One exam down, yay! Thought I'd celebrate by doing another chapter…because I am just that cool :D
I think this was originally meant to be two chapters, but my hands wouldn't STOP typing! So it's one now. I think I prefer it like this anyway.
Hope everyone likes, because this chapter has been a damn pain getting right, and as always I do love reviews…
That day had started out like any other day.
John had been woken by the grating buzz of his alarm, and had swatted it, grumbling to himself, until the thing shut up. He'd let his eyelids fall shut, concentrating on the pleasant red light seeping through the skin, trying to block out the outside world. The cars outside, the talking from the street below, and the crashing and (very articulate) cursing that was Sherlock, having dropped a vial of some chemical that John really didn't want identified.
That was the first thing that wasn't quite right. No crashing.
He'd disregarded it as he dressed; trying to decide in his sleep deprived state whether it was too warm to wear a jumper. He decided not, and pulled it on as he hurried down the stairs.
Sherlock's absence was not an unusual thing – he frequently took off at ungodly hours in the morning, and at half seven in the morning, John was more inclined to feel glad that Sherlock had not taken him with him. True, the flat lacked the restless energy that was always present with the consulting detective, but there was nothing to suggest anything odd, not to John at least. The sun was shining, he'd actually managed a decent night's sleep, and there were no body parts in the fridge. The nagging feeling at Sherlock's absence had disappeared instantly, replaced by one of optimism. A grin had spread across his face, and he'd set off to work in high spirits.
Work, too, was a very positive experience, and John had been beginning to wonder what on earth he'd done right.
He had to deliver no bad news all day, and he saw no unduly uncooperative patients either: all of them very grateful and courteous. He shared a particularly lovely lunchtime with Sarah too, and he'd walked her back to her practice room in the surgery and kissed her, and she'd smiled and they'd made plans to go out somewhere nice on the weekend.
Back in the confines of his own room, he'd found he missed Sherlock's constant badgering of him, but had ignored it: administering smiles and encouragement to his remaining patients.
Then, John had returned home, and that was when things ceased to be normal.
The first thing he noticed was the long coat that the detective usually wore, hung on its hook just inside the door. His heart leapt slightly at the prospect of seeing his friend.
The second thing he noticed was absolute silence. Deathly quiet.
Sherlock wasn't there.
A frown had creased his brow as he strained to remember: had the coat been there that morning?
It was odd, he had mused, that his first response to the absence of his flatmate was slight panic, but given the situations Sherlock's work so often pulled them into, he supposed it was not entirely unwarranted. On top of that, while he realised he would never measure up to Sherlock's intellect, John Watson was by no means stupid. Sherlock rarely left the house without that coat, even in frankly ridiculous heat for it.
Perhaps born of his association with the man, and fed by his own curiosity, John had a quick search of the rest of the flat; eager to see if his theory that Sherlock had not left of his own accord was correct. However, the search did not come without a sense of mounting dread that rather ruined his pride at this small deduction.
The factor that had dispelled the last shreds of normality, was the discovery of Sherlock's shoes. John had been unwilling to peruse Sherlock's bedroom without the man's permission, and as such it had been the last place he had searched. However, finding nothing in the main body of the flat that he really thought proved anything (though no doubt there was something, had he Sherlock's power of deduction) he had turned to the door of his flatmate's room. One cautious look around said door confirmed John's suspicions: Sherlock's shoes were stashed under the end of his bed. He might on occasion leave without his coat, but not without shoes. John found himself giggling a little at the thought, the same nervous, inappropriate giggling as he and Sherlock shared at crime scenes.
The thought of the man served as a reminder to John once again that he was not Sherlock, and that he should probably double check that Sherlock was nowhere obvious before making any rash decisions. He didn't, after all, know how many pairs of shoes the man owned.
"Lestrade?" He asked, urgently, as the DI answered his phone.
"Speaking." There was a pause. "John?"
"Yes. Is Sherlock with you?"
There was another pause. John heard Lestrade consult someone nearby, before answering the question.
"No, haven't seen him all day."
"Oh sh– " John balled a fist in irritation and disappointment, and sat down on the arm of the chair. When Lestrade spoke again, his voice was more hesitant.
"Everything alright?"
"Yes – yes, sorry. Thankyou."
The line went dead, and John had held the phone numbly in his hand, thinking. He was seriously considering a call to Mycroft – if he didn't know where Sherlock was, then they were in trouble, but he had his qualms. Firstly, he knew Sherlock would shoot him with his own gun if he knew John was involving Mycroft in their case, and secondly, he doubted the older of the Holmes' brothers would appreciate being treated like a helpline.
Well, tough.
He scrolled through past texts, looking for those regarding Andrew West, for the older Holmes' number. He was relieved he had not thought to delete them, though did wonder briefly if Mycroft would have changed his phone number by now. He might consider it unwise for it to be the same for too long.
Thankfully, this was not the case.
"Doctor Watson." The familiar, slightly clipped tones of Mycroft Holmes brought a faint stab of hope that John never thought he'd associate with the man. He wondered if Mycroft could read him as well over the phone, as he could in person. Probably.
John had suddenly realised he had no idea where to start.
"Hi – Mycroft." He paused, feeling slightly uncomfortable and intimidated, despite being unable to see the man. He was also still unsure of how to phrase his problem. "I've lost Sherlock."
"It might surprise you, John, but I have more productive ways to spend my time, than running around after my younger brother."
Mycroft's careless tone, even though John knew it existed only on the surface, had sparked a little flare of anger in his chest, and he found himself more confident, forceful.
"Do you know where he is?" John demanded, his voice rising. "When I say lost…"
"You mean of undetermined location, in all probability perilous." Mycroft finished, and even in his state of worry, John had to admire the eloquence of the Holmes' phrasing. "To answer your question – no."
John had pulled a face, and tried to answer as unemotionally as possible.
"Really?"
"I would advise against foolhardy rescue missions," Mycroft interjected sharply. John had glared at the phone, and gritted his teeth. "Your capture, as previously demonstrated, does not reflect positively on Sherlock's capacity to negotiate – it would only jeopardise his safety further."
John grimaced, rather unwilling to accept the words.
"If you require assistance…"
"No. It's fine," he finished, and had cut off the phone, his jaw set.
Damn it: his and Sherlock's bloody pride and stubbornness was going to get them killed one day.
Not today, though. Hell, not today.
John had dashed upstairs, fumbled in his drawer for a moment before procuring his gun; which he had then stashed in a pocket.
He knew where Sherlock was by then. Well, not precisely, and not for definite – he didn't possess Sherlock's arrogant confidence – but he was pretty damn sure. If Sherlock said enough upon his visit to Virginia Smith to become a victim of physical violence, then he probably revealed what he knew about the girl. For a genius, that man was unbelievably stupid. He'd been captured by the killer.
But he wasn't dead. Sherlock bloody Holmes was not dead. John got the feeling he'd know, and besides, the man was so quick he had little trouble in winding anyone and everyone around his little finger. It seemed inconceivable that Sherlock was dead, an impossibility.
Therefore, the best way to save him would be to be captured himself.
He knew it was a ridiculous plan. The voice at the back of his head had taken on some of Mycroft's more endearing qualities, and reminded him of the risks in a constant monologue of his own misgivings. Their last conversation rung in his ears, and their first, too, was projected to the forefront of his mind.
'Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?'
This decision, perhaps, had finally revealed to John the truth in those words, but he didn't care. He could have rung Lestrade back, had a mass of police there within the hour, and tracked down Sherlock safely, quickly, cleanly. He could have just sat in the flat, and waited for Sherlock to be brought back in the police car, complaining.
Maybe it was something he'd picked up from Sherlock, but he'd found he didn't trust the police with Sherlock's life. It was too important, and none of Scotland Yard understood that.
He could have called Mycroft back. He could trust Mycroft with Sherlock's life, he was his brother. Sherlock would have hated him for that, but he'd have been safe. John could have sat tight in 221B, and waited for Sherlock's tall, haughty frame to emerge around the doorframe, followed by a smug Mycroft.
But no. He wanted to be involved. He wanted to go and get that stupid, stupid man himself. He didn't want the title of 'worried friend' hung around his neck, while others bustled around him, and he did nothing. It would have felt almost like a betrayal.
With his mind firmly made up, John picked up his discarded phone, and sent a new message to Sherlock:
Going to the media with the Virginia Smith story. Honestly, this is going to be worth a lot, we can't pass this up. See you later. JW.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
That brought him up to now.
John's sitting on the sofa, twisting his hands together nervously, waiting. He can feel the metal of his gun through his jacket, its reassuring weight, and he feels a little better. He finds all his senses slightly heightened, as he strains his ears for the sound of a car slowing, or footsteps on the street outside. Every time a vehicle passes the flat he sits stock still until the noise ebbs away. He's got up to look out of the window several times, and finds himself pacing back and forth, arms crossed, apprehensive.
When Mrs Hudson returns home, he catapults downstairs, not realising initially the indentity of the intruder. He helps her carry her shopping into her kitchen by way of explanation, wondering how on earth he got so jumpy.
On his ascent back to the flat, doubt begins to set in, and John wonders if he's got this all horribly wrong, and Sherlock's just gallivanting around London without explanation, as he likes to.
Well in that case, why hasn't he texted back to tell John he's an idiot, and he's going to ruin everything?
John stays there, in a state of worry and confusion, for another hour. He paces, tries to read the paper, and even checks the cupboards for body parts for something to do (nothing, just something that might have been fingernails. He doesn't really want to look into it). It's very quiet: he hasn't thought to put on the television.
The silence is broken by a knocking on the door downstairs.
Checking his jacket pocket, John descends the stairs rapidly for the second time that evening, opening the door with undue force. It's a stranger this time, a man John doesn't recognise. He's tall and greying: but more important to John is what's sticking discreetly from the folds of his coat – the butt of a gun. The doctor moves his eyes from the weapon, bringing them slowly to meet the man's eyes. He swallows.
"Did you?" The man asks, brown eyes narrowed.
"Did I what?" John asks, his eyes flicking nervously to the gun, and trying to work out how long it would take him to reach his own in case of an emergency.
The man pulls him roughly out onto the street without an answer, closing the door behind them. John feels the cool metal pressed into his back as they begin to meander down the pavement.
"Did you go to the press?" His voice is low and dangerous, and John can feel the man's breath on his ear.
He breathes in, pleased the shuddering in the breath is at a minimum, but very very aware of the gun pressed into his back. There are a few people around, so it there's a good chance someone would see if he was shot - and he gets the feeling this killer likes to be inconspicuous, funnily - but it's still a risk he'd rather not take. But damn it, an image of Sherlock pops into his brain, lying on the floor with his blood staining the floor, and John grits his teeth and takes his life into his hands.
"Yes I did."
He hears the familiar 'click' of the gun at his words, and the pressure of metal on flesh increases. John feels his heart rate increase accordingly, closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, and registers that if he's going to die, at least he tried to save his friend first. He won't pretend he's not still terrified at the prospect, though.
He almost laughs, imagining Sherlock scoffing, telling him that while the gesture was admirable, it didn't actually do him any good.
However, the shot he anticipates never comes. Instead, the breathing near his ear returns, as does the growling voice of the man behind him.
"Get in the car."
John doesn't hesitate, climbing into the back of the vehicle as instructed. He has to admit, this kidnapping doesn't exactly measure up to the grandeur that Mycroft employed. It's a small, old, rather beat up red hatchback, with slightly scratchy seats. Nonetheless, John takes a seat gratefully, and tries not to show the optimism this new development gives him. He concentrates on looking scared, which his acting skills, he'll readily admit, are not really up to. He finds his fear has evaporated now his life is no longer directly on the line, and they're probably on their way to wherever Sherlock is.
They drive for about three quarters of an hour, John trying to remember the route, in case it was useful, but failing after the first few turns – left, right, left, left, another right…wait, was it left? He curses his own incompetence, and leans back into the seat, instead wondering what state Sherlock's in. It's not a pleasant train of thought, but he's hopeful that the worst he'll have to deal with are bruises and cuts, if yesterday was anything to go by. John still flatly refuses to even contemplate the idea of Sherlock being dead.
The car takes a decisive turn, causing John to lurch towards the window. He can hear the crunching of gravel under the tyres, and turns his attention outwards again. It's getting dark by now, but he can still see through the half-light a looming shape getting bigger as they pull up to it. It's an oddly familiar shape, and as the car crunches to a halt, he realises that it's a chapel. It looks old, he thinks: it's in a state of disrepair, though not a ruin – it's still an entire building. There's chunks of stone gauged out of the walls, and statues whose faces have been corroded into concave leers. To top it off, there's a graveyard too.
John sighs, and wonders why everyone has to be so overdramatic. This is getting ridiculous.
He's led towards the front doors: rotten wood that groans as he pushes them open, and then shuts behind him and the man with a dull, wet thud. John can feel the gun pressed into his back again, but it doesn't incite the same fear this time. He's far less certain that his life is actually in immediate danger. He's been allowed to live once by this man, and it gives him confidence, as he peers around in the gloom.
A faint noise catches his attention, and he forgets the ominous presence behind him for a moment, his head whipping around to the source.
"Sherlock?"
There's no answer. John hears the noise again. It's odd, like a fish slapping about on stone. John strains his eyes, desperately searching the dark for the source of it.
"John?"
The voice that replies is unmistakably Sherlock, though the doctor is slightly bemused as to why there's a note of despair mixed into the familiar tones. He feels a great wave of relief rush through him, and he hurries towards the voice, the man behind him forgotten. Heavy footsteps do follow him, but the trepidation created by them is swallowed by a crashing wave of pure relief.
A pale face, encircled with those familiar dark curls, looms out of the darkness and John grins at it, slows down a bit, and comes to rest about a foot away from his flatmate. The detective is in his pyjamas, barefoot on the flagstone floor. John meant to say something, but Sherlock cuts across him.
"You do realise that this was probably the most stupid thing you could have done?"
"You're welcome." John tells him, shifting his weight a little, a tad annoyed at Sherlock's greeting.
He's extremely surprised, therefore, when such a frosty greeting is followed by a hug; and for a few moments his arms hang rather limply at his sides. He moves them up, however, to tentatively hug Sherlock back, still rather taken aback at the action. Working through the bewilderment, the doctor part of his brain notices how incredibly cold the detective is, and he rubs his hands up and down Sherlock's back a little; both comforting and warming him up. He can feel a sharp, bony chin resting on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry John," Sherlock mumbles.
"It's fine," he reassures him, patting him a little awkwardly on the back, but Sherlock squirms away, and John can just see his lips pressed together through the dark. He looks uncharacteristically upset.
"No, it's not." Sherlock insists, grabbing John by the shoulders, and almost shaking him. The detective almost glares at John's lack of perception. "I don't know if it will be fine, John, and that terrifies me."
"Sherlock?" John asks, concerned.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, releasing John's shoulders. Maybe it's the light, but John is sure that Sherlock's pale eyes are brighter than normal, and it's beginning to scare him. John starts towards him.
The next thing he's aware of is a stabbing pain at a small point on his upper arm. He looks over at Sherlock in panic, but the man is recoiling from him. His long arms are wrapped around his torso, an expression of horror on his face, as the man whom John had forgotten swims into view. He claps Sherlock on the back, smiling, sending a jolt through the detective's thin body.
He can't make out the words for some reason, but the man says something to Sherlock. It's loud, echoing around the empty room, the joviality out of place. The booming laughter sends a searing pain through John's chest, as he understands.
His eyes search for the pale face in the blackness, and suddenly every reason why he shouldn't have befriended the man converges on his mind. He remembers his therapist, and his 'trust issues'. He remembers the outrage at her statement, and the determination that flared inside him, to prove her wrong.
He remembers stumbling across this brilliant man: the man who knew everything, who could read your life from your shoelaces, your watch, your mobile phone.
People don't trust men like that. It's unnatural.
He'd ignored that instinct, pushed it away until he didn't notice it anymore, because he thought he'd spotted a glimpse of the man underneath the machine. He'd befriended Sherlock Holmes.
Being wrong shouldn't have come as a shock, but it did, and it hurt.
His eyes sting to match his arm. He stands there, the soldier, defeated
He feels his body crumple, and falls to the floor.
As he lies there, there is silence, except for his own ragged breathing. But between the breaths, there's something else.
A single splash, a tiny oasis of useless salt water on the desert of cold stone.