Runaway Home

Chp 6

This would have been up sooner but…tumblr.

After sending John off in the cab Sherlock walked farther away from the crime scene and made his way into town. His mind was whirling with a myriad of thoughts as he made his way across the street. He knew he had to focus on the investigation; he needed to solve it, catch the killer. There was just something so infuriatingly all consuming about John though. He was able to concentrate enough to know that he had to find the woman's case. There were three possible locations the killer would have dumped it and all of them were relatively close. As he made his way to the first skip and found that his ability to concentrate was slipping. His mind was dwelling on the crime scene, and not on the clues, but on John, always on John. He hadn't thought the whole thing through; it was all a real bloody mess if you asked him. As he began searching through the first dumpster bin the look on John's face as they entered the room crossed his mind. He'd looked nervous, at the time Sherlock had observed it but didn't process because he'd been so focused on the body. He knew that he tended to ignore people and various other things such as food and drink while on a case, but he'd never felt bad about it until now. John had looked nervous, maybe even a bit skittish. And why shouldn't he? There was a dead body in there! Sherlock had taken a sixteen year old into a room with a murdered woman. Not any sixteen year old though, one who had obviously suffered past trauma. The one person he's coming to care about and he goes and causes further mental scarring! Lestrade had been right; he didn't know what he was doing. He didn't even begin to consider John until they'd been stopped by Anderson and Donovan at the steps. Normally their comments are to be ignored completely, but tonight something about them left a sting. They were wrong about him planning to harm John, that would never happen, but he was putting him in danger. That and how Sally had invaded the boy's personal space.

It had made Sherlock the most driven to kill her he'd ever been. John was clearly uncomfortable with yelling, or arguing, or any sort of impassioned speech between adults really, and Sally had caused him extreme discomfort as far as he could tell. He didn't like it when people got too close to John, but he liked it even less if John didn't like it. So he'd pulled the boy against himself and come to another heart breaking conclusion. Sherlock made him uncomfortable as well didn't he? At least when he was yelling like he had been. The detective had known himself to be a bit frightening at times, he'd intimidated many suspects in the past, but did John find him scary?

Sherlock shook his head to send that thought away for the time being. He didn't like it, and it was distracting him. The second location had been the right one and Sherlock spent only a moment or two there before finding the pink case. As he hailed a cab back to the flat he wondered what John must have been thinking when Sherlock had sent him off. Perhaps he'd done something 'not good' as John would say. He was almost never sure of those things. John probably wanted space from the detective though, even if he wouldn't make his opinion known. He'd more than likely been scared of the crime scene and of Sherlock and just wanted to go home and be alone. Sherlock made his way up the stairs and braced himself for pained looks and feigned indifference. John would pretend it didn't matter, that the case and the yelling hadn't bothered him, that he didn't even want to go out to dinner in the first place. All of which he just knew were lies. He'd allow John to say it though; he'd allow him to try to convince both the detective and himself. When he walked through the door however it was not an anxious John that greeted him, but a sleeping one. John had fallen asleep on the sofa it appeared and had placed his phone carefully on the arm of it. Sherlock felt another one of his strange chest tightening feelings, the thought of John waiting by his phone, probably for Sherlock to call, it was perfect. John cared, he really cared, not like so many others who valued Sherlock's mind and ability to solve murders, they idolized him sure, but John cared for him. John wanted to help him, to protect him, to be his friend. He let a lazy smile spread across his face, his only friend, his best friend in the world.

Just then, John began to stir. Sherlock straightened in his chair to get a good look at the boy. If he was waking up it might be best to talk to him about this evening, at least apologize for dinner. John however did not wake up; he just started shaking his head as a dream took hold of his body and mind. Sherlock stood from his chair and walked over to the sofa to stand closer to the blond for closer observation. John emitted a weak whimpering sound that tore at the detective's heart. He fell to his knees and cupped the boy's face in his hands to stop it from thrashing against the sofa.

"John? John, are you alright? You're dreaming John."

John whimpered again and tried to free himself from the detective's hold. Should he let go? Was he somehow making this worse? Sherlock entered his mind palace quickly to see if he had anything useful to help John. He didn't really know anything about nightmares though; he'd never needed it for a case. It had never seemed important before, but now it was crucial. He cursed himself silently and promised to read up on nightmares the moment he'd solved the case.

"It's ok John, please, wake up."

He cooed softly hoping to gently remove John from his invisible terrors. John continued to whimper though, and his whimpering soon turned to moaning. This wasn't working! He tried to hold John still and repeated his name, praying that the boy would wake up.

"S'lock?"

Sherlock's eyes widened immensely. Was he waking up? Or was he simply calling out the detective's name in his sleep. John had been known to talk in his sleep.

"John? It's me, I'm right here, what is it?"

He stroked the sweat off the boy's forehead and waited for a reply. It felt like ages before John finally went very still and parted his lips ever so slightly.

"Help."

Was what the boy barely whispered, if the detective hadn't been listening so intently he would have missed it. What he wouldn't have missed however was what happened almost immediately after. John began trembling all over and his breaths were coming out in short pained huffs. He was hyperventilating and cutting off his supply for air fast, it would become a problem and soon. Sherlock acted quickly to try and ease the boy's suffering. With one rapid movement he lifted the blond up and positioned himself underneath him on the sofa. He lined up their bodies so that the back of John's head rested on his shoulder and situated his arms beneath John's then splayed his hand's across the boy's chest. Hopefully he could help increase the air flow while simultaneously reducing the shaking. For a long time they sat there like that, John shaking and Sherlock praying for it to stop. When it finally did he let out a sigh of relief. As John continued to sleep, far more peacefully now, Sherlock became worried. How often did this happen? John had to know, he just had to. His mind raced with possible solutions, ways that he could fix this.

Then, unexpectedly, John turned to his side and scooted his head to rest right beneath the detective's chin. His heart stopped. John nuzzled Sherlock's chest and took a deep breath in before letting out a contented sigh. Sherlock was certain he'd had a heart attack or something. This was too surreal. Had he really made it better? Was John sleeping peacefully now? From what he observed it appeared so. He wasn't sure why, but it felt nice having John lay there, even if he should find it uncomfortable. John's body was warm and soft; it made the detective feel something…fuzzy. Odd, he'd never felt this before. He liked it though, almost as much as he liked John sleeping here. Quickly he glanced over at the phone, no one had texted. Unfortunate, he'd have to find another way to locate the criminal, but for now he would rest. Normally sleeping during a case would be sacrilege, but he'd make an exception this time. After all, there was no telling if he'd ever get this chance again. As he drifted off to sleep he hoped he would, because he knew from now on there wouldn't be a single night he wouldn't long for this.

Cold. That was the first thing his mind registered. It was cold. It was cold, and there was no face pressed against his chest anymore. The detective bolted upright. Where had John gone? He looked about the flat, his coat and shoes were gone. The clock read 3 in the morning though. There was something very 'not good' about this. A note! Sherlock thought quickly, John always left a note when he went out. It didn't take long for him to find the flimsy piece of paper strewn across the coffee table. He snatched it up quick to read it.

Hey Sherlock!

Had to pop out for a bit, seems your brother needs to have a chat with me. As I with him, seeing as he can't even be bothered with manners anymore! Honestly he's almost as bad as you sometimes, demanding me to meet him at all hours of the night. Anyway I assume it has something to do with me being at the crime scene or our new sleeping arrangement (you're going to have to explain that to me by the way).

Sherlock crumpled the note in his fist. Mycroft? Mycroft was away to Korea on business. His plane wouldn't even land for another four hours. John wouldn't lie though, he had no reason to. John wasn't one to just go off on his own at night. It couldn't have been that he was upset with how he'd woken up (although he might have been) because then he either would have clearly stated it in the note or ignored its occurrence all together. Sherlock's mind raced, why would John leave such a note and then run off into the night? No. No, it was too obvious, he should have known it from the start! He'd used John's phone to send the message! So it was John's phone that would receive the reply, and it had been John who read it! The killer must have wanted to meet; he had texted back with some location? No, no, think! John thought it was Mycroft; he came to the flat in some sort of vehicle to pick him up. Yes ok, so they were in a car. They had to have left from between one thirty to three. God, that's a big window. One thirty would have been over an hour and a half ago, the killer wouldn't have gone too far, travel time wouldn't consist of most of that, so that just left John time with the murderer. Shit, fuck, no! Concentrate! The killer had the phone, that was good. Actually no, it wasn't good, because that's what got John into this mess in the first place! No, wrong, Sherlock is what got John into this mess. If he had any say in it though, he'd be the one to get him out.

His mind was racing at maximum velocity piecing together the clues, solving the puzzle, saving John. Finally, it hit him like a ton of bricks. The phone, the girl's name, it all made sense. No time to waste on celebration, no time at all. Without a moments hesitation he leapt forward to retrieve John's computer. He pulled up the website as fast a their internet connection would allow and quickly typed in the username and password. Next he just had to activate the GPS. God, it was taking so long! His heart was racing and all he could think about was John taking one of those pills, John's body lying cold and still in some abandoned house, John being dead. No, he couldn't think like that, it wouldn't help anything, he had to focus! When the map finally loaded the detective committed it to memory within seconds and then made a mad dash out the door, almost leaving his shoes and coat behind. He hailed a cab in record time and nearly screamed the directions out at the driver. As he sat restlessly in the back he found himself reciting one solemn prayer under his breath repeatedly.

"Please God, let him live."