AU, set after the Season 2 finale and Sherlock's return to London. 1 of 6. Johnlock! No slash. Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
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John walked a couple of paces away from the window Sherlock had just disappeared into, glaring around at the empty street, in annoyance. "Do you think maybe you could let me in this time?" John growled into his mobile phone.
John could hear the carpeted sound of Sherlock's feet as he dropped inside the window without answering. John could hear the hum of the refrigerator running in the kitchen … the soft, fast ticking of Sherlock's watch. Had the hands of his watch always moved that fast? John thought distracted by the sharp pop of a crack fingering through glass as Sherlock knocked something off of the windowsill.
"The carpets soaked here," Sherlock said. John knew that Sherlock was asking if it had rained recently? To Sherlock Holmes whether or not it had rained was of no consequence to him except as a possible clue. John held his phone away from his ear and flicked open the weather app, "There was no rain in the forecast this week … " John remembered coming out of his hospital this afternoon to pick up coffee. He had forgotten his umbrella and the collar of his coat was still wet. " … but it rained this afternoon," he said.
"Did she open the window," Sherlock said as he set the picture frame back on the windowsill. "Or did someone open it looking for something?" By someone, John knew Sherlock meant the killer.
John heard the sound of Sherlock opening the closet door. The hinge caught with a harsh squealing sound that made John jerk the phone away from his ear.
"Sherlock," John hissed as he prowled around the side of the house toward the front door. "You asked for my help, the least you can do is open the door." Sherlock made a noise of agreement as he began rummaging through the victim's hanging clothes, digging into her coat pockets, and tipping the contents of her hat boxes out on the floor. John knew now that Sherlock had found something to do he had no hope of distracting Sherlock's attention long enough to get him to come and unlock the door and let him in.
John turned away from the street light and stepped into the shadowed place by the front door - trampling on the unread mail that spilt out of the jammed mail slot - so no one would notice him loitering outside the empty house. He did not feel like having to explain to the police again why he had been found loitering outside a young woman's home. Especially a young woman that was currently missing.
"What were they looking for?" Sherlock asked snapping his instrument case closed. "There is nothing here. Nothing's been taken … " Sherlock continued to monologue not expecting an answer to his string of rapid-fire questions. John listened to the monotonous hum of Sherlock's voice through the phone and pulled his coat collar up against the wind as he crouched against the door feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. Overtired from working a double shift at the hospital. His leg aching sharply from the cold. John found it harder to tolerate the eccentricity of his companion tonight when he wanted nothing more than to be home, warm in bed.
"It's odd," Sherlock said softly as he stopped speaking. John could imagine him frowning down at something like he could threaten it to tell the truth with that dark furrowed stare of his. Something was out of place. Something was not where it should be. "What's odd?" John asked not expecting an answer. John heard the sound of Sherlock opening the refrigerator as he began pushing condiments around the empty shelves. "Our client said that his girlfriend had been missing for three days," Sherlock said as John heard him pop the rubber tabs open on a plastic Tupperware container.
"Was he mistaken?" John asked.
Sherlock hummed, taking a long time to answer. John knew he wasn't being ignored this time. Sherlock was thinking. "She's been missing for three weeks, not three days," Sherlock said. What had Sherlock found in that Tupperware, John wondered?
"Our client lied," John said.
"But, was it an accident …" Sherlock said, asking the most troubling question. "... or was it deliberate."
John's phone pinged in hand. He held his phone away from his ear looking at the text message notification that popped up on the screen. The sender information read Finny Hall Jewelry Store. John bolted to his feet. "Sherlock," he said, his voice low and shaking. "You never said you took your watch to the shop to get it repaired."
"Do you hear something," Sherlock asked? His attention fully focused on John now. He knew by the tremor in John's voice that something was wrong.
John heard the squeak of the closet door as it opened.
He heard muffled footsteps moving toward Sherlock out of the bedroom.
And the fast, harsh tick of the killer's watch.
Sherlock made a strangled sound and dropped his phone. "Sherlock," John shouted, as he heard the sound of glass breaking from outside the house. John looked around for something to open the door with. In the garden there were several dried, stunted shrubs; trash people had thrown out cigarette butts, empty beer cans, dirty takeout containers; and John's eyes fixed on one of the paver bricks that stuck up out of the ground at an odd angle.
John grabbed the brick out of the ground and into his hand. He could hear Sherlock trying several times to call out to John, even as he struggled against his attacker, even as the killer tightened Sherlock's own scarf around his throat. John lifted the brick up and hit the door hard. The brick slipped and tore the skin of John's palm open.
"John," Sherlock rasped through the phone. Sherlock, who had once chided John to use his imagination, didn't say anything remotely clever or imaginative in what he likely thought were his last few seconds. He simply said, "John." Like a liturgy. Like a prayer. Like he believed he could summon help through the front door with just that word. With just John's name.
John grabbed the brick into his wet, shaking hand and struck the door … wincing ... he gritted his teeth, hand white-knuckled on the brick as he struck the door once more, twice more … on the third try the handle broke. John dropped the brick - wrenched the door open - and ran into the dark house.
John ran down a long, narrow hallway that smelled of paint thinner and cat litter into the kitchen. Sherlock pinned to the wall grabbed at his scarf, hands slipping, eyes half opened, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat but the assailant – dressed all in black – continued to throttle him.
John shouted.
The assailant let go of Sherlock. Sherlock's knees buckled and he slid down the wall and hit the floor with a jarring thud. The assailant's head snapped around the whites of his eyes widening in surprise. He didn't know John had been outside.
John charged into the assailant pushing him into the refrigerator. The assailant staggered sideways sweeping several dishes off of the countertop and onto the floor with a crash. John took a half a step back, his back pressing into the kitchen table, its feet scraping across the floor. The assailant grabbed a knife out of the sink and lunged toward John. John grabbed a cutting board off of the kitchen table, knocking dried slices of apple to the floor, and he threw it over his head. The knife stuck in the wood with a thwack.
The assailant snarled, wrenched the knife out of the cutting board, and kicked John hard in the leg. John cried out in pain as he fell over a kitchen chair and crashed into the ground. John tried to push himself up but the assailant kicked John in the back. The toe of his shoe digging between John's ribs. John grunted and fell sprawled out on the floor.
Panting, John stumbled onto his feet. The assailant moved toward Sherlock, the kitchen knife glinting in the light from outside. John took a lunging step toward the assailant and grabbed him hard by the arm. He pulled the assailant around by the sleeve of the black hoodie he was wearing to cover his face. The assailant, off-balance, pitched toward John. John's leg buckled under their weight and they fell - John's head snapped against the floor.
John heard the back door slam shut. He rolled onto his side, retching. Blinking the black spots out of his eyes. "Sherlock," John wheezed as he tried to push himself up but his hands slipped in something wet. What could it be, John thought dazedly? The light from the streetlamp filtered through the gauzy kitchen curtains and illuminated the grey tiled kitchen floor stained with blood. John's blood.
John slipped and landed next to Sherlock on the floor. His breath stuttered. He stretched his hand out and knitted his fingers between Sherlock's. Squeezing his hand hard. If you were dying in your last few seconds what would you say, he heard Sherlock ask him. "Sherlock" - John rasped, his eyes falling closed. I love you, John thought but he didn't say it.