"Mycroft," Sherlock hissed, glaring at his older brother and keeping his distance, eying the cell John had been in earlier. "Where is he?" There was no need to be nice any longer, especially if his brother was involved.
"Oh, he was taken upstairs by an officer. To get his belongings, I presume," Mycroft shrugged absently, swinging his umbrella and smirking at Sherlock. "You did quite well on this, Sherlock. I suppose I'm impressed."
Growing and considering a swipe at Mycroft, Sherlock turned on his heels and fled up the stairs. Pausing for a fraction of a second to recall where the collection station was, he huffed with annoyance and headed across the station to where they processed each criminal. Scanning the small crowd with narrowed eyes, he didn't spot the familiar close-shaved head of hair anywhere. The military man was nowhere to be seen.
Slamming his fists on the desk, Sherlock seethed at the small woman staring up at him.
"Where is John Watson?" He asked, his eyes calculating every person and every movement around him. The woman stuttered, eyes wide and horrified at the man nearly screaming at her. Snarling, Sherlock grabbing her by the collar and pulled her forward. She squeaked and pointed over his shoulder and to the right, her little hand shaking with nerves.
Spinning around and evaluating the group of officers, he could tell that they had nothing to do (other than sleep with each other and drink until their liver's failed).
"You!" He barked, closing in on the group. Sherlock had worked with a few of these idiots at one point or another, and he was sure John was with him during those cases. "Where's John? He's been through here." Half of the group stared at him as if her were a madman or speaking another language, the other half looked like they had no idea what he meant by 'John'.
"Who?" One dared to ask (new, transfer from Italy, born in France), raising an eyebrow as if he was challenging the consulting detective.
"Bloody hell, does sleeping with three women at once render you lot even more daft than usual? John Watson! Captain, military doctor, short, just released from murder charges." Sherlock scanned each officer quickly; fully prepared to insult them all until they gave him the information he wanted.
"Oh, I- uh, I think he went that way, towards Lestrade's office." The officer mumbled, looking at his shoes (embarrassed in front of his friends).
Glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance in his direction, Sherlock was infuriated with the incompetence of the Met. He was looking for one man! A man who had not only been seen many times at the station before, but who had been imprisoned for days at this point, and not a single one of these buffoons could help him? Huffing and storming towards the DI's office, the consulting detective studied his surroundings, trying to pull any piece of his friend's whereabouts from the laces on the tall female's shoes or from the frown on the old officer's face. There were too many people and John had visited too many times; there were too many traces and not enough at the same time.
Finally bursting into Lestrade's office, Sherlock's eyes bounced from object to object, picking each thing apart. Lestrade's wife had moved out, took the kids with her. Donovan had been in recently, sharing a personal story, something made her cry. John had stopped by. Reason: unknown. The detective was leaning back in his chair, comfortable, unworried. A positive conversation, at the very least.
"Where is he?" He asked, pacing for a moment as he tried to ignore everything that wasn't John (affairs and cold cases were not his problem, at the moment). Grating his teeth and grabbing at the back of the chair across from Lestrade's desk, he raised an eyebrow and waited.
"Just missed him, Sherlock! I think he was headed back down to the cells to find you-" Sherlock was gone before the sentence was even finished. He could hear the man calling after him, but he chose to ignore him in favor of the man he had just freed from an unjustified prison term.
Pushing past the crowd that had gathered around a rowdy convict, Sherlock fumed at the people blocking his path.
"He already sold the goods!" He called over his shoulder, very nearly elbowing a young girl out of his way in his rush. The police officer holding the suspect shouted at Sherlock to stop and explain, but he casually ignored them.
As he made his way down the lift, he could hear more ruckus. Another display of poor police work, he assumed, until he saw the sight for himself.
The cellblock was crowded with the spare few officers who weren't upstairs controlling the home robber. In the middle of the crowd, he could spot a familiar blond head along with a black-haired man. Almost everyone turned to stare at Sherlock in shock, like they didn't really believe what they were seeing.
John had Moran up against the wall; hand on his throat, whispering to him in a voice that carried through the now silent room.
"-Swear to God Almighty, Moran, you wont make it to your damned court case if I have anything to do with it-" The doctor delivered a swift military punch to the taller man's face. "-You bloody bastard, after all we went through in Afghanistan-" Another punch resulting with a resounding crunch of the still handcuffed man's jaw. "-Son of a bitch threw away everything you could have had for that bastard Moriarty-" One last punch before Sherlock reached him and touched a hand to his shoulder.
John froze as he was about to deliver a fourth, turning only a little to see the detective looming behind him.
"Enough, John." And that was that. The two men stepped away towards the bag of John's belongings that had been dropped at the edge of the room. Instead of arresting John for assaulting Moran, the Yarder's simply shoved the hit man into a cell and left. Unfortunately that left them with not only Moran, but with the one person Sherlock was hoping to avoid.
"Quite a good job at physical combat, Doctor Watson," Mycroft commented as he swung his umbrella, a small smirk playing at his lips. "I suppose the man deserved it, after all."
John wound up again, ready to hit the smug look on the Government Official's face, when Sherlock again stopped him with a simple hand on the shoulder.
Muttering a simple thank you, for both complimenting his strength and obviously being the one to refuse to let Scotland Yard the right to charge him with assault, John straightened up into his military posture, grabbed his belongings and turned away.
Sherlock followed him to the lift, smiling proudly without any veil. He had never seen the doctor react like that (except the times he had saved the detective's life), and he quite enjoyed it.
John might have taken up the military posture and face, but inside he was bubbling with a triage of emotions. He was so elated to finally be free, to be out of the cell and walking without metal cuffs weighing him down. There was definitely fury in him- the side of him that took over while he attempted to beat Sebastian Moran to a pulp. Though that would probably never be properly satisfied, those few punches he got in had definitely done him well. Hand in hand with the misery of his still-fresh loss, John was speechless with his flatmate.
How in the world could he thank him?
From what Greg had told him, so much of the evidence pointed in his direction that half the Yard was wary for him. But Sherlock had worked his hardest, deduced absolutely every centimeter of the evidence, and came out victorious.
The two stopped outside the Yard, on the sidewalk, fully prepared to hail a cab, when they finally faced each other.
John broke out into a grin, which only made Sherlock smile in return. Both of them were real. The heartache of a lost girlfriend could wait; the anger of an interfering brother and an idiotic police squad could be left behind. It was them, finally back side by side, and with one of Moriarty's men behind bars, at that.
In an odd turn of events, the consulting detective pulled in the doctor by his shoulders and hugged him. Tightly. For a good minute, the two men stood there, hugging and breaking into small fits of laughter. The relief could be felt all around them, like a bubble of "things will be okay" surrounded them.
"Thank you, Sherlock. I'd be getting sentenced if it weren't for you." John sighed softly, pulling out of the hug and looking up at his friend with the most grateful expression he could muster.
"John, if it were not for you, I'd be dead long before now. I must thank you for not committing the crime. I do hope you would be much more of a challenge if you do murder someone. Perhaps serial killings based off a nursery rhyme. That would be fun." Sherlock nodded, thrusting his arm out to hail a taxi.
They broke into giggles. Gut-wrenching, bend-over, from-the-deepest-pits-of-your-belly, laughter.
"You would figure out the entire thing after the first murder and I'd never get away with the second!" John complained, pleased that they were falling into their usual (although strange) ways.
Nothing would change between them because of this. Because Sherlock believed John was innocent the whole time, and John believed that Sherlock would set him free.
A/N - A million apologies that it's shorter than normal, but I felt this was a really good place to end. I'm really proud of this story, especially after all the wonderful reviews I've gotten. (Please keep reviewing, I never can get enough feedback!) I'm hoping to have another story up soon, so keep an eye out.
Again, thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/favorited/etc. Keep them coming!
