John had been shot in Afghanistan. He'd seen young men and women die in battle. He had faced deep depression after the war and again, after watching his best friend plummet off the top of a roof. But John was fairly certain that he'd never faced a day quite as challenging as today. In the last four hours, John had been smushed inside a coffin with a dead body, rolled out of the morgue on a cadaver cart, taken by ambulance to a cat food factory (a smell which he still couldn't get out of his nose), where he was thrown in a bin full of dirty uniforms into a laundry lorrie and then driven across London by a madman (Sherlock). There had been a series of stops along the way (glue factory, beer distributor, umbrella factory), all of which involved changing vehicles and clothing, but none of which involved a cup of tea or a morsel of food (except the soup kitchen they had sped through, but Sherlock refused him a moment for even a crust of bread.) Now John found himself cold, starving and lost somewhere deep within the cavernous bowels of the London sewer system.
"So, when you said, 'we're going through the sewers,' you literally meant it," John said to his back-from-the-dead flatmate. Sherlock was busy putting his weight into turning a gigantic, rusty wheel that lead to a pipe that seemed big enough to walk through, should Sherlock actually be able to get it open. "Yes, and if you help me instead of asking pointless questions, this would go much easier," Sherlock snapped, wiping a grimy hand on the sleeve of his jacket, trying to get a better grip.
"There's got to be a better way," John mumbled as he joined Sherlock on the wheel.
"Did you want to check into a bed and breakfast? Perhaps
"What about our flat? We could hide in plain sight," John suggested.
"Do you want to be killed?"
John didn't give up. "You're the one who said Moran might not even be in London. Maybe we've got a night before he arrives and it would be in our best interests to tuck in to a nice meal and get a good night's sleep before…tomorrow."
"Moran has never taken a job more than a 12 hour flight from London," said Sherlock, clearly annoyed that he needed to spell it out. "The video of me rising from the dead went viral four hours ago. Let's say it took him two hours to get to an airport and on a plane. We've got 10 hours at the absolute outside until Moran is hot on our tail, probably quite less. In fact, the likelihood is that he's in London now or will be in the next two hours. So, no, I don't think we should pop out for a nice dinner or a cup of tea or bunk at our flat, because right now we're safe, and that's going to have to be good enough for tonight. Now, push!"
With one final heave, John and Sherlock were able to turn the wheel, opening the door to the enormous pipe that led god knows where. Well, likely to some sewage, John thought to himself. Damn. Sherlock gestured for John to proceed him through the enormous round door. "After you."
John was about to step inside when he had a memory of a moment in a film. "This is like one of those doors to the hobbit houses in 'Lord of the Rings,' don't you think?" Sherlock looked at him with a blank stare. John shook his head and passed through the hole and into the tunnel. "Never mind."
Sherlock followed John, pulling the door behind them. John got out his phone, turned on the App that served as a torch and lit the way. "Drains the battery quickly, but hopefully we're not going too far," John said.
"No, it's not far," Sherlock replied.
They walked for 10 minutes until the tunnel suddenly opened up to a large space, 50 meters high. There was a bit of light streaming through grates in the ceiling, but John wasn't sure where the light was coming from. "Street lamps. We're under Shaftsbury Avenue," Sherlock answered, never having heard the question. "There's an area over here that's safe and clean. Follow me."
John could see a couple of fabric panels hanging in a corner up ahead. "What, is this some homeless person's camp? Is someone living rough here?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied. "We are."
Sherlock pushed the thin curtain aside and stepped into the shielded area, then flicked on the switch of a small lantern. With the light shining from inside, it looked like a magical blanket fort and if John had been 9-years-old, it might have been great fun to have adventures there. But he was a grown man, and this wasn't a game. He pulled back the curtain and crouched to peek inside. There wasn't much to see, really. A bed area, which just consisted of several layers of worn blankets and old sleeping bags. And then a little area with a few jugs of water, two mugs and wait, was that a tea kettle and gas cooker? "Can that make tea?"
Sherlock had already started to make himself comfortable, throwing off his over coat and rolling up his sleeves. Now he turned to the tiny "kitchen" and lit a match to the cooker. "Yes, John. It can make tea."
John felt a big proper smile come over his face as he squeezed into the fort and took up a spot on the "bed" area. It was actually much squishier and more comfortable than it appeared. John kicked off his shoes, threw off his jacket and collapsed on his back with a huge sigh of relief. "I almost don't care if Moran comes tonight, as long as I've had a cup of tea and five minutes laying here like this, I'll feel I've lived a good life."
"So, you don't care about the Hob Nobs, then?"
John sat straight up. "Hob Nobs? Give 'em here!"
Sherlock tossed John the roll of biscuits, a relaxed smile on his face. It was a look John hadn't seen since…well, definitely before the fall. Not able to wait until the kettle boiled, John peeled open the biscuits and crammed one in his mouth before offering the package to Sherlock with raised eyebrows.
"I'll wait. You go ahead," Sherlock said, pleased to see something so small make John so happy.
"If you've got a take away Pad Thai in there somewhere, I'll be over the moon," John said with a laugh.
"No Pad Thai, but I can toast you a slice of bread in the morning."
"Deal." John began munching on another biscuit before he started in on the questions. "How did you know this place was down here? Did you have one of your homeless network set it up for you?"
"I knew it was here because I put it here. I lived here for a bit while I was…gone," Sherlock explained. "I've recently restocked on tea and biscuits, knowing that you might have to camp here for a night and that I'd never hear the end of it if you couldn't have your 'good night' cuppa."
The kettle whistled and Sherlock poured the hot water into two decrepit looking mugs. But John noted the tea bags were from Harrod's. He'd had Harrod's tea many years before when Harry had sent him a tin for Christmas while he was stationed in Afghanistan. It was absolutely marvelous and he couldn't wait to take a sip.
"Here you are, John," Sherlock said, gently passing the least-cracked mug to John.
"Thanks, mate," John responded, unable to remember a time when he'd been more grateful for a cup of tea. "Cheers." The two men sat on the bedding, munching and sipping for a few minutes, letting the chaos of the day wash away.
"It's actually pretty nice down here. I can see why you like it."
"I didn't say I like it," Sherlock whispered. "But it does seem a bit more pleasant tonight than usual."
"Can we stay here a bit? A couple of days? Just to catch our breath?"
"I'm afraid not," Sherlock said. "Tomorrow, it begins."
"What begins?"
"The war. We're going into battle, John. We have to be prepared," Sherlock said in measured tones as he sized up his friend.
John knew what Sherlock wanted to hear. "I'm ready."
"Are you? He won't fight fair. Moran's strategy will be to use what he perceives as our weakness against us."
"Our weakness?" John cocked his head and looked at Sherlock with a curious expression. "You mean, each other?"
"He knows I'll sacrifice my life for yours, and he believes you'll do the same for me. At some point, he'll get to you with a message that you can save my life. All you have to do is sacrifice yourself."
"There's the bloody chess metaphor again," John groaned
Sherlock grabbed John's arm and brought him up close. "Don't play his game, John. Promise me you won't let him draw you out using me," Sherlock begged, his voice ragged.
"I can't promise that."
"You must!"
"Sherlock, I can't put my life before yours," John said softly, but without hesitation. "No more than you can put yours before mine. But I don't want either of us to have to sacrifice ourselves. We can both make it through this, can't we? Because if after all this, all we've been through, if we're not both back at Baker Street, then it's all for nothing."
Sherlock stared at his friend for a moment, then reached out and grabbed John's hand. "If you promise not to let him separate us, then we can make it back to Baker Street together."
John wanted that for both of them so much, that in that moment he did something he thought he'd never do to Sherlock – he lied. "I promise," John said, doing his best to keep his eyes steady.
"Good. Well, let's get some sleep then," Sherlock said, taking the mugs and clearing off the bed. There was a jug of water to use to wash their faces and brush their teeth. And Sherlock had spare clothing, including pajamas, so John was feeling pretty refreshed when he finally crawled into the makeshift bed. A moment later, Sherlock took the other side. The bed was small and it was cold, so John snuggled a bit closer to Sherlock, grateful for the warmth of another body. As his mind played back the conversation with Sherlock, John realized that Sebastian Moran was an incredibly smart man. Because Sherlock was John's weakness and there was no way he could let Sherlock be harmed, not if John could do anything to stop it, even if it meant sacrificing his own life.
As if he could hear John's thoughts, Sherlock reached an arm across his flatmate and pulled him closer. "Stop thinking and start sleeping, John. You need your rest," Sherlock said in a voice that seemed to trail off into the darkness. Here he was, sleeping in a makeshift bed, practically spooning with his flatmate. People would talk, but at that moment, John just didn't care.