Chapter 14

John, Amongst the Missing

Sherlock awoke suddenly, bolting upright, his chest heaving. A dream? More like a nightmare. Reaching toward the rumpled duvet...it was not John, but an empty space, cold to the touch.

Quickly pulling on his pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown, he ran, heart in his throat, to the sitting room. Moonlight streamed through the still-uncovered windows-he'd neglected to shutter them-and it was there, through the windows, that he caught movement on the tail of his eye.

Spying John standing just off the patio where they had shared lunch so many times, Sherlock hesitated for just a moment, afraid that if he looked away the doctor might disappear. Racing down the hall to the laundry room, he found the door wide open.

The concrete was cold on his bare feet. Sherlock approached slowly, trying not to startle John, fearing he would either run, or more likely swing at him if the former soldier perceived him as a threat.

Dressed only in pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips, John stood motionless, deceptively calm. In the moonlight his pale skin appeared almost translucent, the new scar like an indelible ink slash along his chest and ribcage. As Sherlock drew closer, he could see that John was far from calm. His entire body trembled as he stared into the distance, at something only he could see.

Finally drawing even with John, Sherlock made his presence known, but didn't speak. After a brief wait, the detective stepped in front of John, circling John's wrists with his fingers. Pressing their foreheads together, he leaned in to kiss John firmly on his mouth.

"It's too cold out here, John, come inside."

John followed without protest. Locking the door behind them, Sherlock hustled John to the bedroom, stripped him naked and tumbled him onto the bed. Dropping his own clothes to the floor, and crawling in beside him, the detective pulled the duvet over them and slotted their bodies together.

John clung to Sherlock's shoulders like a drowning man as his body began to warm again. He rocked against him, a rhythm the detective recognised as a need for emotional comfort rather than sexual release. Sherlock didn't know if he was helping, but he was prepared to give whatever John needed.

If this was a relapse of John's PTSD, his choice was clear: they had to return to the familiarity of Baker Street.

As John's shivering eased and he slumped against him, Sherlock thought he'd fallen asleep.

"Sherlock?"

John's whisper against his shoulder nearly broke his heart. "I'm here, John. Right here."

"I want to stay. Please don't make me go home."

That John knew his thoughts caught him by surprise. Not much in their life together surprised him, but with John Watson it was a everyday occurrence. He couldn't deny John this request.

"All right. We'll stay as long as you need."

"Kay," John whispered.

"I love you, John."

There was no response as John went quiet in his arms, but several minutes later, while Sherlock held onto him so tightly he could feel the line of stitches pressing into his chest,

John began to tremble.

"Love you,"John sobbed into his shoulder.

Like a thief in the night, it came, shrouding the doctor in its misty cloak, stealing his John-ness, his smile, until there was no light in his beautiful blue eyes.

Sherlock shook off his poetic nonsense and snapped back to attention to observe John absently stirring his porridge. Laying a hand over John's, he stopped the incessant motion.

"John, you need to eat."

John turned at the sound of his voice, staring in his general direction, but made no eye contact. As the seconds passed, John slowly stepped back into himself. Disconnected, John had told him days ago.

Sherlock coaxed and cajoled to prompt him to finish his breakfast, which John neither resisted nor protested. His pleasure in getting John to eat paled in comparison to the frustration he felt at his doctor's sudden withdrawal.

Coercing John to eat lunch was much less time consuming once he offered him cheese on toast with cold milk that had mysteriously appeared in their fridge overnight. Although he loved a good mystery, he had no doubt it was Mycroft via Daniel who was responsible for keeping the fridge stocked. As he watched John devour his lunch and empty his glass without stopping, he was both grateful and annoyed at his brother's big nose, and loathe to admit it.

As the afternoon became early evening, a delivery from a local restaurant featuring Italian cuisine arrived at the door courtesy of Daniel, but it had Mycroft's name all over it. John devoured his portion of vegetable lasagne and had a second serving.

Sherlock dreaded the night. They showered together so the detective could keep an eye on his doctor. John's wandering during the day never included trying to go outside, but Sherlock was dubious that he'd be so lucky in the early hours of the morning.

While he once again shuttered the windows for the night, John followed him, at times appearing reluctant to be left alone as he had at their flat. Considering their recent past, Sherlock understood. He thought again about going home to Baker Street, but the memory of John's tearful plea kept him from reneging on his promise.

When they finally retired for the night, Sherlock drew John into his arms to hug and kiss him, hoping he'd be lucid enough to pay attention.

"John?"

The doctor turned his gaze to Sherlock, his eyes clear for the first time that day.

"There you are. I've missed you today."

John stared at him with a wisp of a smile on his lips.

"I was here all day, Sherlock."

"Yes, your lovely, sexy body was, but your mind was elsewhere. Can you help me understand why you suddenly withdrew from me?"

John was silent for a long while, so long that Sherlock decided that he wouldn't, or couldn't answer. His doctor snuggled in close, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Jeremy."

"The man at the clinic?"

"And outside the Ugly Duckling Cafe."

"What about him?"

"I don't know."

"John?"

"Something...I don't know."

"Do you know him?"

"No...I don't think so. Maybe."

While John lay quietly against him, Sherlock examined the length of his wound by touch. There was the expected difference between the healthy and the damaged, still healing tissue in terms of warmth, but there had been nothing to indicate infection when examined by Dr. Sloane. Setting that aside left him with little data to explain John's unusual behaviour.

"Am I going to survive?"

Sherlock kissed John's nose and then each eye before zeroing on his mouth. "Mm, yes, I conclude that you taste far better than ice cream."

John snorted, patting Sherlock's belly.

Sherlock was a man of science, but in his desperation to help his doctor, he prayed to a deity in whom he didn't believe to deliver John from whatever caused his discomfort, and to give him a good night's rest.

At two, Sherlock, in a befuddled state caused by his own fitful sleep, tried to wake John from the throes of another horrific nightmare. Only his rapid reflexes saved him from the powerful fist that was just a hair's breadth from colliding with his jaw, but found his open hand instead.

Chest heaving, John came awake to realise what he'd nearly caused. Shock, then anger flashed across his face.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You know better than to try to wake me. Oh, God, Sherlock," he said, choking back a sob and throwing his arms around the detective's neck. "I could have really hurt you."

"Doubtful, John," he lied. "I was fully prepared to defend myself."

Even after Sherlock pulled John tight against him, the punch still reverberating along his arm and into his shoulder, he couldn't tell which of them trembled more.

"Do you remember your dream?"

John held on when Sherlock lay back against the mountain of pillows, snuggling in close and nuzzling into his shoulder.

"I don't remember much more than...like pieces of a puzzle that I can't fit together. Nothing made any sense...you were there."

"Can you recall any more of the pieces? Perhaps together we could fit them into some logical sequence?"

"I was running, searching, for something, no, searching for someone. You. You were...missing. I was searching for you, but every time I tried to reach out for you, you disappeared into, you jumped...no, you just disappeared. It was foggy."

"That's good, John. Let me reassure you, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay with you, and if we become fogbound, I promise not to leave the cottage so you will always know where I am."

John laughed, kissed his almost bruised jaw. "I feel better already."

When Sherlock pulled back to bring John's face into focus in the dim light, his doctor's expression didn't quite match the laugh or the words following. The few seconds of relief he'd experienced dissipated like dew in the morning sunlight.

"Try to get some sleep, John. Tomorrow will be a better day."

John's breathing slowed and deepened as he drifted toward sleep while Sherlock kept watch for any sign of another dream. Nothing unusual happened in the first hour of sleep, but soon after, John whimpered, reaching out his hand to hold onto Sherlock's T-shirt.

"Don't leave. Please stay."

The detective cradled John in his long arms. "I'm here, John. Hush now. Just sleep. Nothing can hurt you while I'm keeping watch."

John moaned in protest, but eventually settled down, only to repeat his calling throughout the hours before dawn. Although accustomed to sleeping sparingly, or not at all for several consecutive days with negligible effects, caring for John exhausted him. Sherlock knew it was the emotional toll on him that drained his energy, but this was John, and he long ago had vowed that everything he did, in the end, was for John.

When dawn finally arrived and the rising sun peeked in around the sides of the drapes, John lay peacefully against Sherlock, his head on the detective's chest. The spot of drool on his T-shirt bothered Sherlock not in the least, rather, it made him smile.

"I love you, John Watson."

"Mmm."

"You're awake?"

"Mmm."

"How are you feeling?"

"Knackered."

"Shall we have another lie in?"

"Kay."

"Come here."

John drew in a deep breath and with help climbed on top of Sherlock, stretching out chest to chest, with his head nestled against the detective's shoulder.

"Do you feel any responsibility for the drool on my shirt?"

"Okay."

"That's not exactly the response I was expecting, but I suppose it will do."

"Shut up, Sherlock." John giggled. "I think I'll put that on a T-shirt."

"You wouldn't dare, John."

"Hey, it's better than 'I still don't understand.'"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as the quote from a long ago life rolled off John's tongue, but he ignored its presentation to protect the doctor from any other memories of that dangerous time. "I won't allow it, John."

"Like you could stop me."

"Don't underestimate me, John Watson."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John growled just before locking their lips together.

The lie in lasted two hours. After a quick joint shower, they shared a quiet breakfast and freshly brewed coffee. John yawned aloud while Sherlock perused the morning papers.

"Aren't you getting bored watching over me?" John asked when Sherlock paused in his reading to look at him.

"Why would I be bored? You continue to be a constant source of wonder for me. A mystery I will never solve, a puzzle I will never complete. You are so perfect for me, I can hardly believe my good fortune."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"You make me sound like a superhero, or something and I'm just ordinary."

"You are my superhero, John. And, as I've stated on more than one occasion, you are far from ordinary."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You won't be my hero, because you believe heroes don't exist, but you want me to be your superhero?"

"John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock held the newspaper in front of his face. "Shut up."

"All right.

The remainder of the day couldn't have been more normal. Sherlock played his violin, John perused the library on the second floor and neither mentioned the night before. The knowledge of something amiss, however, lurked behind the door of his Mind Palace. John's uneasiness regarding the man at the clinic appeared to be the dark shadow that stalked him in his dreams. That John confused Sherlock's image with the unnamed man was troublesome.

John was a soldier with very good instincts. When those instincts were on alert, Sherlock always listened. John might not always know what the danger was, sometimes discovering it just a bit too late, but he always knew it was there, gaining on them like a darkness rising, determined to bury them in its path.

Sherlock wanted to believe that he could save John from himself, but he was no longer so arrogant that he knew he could. As had been proved by Moriarty, and subsequently Magnussen, every now and then there would be someone who could outwit him, but this time it was his doctor's dreams that were the villains.

John was a target, would always be a target because of the very nature of The Work. John understood that, but that didn't make it any easier for Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice came to him from far away, soft with a hint of concern.

"Sherlock?"

"Here, John," Sherlock called from the sofa.

John appeared at the bottom of the stairs. "I've finished browsing the titles in the library," he said, dropping to the adjoining cushion.

Sherlock circled an arm around the smaller man's shoulders and pulled him close. "Anything of interest to either of us?"

"A bit of everything. Very little current. A few mathematics, including your mum's."

"Mummy has a fan?"

"It would appear so."

"Ghastly thought. I tried reading it once, as did my brother. We barely got through the first chapter. I tremble at the memory of it. As she always claims, 'it's rather fatuous now.'"

John laughed, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"So have you been sitting here thinking all the while I was in the library?"

"No, I spent a small amount of time looking out the window."

"Oh?"

"Yes, there was nothing interesting."

"Nothing at all? No clouds or birds or maybe an insect or two?"

"No, the only thing of interest to me was in the library."

John took his hand in his. "You could have come upstairs. I wasn't reading, just browsing. Nothing important."

Staring at their joined hands, Sherlock rubbed gentle circles over the soft skin beneath his thumb.

"All right?"

Sherlock withdrew from his silence to see John staring at his mouth.

"John?

John smiled. I was just thinking about kissing that mouth of yours. It looked sad, wearing its frown like a heavy burden."

"Not sad, John. Just thinking."

"Fibbing is not your forte, love. Are you worried about me?"

Sherlock hesitated, "No."

"Fibbing again, love?"

Sherlock huffed. "No, John I am not worried about you."

John kissed his mouth tenderly. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt."

"I'm worried for you, and worry is not something I am accustomed to performing very well."

John stared at him for a long moment. "I don't know how to respond to that other than to tell you not to worry, but knowing you as well as I do, that won't stop you."

"No, it won't. I love you and I will do everything within my power to protect you. I do, however, have an idea."

"You do?"

"Perhaps if I play my violin for you before you go to sleep, you won't dream?"

"It's worth a try. You know I will never say no to an opportunity to listen to you play." John tilted his head to peer at him. "Play seems like such a poor word to describe what you do. I think I'll give it some thought and devise a new word."

Sherlock nipped at John's mouth. "Perhaps you should offer that idea to your subconscious so it has something pleasant to contemplate rather than to dwell on something you fear."

"I will. In the meantime, I need those lips. Give them back."

"Now that your laceration is no longer tender to the touch-"

Sherlock toppled his doctor over onto his back, straddling his hips. "Dessert before dinner, John."

With a devilish gleam in his eye, John grinned up at him. "I think that is a brilliant idea. Amazing, extraordinary idea."

Tucking John amongst a pile of pillows beneath the duvet to assure comfort and warmth, the detective turned down all the lights and stood beside the bed in his best dressing gown. As promised, Sherlock serenaded John for nearly an hour with soft melodies chosen to soothe him and encourage pleasant dreams. At the conclusion, he played the as yet untitled composition.

Following the music, Sherlock guided John's mind to memories of happy occasions they'd shared. In the dim light of the bedroom, John snuggled against him, listening to the detective recount the memories he knew so well. If John's thoughts deviated to the more difficult memories, he showed no sign of it. He listened, rarely interrupting unless Sherlock stretched the truth or needed correcting, which only encouraged more stories.

"...and then one day you told me that you loved me, and because you are an unerring, honest man, I believed you. I confessed that I had loved you since our first meeting, but I didn't know it was love that I felt."

"And we are living mostly happily ever after."

Sherlock tipped his head to rest his cheek against John's crown.

"Indeed, John, mostly?"

"Well, nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time."

"John, that makes no sense at all."

"No, but, in hindsight, it was a humorous declaration."

Sherlock hugged the doctor against his chest. "Yes, yes, it was. Now it's a silly non sequitur."

John tucked his left hand beneath Sherlock's opposite shoulder and wriggled in. His nose buried into the detective's neck, he inhaled deeply. "You smell good. New shower gel?"

"Raspberry."

"I like it."

"I like yours as well."

John giggled. "I used plain soap, Sherlock."

"I know," he said, sniffing the air."

"Just soap, Sherlock."

"I believe it's a new product called Only John."

"Git."

"Yours."

"Lips, Sherlock. Right this instant."

"Arrgh!"

"Oh, no, not the plundering pirate!"

With just one strong knee, Sherlock rolled them over, pinning John to the mattress. "Prepare to be boarded, my good man."

John giggled, hugging Sherlock about the head. "Goodness has nothing to do with it."