Tempers were beginning to wear thin now and John counselled patience, but the stranded passengers were getting tired of sitting, tired of the darkness, tired of the uncertainty. He felt it grinding at him as well, and entertained fairly consistent fantasies about being at home, safe and warm in the flat, with Sherlock. He wanted to curl up on the couch with his partner, watch some mindless telly, have a good hot meal of cheap Chinese food, play with Sherlock's dark curls, nuzzle his neck, kiss his warm lips.
Well, at least I'll have something for my blog, he told himself, giving a slight smile.
Although John had waited as long as possible, after almost an hour and a half had elapsed and people were beginning to grumble, he and Jess had passed out the food in their car. It wasn't much, and it wasn't particularly appealing – being an odd assortment of whatever anyone had on them that was immediately edible – but it would get them through a little while longer.
He wondered how long this loss of power would hold out, how long they'd be down here, if the whole night would slip away. Water would become a problem eventually, and if this went on too long, more people would need to sleep. They may have to spread themselves back across more of the cars, which would mean less body heat per car and which would make it more difficult to keep an eye on everyone.
He hoped that the police were already coming for them, winding their way through the maze of tunnels with torches and radios and water and a way out. John considered asking the conductor about access tunnels, but if they were locked, there was no reason the conductor could unlock them.
It was strange to think that Afghanistan had prepared him for this; he'd imagined that he'd need to fall back on his training in London. Underground in the darkness, it felt a world away from the hot, bright, hazy summers in Afghanistan, where the sun had baked his skin, baked the whole world. He thought of friends still over then, then thought of Sherlock again, and felt lonely in the crowded car.
A small group nearby was playing a game on a phone and there were groans when good move was made by other players and small exclamations of triumph when a game was won. There were still people chatting and reading, and the woman with the five-year-old was walking her daughter slowly up and down the aisle, the girl drowsing on her shoulder.
John moved past her carefully, making his rounds. He made sure to check Tasha's pupils and evaluate her colouring, insofar as he could from the light of his own phone, but she was all right, still bright eyed and smiling, even though John could see she was getting bored and her smile was somewhat strained from the waiting.
He understood that.
The other passengers assured him they were fine, with varying degrees of irritation in their voices. They chafed at the waiting, and John did to. He missed the fresh air – but it was not much better outside in the tunnel, damp and cold. At least in here, they were all warm. At the back of the car, a few people were doing stretches, using the bars for balance, and he joined them, his muscles beginning to ache with the inactivity. He needed to keep his shoulder from starting to hurt, because once that settled in, his temper would ebb away and it would take more than he had down here to deal with it.
He wished he were carrying some ibuprofen at least, then realized he could just ask around, and left the people who were stretching to do so. A woman who was reading volunteered some and asked if everything was all right.
"Yes," John said. "I have an old shoulder injury that's bothering me. This will do the trick."
It wasn't entirely true; when the weather was bad, ibuprofen helped take the edge off the worst of the aches, but the best thing he'd found for it was Sherlock. The man had a hitherto unknown talent for massage, which he'd impressed upon John that this was not to be share with anyone. John didn't mind, because if no one else knew, no one else could try and avail themselves of it.
Shagging also worked – it was usually more than distracting enough, and John had only had to turn his partner down a handful of times when the ache really was too settled into his muscles for anything to divert him or feel pleasurable. In those cases, the best thing was Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, gripping it just short of the point of pain, as he'd done their very first night together.
The memory of that made John smile now and he settled down, pulling his phone out and opening his photos, scanning through them, lingering on his favourites of Sherlock, who smiled back at him from captured moments. John wished that his phone would light up with bars to make a call, but it stayed resolutely silent, just at the power remained resolutely turned off.
"Everything okay?" Jess asked, standing in front of him, a darker patch in the darkness. John wondered what she looked like beyond the blue glow of the phone that showed him her features in only vague detail. She had a nice voice, he thought. And long, curly hair – he could see that well enough in the dim light from his phone. It made him think of Sherlock's hair, and his fingers missed the ability to run through those thick curls, to watch Sherlock's face as he did so.
"Yeah, just feeling sorry for myself," John replied.
She gave a chuckle and sank down beside him, moving so that he thought her legs were stretched in front of her.
"I think we all deserve a bit of that right now," she commented. "I actually had the night off for once and I was going–" She cut herself off, moving to sit up fully and John tried to see her in the near darkness, and it seemed she was looking past him, out of the car. "What's that?"
He looked up himself and heard shouts suddenly and people were getting up, pressing themselves against the windows on the right side of the car, exclaiming as the bobbing of torchlight came closer. John rose as well, half disbelieving, his eyes narrowing somewhat against the unfamiliar glare. He saw one of the dots of light peel away, toward the first car, then the door of their car was forced open and there was a someone on the stairs, shining the torch into their car. People were murmuring, shielding their eyes, and John saw them now as silhouettes against the unaccustomed brightness.
"John Watson?" a woman's voice asked. "Doctor John Watson?"
He blinked, staring, and felt rather than saw Jess looking over at him, her surprise an echo of his own.
"Doctor John Watson?" the woman repeated. "Anyone here by that name?"
"Yes, that's me," he heard himself replying and the torch beam focused on him, making him wince.
"John Watson of two-twenty-one Baker Street?"
"Yes," he replied, nodding in the beam of light. He could see the woman moving her other arm, raising it to the level of her face. "Got him," she said and John realized she must be speaking into a radio. She moved through the train, the other passengers stepping back, as though she were some sort of prophet.
The torch light was tilted down a bit, enough so she could see him without blinding him.
"You all right, Doctor?" she asked.
"Fine," John replied, still stunned. She nodded once, curtly, and John could see the reflection of a high visibility vest on her chest, and the outline of a hard hat on her head.
"All right, listen to me, everyone," she said, turning slightly to encompass the car. "We're evacuating this train. I want you all to follow me in single file. There are five of us in this group, and four of us will be walking with you, one in front, one at the back, two in the middle of the group. We'll be leaving the conductor behind with the fifth member to move the train when the power comes back up. I need you all to keep up with us, and walk where we walk. You'll be safe if you do as we tell you, and don't walk on the tracks. Understood?"
There were murmurs of assent and John felt that he and the other passengers would have promised to tap dance and learn a foreign language in five minutes had they been asked at this point. He could see more torch lights beside the train now, and passengers from the first car were disembarking, waiting along side the tracks.
The woman moved back through the car, gesturing for John to follow.
"Everyone get out carefully," she said, lighting the way for them, watching intently as John stepped down. When he'd done so, she raised her radio again. "We're on our way out, coming up at Holborn."
John waited for an explanation that didn't come as the woman refocused on ensuring everyone was doing as they were told, and then they were leaving the train after almost three hours, following the bobbing torch lights of their rescuers augmented by the pale blue glow of phones in the darkness of the tunnel.