TIME WELL SPENT
Chapter 2
Well.
Wishing…
John got his miracle a breath later. His earpiece crackled with static.
"All right, then. That means you're nearly home." Clearly it was Sherlock in mid-conversation with the girl on the plane, offering encouragement.
John could not hear the girl.
Startled, John swallowed his relief at the sound of his friend's voice just as a soft light from above caught his eye. Meters high, the full moon unsheathed from dark clouds filling the circular aperture that appeared over his head, and John's spirits sank. This was no tower.
"Sherlock?" John called out, wasting no time, worried that he might be cut off again. "I'm in a well. That's where I am." With disbelief and dismay, he whispered softly, "I'm in the bottom of a well."
John heard a sharp intake of breath and then the frown in Sherlock's reply.
"Why would there be a well in Sherrinford?" There was another pause, as if Sherlock were exploring his space and mumbling to himself. "Why is there a draught? Walls don't contract after you've painted them."
John strained to hear every inflection in his friend's voice and caught the delighted nuance of discovery in Sherlock's soft declaration. "Not real ones." After a clamorous sound as if a huge object had slammed to the ground, John heard the hushed surprise in Sherlock's words. "I'm home. Musgrave Ha—"
Then the earpiece cut out.
71 seconds
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"No, no! Don't go!"
John howled and smacked the water in utter fury, unable to keep from wondering and worrying.
"I worry about him. Constantly."
Echoes of Myrcoft—as the mysterious man of long ago—replayed in John's head. Apparently, Mycroft had reasons to worry. Some were no thanks to his brand of well-meaning meddling that Sherlock had often resisted out of mere stubbornness. At other times, the interference had caused Sherlock considerable grief— like earlier today when Mycroft disclosed, long after serious damage had been done, that their criminally insane sister had associated with Moriarty.
Utter cock! Knob head!
Yet, John had come to believe Mycroft's sincerity. Gradually, John had learned to recognize that the somewhat bossy sibling with emotional limitations of his own had been concerned about Sherlock's well-being. What had appeared between the brothers to be caustic exchanges were forms of sparring with undertones of fondness, cues easily missed by socially normalized people. Subsequently John's opinion of the elder Holmes had risen; likewise John had believed that for Mycroft the reverse had also been true. Which was why, despite Sherlock's advice to ignore Mycroft's tirade and stinging insults, John could not. They wounded him deeply.
"…a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness..."
Moriarty, Irene Adler, Magnussen, Eurus…all had the same opinion.
Bitterly John sloshed about the well, pulling so hard on the chains that the cuffs cut into his ankles. He tugged several more times with force. The pain was good. He needed to focus on something else. Twisting toward the wall, John felt the rough-hewed edges. His fingers climbed upward searching for crevices to use as handholds, and perhaps footholds if he could free himself. It would then be a matter of scaling the wall to gain his freedom and finding Sherlock. Yet, the challenges of escaping failed to distract him from the persistent arguments that warred in his head.
Finally, John bowed his forehead against the wall in frustration and delved into his deepest thoughts— possibly the most profound—for the first time in years.
"Look at him. What is he?" Mycroft had sneered.
"I'm… I'm nobody," had been John's self-deprecating answer at the beginning of his partnership with Sherlock Holmes. His flatmate on the other hand had been reputed to be singular, brilliant, extraordinary, albeit quite difficult.
All true!
Why would a self-proclaimed sociopathic genius as Sherlock Holmes choose an invalided soldier as a "friend?"
At the Met, Sergeant Sally Donovan had been quite vocal about her incredulity. Other than assume and talk behind their cupped hands, what had any of them—excepting Lestrade and Mycroft—actually known about the man, the real Sherlock Holmes and his deepest motivation?
But apparently, everyone—even those who knew Sherlock best—wondered what motivated the great detective to single out John Watson.
"Since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" Mysterious Mycroft had said during their first clandestine meeting.
Whatever the original appeal had been to accompany Sherlock on their often "ridiculous adventures," it had changed as John became more aware of the person behind the façade. The real Sherlock Holmes had more to give than exciting adventures, astounding solutions to mystifying crimes, and astonishing lessons about the science of deduction. The detective had apparently made an impact, often good, on the lives of many. There were members within his homeless network, among his most devious hackers, and former clients—including the likes of Angelo and Mrs. Hudson—who counted themselves among his most loyal devotees.
Obviously, they had never lived with him... Oh yeah, except for Mrs. Hudson.
What had Sherlock done for each of them John did not know; what Sherlock had done for John was monumental.
The instant Angelo handed John back the cane left behind at the restaurant—a cane John obviously no longer needed as he accompanied Sherlock on a chase through back alleyways and across rooftops without it—John had been intrigued and challenged.
As a flatmate, Sherlock could never have been accused of coddling the invalided soldier. The longer John had associated with the consulting detective, who deliberately tried John's patience by being "an annoying dick" nearly "all the time," the more John mustered his dignity and his pride and his determination to push back, to assert himself to prove he was nobody's doormat. On balance, there had been those moments of utter ridiculousness that propelled them into fits of laughter—genuine and liberating—the kind John had not enjoyed since he was a child.
No one thing about Sherlock Holmes had turned John's life around and saved him from existence as a "nobody." It had been all things. Their shared experiences had formed a unique, inexplicable, and mutual companionship, and in the process, Sherlock had returned to John that which the wounded soldier had lost—a sense of his own self-worth. So, when it came to loyalty and allegiance, no devotee—nobody—could surpass John Watson.
Maybe it took one to know one. Striving to prove his cleverness to everyone, Sherlock had hidden his own self-doubts behind a high wall bricked with arrogance and obnoxious condescension. On those occasions when John saw through the chink in that wall, he caught glimpses of a man driven to prove himself, but seemingly without achieving satisfaction.
Perhaps, their story had begun as the genius needing his audience; the army doctor needing validation. It had become greater than either of them alone and it had seemed unbreakable even after death.
Well, it would have been… if the death had not been faked...
Upon the unexpected resurrection of the man he had buried, John had felt both extreme joy and decided wariness. He could not forget his loss, his anguish, his sense of betrayal, even if Sherlock had pigeonholed the consequences and wanted to move on. John had been willing to move forward with his friend, somewhat more cautiously perhaps, because at least he had Mary….
"I like him." Mary had said after their first meeting.
…Mary, who recognized almost immediately what John had tried to deny; she understood him and Sherlock: with uncanny insight, she appreciated their dynamic because she recognized how rare it was.
…She encouraged us. His eyes grew moist. With a wet and chilled palm John mopped his lids.
Bollocks!
This predicament, being stuck at the bottom of a well, was putting him in a terrible mood. It was bloody foolishness to waste what little time he might have with past wounds and trifling pride, but he could not seem to keep his mind from skipping through his memories at an accelerated pace. It didn't help that his water-resistant wristwatch was waterlogged and no longer working. It was unsettling, not knowing the time.
"To the very best of times, John."
"Yeah. The best of times; they're not over yet, mate!" John vowed aloud to reassure himself— and perhaps to Sherlock if his friend were even listening. If he were lucky enough to survive this ordeal, he would make amends and become the better man both Mary and Sherlock had believed him to be.
To hell what others thought anyway. Surely by now their perceptions had changed.
John knew that Sherlock's strong reciprocal regard had nothing to do with being gay, needing a pet, or having a play thing for the easily bored intellect. Time and valor had proven John's worth as Sherlock's comrade-in-arms. What mattered most was what John knew to be true. Both Sherlock and he had found in the other a genuine friend.
This business about Redbeard had been eye-opening. Apparently, Sherlock had been seeking a friend for a very long time.
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"First, find Redbeard."
Eurus broke into John's reverie like an electric shock. "I'm letting the water in now. You don't want me to drown another one of your pets, do you?" She taunted with dispassionate intensity. "At long last, Sherlock Holmes, it's time to solve the Musgrave Ritual."
Throughout her announcement Eurus' voice dominated the airways, so John could not ask Sherlock what was wrong, but he could hear his friend breathing rapidly.
"Your very first case!"
Gushing sounds thundered from above and water slid down a sluice in a rushing cascade.
"And the final problem—" The rest of her words were drowned by the waterfall tumbling over John.
"Sherlock?" John pressed against the wall of the well to avoid the assault of the downpour. He could not be sure anyone could hear him although he was able to hear a woman singing.
"Sherlock!" He shouted louder, still unable to hear a reply.
John grimaced at the shower that splashed from above and caused turbulence in the thigh-high water below him. Shivering with shock, John tried to determine how quickly the well would fill. His calculations were not mathematically accurate—he was no Holmes—but he didn't need to be a genius to recognize that his situation had become decidedly dire. Rescue would have to be soon…
Though the words of the singing woman were indistinguishable and nearly drowned by flowing tide from above, John picked up Sherlock's faint cry.
"John!" The whisper in his ear sounded choked at first, when repeated, it had grown stronger, pressing. "JOHN!"
Sherlock was shouting, desperate to be heard, "John? Can you hear me? JOHN!"
When the singing seemed to die out, John feared he has lost all contact again.
"Sherlock!" He called urgently.
"Be not afraid ..." the singing suddenly returned, the volume was a bit louder so John could understand the words. Just as clear was the Sherlock's affirmation.
"John."
"Yeah, it's flooding." John could not conceal his frustration and disappointment. "The well..is flooding…."
"Try as long as possible not to drown."
John fiddled with his earpiece. Rushing water aside, had he heard correctly? Sherlock was stating the obvious, not a good sign. "What?"
"I'm going to find you." Sherlock promised him and immediately corrected himself adding with unmistakable emphasis. "I AM finding you!"
"Well, hurry up, please," John shouted, aggravation mounting with his alarm, "because I don't have long!"
Jesus! Talk about stating the obvious.
Despite Sherlock's promise, John knew if he could climb a bit higher in the well, he might buy more time. His valiant attempt ended as the chains, fixed in place, pulled him off balance and into the water where he landed in a huge splash, fully submerged.
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