Rain pounded against the roof of the car, sending a steady stream of rivulets down the windows, tiny droplets which would have been caught in the street lights, if any had been on. The drumming was steady and insistent, and water was pooling on the streets, but there were people everywhere, almost revelling in the darkness, in the novelty of it.
Sherlock was seated across from Anthea, who annoyed him, but at least she annoyed him without requiring much attention. She was glued to her mobile as always, and Sherlock wondered what was so bloody interesting all of the time. She had an alert expression on her face, but not the kind that indicated she was paying attention to her surroundings. The kind that indicated she was absorbed in whatever was happening on her phone's screen.
Mycroft was sitting beside her, a radio on the seat beside him, his hands wrapped around the handle of his folded umbrella. It was useless in this weather, but Sherlock rarely saw his brother without it, and somehow, Mycroft would probably manage to stay dry even if he got out in the torrential rain. He could probably make some arrangement with the weather about that.
Sherlock himself had got more than a little wet just ducking from the flat to the car and now there were drops dripping uncomfortably down his neck. He ignored them, because it was not relevant and it would not help find John. He worked at keeping himself composed, despite the fear that threatened in his mind, the fidgety feeling that came from not being in control, not knowing where John was. His mind wound through kilometres of tube tunnels, picturing stranded trains in the darkness, calling to John in each one, getting no reply because it was only his own thoughts he was chasing.
"Well?" he snapped at Mycroft. The car had taken too long to get there, and he'd had to deal with Mrs. Hudson, who was upset at the lack of power and Sherlock's own jumpy anxieties about John. He felt it had been too much to contend with; he wasn't used to dealing with this kind of apprehension.
Mycroft sighed at him.
"Sherlock, it takes time to get people down there, even in the best of weather. We're working as fast as we can, but you'll have to be patient."
"Patient?" Sherlock growled. He could feel his gloved hands itching to curl into fists, his shoulders tensing, his stomach tightening. The sounds of people outside seemed almost mocking. There was a ringing shout of laughter and Sherlock wanted to open the door and yell at the perpetrator to stop. John was down there. Somewhere, beneath the streets, John was trapped and he had no idea, no idea, if John was all right, or injured, or even alive.
"You need to send me down," Sherlock said suddenly.
"Absolutely not," Mycroft replied forcefully as the car pulled into the street, driving carefully through the deep puddles. Outside, it was darker than Sherlock had ever known for the city, an unnatural city night. This must be what John was experiencing, this crushing darkness, this isolation.
He drew a deep breath, trying to find his balance, his centre.
The problem with that was that didn't know where his balance and centre were. They lay outside his body. They were John.
"I have highly trained search-and-rescue people working on this, Sherlock," Mycroft said, holding up a hand to forestall the argument which Sherlock was about to launch. "They know what they're doing, and they're moving as quickly as they can on such short notice. Given the information you've provided me, I believe I've narrowed down where John should be – but if he was early or late, then we'll have to expand our search. But we will find him. If he's down there, we will find him. You have to understand that the police and fire departments are evacuating what trains they can that are trapped at or near stations. Even once power is restored, this is going to take several hours, at best."
"Then get the power back up now," Sherlock growled.
"We're working on that. All efforts are focused on this area, to the exclusion of the others – and believe me when I say that has ruffled more than a few feathers. I've been accused of some favouritism, which is of course the case."
Sherlock dismissed this; it didn't matter. He didn't care if the lights came back on in their flat or in the neighbourhood, nor how long it took the other tube lines to regain power. It only mattered that John be found, that John get out, that John be safe.
He dug his fingers into his thighs and waited, staring out the window into the darkness.
"Where are we going?" it finally occurred to him to ask.
"The station closest to where John should be, if he's travelling on the schedule you gave us," Mycroft replied. "If you're right, he should be fairly close to Tottenham Court Road."
Sherlock nodded, an agitated movement, and peered out into the darkness again. It no longer seemed to matter that he was asking his brother for help. All that mattered was John; he could feel it with every breath, every heartbeat.
If Moriarty was behind this, the man was going to pay. If he thought Sherlock would stop when John was threatened, he was going to learn. If he thought he could menace Sherlock with burning his heart out, then he was going to be shown exactly what fire could do.
If it was just the weather, just the storm – that would almost be worse. He couldn't fight this. Although he could rail against it, it served no purpose. The only reply to that was the steady drumming of the rain against the car and the hiss of the tires through the puddles.
Despite all of the power outages, there were still cars everywhere, the cabs threatening to try and drive as though conditions were normal, other drivers responding either by becoming more reckless or overly cautious. They were passed several times by screaming police cars and ambulances, and Sherlock caught his breath each time.
They crept along slowly, too slowly, making Sherlock want to twitch. The cackle of radio at Mycroft's side made him jump and he saw his brother eye him sharply before picking up the radio.
"All teams report in," came a voice across the distance and Sherlock focused hard on the radio in Mycroft's hand, as though he could will whoever Mycroft had working for him into speeding up, into giving him the news he wanted.
Five teams reported in that they were underground and getting under way. Mycroft acknowledged this and Sherlock watched him reply with hunger in his eyes, wanting to take the radio and demand an update that couldn't exist yet.
He's fine, he's fine, he's fine, he told himself over and over, trying to convince himself through repetition in the absence of actual facts.
He had to be fine. They had to find him. The idea that he wasn't was too intolerable to think, too vast to comprehend, too dark to face. Sherlock closed his eyes against it, not caring that Mycroft was watching him.
He couldn't conceive of life without John. Because there was no life without John.
He's fine, he's fine, he's fine, he repeated, the thought echoing with each heartbeat. He wished he could believe himself.
The trip took over twice as long as it should have. Sherlock watching the radio with sharp grey eyes, but it remained resolutely silent. At one point, he closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the headrest, willing himself into stillness through an effort unlike anything he'd ever known.
When they reached the Tottenham Court Road Station, there were already police patrol cars there blocking the entrances, and officers in the pouring rain, trying to maintain some kind of order. There was a small but growing crowd gathered, people milling about, uncertain and wet and tired and angry.
Sherlock reached for the door and found it locked. He rounded his gaze on Mycroft, who met his grey eyes with unnecessary equanimity given the situation.
"Those are people off the trains that were at the station or almost there," he said. "John's not with them. We'd have heard by now if he was. I have the police at the nearby stations checking all of the passengers they recover."
"Let me out," Sherlock demanded.
"To do what, Sherlock? Charge down there? It won't help and you're liable to get hurt, especially if the power comes back on. They will call us when they find John, and if he's not at this station you need to be here so we can meet him. What will you do? Stand in the rain? What will that accomplish? We're getting all the information as it becomes available right here. Out there," he nodded to the sodden crowd in the near darkness outside, faces light up momentarily by the flash of blue-and-red emergency lights, "you know nothing."
He paused, evaluating his younger brother thoughtfully for a moment and Sherlock glowered under the gaze with its familiar confinement and condescension. Mycroft had him pinned, exercising his power as his big brother. It chafed and Sherlock resisted it, because it didn't matter. Not this time. Not when John was down there.
He turned away, gazing out the window into the darkness punctuated by police lights, and, in the absence of any other choice, waited.