John limped his way back through the waiting room of the surgery, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone.
"John?"
He stifled a sigh, trying to paste a smile on his face as he turned to face Sarah. "Ta so much for letting me pop back, I did leave the stove on after all. I'll just get...dried off a bit and I'll be ready to go." His hair was plastered to his head, rivulets of rain still dribbling down his neck. The umbrella had been no help against the drizzle, pressed into service as a cane as it was.
He saw Sarah's eyes dart down to his leg and then back up. "John..."
"Took a tumble on the front steps. Damned clumsy of me, shouldn't have tried to rush in nasty weather like this. I'll just get started then, shall I?" He limped his way towards his office, trying not to lean as heavily on the umbrella as he would like. He could feel Sarah's eyes on his back. He snagged some drape sheets from a supply closet to dry off with, spine drooping with relief as he finally made it to his office and closed the door firmly behind him.
He hung his coat on the hook, toweling off his hair and lowering himself down into his desk chair with a hiss of pain. He stared blankly at the surface of his desk for a moment, trying not to think. Trying not to see Sherlock's devastated face, his haunted words.
["I killed, I maimed, I tortured, and was tortured in return..."]
He had been so focused on what he had gone through while Sherlock was away — his grief, and his anger, and his loss. How had he never stopped to think that what Sherlock had endured during their separation might have been infinitely worse? He should have realized when Sherlock refused to talk about it. He had seen the signs of trauma — the hypervigilance and the nightmares — and just like the signs of cocaine withdrawal, he had been so damned grateful to have Sherlock back that he had ignored it all.
John felt cold and empty, and slightly nauseous from lack of sleep and food, not to mention the violent emotions of the past hour. His mind roiled with doubts. He should have handled it differently, should have taken the time to really talk to Sherlock. Instead he had let his damned temper get the better of him — yelled at Sherlock, physically assaulted him, and then given him an ultimatum. And yet, how different could the result have been? He would not stand by and let Sherlock fall back into a drug habit that had nearly killed him, and yet there was nothing he could really do. The choice lay with Sherlock, and he was probably making it right now.
Pull yourself together, Watson, he told himself sternly.
He looked at the time on his mobile. He still had fifteen minutes before his lunch break ended, but he would be damned if he'd walk that gauntlet through the waiting room again to get something to eat. He might as well catch up on some paperwork.
He reached automatically for a pen and then froze. His pencil mug, always placed on the left side of his desk within easy reach of his dominant hand, had been shifted to the right. John's eyes scanned his office, but he could see nothing else out of place.
He picked up the mug gingerly. A crisp white business card was underneath it. John blew out a frustrated breath as he read the dark script.
Mycroft Holmes
If there was one thing John was completely not in the mood for right now, it was being manipulated by another damned Holmes brother. Still, he couldn't stop himself from picking up the card, running a finger over the decadent line of letterpressed script, deeply indented in the thick linen paper. He turned the card over.
desk drawer
The words were scribed in such elegant copperplate script that it took John a moment to realize that it wasn't printed as well. Sherlock would have been able to tell him the model of the fountain pen down to the date of manufacture, no doubt. His hand shook a little at the thought of Sherlock, and he shoved the card into his pocket with irritation.
He pulled on his desk drawer. Still locked, but god knows that wouldn't have deterred Mycroft. He should be grateful that Mycroft had at least locked up after himself, John's prescription pad was in here. He pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked the drawer.
He didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. A slim book, bound in ancient red leather. Contes et nouvelles en vers. John's French was rusty at best. Tales and stories in...something? John opened the front cover, looking at the title page. Par M. de la Fontaine. A Amsterdam. M. DCC. LXIL. John did a quick translation in his head of the Roman numerals. 1700-and something. Mycroft or one of his minions had snuck into his office to leave him some 18th century poncey French novel?
Oh.
["Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock had said haughtily. "Mycroft and I established this contingency as young men. We would hardly rely on carting a rare edition of a novel about with us everywhere. We both memorized it." John squinted at the writing more closely. "French, no less," he teased. "You poncey bastards."]
John leafed through the novel. Pressed between the delicate pages at intervals were clippings of classified advertisements. John turned the book spine-up and ruffled the pages. The clippings fluttered out like autumn leaves, settling on the surface of his desk.
John gathered them up. There must be twenty or more — coded messages exchanged between Mycroft and Sherlock while Sherlock was taking down Moriarty's web. John had some understanding now of what Sherlock had done, and here were more clues. Would it be a violation of Sherlock's trust to decode them? And yet Mycroft never did anything without a reason. There was something in these messages he wanted John to know, and fairly urgently.
John bit his lip uncertainly. He could lock the book back in his desk drawer and get started with his patients, and the Holmes brothers and their elaborate schemes could sod right off. Even as he thought it, though, he knew he wouldn't. He couldn't.
He reached for a pen and notepad, and started decoding. Each clipping was dated, and John decided to attack them in order. It was slow going. John's French was spotty at best, the language of the book was archaic, and some words were spelled out with initials where they apparently didn't appear in the text.
Accessing security box Genève, do not block authorization.
Return home at once, will provide all necessary resources.
Something John couldn't translate...Catégoriquement. 'Categorically' maybe? refuse, do not ask again, will cease communication.
For the rest of the afternoon John spent every spare moment between patients decoding the messages, trying to get a sense of their meaning as best as he could.
Target warned, act by tomorrow latest.
Require...something...time 1445 street of Saint Frances.
Drop point compromised, employ alternate...something.
John was almost grateful for the distraction, anything to keep his mind off the question of whether Sherlock would be at the flat when he returned.
Move team on my signal...something...something...critical.
Italian contact has been...something...dead, much blood at meet point are you well?
John could almost hear the anxiety underlying the terse message. From Mycroft, it was practically an emotional outpouring. He delayed buzzing for his next patient until he had found the one that came next chronologically and decoded it. Of course Sherlock had not even acknowledged his brother's concerns.
Need border passage undetected...something...something...coordinates 42D45MN25D30ME.
John had to look at that one for awhile before he figured it out. He quickly saw the next patient, diagnosing their rash and easing them out the door of the examination room in record time, before returning to his office to look at the message again. Of course. Coordinates. 42° 45" North 25° 30" East. Out of curiosity he pulled up the web browser on his computer and typed them into a search field. Bulgaria.
Bukhalov will meet 2330 tonight code phrase PARABELLUM.
John's Latin was somewhat better than his French. Para bellum. Prepare for war.
By the time John hustled his last patient out the door he had only two more messages to decode, and twenty minutes until he could start for the flat if he wanted to keep up the appearance of his routine.
Viper slipped the net destination Senou Airport in pursuit.
Viper must be Moran. John turned to the last clipping. It was dated less than three weeks ago — four days before Sherlock had arrived at John's flat, to be exact.
Votre docteur a besoin de vous. Y35LSKO3Y88XCOM.
John stared at the message, puzzled. "Your doctor needs you." The rest of it, though...John fiddled with it for a moment, trying to rearrange or substitute the letters. Finally he just squinted at it, trying to see a pattern. SKO could be an airport code. He looked it up online. Sokoto, Nigeria. Could that be something — a flight number and a destination, perhaps? The only thing that even remotely looked like a word was the end. Communication? Company? Oh.
John pulled up the web browser again, typing www., the string of letters and numbers, and then .com into the address field, leaning in intently as the page started to load.
John heard a sound, a harsh whine of surprise, and realized it had come from himself. There was nothing on the website but a picture of him. Fairly close-up, it must have been taken with a zoom lens. John could see every line of fatigue and grief in his face, starkly illuminated by the streetlamp. His shoulders were slumped, his expression anguished. Devious Mycroft, he must have asked the photographer to catch him at a particularly bad moment. The bottle in his hand was in a paper bag, but the shape of a 750 milliliter bottle of alcohol was unmistakeable.
["Why did you come back?" he had asked. "I mean, why now? You said yourself that it wasn't safe. You certainly weren't planning on staying here, you were furious when Mycroft told you. If you weren't getting sloppy, if you didn't need Mycroft's backup, why did you come back before it was done?"]
John leaned back in his chair, holding his head. This is why. Almost a year underground, and John had wondered why Sherlock had returned when he did, before he had finished with Moran. Now he knew. Sherlock had returned because of John, out of concern for him.
Your doctor needs you.
Four words and Sherlock had abandoned his schemes and returned to London, endangering himself, endangering them all, because Mycroft had convinced Sherlock that John needed him.
John felt humbled and guilty and sick all at once. He had known that Sherlock cared for him, even knew that Sherlock felt he loved him, despite his inability to say the words. And yet, John had always had a caveat in his own mind. That Sherlock loved John as much as he was able to love anyone. Never would he have thought that Sherlock could do something like this — risk everything, abandon all of his intricate plans, just because John required it. Putting John first, above all else. Deep down, John hadn't thought Sherlock capable of that. Knowing Sherlock had done something like that shook John to his foundations. It revealed the truth and depth of Sherlock's love for John more clearly than any words.
John had underestimated Sherlock, grievously. He only hoped that he had the chance to make it up to him. Both of them had revealed so much to each other over the past few weeks, and yet they both had still held some secrets back. If Sherlock was still at the flat, still clean, when John got back, John would tell his secret as well. Sherlock deserved nothing less.
It was time. John pushed himself to his feet, locking the book and clippings carefully back into his drawer. The last time he prayed he had been bleeding out on dusty Afghani soil, but he couldn't help but say a silent prayer now.
Please, God, let him be there.
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