The Charred Remains
Chapter 13: There's Still Time for Us to Go Home
A/N: Grizziesmom is amazing. She betaed this chapter for me, and for all of you! She deserves many thanks and praise. Onwards! As usual my lovelies, please let me know what you think of this chapter!
Six days into John's hospital stay, Jim arrived to find John sitting in a high backed chair, head turned towards the window. Beyond the clear pane of glass, one could see rolling green hills cut by a bright blue sky. Jim smiled softly at the sight. He cleared his throat to call attention to himself. He kept a warm smile on his lips as he watched John slowly turn his head to look at him. A small smile, almost embarrassed in nature, turned up John's light pink lips. The bruising along his face had dulled now to a green-yellow colour.
"Good morning, John. Are you feeling any better today?" he asked, sliding his jacket down his arms and hanging it on a hook on the back of the door.
John shifted his weight, grimacing as he did so.
"Ah, not as horrible as the other day, but still hurting more than I'd like," he replied, his words a bit breathy with the ache in his chest.
Jim smiled apologetically as he rounded the bed towards John. He bent to press a kiss to the smaller man's temple, glad to note John was leaning into them now. Jim used the tips of his fingers to brush some blonde fringe from John's forehead before taking a seat at the end of John's bed. As soon as Jim sat down, John turned his head to look out the window once more. He heaved a sigh, basking in the quiet for a minute or two before regarding Jim again.
"So, where exactly am I? I know I lost a few memories, but there's no way London is outside my window," he grinned, shifting a little, becoming uncomfortable now in the chair. He'd managed an hour yesterday morning and again at night, so today after only a half an hour, his body was beginning to protest.
Jim chuckled slightly at the question, shaking his head. His own brown eyes went to the window where a breeze disrupted a nest of dust bunnies on the windowsill.
"No, this is very much not London. As soon as you were stable and waking up, I had you transferred to a more…remote hospital," he said. He stopped, studying John for his reaction to better gauge how he should proceed.
John furrowed his brows, confused, his lips pulling apart slowly while his brain formed a question, but Jim jumped in before John could say anything.
"By remote I mean, a small, very private hospital near Glastonbury. We've a summer home here in the country…your idea of course, taking us away from the city on holidays. Something about you having always loved the country, wanting to retire there one day, possibly to your grandfather's old farm…" Jim trailed there, adopting a sheepish look on his face, as if he were embarrassed at being caught out.
John nodded slowly, the haze of confusion still clouding his azure eyes.
"Well alright then…but wouldn't an A&E in London be better? More doctors? Specialists?"
At this Jim affectionately rolled his eyes, rising to his feet.
"Do you think I'd have brought you out to some remote location if I had not the utmost respect and knowledge of the doctors?" he asked as his lips widened into a larger grin. Something about it almost looked feral to John.
John turned this information over in his head, trying to figure out why there was a very, very small part of his mindd that told him this wasn't right. He must have been silent for a bit too long because he was jarred from his thoughts by a warm hand placed on his shoulder. He looked up, his blue eyes meeting Jim's brown ones. There was such a soft, comforting look in them that John immediately relaxed, a lazy smile touching his lips. Suddenly, the nagging feeling in the small corner of his mind was gone. He reached up and placed his hand over Jim's, giving a slight squeeze.
"Well, I'm sure it's a lot lovelier here than in London anyways, thanks," he mumbled, letting the tense muscles of his back relax into the chair. He let his eyes flutter closed for a moment, his dusty lashes brushing against his cheeks. He let himself bask in the warm sun washing in through his window before his brows furrowed once more. Jim noted the slight change, his hand sliding down John's arm, a slight squeeze at his elbow.
"What wrong John?"
John squeezed his eyes for a moment, the thought nearly leaving him, but he managed to grab it back.
"Harry…does Harry know where I am?" he opened his eyes then, finding Jim's concerned pools trained on him. John watched as Jim's eyes flicked over his face, reading something. There was tightness in John's chest now, something unrelated to his healing ribs. He recognized that look, it made his heart flutter. He watched as a slow smile came to Jim's lips, his hand loosening its hold at John's elbow.
"Of course John, she saw you off from London. She wanted to come here with you, but she had prior engagements for work. A training conference of some sort in Cardiff, but she did promise to talk to you once you were settled back at our country home."
John wrinkled his nose a bit at the mention of Cardiff. Then he smirked, remembering how much Harry had detested Wales until she'd taken Clara there for a holiday trip and Clara had fallen in love with the country. From then on, Harry swore that she'd always loved Cardiff, even when John tried to remind her of all the nasty things she'd said while in secondary school. He chuckled, his heart warming with the thought of Harry and how worried she must have been. He made a mental note to call her as soon as he could.
"Thank you Jim, for everything. I am really sorry that I can't seem to remember much but…it will come. I'm sure of it."
Jim shook his head, "John, stop apologising. I've told you time and again that none of it was your fault. I just wish I could find those idiots that did this and make them…" Jim caught himself at the last second and forced a smile, "Well anyways, we're here now. We'll just work through the rest. It'll be like falling in love all over again."
John grinned, a hint of rouge touching his cheeks before he looked down at his lap. He nodded slowly.
"Yeah…I look forward to it Jim…really," he admitted, his voice almost too soft a whisper to hear, but Jim caught it nonetheless.
"I am a patient man John. I just look forward to getting you out of this dreadful place. The house is much too quiet without you. I'm sure you can't wait to get out, but I think I would like it a lot more for you to be at home where you belong with me. I really think it'd help with your memories too, being somewhere you're familiar with," Jim said as he moved to resume his seat at the end of John's bed, his fingers smoothing down John's arm and across the back of his hand as he moved.
Both men looked up when the nurse entered, her lips pulled back in an ever-present, almost overly friendly smile. She plucked up John's chart, marking something, then put it back into its holder. John had actually managed to snag his chart the other day, giving it a look over himself, actually satisfied with the information on it.
"Good morning Doctor Watson," she trilled, having taken to calling him that now, even when he insisted she call him John.
John smiled at her, shifting a little to get into position to push himself from the chair, "Morning, Nurse," he smirked at her frown. John had taken to calling Kirsten nurse in retaliation of her calling him Doctor Watson.
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing on his as her lips quivered into a flirty grin, "So we're still playin' the game huh, Doctor? Well, I am persistent," she winked, rounding on John now, standing next to his chair.
Jim rolled his eyes, "Come now you two, he is a married man after all," he grinned as both parties turned to regard him, John's cheeks turning red while Kirsten just smiled knowingly.
"Right he is, but it's time to get him back to bed, let him rest up for a little bit before we attempt crutches, see where his strength is at. The doctor is pretty confident that you should be going home tomorrow night," she turned then and beckoned Jim to help John get to his feet.
Jim rose to his feet, shuffling a little so that he stood in front of John. He smiled down at the blond, leaning forward to hook an arm under John's good shoulder. They'd done this a few times, and each time there was always a measure of rigidness in John, as if he still didn't trust Jim. Jim's other arm curled gently around John's waist, steadying him as the smaller man rose unsteadily to his feet. John gripped Jim's biceps, closing his eyes for a moment to regain his equilibrium. After a moment his eyes fluttered open and he smiled gratefully at Jim.
"Thanks," he muttered, suddenly feeling quite warm with the lack of space that now existed between him and the other man.
Jim grinned, pivoting them so that John's back was to the bed.
"My pleasure, Johnny," he breathed, leaning close to his ear. He smirked, satisfied by the shiver he saw race down John's spine.
Nurse Kirsty cleared her throat, reminding the men she was still in the room.
"Right, boys, nothing dangerous now. Doctor Watson still has some healin' to do, so hands off," she grinned sweetly, moving to shoo Jim from where he stood next to John. She helped the blond shift into the middle of his bed pulling the blanket up over his lap. She swiveled the table around to rest in front of John, "Lunch will be right in, luv. Now, get some rest and think about tackling those crutches in a few hours."
John gave her an indulgent smile before waving her out. He watched the woman leave, noting once again, that he felt no real attraction to her. She was highly attractive, soft curves, flouncy hair, plump lips, and legs that never ended. His mouth should be watering for her, but she barely registered to him. He let his gaze slowly slide back to Jim, studying him again. His heart did speed up some, but that could be a whole slew of factors. He did feel a pull towards Jim. He figured he should, given the fact they were married to one another, but there was still a lack of sexual attraction. He sighed gently, closing his eyes for a moment, pulling himself out of the black recesses of his mind. 'It will come back', that's what the doctor assured him, so he knew he should stop forcing it, but he hated not knowing. He curled his fist, clenching the sheets tightly. He wasn't even aware of the action until he felt another hand encompass his own.
"John, are you okay in there?" Jim's soft voice worked around the curtain in John's mind.
Blue eyes slowly fluttered open, turning to find Jim. John smiled softly, turning his hand over so that Jim could link their fingers together.
"Yeah, fine, just…just thinking of the memories you wrote down. I am hoping that the more I think about them, the better I'll remember our life," he admitted, suddenly feeling a bit sheepish at the admission.
Jim chuckled slightly, pulling up a chair.
"Nothing to fret over silly, I want you to remember us, but honestly, all I really care about is having you here with me right now. I could have just as easily lost you, and this…you with a few holes in your memory is far more preferable to you not being here."
He leaned forward, his hand smoothing along John's thigh in a comforting manner. Jim was just about to offer more placating words when the nurse appeared again, a blue tray with a plastic dome atop it in her hands. She grinned at the both of them before slipping the meal in front of John.
"Eat up doctor Watson, your fella knows where the cafeteria is," she winked at the blond man before pulling the plastic dome from the tray and exited once more.
"She is, as always, such a breath of fresh air," Jim's statement was muttered, his eyes rolled as he deflated back into the chair.
John chuckled, reaching forward for the small can of soda. He popped the top before lifting it to his lips, letting the cool liquid slide down his parched throat. Something about Jim's behaviour towards the nurse made something pull in his chest. He recognised the jealous, petulant behaviour, but it didn't seem to fit with the picture he'd formed of Jim in his mind. Jim seemed to have a more solid head on his shoulders. He didn't seem the type to do something without thinking it entirely through first, keeping his emotions in check, and presenting himself as nothing but professional to those he met. Somehow, the childish antics he just displayed made something twist in John's heart and he smiled warmly, looking down at his hospital food.
"She's nice, and you should be nice to her," John admonished, picking up half of his turkey sandwich. He took a large bite of it, smiling around his mouthful at Jim, who seemed to scowl even deeper.
"I am nice to her, but she doesn't have to be so nice to you. You're a patient. Obviously, there's a line and she shouldn't cross it," Jim muttered, turning his head away from John, his jaw rigid as he gazed out the window.
John swallowed his bite, "Bollocks Jim, she's been friendly and professional. Nothing more and nothing less…" he trailed, a slow smile curving his lips.
The silence irritated Jim so he turned to regard John, his own mouth turning down in a frown.
"What?" he nearly snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.
John chuckled.
"Are you jealous Jim?" he teased, cocking his head slightly, picking off a part of the crust to his sandwich. He nibbled on it as he watched the man sitting next to him.
Jim's eyes widened, then narrowed.
"No, I am not jealous. I merely think her professionalism leads a lot to be desired," he huffed, turning his head to resume looking outside once more.
John just shook his head, chuckling to himself.
"If you say so, love. If you say so," John said easily. The endearment slipped out so naturally, John didn't even realise he'd said it.
Jim heard it, however, and with his head turned towards the horizon, he allowed a cruel smile to curl the corners of his lips. Everything was going so well. He briefly thought of keeping the little doctor all for himself, but playing the big, silly detective was so much more fun. He had promised to burn the detective's heart out of him, and Jim Moriarty was nothing if not a promise keeper.
Back at 221B Baker Street, a whole different scene presented itself. Sherlock had upset nearly every inch of the flat, searching for any sort of clue the criminal mastermind left behind, but there was nothing. That was the most unusual thing about the case so far. Jim loved to play. He dangled carrots in front of Sherlock's nose, coaxing him out, watching him run all over London. He enjoyed the way Sherlock matched his wits. But not this time. John was just gone. Taken from his room in Bart's, and just gone. The very last CCTV footage of him was John slumped forward in a wheelchair, being pushed down the hall towards the MRI room, but he never made it.
"There has got to be something! We're missing something. There is always a clue. He always want to play," Sherlock hissed under his breath as he dumped John's dirty laundry across the floor.
Sherlock stood, blinking down at the pile of rumpled clothes. Before his mind registered what he was doing, he'd fallen to his knees. He reached out, snagging the black and white striped jumper. It was larger now, more stretched out. Sherlock brought it to his nose, inhaling a deep breath. He could smell John, the very essence of the man himself. Sherlock's stomach lurched painfully, something sharp twisting in his chest. He inhaled again, drawing all the molecules of John he could into his nose. His long, bony fingers curled tightly into the material of the jumper. An image of the doctor, short hair mussed by sleep, face holding the lines of his pillow, eyes still a little puffy, the jumper hanging off one shoulder, and the light, blue hue of boxer shorts peeking out beneath the jumper rose unbidden into Sherlock's mind. He made a choked sobbing noise, his grey eyes screwing shut.
"I will find you John, and I will get you back," he growled, letting the jumper fall from his grasp. He jumped up to his feet once more, pacing in the sitting room. He didn't even acknowledge the man coming up the stairs, knowing it was the agent Mycroft had tasked to babysitting him.
"Hullo!" the agent called cheerily, rapping his knuckles against the doorjamb before entering. He carried a cardboard tray with two cups of hot coffee and a bag of biscotti's.
Sherlock kept up his pacing.
"I have no need for you. You can see I am still alive, no track marks, and the flat is still standing. You can go now," he growled, turning on his heel to do another circuit about the room.
Agent Harold Graham shook his head, feathery locks of dark brown hair falling into his hazel eyes with the action.
"No can do Sherlock, you know I have strict orders from your brother himself. I can't disobey," he called back, grabbing one of the coffees and going to join Sherlock in the sitting room.
Agent Harold Graham was a solid man. He stood at 6 feet 4 inches. His body was a lean mass of rip-cord muscle, bunching and pulling with every movement of his body. His jaw was square, dusted by dark stubble, as if the man hardly thought to shave on any given morning. He wore a smart suit, as was standard with an MI-5 agent. His trousers were black, shoes polished immaculately, button up shirt a light green with a dark blue tie accenting the ensemble. His hands were large and square, able to crush the larynx of his enemy with one, hard squeeze.
Sherlock rolled his eyes before going to his chair. He used his bare foot, poking out of tattered grey tracksuit trousers, to push the large box of files into the space between him and Graham.
"My brother does not control me and by extension, you cannot control me either. It would be much more effective for you to leave."
Graham, knowing all of Sherlock's quirks and personality…disorders, merely took his attitude in stride.
"You said the same thing to me yesterday. I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. We're stuck working on this together, which I thought you'd appreciate given it is your friend who is missing," he raised a well-trimmed eyebrow at the man.
Sherlock huffed, pulling his old dressing gown tighter against his frame.
"Tedious. Mycroft knows I do not…play well with others. I don't even know why he assigned you this job," he sniffed disdainfully, turning his gaze away from the agent to sweep around the flat once more, his eyes scanning everything.
Graham chuckled, leaning back into the sofa, raising the coffee to his lips to sip at it.
"He worries about you, Sherlock. You just came home from a global killing spree. There's likely to be residual damage and fallout to come from such escapades. You can't blame Mycroft. He's family and he loves you."
Sherlock cringed at the sentiment. He turned to regard Graham, his eyes moving over the taller man's body. Sherlock's lips curled.
"Ah, I see! You're doing this because you hope to get back in his good graces. He loved you and left you, didn't he? He won't be back for more, Agent. Mycroft's not the type to be sentimental with any of his toys. You're better off actually pursuing the young coffee boy. You've a much better shot with him."
Graham simply shifted a little, already prepared for Sherlock's use of his observational skills against him.
"I am well aware, Mr. Holmes, but we've business to attend to now. You can either help me or keep deducing me, but either way, I am leading the investigation into Moriarty, and I can pull all of my files from you," his hazel eyes were steady as he stared Sherlock down.
Sherlock narrowed his own gaze, almost falling into a petulant tantrum when he heard John's voice in the back of his mind scolding him. He shivered, breaking eye contact. He looked down at the box of files, leaning down to grab a few. He'd already gone through them all, but a second look wouldn't hurt, and it could turn up something they'd missed previously.
"You do have a job, Agent Graham, and that's to make sure John Watson comes home alive and in one piece. That is our main focus," he rumbled, flipping the file open in his lap, eyes racing over the page as he picked apart the information once more, hoping to find anything that could be helpful.