"Got him," a male voice said over the radio and Sherlock managed to restrain himself from leaping at to answer it. Mycroft gave him a warning look and picked it up, but was forestalled. "Negative, negative. It's another Doctor John Watson."
He could only stare in disbelief, the raindrops hammering on the roof as if laughing at him.
"Please clarify," Mycroft said.
"Cambridge professor," was the answer. "Same name."
"Evacuate that train," Mycroft ordered and Sherlock couldn't contain a growl, causing Mycroft's eyes to flash to him, bright in the near darkness.
They were still parked outside Tottenham, still bathed in the blues and reds of the police sirens as emergency crews tried to round up those being evacuated out of the tube. People were milling about despite the driving rain, and some had taken just to walking, moving past their car as dark shadows.
"Check the name against the address, two-twenty-one Baker Street," Mycroft ordered before setting the radio aside again and arching an eyebrow at his brother. "Those people still need to get out of the tunnels, Sherlock."
Sherlock swallowed on his protests but growled again, making Anthea look up for the first time since he'd gotten in the car, and possibly for the first time that week.
He wanted to say they weren't important, they didn't matter, because they weren't John. Ha, he snapped silently with grim displeasure. It was a John Watson, just the wrong one. Leave him there, find the right one, Sherlock thought, catching his lower lip between his teeth.
He could feel his heart hammering after the adrenaline rush of false hope, as though trying to escape the cage created by his ribs. Sherlock closed his eyes again, leaning his head back, ignoring the steady look Mycroft was giving him.
He'd seen the doubt there, as if Mycroft had not, all this time, truly believed that Sherlock loved John. As though he thought it were a passing phase, or perhaps not real. As if he'd grow bored and drift away, or John would get fed up and leave, or they'd end in a row and anger and silence and loneliness.
And what did Mycroft have, Sherlock asked himself. On what was he basing his erroneous conclusions? How did he think he could understand what Sherlock felt about John? It was impossible to imagine that he could, that this really made sense to Mycroft – and perhaps that was the reason behind the doubts.
He was not giving John up. Not to Mycroft, not to Moriarty, not to the darkness, not to the loss of power, not to anything.
Never again, he promised himself, promised John. Never again, John.
"Got him," a woman's voice cut through the silence that was punctuated only by Anthea's endless texting. Sherlock snapped his eyes back open, raising his head quickly, fixing on the radio. He caught his breath, barely noticing, and there was a long, drawn out pause in which he willed the woman to speak again, to give him for information. Mycroft was watching the radio and even Anthea had paused, her attention almost diverted to the events around her.
The minutes stretched endlessly, even though Sherlock knew they couldn't really be very long, nowhere near the time he'd already waited, then her voice came over the radio again.
"We're on our way out, coming up at Holborn."
Sherlock met Mycroft's eyes urgently.
"Go," he insisted, but the car was already in motion, edging through the crowded streets and the persistent darkness and the ceaseless rain.
The lights came back on right before they reached the station, sudden and unexpected after the hours of darkness, and everyone stopped, blinking and shouting, their exclamations mixed curses and praises. John shielded his eyes with his hands, blinking hard until his pupils contracted somewhat, his eyes getting used to the abrupt return of the light.
The station was just ahead, but their rescuers in their visibility vests and orange hard hats kept their torches on, the extra light skittering over the path they were taking beside the rails. John could see a rickety service staircase leading up to the edge of the platform, barred from normal access by a fence and a gate.
And he could see his fellow passengers suddenly, as real people, not as shadows and angles of features cast in blue light. There was Jess, who was a few years older than he'd pegged her, with curly red hair and green eyes that met his in the sudden light. There was Tasha, with a lip ring and streaks of bright red and vivid blue in her brown hair. There was Tasha's friend, Mike, with dyed black hair, in a faded black trench coat. There was the woman with the five-year-old whose glossy dark curls that spilled over her mother's shoulder as she slept.
There were smiles and greetings and John felt as though he were saying hello to old friends he hadn't seen in so long he'd forgotten what they looked like.
"Everyone keep moving!" a voice from behind them called and they shuffled forward again, with more certainty this time. The search-and-rescue woman who had identified him was right in front of him, Jess right behind him.
"Tell me why they were looking for you," Jess said and John glanced over his shoulder, now that he could see her and do this without tripping.
"No idea," he said honestly, although he had his suspicions.
Then they were climbing the stairs onto the platform next to an empty and abandoned train.
"Come on, everyone, up to the surface," the man at the front said, gesturing them to follow him to the escalator, which wasn't running despite the restored power. "We'll get you all home, but you will need to come with me."
John followed, Jess falling into step beside him, giving him a smile and an arched eyebrow. John wanted to give her some explanation in return, but he couldn't. He really didn't know, not for sure, how Sherlock had managed this.
As they went up, the lights didn't fade although could hear thunder still rumbling in the distance. And rain. As they approached the street level, he could hear the steady downpour of rain, feel the chill against his skin, the dampness that wound its way past his clothing. He had abandoned his umbrella in the train car, along with what had been left of the groceries, but he didn't care.
They emerged into chaos: rain, bodies, police cars, emergency lights, honking horns, voices. John wished now he hadn't left his umbrella, but it would have been useless in the downpour anyway, and there were too many people about to use it safely. He felt caught in the flood of voices and bodies, the crowd coming as a shock after so long with the same smaller group of tube passengers, and the sensation left him feeling oddly startled. Jess was still standing next to him, trying vainly to shield her head with the scarf he'd lent her, then seemed to realize it was not hers and passed back. It was already wet and John bundled it into a pocket rather than put it on, although it wouldn't have mattered much. His hair was already soaking and he could feel cold droplets running down the back of his neck under his collar.
"That's why we were looking for you," the search-and-rescue woman next to him said, nodding through the crowd. John followed her gaze, suddenly picking up Sherlock standing amidst a press of people, sodden, his dark curls plastered to his pale forehead and cheeks. John blinked, almost certain it was an illusion, because Sherlock hadn't seen him yet. "Also the reason the lights back on here, because everywhere that lost power is still without it."
"What?" he heard Jess ask, but Sherlock met his eyes in that moment and John forgot about her, forgot about the rescue workers, forgot about the crowd when he saw the expression on his partner's face.
Disbelief warred with relief and, for a moment, Sherlock looked paler than normal, his grey eyes suddenly bright in the light from the street lamps. John shook his head once, and began pushing through the crowd, ignoring the mutters around him as he did so, not really watching where he was going. Sherlock was headed for him as well, face set in an expression of determination, rain streaming down his cheeks, dripping from the ends of his hair.
John ignored the cold, the rain, and the sounds around him, nearly stumbling into a suddenly open space, and then Sherlock was in front of him.
"How–" he started but was unable to finish when Sherlock grabbed him, pulling him into a kiss, making John gasp for breath. Sherlock pulled away long enough for both of them to suck in air and then angled in again, John's face caught between his hands, wet lips sliding over his, closing the space so tightly that even the rain could not break through.
He tried to think, tried to understand – then thought he saw Mycroft in the crowd behind him and it made sense in a flash. Another flash, this one of disbelief, because that meant Sherlock had asked Mycroft for help.
Sherlock never asked Mycroft for help.
Sherlock let him take another breath then kissed him again, heedless of the crowds that surrounded them, of any kind of ideas of restraint, and John felt his shock ebbing away slightly under the sensation. He made a small sound when Sherlock nipped his bottom lip and his hands found Sherlock's waist, settling onto the small of his back, pulling him closer.
And he remembered how Sherlock had described himself the first time they'd met, as a high functioning sociopath.
John had believed it, then.
But Sherlock had sent people into the darkness, into the tunnels, for John.
He had gone to his brother for help, for John.
All around them, there was light, emergency vehicle lights and headlights and torches. And street lamps and traffic signals and signs.
Sherlock had lit up London again, for John.
He raised his hands, fisting them into Sherlock's sopping hair, pulling him even closer. It felt like coming home, and he couldn't imagine living without it.
Things would have to change, he realized. It had been almost a year. There were things he could no longer take for granted. Partners wouldn't quite be enough anymore, John decided as he gripped Sherlock's wet curls, breaking apart for a moment for another gasp of air.
It was time to start calling him family.