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Sherlock was shaking. He moved, in a trance, over to his chair and sank into it. His hands were shaking, his mind a broken record. John. John. John.
He tried to seek comfort within his mind palace, but he couldn't seem to find the stairs. He was adrift. His small boat floated aimlessly between the outside world and his inner world. Communications systems were down, no visibility, no waves to send him one way or the other. The water was clear and blank, the sky a toneless grey. He was nowhere. Simply nowhere.
Look at me John, I'm afraid. For you. For everyone. For what I will become if I can't find you. I don't want to be an empty shell, John. Forever adrift. I need you to throw me a line, bring me to shore, but you're…
He couldn't think it. Not that word. He would find John. He needed to find John. His raft was beginning to break down, slowly splintering, crumbling. He was going to fall, to flounder in the vast, empty ocean, to drown. Alone. Without John. Drowning in his own mind.
He felt a small wave. Two, three small waves. He turned around and saw it.
A massive wave, ever growing, hastening towards his tiny raft. He didn't even have time to put on a life jacket.
The tidal wave swept him up, up, raft fragmenting beneath him. It swept him along and grew higher and higher until it reached the mainland. And he fell. Down, down, down, slammed into the harsh gravel of the beach, and felt the wave pass over him. Tonnes of water, eating away at the beach, threatening to drag him back into the sea.
He felt the tidal wave, felt it rise within him, felt it freeze his bones. He couldn't move, all he knew was pain. It tore at him from the inside out, clawing at his soul. He couldn't breathe. Everything was nothing.
The wave slammed him back into the world of the outside. He wasn't ready, he couldn't face them yet. He needed them. Sherlock reached out for his mobile to text Lestrade. His hand paused. Did he really trust himself to not completely break down in his friend's presence? Would he fall to his knees and beg Lestrade to fix it, to fix him?
He placed a brick on the gravel beach. One by one, they stacked up until he had built a small dam. He picked up his phone, steeled himself, and texted Lestrade.
Help
The most agonising two minutes of his life were spent waiting for Lestrade's reply.
What do you need? –GL
Sherlock's hands shook. The dam was leaking. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, before typing one word.
John
Greg glanced down at his phone as he walked. A text, of course. He reached his desk and sat down, pulling out his mobile. He unlocked it and read the single word typed there. Without the initials, he almost didn't realise who it was until he looked at the contact details. If Sherlock couldn't even type his initials, something must be wrong, very wrong. But he had done this before. He had been on an early shift that morning, if this was important, he could probably get off now. Just to make sure, he typed back:
What do you need? –GL
The reply was longer in arriving than usual, and when he opened it, Greg was surprised to see just four letters.
John
Greg leapt up from his chair and grabbed his coat, storing his mobile in his pocket as he ran for the door. He dug his car keys out of his pocket and was nearly outside before he felt a hand on his arm.
'Greg, what's wrong?' Sally Donovan asked. 'It's him again, right?'
Lestrade looked to the door, close to wrenching his arm from her and running from the building. 'Yes, it's him. Look, something's happened to John and if I don't get there soon, who knows what Sherlock'll do.'
'Well it's not like he's going to kill himself, is it?' said Donovan, a small twinkle in her eye.
'I wouldn't put it past him,' Greg shot back, effectively killing the humour.
Sally paled. 'I'll cover for you,' she said, releasing his arm.
'Thanks!' Greg called over his shoulder as he sprinted out the door.
Lestrade jumped into his car and pulled out of the lot as fast as he could without hitting anyone, pushing the speed limit as much as he dared.
Red light. The brakes squealed a little as Lestrade pulled to a stop. He was wishing he had sirens when he realised he should probably text Sherlock. He pulled out his phone, sending a quick message.
On my way, there in 5
True to his word, five minutes later Lestrade was bounding up the stairs to 221B. He burst in the door and said, 'What's wrong?'
Sherlock was sitting on the floor, staring blankly at the rug. He was completely still except for his hands, which moved seemingly of their own accord, tapping on the floor in a nervous manner. He didn't even react when Greg came in. Not a word, not a glance, not even a break in the manic tapping. His shoulders were slumped, and in the absence of his usual suit jacket, Sherlock looked quite dishevelled. His eyes were glassy, and he was even paler than usual. He was shaking slightly, as though holding back tears. It was as if the life had gone from his body, leaving an empty shell, just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world.
He reminded Greg of John after the Fall.
Greg peered at Sherlock from the kitchen doorway for a moment before moving forward. He crouched down in front of the broken man and said, 'Sherlock?'
No response.
'Sherlock, can you hear me?' Greg asked. 'What's happened to John?'
Sherlock looked up at this. He stared straight through Greg and muttered, 'John…' His voice was so hoarse it was barely audible.
Lestrade had seen Sherlock in a state like this once before, a long time ago, and that was when he had been most afraid for his friend. He could handle himself perfectly well in dangerous situations, but he just couldn't handle himself. This time, his state was even worse.
Greg pulled out his mobile and typed a message to Mycroft.
We need a little help at Baker St, something has happened to John and Sherlock is out of it. –GL
Lestrade received a reply exactly seven minutes later in the form of a sleek black car gliding to a stop beneath the window of 221B. In all that time, Sherlock had not moved except for his nervous tapping and occasional mutterings of 'John.'
Greg went to the window and watched as Mycroft exited the car and entered the building. Seconds later he heard footsteps on the stairs and walked towards the door. Mycroft walked into the flat, took one look at Sherlock, and walked straight over to him.
'Has he said anything, anything at all since you came?' Mycroft asked, glancing at Lestrade.
'Er, no, not really… just 'John,'' Greg replied, looking at the broken form at Mycroft's feet.
Mycroft bent to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Sherlock,' he said, 'what has happened to John?'
Lestrade was only a little surprised that Sherlock looked up at this.
'Mycroft,' Sherlock said. All of his desperation seemed to hang on that one word. Sherlock grasped his brother's wrist in what could only be assumed was a very unusual gesture, as Mycroft blinked.
'Sherlock. Where is John.' It wasn't a question.
'They took… took John. I have to find him. Find John,' Sherlock said. He stopped tapping. He raised his eyes from the floor and his gaze found Mycroft's. The stormclouds in the grey-blue of his eyes were alarming. Mycroft could have sworn he saw lightning in them as Sherlock whispered a word that Mycroft had never heard his brother use, a word that, in its broken desperation, would haunt Mycroft forever.
'Please.'
As Sherlock lowered his head again, a single tear carved a path down his cheek and fell into his lap. Usually the cracks spread so fast. A matter of milliseconds and the glass was shattered. But this slow shattering, cracks seeping, languid, throughout the world, sky falling in slow motion, was so much worse.
'Sherlock?' Mycroft was calling to him again. 'Sherlock, who took John?'
This simple sentence seemed to breathe a small amount of life back into Sherlock. He straightened up and looked around for his jacket. 'They… they were working for Moriarty. I've been blind, he's been spinning his web again. Blind, blind idiot,' he muttered, pulling his jacket on and going for his coat.
'Wait, Sherlock,' said Lestrade. 'Where d'you think you're going?'
Sherlock gave Lestrade a 'your stupidity is astonishing' look and said, 'I'm going to find John.' He tied his scarf around his neck and went for the door. 'Come on –'
Sherlock froze. One hand on the doorknob. Blank stare. Slowly his lips moved to form one word, whispered, barely even there.
'John…'