Author's Note: Instalment three here, just to forewarn there is a tasty scene coming up (promise) though it is incredibly sappy. I think I'm just a romantic at heart. Also apologies for any faux paux on my part regarding British military practices I'm not sure how it operates past 1945 lol. For my reviewers, apologies for my poor spelling/grammar issues I have dyslexia and I can get very muddled sometimes with my words practice is making me better though! For now enjoy feedback of a constructive nature is always welcome.
I'll Wait for You
Case 03 – Strangers, Training, and Home
Back on Baker Street, Sherlock was up the stairs in a flash, dark curls. John slower, stopped to talk to Ms. Hudson, assuring them they where fine before joining his companion. Shrugging out of his coat he blew on chilly hands, "Fancy a cuppa?" he asked headed into the kitchen. Sherlock didn't answer, but then again he rarely did, the steady beat of his feet was almost therapeutic to John.
Sherlock was thrumming with adrenaline as his mind swirled pulling up information, facts, and data. The case at present had little yet it remained intriguing, a small idea taking shape. He replayed the crime scene in his mind almost as if it where a film, feeling again John's warm, solid mass crashing them through the wall. The weight of him crushing down, comforting and close, while the explosion nearby had left his head ringing. He'd been so close to it, the one to detonate it. He paused in his pacing his limbs suddenly trembling, refusing to respond to his mental commands. A look of utter confusion passed across his features seconds before he collapsed to his knees.
John heard the thump, tea forgotten he rushed to the man's side. "Sherlock?" he asked gently taking him under the arms and pulling him upright. "I'm…I…" he was at a loss, his mind and legs where at cross purposes as the Doctor settled him on the settee. "You eat?" he asked softly, the silence spoke volumes. With a sigh the doctor wrapped the afghan around narrow shoulders, "Shock Sherlock, like the paramedics are always trying to give you a blanket for." He snorted angrily pushing it off, "I am not in shock I'm fine," he said despite the trembling in his body. "Hmmm," John hummed, "Well sit and think then, with a blanket on…" he said calmly.
Every fibre in his body was telling him to get up and moving, mad that his body was betraying him in such a way, he felt weak. "Want to hear about the first time I was exploded?" John said in the calm deep voice, that soothing voice. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing, and damn if it wasn't working.
Sherlock sat back gathering the blanket around him, listening and he spoke moving about the flat getting them tea, and something to eat. The younger man listened despite himself, it was lulling and comforting. Sherlock would die a thousand times over before he admitted he was John's biggest fan. The man was an amazing storyteller his blog about their exploits, despite what he told John were very well done. They where honest, insightful, and they made him seem real…something that he was grateful to John for. For what John thought of him was the only thing that really mattered.
His smile was genuine as John settled a cup a tea near his arm, and a bowl of apples, "Cinnamon and sugar?" he asked looking at the slices, "Always." The solider said settling beside him on the couch, he watched as long fingers delicately took a slice eating it slowly before licking sticky fingers. Blue eyes looked away slightly, as he reigned himself, breathing deep, trying to relax. Techniques he'd learned in the service, the ability to control himself, especially around the handsome, albeit pale and wan detective that had invaded his life in a whirlwind of dark curls and fluttering coats. "Why the body John? Why?" Sherlock muttered he shifted on the couch, coming closer to John their hips touching ever so lightly. John made no move to break the tentative contact, as he leaned back letting Sherlock's flurry of conversation wash over him. His mind wandering back to a month ago. A day after their first meeting with Moriarty in the pool. He'd had to leave on military training for a week.
"You're awful cheery John, what's different about you?" Steve, one of his crew looked at him as they rumbled across the countryside in a chopper. He shrugged, smiling despite himself. "He's met someone it's all over his face. Captains in love." One of the other boys called across the chopper, the others howling and catcalling. He told them to knock it off and get them sorted before the drop. All that week though his mind was slowly coming to terms with something he'd been trying to vehemently deny.
Despite his effort to not too, all the reasons in the world he shouldn't, he'd fallen in love with the arrogant, selfish, socially inept Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't imagine a worse possible scenario, the detective had told him once he was married to his work. There was no chance to for him…for them…but love knew no reason. No matter what Sherlock thought. So John hid away his tender feelings, coveted them like a treasure. Cherished every smile, friendly touch, and stolen moment of domesticity they shared. Thankful his friend was oblivious to things as inconsequential as love and passion.
Sherlock ignorant to his companions plight, was enjoying being so close to the others warmth, he prattled on, pausing, finishing his apple and tea. In this moment, together, quite in the couch, he was content. An odd feeling for him. John stood cleaning up the dishes, "Want more? Toast? Leftovers?" He called, and Sherlock muttering to himself once more, in control of his legs he stood then beginning to pace. John managed to put toast in his hand on the way by, he began to nibble. Settling on the couch he rustled the news papers, began reading watching smugly as he ate his toast. Not even Mycroft could get him to eat like John could.
Sudden music blared from his pocket, he sighed that was the military calling. "Watson," he answered briskly, not even throwing Sherlock off. He spoke several minutes before confirming and hanging up. "Sherlock," John called wearily form the couch, the man never looked up the afghan still clutched haphazardly. John fell in step beside him, "Army called,"
"Oh yes…"
"Yes, I have training."
"Hmmm…"
"I'll be gone for a month." That got his attention, "What? Now? But the case!" John patted his shoulder. "Can't be helped, stay out of trouble ya?"
-#-#-#-
"Did we really need to call him?" Anderson hissed glancing to where the tall man was swooping like some bird of prey across the room. "Yes I did," Lestrade glared at him, "We have no idea who or why someone is stealing corpses and staging crime scenes." He hissed, looking back to Sherlock, it was the second one in a month. Not that it had stopped Sherlock from badgering the hell out of him, Sherlock had been more abrasive then usual. Greg had a feeling it had something to do with the absence of Dr. Watson. That man had been a godsend, a moderating effect on Sherlock, he seemed to bring round whatever humanity the man had. Without him though, Sherlock seemed to be a rudderless ship.
"Staged again, why? What do they want?' Sherlock muttered feverishly leaving the room, he darted throughout the darkened house. This time a upper residential area, in a house that was on the market, made up to look like a real house. Staged. He stood before the stairs thinking, why? Why the staging, There was a sudden hard shove against his back. The lanky detective registered he was flying through the air. Spinning he saw a dark figure seconds before he hit the top part of the stair his shoulder giving an audible crack before he mercifully blacked out.
Lestrade and Donavon came running hearing the horrendous noise. The crumpled figure at the bottom of the stair lay unnaturally still. "Oh my god, call an ambulance."" The Inspector hollered hurrying down to check for a pulse.
-#-#-#-
John didn't remember ever being so wet. There where deep in the unfathomable reaches of Scotland training, and it had been raining damn near the entire time he'd been here. "At least Afghanistan was mostly sunny." He was in a bad mood, their field ex was ending, but damnit if all he wanted to do was get back to Baker Street, and chase that curly headed git all over London. To get back to the one he loved more then anything,
Training had turned into mostly babysitting, new recruits as green as they came, where more of a hazard to themselves and those nearby they anything. Sighing in his foxhole he pulled a protein bar out of his vest pocket, wincing as his two broken fingers protested the movement. He had set them himself, splinting the with tongue depressors and tape, the makeshift splint dirty and falling apart in the rain. Feeling utterly sorry for himself he glanced upwards into the overcast sky, wondering if his socks where ever going to be dry again.
Adjusting his vest and helmet he hunkered down ready to spend another gorgeous day in the service. It was the sudden whir of a very close chopper that got his attention, he glanced up to see a military issue helicopter fly overhead and land nearby their camp. Curious John got out of his hole hurrying over to base headquarters wondering what was wrong. The Major would have it well in hand, but it was the most action he'd seen in weeks. He stopped outside spotting Captain Wilson waiting as well wasn't everyday that someone showed up in the middle of no where. "Some big brass got out of that thing," Wilson was pulling out a cigarette out offering one to John, the doctor absently took one lighting up. He had never told Sherlock but in combat he often smoked, when bullets where flying over your head and your hands trembled so bad you couldn't hold your rifle, sometimes it was the only thing that could steady you, gave him a centre. He quit when he'd returned to civilian life, not many people trusted a doctor that smoked.
Major Hurts stuck his head out of the tent then, waving John in. He took one last drag before tossing the fag into the mud stomping, entering the tent with a salute. "At ease," Major said, "John they're here to get you." Confused he nodded, "5 minutes in the chopper," the general exited and Hurst turned to him, "Watson what the blue hell is going on? That man had some kind of clearance to come pull your wet ass out of here." A small idea was forming in the back of John's head, "Not sure Sir," sighing he waved him out, "Lucky dog out of here 2 days early I'll see you at base." With a salute he was gone headed to grab his duffle.
He was ready minutes later, not daring to ask the General why. They where dropped in Edinburgh before a private jet met him, he boarded warily, sighing when he saw the pristine white leather and cream coloured interior. He looked down and his dirty, scruffy, unwashed self, he fidgeted for a moment before making a decision. Tossing his duffle on the floor, he settled himself flat out using his bag for a pillow. Sighing he undid his coat, the plane was coming to life under him, and for the first time in a month he was dry and warm. He closed his tired eyes relaxing slowly, his mind was not so easily relaxed. Only Mycroft had this kind of pull and if Mycroft was calling him back something must be wrong with Sherlock. Sighing he rubbed his eyes, he was tired, and worried, but there was nothing he could do save sleep.
He must have passed out, as there was suddenly a voice hollering at him, a car was waiting on the tarmac. He stood groaning as his stiff, sore muscles protested. He flexed fingers grunting in pain, his digits an ugly black and blue. Sure enough as he exited the plane there was a familiar nondescript dark car waiting. Soon he was speeding through the dark streets of London, a growing knot of dread in his stomach. It was late, the clock was telling him it was midnight. The trip was quick, confirming his fears as they pulled up in front of the hospital. "Thanks," he called to the driver grabbing his duffle and heading inside.
It was a bizarre tableaux John Watson walked in on, Mycroft and Lestrade where arguing in the lobby. It was amusing though when the pair turned to him, uncomprehending, "Good Lord John?" Mycroft asked squinting through the layer of grime, "At your service, now why was I hauled out of training in such a dramatic fashion?" He asked setting his bag down, pinching the bridge of his nose when they both started talking at once. "One at a time, Lestrade what happened?"
The Detective Inspector explained hurriedly about the crime scene, the mysterious figure pushing Sherlock down the stair. John stiffened at that, "Is he ok?" Mycroft stepped in, "Dislocated shoulder bumps and bruises, mild concussion." He let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, "This happened yesterday?" He asked looking between the two men, who where now shifting uncomfortably, "A week ago," Lestrade blurted out, John was confused, "So why are we in the hospital still?" Mycroft sighed, "Because he won't leave, he's been truly insufferable John since you left."
The solider chuckled. "So I'm here to get him to go home?" they both nodded, he ran a hand through matted blonde hair. Grunting as he forgot about his fingers, "Alright, which room?" They pointed wordlessly, "I'll send a doctor in to fix your fingers," Mycroft said as he passed by. Nodding the solider headed to the private room, passing a nurse who scuttled by looking terrified, she gave John the once over before hurrying away. "Be careful, but you look ready to do battle" she whispered. Sighing he rounded the corner; he had everyone up in arms. Leaning against the doorframe he took in the long, lean figure facing away from him in the hospital bed. He knew Sherlock hadn't been eating, he looked thinner, the sling on his right arm holding his shoulder still. "I said I want to be left alone!" he yelled flipping suddenly he hurled a bed pan right for John's head. The solider snagged it out of the air easily, managing to jar already painfully swollen fingers.
Grey eyes widened when he realized who was standing in the door, "John!" he gasped sitting up, suddenly well aware of the man in the door. He stepped inwards, and Sherlock felt all the air in his lungs leave in a rush. He was dirty, unkempt, and he was all man. In full combat gear, sporting a blonde beard, he his teeth where a startling white when he grinned at him. "Shirly…" he said moving closer to the bed, returning the bed pan to its rightful place. The detective frowned at the nickname, the one that only John was allowed to used. "Your brother pulled me out of training. Says you don't want to do home." He said offhand, Sherlock was stubbornly silent, grey eyes sneaking glances at the suddenly compelling man. "Can't imagine why…" John said casually sitting on the one chair in the room. They stayed like that for long minutes, neither one giving ground, a silent battle of wills taking place. Until a knock sounded at the door. "Someone needed a doctor?" John looked up to the nervous looking women, then back at Sherlock who was glaring daggers. "Right that's me," curls bobbed as he twisted to look at John suddenly worried.
She pushed a little tray of instruments, and John pulled his makeshift wrappings off. The digits where a painfully swollen mess, "I set them but need some braces." She winced turning the hand over to take a look, "You set these yourself? Did you use a local or…" she trailed off, the charmingly good looking man was smiling at him, "No need too."
"I'll give you something for the swelling." Suddenly another head was in the way, and long pale fingers snatched John's hand to look at them . "What did you do?" he demanded feeling, the callused dirty palms. Chuckling the solider gently pried away his hands, "I got between a moron, and a tree." He frowned but allowed the doctor to work splinting his fingers, John refusing the pain meds. "Had worse," he mumbled thanking her as she left, with a look that spoke volumes. Sherlock saw it, a sudden flare of some unfathomable emotion caught him. Hot and angry, it curled like a snake in his belly. He didn't like the way she had looked at John. Like she had wanted to eat him.
"Right, so I am going to Baker Street, hot bath, hot meal, and good sleep…you interested in any of that?" Sherlock was silent, sighing John stood heading for the door. A long limb arm gabbed his arm, "Wait…" came the voice, small and plaintive. A blonde brow arched, "You coming?" He nodded slowly, standing he moved to get his cloths. "I'll wait in the hall," he said mildly, when Sherlock's next sentence stopped him. "I didn't want to go back there, while you where gone." He didn't look at him just stood there, wondering how he was going to changed. John came over draping his coat over him, "It's late no one will see."