confused and tired.

But now John's face and his body language hovered in his mind, and it was painfully clear that though John was relieved, he was also very very angry.

Sherlock could not blame him. He knew when he set out on this, that there was a risk involved. Not just the risk of him getting hurt, but of him hurting John. Even when they were just friends, even when they barely knew each other, John had been upset at the thought of Sherlock risking his health in the process of solving a case. It had been the subject of many an argument, when John felt that Sherlock had, once again, been particularly reckless.

And in hindsight, he had to admit that this one ranked pretty high on that scale.

He doubted he could ever make John see how it had been the only solution – that the risk was acceptable compared to the benefits of solving this specific case. For once in his life, Sherlock desperately hoped Mycroft could help him out.

…

John had not gone in with Mycroft, but chosen to stay in the car. This gave him even more time to brood over the events and formulate the scolding he was gonna give Sherlock, as soon as he had him on his own.

His resentment, however, did nothing to stop his heart from leaping with joy and relief, as he saw Sherlock make his way to the car, Mycroft close behind him. Sherlock looked tired and more than a little apprehensive, as he caught John's eyes. John hoped that what he saw there was anger and reproach, and not the giddy happiness that was currently running through him. He was determined not to let him off the hook any time soon.

As the car pulled out onto the busy street, Sherlock started to explain.

When he saw the warehouse scene, he had realised that it was all for Mycroft's benefit. Coventry had been an allusion to the Coventry Conundrum, a reminder of Mycroft's most recent failure. The warehouse was one of the many sites Mycroft used for his, admittedly rather eccentric, secret meetings, (at this John realised why the place had seemed so familiar). Using it was a way to let him know that, to Apex, he had no secrets.

Nedza had, of course, died from the wound sustained in Coventry, but the other two had been suffocated. So the arrangement of the bodies had nothing to do with their own deaths, but was a message to Mycroft. They represented three out of the five methods of execution used in the United States. Mycroft's interference in Apex' plans had recently led to three of their most prominent members receiving capital sentences in Texas. The three victims were obviously chosen for their own history with Mycroft. So, it turned out that it was Apex itself that had killed the three men, combining punishment for failure with letting Mycroft know that they were not going tolerate his interferences any more.

Having deduced this, Sherlock explained, the rest was an easy conclusion. They would not settle for warning Mycroft. They would if possible, try to get rid of him for good. But Mycroft was a very hard man to get to. And there were two methods of execution left: lethal injection and electrocution. So obviously there were two more intended victims: Mycroft and, to hurt him the deepest before killing him, Sherlock himself. Apex had intended Sherlock's death to provoke Mycroft into rash retaliation, exposing himself to risk.

…

As Sherlock laid out his findings, he never took his eyes off John, but he never, not once, returned his gaze. Instead, he was looking out the window at the people and buildings flashing by, his face set and hard. Sherlock knew that John was just waiting for them to be alone, before venting his anger and frustration. He supposed he couldn't blame him, but he felt himself growing increasingly frustrated with the stubborn doctor. Would he ever be able to let this go?

As Sherlock explained how letting himself be caught, with the transmitter on him, had been the only way to lure the ever elusive Apex into the open, John suddenly turned to face him with a look of accusation and blame.

"You miscalculated," he said. "You thought Mycroft's men would get to you in time. They didn't! You should have died!"

Sherlock permitted himself a little wry smile.

"I knew they would most likely be too late, but the risk of me dying was, as my sitting here now is evidence to, almost nonexistent."

At this, Mycroft interrupted.

"How?"

"Irene," Sherlock replied, and both men gaped at him.

He went on to explain how he had surmised Irene's involvement in all of this. Her being in Coventry was obviously connected to the case, and after ejecting her from Baker Street, he had finally put the pieces together. Knowing of their history, Apex had considered Irene the most direct way of getting to Sherlock. She was supposed to get him on her own, drug him and hand him over. John's insistence on chaperoning them had delayed this, and then Irene herself had aborted it.

"I couldn't figure out why she would seduce John," he explained, ignoring John's visible discomfort at this, "until I realised that she was an unwilling participant in the scheme."

She was being coerced, and trying to avoid being a party to Sherlock's death, she had found a way to effectively exclude her from his presence without giving Apex cause to suspect that she was not cooperating fully. Sherlock throwing her out had been the best possible excuse to not carry out her task.

But they would not let her off the hook that easily. So, getting her to perform the actual execution of Sherlock was the logical choice. A fitting punishment for her failure. Irene had managed to switch the drugs, thus returning the favour and saving Sherlock's life. Once more, her sentiment had worked in his favour.

"Let me get this straight," John asked, his outrage apparent. "You actually counted on that... that woman to get you out of this?"

Why did he make it sound like that made things even worse? Sometimes John was downright exasperating.

Sherlock looked to Mycroft.

"I suppose she got away?"

Mycroft shook his head, a smug smile spreading on his face.

"She exited by the back stairs and ran straight into me. While my men were securing the Apex operatives in the building, I had the distinct pleasure," his grimace made John snort," of escorting the irate miss Adler to a secure location, where she will be kept under house arrest until we figure out what to do with her."

"What secure location?" John asked.

Sherlock took one look at his brother, and then turned to John and answered: "His own house."

At this John couldn't hold back a guffaw. "What? Why?"

Mycroft shifted a little uncomfortably.

"It is one of the safest places for her, at the moment. Apex could not get to me there, so there is very little chance of them trying to come for her. And if they do, it will be to our advantage, allowing us to take even more of their minions."

John met Sherlock's eyes, and for a brief moment, they shared some of their old companionship, each reading clearly in the other's eye how Mycroft and Irene would soon be driving each other up the walls.

But the moment passed without the customary laugh at Mycroft's expense. Instead, John just snorted quietly and once again turned away.

Sherlock had to suppress the urge to shake him.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I have a written statement ready for you to sign, Sherlock, but you will need to add those final details that you did not see fit to share with me earlier."

Sherlock nodded.

…

When they arrived at Baker Street, Mycroft followed them up so that Sherlock could write Irene into his statement. As he was working on it, John stood by the hearth, fighting to keep in his anger.

Then Sherlock chuckled at something he was writing, and John lost it.

"How could you possibly be so dense, as to count on her to save you?"

Sherlock looked up, surprised and then angry.

"I was not being dense. I was being right!" He got up and walked towards John.

"You had no way of knowing that. She could just as easily have killed you! Or they could have! It was the most insane gamble you've ever taken."

"I never gamble. I knew exactly what I was doing!"

"Oh yeah? And why did you not see fit to let me in on what you were doing? Do you have any idea what I went through?"

Sherlock paused at this. John could see in his eyes that he had known exactly what he what he was putting him through. This only fuelled his rage.

"You knew, didn't you? After everything we've been through, you still have absolutely no regard for my feelings. You'll tear my heart out and then expect me to be there afterwards to pick up the pieces for you!"

"I was trying to protect you!" Sherlock's voice was matching John's, both in volume and rage now.

"You were trying to avoid me stopping you from being so incredibly stupid!"

"Stupid? I am a certified genius!"

"Well, in your case, clearly the one doesn't rule out the other!"

Neither of them knew who moved first. (Mycroft could probably have told them, but he wasn't saying, and they would never ask.)

Thinking back, John was never really sure exactly what had happened. One minute, he was screaming his rage at the most infuriatingly intolerable man in the world, and the next, he was hanging on for dear life, being snogged senseless, by the most perfect creature in all of creation.

Time stood still, and the world spun off course.

Then Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I know this seems rather trivial, but I really do need to get that statement, Sherlock."

Their lips disengaged with an audible pop, and John's world fell back into place, making him reel. Their eyes found each other, and a thousand unanswerable questions flickered between them, finally settling on a simple 'okay?' which was immediately answered by their synchronous sighs of confirmation and relief.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's tone was pleading, almost desperate. "The statement, please, and I'll be on my way."

Not taking his eyes off John, Sherlock reached out his hand, and Mycroft took the paper and pen from the table and handed them to him.

"Hold that thought," Sherlock whispered, and then turned to the mantelpiece, resting the paper on it to write.

John seriously doubted anyone but his brother would ever be able to decipher the lightning speed scrawl, with which Sherlock filled out the rest of the page. Then he tossed it at Mycroft, who was out the door in a nanosecond.

John hadn't moved. He was pretty sure that, if he tried to, his legs would buckle under him. His brain was still struggling with this new reality, and it was all he could manage to keep breathing.

Sherlock looked at him, suddenly shy and tentative.

"John?"

Lost for words, John just reached out his hand, and Sherlock was with him.

It was different. Tender and hesitant, but passionate. Lips caressing, tongues exploring, their breaths becoming deeper, finding a common rhythm. John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's back pulling him closer. Sherlock's hand went to John's cheeks, reminding him of that night on the street corner, not even a week ago.

'How did we get here?' his brain demanded of him. 'Never mind,' answered a deeper, softer voice inside him. 'We're here, that's all that matters.'

The kisses grew hotter, and John found his hands tucking at the back of Sherlock's shirt, pulling it free of his trousers so that he could get his hands in and finally touch skin. Sherlock gasped at the sensation, and then he grabbed the hem of John's jumper, pulling it up. The kiss broke, for just a second, and then they were locked together again, hands now moving more eagerly over new territories.

Their bodies pressed together, and John registered something hard pressing against his body just below his navel.

Oh, God. During all his fantasies and dreams about Sherlock, he had never really dwelled on that part. He wasn't just kissing Sherlock; he was kissing a man!

He gasped and pulled away, and saw how Sherlock's expression changed from passion to concern, in the blink of an eye.

"John?" he searched his face. "Is something wrong?"

"No," John managed, staggering backwards, until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he slumped down. He buried his face in his hands. "It's just so... so... much."

Sherlock squatted in front of him, hands resting on John's knees.

"I know," he whispered. "John. It's all right."

But John still felt he needed to explain.

"It's not that I don't want..." he gestured with one hand in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock caught it, gently brought it up and kissed the palm. "... you." John finished, hoping that Sherlock understood. "It's all just ..."

"Shh." Sherlock moved his hand to John's shoulder, stroking it gently. "I know. I know. John," he let go of John's hand, and instead took his chin, bringing his face up. Helpless to resist John opened his eyes. Sherlock had never looked more sincere than when he, emphasising every syllable, said: "It's okay."

"Sherlock. Please. Hold me?"

They ended up on the sofa, Sherlock on his back with John lying half on top of him, his head on Sherlock's chest. Their arms were wrapped around each other and their legs tangled. Another echo from the tumultuous week that had brought them here.

Sherlock's hand slid up John's back and finally settled in his hair, letting his long fingers tangle in it. He revelled in its softness and the tingling it sent through his body. He kissed the top of John's head, breathing in his scent.

"I could get used to this," John muttered, face half-buried in Sherlock's shirt.

"Please do," was Sherlock's reply. For a very long time, they just lay there, hands gently stroking, touching, feeling. At some point, exhausted from the emotional strain of the past day they drifted off to sleep.

(Thanks to my wonderful beta, gbheart.)