We are rapidly approaching the end of this fic. Just one or two more chapters and an epilogue…I hope you all like the rest of it!
The musky scent of rich leather and dust hung about his head. Sunshine warmed his hair and the cushion was soft and cool‒a nice contrast to his absolutely burning back. He lay on the long seat where the firm hands had put him, his eyes squeezed shut, too stunned with the pain and noise of what just happened to move yet.
"Sherlock…" John's worried, exhausted voice. John's soft hands dancing nimbly over his wounds. John was hurt too, why wasn't he tending his own wounds? Was this a police car? It smelled too clean. The questions filled his mind and then dissipated like smoke. Did it matter? John was here and they were, at the moment, relatively safe. Away from whips and crowds. Sherlock relaxed a little further into the seat, not putting the pieces together yet.
"They didn't break the skin. That's something, I suppose." Mycroft. Sherlock exhaled loudly into the leather. His eyes were still closed.
"Too little, too late, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice croaked and he tried to clear his throat. It was too dry to do even that.
"Here." John was nudging a water bottle at his lips and Sherlock drank.
"It's the least I could do." Mycroft muttered.
"It is the least you did!" Sherlock growled. "You can commandeer a fleet of cars but you can't rescind a simple sentence?"
"Sherlock," his tone was scolding, "that order was beyond me. I told you. That was all The Republic and…" His voice softened and there was a scuffling of fabric. Sherlock guessed he was checking the time on that old pocket watch. "I don't have the influence anymore."
Sherlock grinned. Twice now Mycroft had had to admit that. He hissed out a curse when something freezing yet also hot as the sun tore into one of the welts on his left shoulder.
"Sorry." John. "These need to be cleaned. That whip…they used it on everyone."
Sherlock grabbed John's wrist. He opened his eyes. Mycroft was sitting on the bench seat, looking at Sherlock in concern. John was kneeling beside him, shirtless, fussing over his back with a bottle of antiseptic. "Baker Street." Sherlock said. "Do it there."
John nodded and Sherlock pulled on his wrist, turning him so he could see the damage. His back was streaked with angry red lines. Some were bruising, but skin hadn't broken.
"I'm fine." John muttered.
"The hell you are." Sherlock settled back into the leather. He didn't sleep, but he closed his eyes again as Mycroft's driver brought them home.
"Sherlock." Mycroft's hand was on the back of his neck. Sherlock blinked his eyes open. The engine was humming but the car was still. Stopped. "We're here. Do you require assistance to stand?" His voice was stiff but thawed with warmth. He wasn't used to offering help, but Sherlock, as usual, was the exception.
Sherlock sniffed and sat up, wincing as the leather creaked. "No." He mumbled. John was gone, already inside, and Sherlock hobbled onto the pavement. The green door and gold numbers and never been such a welcoming sight. The air was cold and brisk and felt good on his tight, hot skin. He was vaguely aware of Mycroft standing off to the side, watching. Sherlock ignored him, instead going through the open flat door and making a face at the stairs.
"Do you require anything?" Mycroft asked when Sherlock was ensconced in the sitting room. John was in his red chair, perched on the edge, sipping water. The crimson marks on his skin looked even worse against the burgundy fabric. "I have my physician on call."
"No, Mycroft. Go away." Sherlock growled, collapsing face first to the sofa and hugging a pillow.
Him and John exchanged some words and Mycroft left.
"I'll clean you up." John said in a quiet voice. "Then you can take a nap."
"What about you?"
"I'm fine."
"No, you're‒"
There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson pushed through before either of them could say anything.
One glance at each of their bare backs and her eyes filled with tears. "Oh boys." She looked heartbroken for a moment before she steeled herself and took a deep breath.
"Come on." Her tone was brisk and firm. "Both of you, into Sherlock's room."
"Why?" Sherlock muttered.
"Someone needs to clean you both up."
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm a doctor, I can‒"
She crossed her arms and gave him a frosty glare. "You're an injured doctor, John Hamish Watson, and neither of you are in a position to argue. You're both in pain and in need of medical attention, now move."
John blinked at her no-nonsense tone. "I can make it to my own room‒"
"‒I'm sure you could run a marathon, dear, but I don't fancy tromping up and down these stairs for the better part of the afternoon. It'll be easier to treat both of you if you're prone in the same room. The bedroom," she nodded towards the hall, "right now."
John paused for one more moment and Sherlock levered himself off the sofa, growling.
"I brought supplies home." John said to her. "Bathroom cabinet."
She nodded and squeezed both their hands. "You'll feel better soon, I promise." Her voice softened as they both crept down the hall and gingerly lowered down, laying on the made bed.
"People'll talk." John slurred into the quilt. He was so tired now that he was sideways that he was glad Mrs. Hudson had come along and taken control so quickly.
Sherlock smirked. "Sod them."
Mrs. Hudson came into the room with antiseptic and gauze and went to Sherlock's side, leaning over and brushing some hair off his forehead. She looked over his face in an assessing way and kissed his forehead before glancing over his injuries. "Some of these are scraped up a bit, dear. I'll need to clean them off." She poured some antiseptic on a piece of gauze and dabbed the red skin, making him hiss and wince.
"Sorry, love. It needs to be done. I'll go as fast as I can."
John lay beside them, seething in his helplessness as his friend hunched in pain, curling his toes against the sheets. "Once they're clean," John said, "you'll get a cold compress on there and then you can sleep."
"John's right. Just a bit more." She cleaned him off, getting the last of the wounds on his ribs. "There we go." Her voice was soft and motherly and John wondered for the first time if she had any children of her own. Probably, the way she was treating them now. There was a tone of experience in her voice. "You'll be good as new in no time." She said to Sherlock. "Take a nap, now." She put the flat, towel-wrapped cold pack on his back. Sherlock sighed, long and deep into the pillow. She smiled at him, her expression tender, before smoothing the hair off his forehead and coming around the bed with a new piece of gauze. She did the same thing to John, brushing his hair back and glancing over him, that same motherly look in her eyes before she tipped the antiseptic into the cloth and dabbed at a welt on his shoulder. He hissed and gripped the pillow.
"I know lad." She murmured. "It's terrible, absolutely wretched what they did to you both." Her voice cracked and John growled as the medicine bit. "Don't either of you worry about a thing. I'm going to Dorset this weekend, but until then I'll look after each of you."
"Thanks." John winced.
"I'll make you dinner tonight‒how does that sound? Nearly done, dear, just a few more…" She wiped at a few more welts and capped the antiseptic. "There. I'll bring you that cold pack…" She left and returned, placing an identical compress on John's back. He sighed and flipped the pillow over, cradling the cool fabric to his face. "I'll be back to check on you later, dears." She smoothed her hand over his hair, kissed his forehead, and left them in peace.
The rest of the week went by in a slow, steady pace. John stayed home from work and Sherlock even took a break from cases. Molly stopped by with flowers. "I didn't know if…I mean, if it was appropriate. People bring flowers to hospital patients, and you two are hurt, so flowers it is." Lestrade's well wishes had a little more dark humor, as his get well note contained several whip related puns: "I sincerely hope you two get better soon, there's some cases we need to get cracking on. Here's to a snappy recovery!" The note was taped to a bottle of whiskey. John smiled, despite how horrible it was. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Stamford sent extremely soft imported cotton Tshirts in both their sizes and a variety of DVDs. Thoughtful and useful.
The following Saturday, John flipped on open his laptop and logged on to a news blog. The headline Jiao-Long, laoban of former London, killed in assassination was plastered across The Source, one of the few sites that was still up and running and thusfar had seemed more or less truthful about world events.
"Oh great." John clicked the link and was treated to a clearly hastily thrown together report detailing an explosion and some insider (supposedly) information that five people might be dead. He surfed over to a different independent news site. They were reporting similar news, though they were implying it was an inside job by The Republic itself. Yet a third site, a blog ran by some underground group, were also doing a live chat with someone who was claiming to be at the former palace that very moment. One thing was clear: something had happened and people were dead because of it. John got up and turned on the television. Nothing whatsoever was being reported on the attack. He changed the channel, flipping to the news stations. One was reporting on some kind of music festival going on in old Spain and another was touching on local topics. John threw the remote control down on the chair in disgust. Long gone were the days of the BBC and real reporting. All the news stations now were obviously controlled by The Republic.
A faint explosion sounded outside and John peered out the window into the cool morning, looking up the road towards Marylebone. Smoke. Through the smoke, figures running and he could have sworn he saw orange flames flickering. A wave of goosebumps trickled over his body from head to toe, like someone pouring ice water very slowly over his head. A rush of adrenaline surged his veins and John took a breath. His brain snapped into command mode. Sherlock was in the bedroom. Mrs. Hudson downstairs‒no wait, she was in Dorset this weekend. Safe. Instinctively he knew they weren't safe on Baker Street anymore. Whatever that something going on up the road was, John knew it was only a matter of time before it trickled this way.
"Sherlock!" John strode through the kitchen, not even knocking as he pushed into the detective's room.
"Hm?" Sherlock was at his wardrobe, fiddling with his socks.
"C'mon. We have to go."
"What? Where?" Sherlock instantly snapped to attention at John's tone and body language. "Get some things together‒pack a bag. It's not safe here‒"
He started to move for the door, to grab his own things, when a strong hand landed on his arm. He winced.
"John." Sherlock looked into his face. "What's happening."
"The laoban was assassinated and Marylebone's in flames."
Sherlock's eyes widened and John pulled away. "Be downstairs in five minutes. No‒three minutes!"
John ran up to his bedroom, ignoring his stinging back, full soldier now. He threw a few essentials into a backpack and went to shoulder it, then thought better and held it instead, thundering down to the ground level. It was pure luck that Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her sister. John guessed they weren't rioting in Dorset.
Mycroft. Surely the elder Holmes had access to vehicles or information that he didn't? John pulled his phone out of his pocket as yells echoed up and down the street outside. It rang twice.
"Dr. Watson?"
"Mycroft‒did you hear about the laoban?"
"I did. Unfortunate." A pause.
"Unfortu‒that's all you have to say?!" Something exploded up the street, the walls vibrated. John opened the door and stuck his head out. About three buildings away to the south, a car was on fire. "Jesus. We're in the middle of a riot here." John tried not to sound panicky.
Sherlock appeared at his elbow, holding his bag. "Mycroft?" He asked. John nodded and Sherlock held his hand out for the phone. John gave it over.
"Mycroft, send us a car or give us a place to hide out and don't say you can't."
"I'm afraid I can't, Sherlock."
Part of the flaming car exploded. People ran out of their flats in terror. A group of young people, their faces obscured by scarves, ran by, flinging Molotov cocktails. The flaming bottles glinted in the air before crashing through windows. Cries of "Jiao-Long is dead!" echoed in the distance.
"Are they happy or upset?" John groused.
"What do you mean you can't!" Sherlock yelled. "Of course you can. Do it."
"Sherlock, I'm nowhere near the city."
"Then send someone who is. The Tube won't be running and there are no cabs anywhere." They started walking fast down Baker Street. The burning car had more or less burned out, leaving half the Volvo crisp and red and the other half charred to a grey husk. Heading north was definitely out of bounds, as flames were licking up over the buildings on Marylebone. The palace was south though, and any idiot would know to stay away from that whole area. The center of the city would probably be a bad idea too. West, then. Maybe they could cut north if need be…John's soldier brain was in full gear, scanning and weighing possibilities, analyzing risk and taking precaution.
"I'll see what I can do." The line went dead.
"Useless!" Sherlock hissed. John snatched the phone out of his hand before he could throw it.
"This way." They turned, heading for Hyde Park.
"Do you have a plan, Doctor?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes. Sort of."
"Oh good."
Another gang of screaming youths ran by. More booms echoed behind them.
"Care to share?"
"Right now it consists of 'get the hell out of town.' If you'd like to add anything, feel free."
They were walking quickly, keeping a sharp eye out for any more flying bottles or violence.
A giant fire was burning in the center of Hyde Park. People were gathered around it, chucking collars and leashes in the blaze.
"Can't say I entirely disagree with that sentiment." Sherlock muttered, eying the roaring charred mass.
"What did Mycroft say about the car?" John asked. They sidestepped a group helping a bleeding, dazed woman and kept walking.
"He's going to see what he can do."
"And that means…?"
"A car could pull up beside us any moment, or we could be walking for a good long while."
Another explosion behind, this one almost painfully close, sent them scurrying along faster.
"It's working, Jim." Sebastian Moran was stationed at the top of a three story building across from Hyde Park, watching through the smoky haze as John and Sherlock scurried along the pavement. "They're heading right where you want them to." Sebastian smirked, watching the duo approach the far end of the park.
"Beautiful, Seb. Give the command." Jim's voice was smug.
Sebastian glanced down, catching sight of the black town car parked a few buildings over. He knew the driver, another of Moriarty's slaves, was waiting for his signal. Sebastian waved and the car pulled into the debris-strewn road, creeping past the rushing citizens and police. It pulled up to the corner right as Sherlock and John reached the intersection. They didn't hesitate to get in and the car pulled away.
Moriarty fell back on the sofa in his hideout under the warehouse, laughing hysterically. It had worked. It was such a stupid, simple plan, but it had worked. If only that idiot Mycroft didn't have a habit of abducting people with his big black cars that he thought he looked so posh in, this plan would have never worked. Sherlock, his wonderful Sherlock, was coming back. John…well, he could be disposed of easily enough. Or better yet, he could just keep them both as slaves. This time, he would keep Sherlock for himself. Moran could have John, or kill John, or do whatever the hell he wanted with him. Moriarty was keeping Sherlock, no doubt about that.