Chapter 19: Mutual Agreement.
"You would have to be half-mad to dream me up."
-Linda Woolverton, Alice in Wonderland (2010 movie)
John woke up to the sound of his alarm. With a groan, he rolled over and smacked the snooze, then realized that he couldn't sleep in today. He lay there for one more second, savoring the warmth of his bed. Then he sat up, stretched to crack his back, rubbed at his eyes. He switched off his alarm, stumbled upright, and then got dressed. He made his way into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, running a hand through his hair to get it to lie flat(ish).
Then he made his way into the living room, where Sammy was sleeping in her usual place on the couch-turned-bed.
"Sammy? Come on, wake up. It's time to get up." She rolled away from him with an unhappy sound. "Uh-uh. Wake up." Finally, she opened her eyes and yawned. "Good morning," John said gently.
"Morning," she replied, and pushed herself up. John had stopped keeping track of the days that she had been with him, but she was almost ready to walk by herself, as much as he dreaded that fact.
"What do you want to wear today?" John held up her options and let her choose. He helped her into them, then let her lean on him while they made their way to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth and combed her hair while John pushed down some toast and started the kettle for himself. He took her back to the couch, moving the cushions into the daytime positions while their breakfast readied itself.
"What's on our toast this morning?" he asked her.
"Umm… Strawberry jam for you, and peanut butter for me," she said. She liked making the decisions for both of them, so John generally let her. He went back to the kitchen, smeared the toppings over the hot toast, made his tea, and then went back to the living room and handed Sammy her plate. She bit into the toast, making a loud "Mm-mmmm" of childish appreciation. John stirred around his teabag and ate his own toast. Once they were done, it was time for John to go.
"Okay, so the remote is right over there. Remember, only one hour of telly. You've got your books on this table, and your sketchbook is still on the couch. William is visiting at 2 o'clock, and Jim will be over at 5, before I get home. Text me if there's a minor injury, and phone me if it's a more serious one."
It was becoming more common for the kids to come straight to John's flat with their paper-cuts and scrapes. Normally, Sammy told John, and he told her what to do with the Band-Aids and Polysporin. There had been one head injury, though, that John had left work for, fearing a concussion. It hadn't been, but John had stayed home anyways, to spend time with Sammy. Their days together were drawing to an inexorable close.
"I got it, daddy," Sammy said. John smiled; the word hadn't lost its power on him.
"Alright, I love you," he said, and bent down to hug her.
"Love you, too. See you at 5 and a half," Sammy sang out, with her strange way of reading clocks. John took up his coat and headed out the door, taking the usual way to work. He greeted Sarah, made his way to his room, and waited for his first patient. The people came and went with rashes and colds and shots that needed to be given, and John smiled and prescribed and reassured. By the time his lunch break rolled around, he was starving.
He headed out into the hall, nodded his hello to Sarah, and then went into his office. Waiting for him on the desk was a bowl of chicken salad. He raised his eyebrows, wondering if it was from where he thought it was from. He sat down at his desk, and pulled off the usual note. It was written in sparkly gold ink.
Remember our first dinner out? Still haven't answered that question, have you? –JM
Gold… John was getting used to interpreting Jim's color-coded moods. Celebration, warmth, completion. So Jim had finished a job lately, was in a good mood, and had therefore sent John a nostalgic lunch. But what question was he referring to? John thought back to that meeting, and remembered.
Why did you come here tonight, to meet with the man you hate more than anyone else?
No, he hadn't found an answer, and he wasn't sure he ever would.
John picked up his fork and stabbed it into the salad, closing his eyes to savor the taste. It was just as good as he remembered. Better, even, because this time he wasn't busy stressing over the fact that he was eating lunch with a criminal mastermind. Which brought him back to the question that had haunted him for so long. If he could find the answer, then Moriarty would tell him something. But what? What could be traded for such an impossible answer?
Why did he go, that night? He hated Moriarty. He had had no weapon, no way to kill him, not even any intention to. He hadn't taken the chance to run, telling himself that he wouldn't have gotten very far. But that wasn't true, was it? Moriarty wouldn't have come after him on those busy streets. All of these excuses, just excuses. So why? Fascination? A need for danger? Curiosity? None of those seemed like enough.
Just then, his phone rang. He answered it. "Hello?"
"There's blood everywhere it's Randy he's been stabbed or shot and there's so much blood daddy I'm scared!"
"I'll be there in five minutes," John said, and got up. He threw a glance at the chicken salad, regretfully, then ran out the door. "Just stay calm, I'll be right there, okay? I'm coming." He stopped by Sarah's desk. "There's an emergency, my cousin's been stabbed, I've got to go. I'm sorry."
"Oh my god," Sarah gasped. "No, it's fine. Go, quickly. I'll postpone or switch over your clients."
"Thank you so much, Sarah," he said, and ran outside. "Okay, Sammy, I'm going to hang up now, but I'll be home soon, okay? I love you."
"Quickly, the blood," her voice came. He hung up, considered flagging a cab, then decided it would take too long. He hit speed dial and held the phone up to his ear.
"Johnny boy, what can I do for you?" said the man on the other end, voice playful. John kept it quick and businesslike.
"I need to get home as quickly as possible, Randy was stabbed."
"I'll send one of my men. See you at five."
"Yeah," John said, and Jim hung up. One minute later, a police car pulled up beside John. He turned and met the eyes of the cop inside.
"Are you John Watson?" the man asked, his blue eyes piercing and focused on his face.
"Yes," John answered, with some trepidation.
"I'm taking you home, get in." John did so, and they tore away from the curb with a wail of sirens. The cars parted in front of them, and he was home in three minutes. Without bothering to thank the driver, he threw himself out of the car and ran for the doors. There was blood on the hallway carpet. That wasn't good, that would result in questions.
He opened the door to the flat, and found Sammy sitting up on the couch, her eyes wide. Several feet away from her, a boy was collapsed on the carpet, breath coming in sharp gasps. It was Randy, a sandy-haired boy that had started coming to the meetings around 20 days ago.
"Shit," he said, and didn't bother to censor himself. He ran to the closet and got out Sammy's old morphine drip. He'd eased her off of it, and she hadn't needed it for weeks, but he still had the supply. He hung a bag, dashed over to the boy on the floor, and slid it into the vein. The boy was still conscious, and John winced. He'd been stabbed a couple times, and it wasn't a nice experience.
He'd been caught in the shoulder, and it was bleeding a lot. He didn't know how far the boy had come to get to the flat, but he'd lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much. He had no cauterizing equipment, though. With a muttered swear, he realized that this would have to be a home surgery. There was no time to get him anywhere better; it could be too late already. He ran to the kitchen and turned one of the stove burners on maximum. Then he took out a spoon and held it in the flame until it glowed red hot. He took a deep breath, turned off the stove, and hurried back into the living room.
Randy was unconscious, from blood loss, pain, and morphine. He would probably still feel this. John didn't think about that, he just got down on his knees and pressed the glowing spoon against the injury. There was a hissing sizzle, and the smell of burning flesh. It wasn't bad in itself, but it was horrible to know what it was. Sammy made a choking sound from the couch, and John winced on her behalf. Nothing to do now, though. He grabbed his medical supplies and started the process of cleaning, bandaging, and putting pressure on the wound until the blood no longer soaked through. He hadn't closed the entire stab wound with the cauterization, and his hands were stained by the boy's blood.
Once it was closed enough, he picked the boy up and carried him into the bedroom, laying him on the sheets. It got blood on the duvet, but John didn't care. He set up the morphine drip beside him, just enough to keep the poor boy under. Then he went back to the living room, running a bloody hand through his hair. Sammy was still frozen on the couch, eyes wide and horrified.
"Sammy? Sammy, look at me, come on." John knelt down in front of her, hoping that his blood-covered appearance wouldn't scare her even more. Her blue eyes fixed on his. "Breath deeply. You're okay. Come on, breath with me." John slowed his breathing, inhaled visibly. Sammy followed him, breath shaking with suppressed sobs. "And out," John said, exhaling through his mouth. Sammy followed him, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Good. That was pretty scary, yeah? Randy will be fine now, okay? His shoulder will have a scar, just like your belly, but he'll be okay." John kept his voice slow and soothing, the same voice he had used with patients who had just woken up to find out that they had lost a limb in surgery.
"There was blood," Sammy whispered. "It got on my hands, and my dress." Sammy didn't have any blood on her, and wasn't wearing a dress. John realized that she must be having some sort of flashback. When her eyes started to drift towards the blood stain, John gently turned her head back to face him.
"Hey, stay in the present. Randy was stabbed in the shoulder, that's all that happened. He's going to be okay. Everyone is okay. He was bleeding a lot, but I patched him up, and he's going to be fine, just like you. He's going to heal. We're all okay." Sammy took another deep breath. "Good, that's good, just keep breathing." There was a short silence, filled with both Sammy and John taking calming breaths. "Don't be scared of blood, Sammy. It's what keeps us alive, you know," he said, smiling. Sammy nodded hesitantly. "Now listen. Everyone's okay, but I have to clean up this mess. Are you going to be okay if I leave for a few minutes?" The little girl hesitated, then nodded firmly. "Good."
John walked out and into the kitchen, getting out a cloth and a cup of cold water. Then he made his way into the living room, poured the water onto the carpet, diluting the blood into a pinker tone. Sammy was staring at one of the walls, breathing carefully. Someone must have taught her breathing exercises. John wondered who.
He pushed the thought aside while he washed the blood off his hands and arms, changed clothes, texted William to tell him not to visit, and went back to the living room. He carefully wiped up the blood from the carpet, and worried about the hallway. He paused to text Jim, telling him that Randy would recover, and there were some bloodstains that needed cleaning up, then finished wiping up the blood in the living room. There was barely any left, thank goodness. He'd have to get some peroxide for the rest. He certainly didn't want a bloodstain on his carpet; talk about suspicious.
Once he'd done all he could, he sat beside Sammy, drawing her attention over to him.
"Are you okay now? Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," Sammy answered. "I'm okay if Randy is. And there's no blood anymore. Will you read me the Balloon Tree again?" John gave a little smile.
"Of course I will."
They spent the afternoon together, reading, watching telly, writing a story together, and finishing each other's drawings. John checked on Randy several times, ensuring that he was still unconscious, breathing, and not bleeding. He seemed to be stable, so they would just have to wait for his body to replace all the blood he had lost.
Five o'clock rolled around faster than John had expected, heralded by a knock on the door.
"Jim!" Sammy chirped happily.
"I'll get the door," John volunteered ironically, and pushed himself up. He opened the door and found Jim leaning against the wall, in one of his suits and his usual hairstyle. "Hello," he said, and stood aside to let him in.
"Good to see you again," Jim said cheerily, with a Cheshire grin and a predatory look. John didn't answer, just leading him into the living room. "Sammy girl, how are you?" Jim asked, sweeping down to kiss her cheek. The little girl laughed, swatting him away and blushing. His over-enthusiasm and strange voice were kid magnets, for some reason. "By the way, the blood is out of the hallway carpet. I see you've taken care of it in here. How's Randy?" Jim asked, turning to face John.
"He'll survive. Several weeks recovery, though. Hospital recommended." Jim simply gave him a look. "Right, right, Misfits don't go to the hospital. Sorry."
"You're learning," Jim said with a smile. "I suppose we'll have to get you a mattress to sleep on. Now, Sammy darling, would you like me to read you a story while John cooks, or do you want to watch the telly?"
"I wanna watch the singers!" Sammy said. "I've only watched a half-hour today." Jim looked over to John.
"Is that true?"
"Yeah, I think so," said John.
"So I'll be helping with dinner, while Sammy watches. I don't like modern singers."
"Fair enough," John said. "Sammy, I'll get your program set up. No pushing random buttons, you remember what happened last time?" The poor girl had found herself quite traumatized by the unexpected on-screen sex. And John had found himself quite traumatized by trying to explain what she had just seen. So the agreement was that she asked John to switch the channels for her, so that there weren't any… mishaps.
Sammy laughed at the memory as John flicked to her favorite channel. Meanwhile, Jim had already made his way into the kitchen.
"What are we having?" he shouted back to John.
"Um… I was going to make a Shepard's Pie. Be there in a second. Don't touch anything!" John certainly didn't trust the criminal mastermind alone in his kitchen. He ensured that Sammy was all set up, and then headed into the other room. Jim was leaning against the counter, and when John came in, he raised his hands in the air to make it clear he wasn't tampering with the food. "Alright, so you're helping me. Well, can you do the mashed potatoes while I do the filling?"
"Yes, I can do that," Jim said, his voice following John's cadence in a slightly disturbing way. John grabbed the ingredients, Jim took what he needed, and the two of them settled into that familiar pattern of sharing the kitchen. There was the occasional asking for a tool, or complaining about the pop music drifting from the living room, but mostly there was silence. And by silent, mutual agreement, neither man mentioned how comfortable it felt.
A/N: Hi again. It's good to be back, but my NaNoWriMo writing needs a lot of editing. I wrote without thinking about the quality, or how realistic the plot was, and now I'm pretty much rewriting, but using a lot of the scenes from my month of marathon writing.
Thanks for all the reviews, they're really the things that keep me writing. Well. That, and the other amazing fanfictions out there. But mostly your reviews, they truly mean a lot to me.
Next chapter will probably be up tomorrow! Yay for weekends!