Disclaimer: same as Chapter 1
Author's notes:
- There won't be any violence in this chapter so no Sherlock-punching, sorry.
- To LienaGrace: thank you very much for your review. I hope this chapter will answer all your questions!
- Ishmael and Queequeg are characters from the 1851 "Moby Dick" novel by Herman Merville (1819 – 1891).
Chapter 3: Ishmael is saved
The stranger kneeled by the immobile form of John Watson, taking no notice of the dust that was quickly making the air irrespirable in the empty house; his hand shook lightly as he pressed two fingers against John's throat, and sighed in relief as he felt a steady pulse beating under the skin. Then, he gently brushed away with his hand the shards of wood and the dust cover covering the doctor's face, taking extra precaution for the mouth and the nose to be freed of any particles that might compromise the breathing.
"John?" whispered the intruder but no answer came.
He batted away a spider that was crawling too close to them for his likings, and then he ran his hands through John's hair, searching for bumps or traces of blood. Fortunately, he found none and the conclusion that the mattresses had saved John from a fractured skull sprang into the man's mind. He also palpated John's neck and shoulders and couldn't feel any broken bones. He wasn't a medical doctor – unlike John – and yet he was versed in human anatomy, a knowledge that had been sharpened by three long years of living underground; apparently, John hadn't been harmed by the fall but the impact had knocked him unconscious. Normally, he shouldn't be moved from the scene of his accident but a damaged building wasn't the proper place to take care of him; besides, the broken ceiling let out another sinister cracking sound and the tall man's grey eyes looked apprehensively upwards as more dust and plaster started to fall. It was high time to get out of here!
The stranger quickly took care of things: the broken lamp was discarded into the fireplace, landing on the pile of rubbish, and the gun was safely tucked in one of the large coat's pockets. He swiftly wrapped one of John's arms around his shoulders, making the senseless man sit up for a second. Then he slipped one arm beneath John's back, the other under his knees and lifted him up in his arms, bridal-style. He swiftly got on his feet and John moaned feebly at the movement; his head came to rest against his rescuer's neck and, unbelievably, it made the tall man smile.
He glanced around to make sure any trace of their passage had been erased – apart from the broken ceiling – and turned about to exit the house when something caught his attention. The stranger frowned: it was John's walking stick, still propped against a wall nearby the staircase.
"He doesn't need this any longer!" grumbled the man, giving the cane a kick that made it fall on the dust-covered floor. He walked down the hall carrying his precious cargo, grunting softly under the weight. John may be on the short side but he was made of solid muscle forged by years in the army. But nothing, not even the British government – official or unofficial – would have made the man relinquish his hold! The life he was cradling in his arms was unique; it was the only light of his existence and he wouldn't allow it to be snuffed out by a stupid accident, just hours before they would have been officially reunited.
"Guess the reunion will have to be brought forward," thought the intruder. "I had planned to get rid of my last enemy tonight and then present myself to John with the satisfaction of a mission fully accomplished, but his inquisitiveness has changed all this."
He would normally have been pretty crossed at this sudden thwarting of his plan but the shock of seeing John, followed by his fall, had filled his mind with worry and he couldn't possibly care about enemies for the time being. He reached the back door and pushed it open with his foot, paying no heed to the hinges' creaking, and stepped outside in the courtyard. His keen eyesight had no trouble outlining potential obstacles in the dark as he certainly didn't want to compromise John's recovery by adding a few bruises to his already battered body and also, because he could hardly defend them from potential foes while holding an unresponsive man.
Moving quietly, like a shadow, the man exited the dilapidated building; he crossed the courtyard in three long strides, pushed open the wooden gate and disappeared in the labyrinth of backstreets and alleys previously used by John to approach discreetly Camden House. The cool air of the night made the doctor shiver and the stranger secured his hold, worried that his burden would awaken while being carried through dark streets, adding confusion to his traumatized state. But John remained limp and calm in his rescuer's arms, as if he trusted him with his safety, even unconscious. The tall man quickened his pace.
A cold sensation on his forehead was the first thing John felt as he slowly regained consciousness. He sighed and tried to open his eyes but light instantly blinded him, making him renounce temporarily on trying to see. The coldness moved from his brow to his cheeks and John realized it was a water-soaked cloth gently dabbing his face. But where was he? What had happened?
Military training kicked in and John remained immobile as he took account of his own condition; he was lying on a firm but comfortable surface, his head was supported by something soft and his body, while quite battered, wasn't hurting as if he has sustained a major injury. Someone was nearby – John could feel a regular breathing close to his face – and he realized this person was the same one trying to revive him with a cold compress. Not an enemy, then. But where was he?
John slowly opened his eyes again and this time, he was more successful but his vision remained blurred, making it hard to assess his surroundings. The cloth left his face to rest on his forehead again and it felt like a touch of mercy for his confused mind. He tried to control his breathing and, after a while, his eyesight cleared; John suddenly realized he was staring at a wall covered with dark paper showing damask patterns, which would have looked sombre for not the tiny, round holes visible on its surface and a big smiley painted in yellow.
Smiley?
John's ocean-coloured eyes widened as he recognized the pattern. The smiley, this wallpaper, the messy bookcase tucked in a corner... His hand brushed against the surface he was lying on and he realized it was a dark green leather couch. He stopped breathing for a second at the sight of the curtains framing the large window, offering a view of buildings and rooftops he would recognize among thousands.
221 B Baker Street! He was in the living room of the flat he had shared with Sherlock!
But how on Earth had he landed here? His last souvenir was of him investigating Camden House, climbing up a dilapidated staircase to reach the upper floor, his gun on the ready to surprise...
The intruder!
John let out a gasp as he remembered aiming a gun at a man... The pocket lamp's light illuminating the man's face... The floor collapsing under his feet... And the intruder had looked just like...!
The cloth was removed from his brow and a deep baritone voice asked: "John?"
The ex-army doctor felt a big lump of sorrow gathering inside his throat, threatening to choke him. He had recognized the voice, it was... Oh no, please God, it could only be a joke, a cruel prank played by Lestrade, Donovan and the rest of those backstabbers...
"John, look at me," said the well-remembered voice, this time a bit more insistent.
A lesser, desperate man would have refused to obey but John Watson, decorated war hero, wasn't the kind to cower in fear. He turned his head towards the voice and this time, he thought he had lost his mind at the sight that greeted him!
Sherlock Holmes was at his bedside, smiling at him.
John felt tears gathering at the corner of his eyes and the lump of sorrow in his throat grew to reach the point of unbearable. But in spite of the vice-like sensation, he managed to sit up on the couch, stuttering: "S-S-Sher... 'lock?"
"My dear John! I owe you a thousand apologies. I never thought my brusque appearance would upset you so – not to mention making you fall through a floor."
"Sherrrr-lock," said John through clenched teeth. He reached out, laid his hand on his friend's wrist and Sherlock thought for a second that he wanted to take his pulse but the doctor merely pinched the skin of his arm. The younger Holmes grunted lightly from the action but a beaming smile from John made the living room go brighter.
"You're not a ghost... You're alive! YOU'RE ALIVE!"
"John..."
"SHERLOCK!"
John engulfed Sherlock in a bear hug, the momentum making the two men tumble over. The detective found himself sitting on his butt on the hardwood floor, his arms full of a sobbing friend who had wrapped both arms around his neck, nearly strangling him but he couldn't give a damn about it. He had his unique friend back and, from the look of it, he was pleased to see him.
Sherlock gently tucked John's head under his chin, making the smaller man press his ear against his chest. John was crying, talking, praying at the same time and only a few words coming out of his mouth were making sense, like "You're here", "Oh, God", "A miracle", "Thank you, God" while hugging the detective with renewed vigour, like Ishmael holding on for dear life at Queequeg's coffin-buoy after Moby Dick had sunk the Pequod. Here again, Sherlock couldn't mind in the slightest since he was so happy to be at the only place he had ever called home, with the only man who had managed to mean so much to him. Three years of hardships were finally coming to an end.
John's cries changed to soft weeping, his face buried in Sherlock's shirt. The detective wrapped his arm around the doctor's shaking shoulders, rocking him slowly while his other hand cupped the back of John's hair, mussing the blonde hair where sawdust still clung to it. This comforting gesture made John cry unashamedly, every tear washing away the sorrow he had endured since that fateful day at St. Bart's. The lump inside his throat was still stuck there but this time, it wasn't due to grief but to relief.
A very long time passed before John could calm down, but Sherlock didn't want to brusque him after that misadventure at Camden House. The doctor could have been seriously injured, even killed in the fall and with the shock of seeing his resurrected friend, he was entitled to be a bit traumatized. He kept on cradling John against his chest, next to his heart, right where he belonged. It felt fine, just fine to be in 221 B Baker Street with John that somehow he wondered how he had survived three years of exile.
"Probably because I clung to the foolish hope that we would be reunited and, against all odds, it happened," thought the detective. "But now that it has happened, what will become of us? Will he understand that I have been forced to leave, that I have lived for three years with the constant fear that Moriarty's minions would harm him in spite of my apparent suicide?"
Sherlock dug a handkerchief out of the pocket of the dark blue jacket he was wearing, and offered it to John. The smaller man accepted it gratefully and dried his face of tears tracks before clutching the linen in his fist like a lifeline.
"Sherlock?" murmured John.
"Yes?"
"I-I'm sorry."
That certainly surprised Sherlock. He had expected anger, rage, a punch on the nose and all the rest of it at their reunion – and he had resigned himself to receive the brunt of John's wrath on the face – but apologies hadn't been foreseen.
"Why?"
"That day, at St. Bart's... At the lab, I called you a machine... I accused you of not caring about Mrs. Hudson. I've been an idiot, Sherlock. I'm so sorry!"
The detective's embrace felt as if iron cables had replaced the muscles of his arms. Unexpectedly, a tear escaped from his steel-coloured eyes and landed on John's arm, making the doctor raise slightly his head.
"Don't you ever apologize to me, John Hamish Watson," said Sherlock with a firmness he usually reserved to clients offering boring cases. "I'm the one who owes you a lifetime of amends and I am not even sure to be worthy of your forgiveness, but I give you my word I will do anything within my power to earn it, even if it takes years."
"W-What do you mean?"
Sherlock sighed, and for the first time John could see his friend indeed looked tired. His face was whiter and skinnier, there were new worry lines at the corners of the eyes and mouth; his hair was shorter but the irregularities in the cut betrayed a self-made job, and there were even a few silver strands lost in the dark curls. Wherever Sherlock had been, it certainly hadn't been a vacation and John's medical experience quickly gave him a diagnosis: the detective was nearing exhaustion.
"Sherlock, do you want to lie down for a while?"
"Me? I'm not the one who has missed breaking his neck a moment ago!" protested the younger Holmes. "If it hadn't been for those dirty mattresses... In fact, I should have called an ambulance and have you sent to a hospital just to be sure you haven't sustained any injuries in Camden House."
"I'm fine, trust me. I've had knocked my head far worse in Afghanistan. My dear chap, words cannot describe my joy. But please, tell me... By what miracle have you survived your fall?"
Sherlock sighed again; it was the moment of truth and, even though John seemed genuinely happy to see him, the detective couldn't help but feel nervous at the idea that his friend would resent him for his past actions. Sherlock Holmes, getting cold feet... Just a few months ago, he would have laughed out loud at this statement but at the moment it didn't feel funny at all. Reluctantly, he relinquished his hold on John so his friend would see him face-to-face, and asked:
"John, before I begin, I want you to search your memory. Do you recall our confrontation with Moriarty?"
The doctor's face blanched at the souvenir; he certainly would never forget that evening where he had being kidnapped, forced to wear a bomb vest and mocked by the criminal maniac until Sherlock had showed up at the pool.
"Oh God, yes."
"He told me to stop interfering in his business or he would destroy me. Do you remember his exact words?"
John briefly closed his eyes; this memory of the psychopath was painful but he knew it was important to get an explanation about Sherlock's suicide.
"He said... "I'll burn you. I'll burn... the heart... of you.""
"Exactly. And he also knew I wouldn't back off, so our official duel to the death began that night. We were at the same level of intelligence and we were both resolute to fight until our last breath, so this duel could have gone on forever but Moriarty had an advantage over me: he had no heart while I... had recently discovered I had one."
"Sherlock, of course you have a heart!" exclaimed John. "You've always had one! For your information, I have never believed that "highly-functioning sociopath" line you've fed Anderson once. I'm a medical doctor, remember? And I've been in enough battlefields to recognize a mental illness when I see one. You're asocial, borderline rude and stubborn like a herd of mules, but you are a human being and so you have feelings like the rest of us idiots, even if you'll do your damnedest to hide it."
"Ah John, if only it was so easy. I have always thought that to be a hundred percent efficient in my job, I had to shun out all kind of emotions to let my brains function without any hindrances. Even the most basic of feelings like eating or sleeping had to be repressed to the maximum in order to concentrate day and night on cases. While other detectives would waste time with their mundane lives, I would gather data and solve mysteries in a snap. This repression of emotions also had another advantage: I wouldn't get involved in relationships and my enemies didn't have any kind of leverage on me."
"But your brother..."
"Mycroft is too well-protected, and we are not close. We had a major falling out – details are personal – and for years nobody knew I had a brother, which suited me very well."
Sherlock bowed his head, as if he couldn't look at the doctor in the eyes. Alarmed, John placed his hand on the younger Holmes' shoulder as a gesture of silent support.
"But... No matter how hard I tried to remain detached from people, things started to change. First, I met Lestrade after he arrested me for drug possession and a few minutes of deduction made him take the first intelligent decision in his life, namely giving me cases in an unofficial capacity. Then, I travelled and met Mrs. Hudson in Florida: a lower-than-imbecilic detective was persuaded she had helped her husband in murdering two girls, whereas a survey of her hotel room would have proven her innocence. Luckily, her attorney listened to me and she was cleared of all charges. After that, she promised me a place in her Baker Street house and she kept her word. I had gained a supplier of cases and an understanding landlady, so I thought I wouldn't need anything else in life..."
Sherlock suddenly raised his head and locked his steel-like gaze in John's deep blue eyes.
"It was at that very moment I met you, John. I had no hope whatsoever in finding a flatmate to save a bit of money and buy some extra scientific equipment, and lo and behold Mike Stamford found me one. And in less than a few hours, you proved to be courageous, resourceful and loyal. That was so astonishing I thought for a moment you were one of Mycroft's spies, but when he showed up after the cabbie's shooting it was evident you didn't appreciated him."
"I'm sorry I gave you this impression," said John with a half-smile.
"I decided to unravel the mystery of who John Watson was, but you baffled me. You are straightforward, you can't fake and you can't lie – not even to yourself. You called me your friend, showing way more acceptance towards me within a few days than the whole Scotland Yard's detectives in years. You helped me with cases come Hell or rising waters, sacrificing your job and your girlfriends if needed, and never asked anything in exchange. God, John! Moriarty saw right through me; I could have been made of glass, it wouldn't have made any difference whatsoever."
"Sherlock, you're worrying me."
"Moriarty wanted to destroy me completely. He wanted to torn my reputation to shreds, making me lose everything – the flat, my career as the only consulting detective in the world, my future. But burning me to a crisp wouldn't have enough for that psychopath. He wanted to burn the heart of me and he knew how to realize his evil scheme. The only way to annihilate me would have been to kill you."
New tears flown on John's face at those words, and he clenched his fist on the handkerchief he was still holding.
"I'm your heart."
"Yes, John. You are."
The doctor launched himself back in Sherlock's embrace, and held him tightly. His throat was getting blocked again by emotion but he managed to croak out:
"I love you too, you big idiot!'
TBC...