Glass
John groaned. He was standing in front of London Bridge Tube station without the slightest clue where to go next.
People were bumping into him, sending painful jolts through his bruised ribcage; one cursed, one apologized, two shoved him. Buses and cars rushed past, honking and splashing him with rainwater; a bike courier nearly ran him over, sparking horrible memories of the day Sherlock jumped; the smells of coffee and pizza from the stalls hit him, making his stomach growl and reminding him that he hadn't eaten in ages.
He swivelled around, but found himself at a dead end. The homeless girl had only known that Sherlock had ordered some of her companions – his most trusted ones – to London Bridge Station. Disguised as glaziers. Sodding glaziers! What on earth did he want with them?
John pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned again. This whole thing was really wearing him out and it was getting late – nightfall wasn't too far away. And why glaziers? There wasn't a single piece of glass worth replacing in the whole area – the bloody tube station was a veritable brick and concrete pageant.
Suddenly, his knees felt weak and the world started to spin and the whole venture seemed totally stupid and futile – Mycroft was right, if anybody could find Sherlock, it was his omniscient brother, not a dull and desperate doctor.
But then again, Sherlock had escaped from his brother's grip again, and it was him, John Watson, who had figured out that the daredevil would go home to Baker Street. So, he was here, and Mycroft was not. John smiled. Anyway, the whole despair thing was just because he was starving. An army marches on its stomach.
He decided to cross the street to get a bagel from a stall. His concentration was fading fast – maybe an after effect of the anaesthetic, he thought vaguely – and was almost run over by a cab. He jumped back, and the driver honked madly, swearing and shouting at him. "OK, got it!" John yelled. "Sorry. No need to freak out." His heart was racing and he realised that he had to calm down and try to concentrate. Panic was getting him nowhere. "Right," he muttered to himself, "somehow this is going to work out." He bought a bagel with smoked ham and cheese and bit heartily into it; God, food could be such a comfort, how could Sherlock reject it while on a case? Idiot. And what the hell was he on about glaziers and glass … the bagel was really good, one of those small mercies … munching busily, he looked up.
Jesus Christ.
He almost dropped the bagel. A bit of cheese fell from his mouth.
Glass. Tons of it. Reaching right up into the sky.
The Shard.
Seventy-two storeys high, rising three hundred meters to pierce the cloud belly with its slivers: this was as high as it gets. Meet me in the sky. If this was not the place, then nowhere in Europe was.
John hastily swallowed the clot of ham and cheese clogging his mouth, then dumped the bagel in a bin and hurried across the street.
The Shard. Of course! It had opened only last year in July, full of offices, flats and god-knows-what, all at insane prices. But more importantly, it had a viewing platform at the very top, amid the clouds. The perfect place to meet someone. In the sky.
John jogged along the pavement, yanking out his phone. He had no intention of calling Mycroft – but he needed help, most of all if Moriarty was indeed involved. He still didn't believe that the Consulting Criminal was alive, but if he was to save Sherlock – and be it from his own madness – he needed assistance. He needed someone they both trusted.
The call was answered immediately. John grinned: Lestrade had probably not expected to speak to a dead man.
"Greg? It's John – yeah, I'm alive-" his voice was drowned out by shouting and cursing from the other end of the line. He held the phone away from his ear, rolling his eyes. "Greg, shut up! Just – shut up! It wasn't my fault, it was Mycroft. And don't call him! Do you hear me?!"
There was a startled silence.
"Greg?" John slowed to a walking pace, panting already, ribs aching badly.
There was a hoarse cough. "Yeah, John. It's just a bit much, you know. Two resurrections in as many days. I've never believed in miracles, but I'm tempted to become religious now!"
"Haha," John snorted. "This miracle isn't finished yet. And if Sherlock's right, there's gonna be another resurrection. Hang on-"
"What?"
John stopped dead in his tracks, the Shard only a few meters away. A sign had caught his eyes: The Shangri-La Hotel. Somewhere damn high in the Shard. He gaped, his mind racing.
Shangri-La was a legendary valley, a kind of paradise, he was sure, it had been in a BBC radio play – and wasn't there some sort of a book, too? Never mind. Shangri-La was another word for paradise. But this meant that Sherlock assumed –
"John?" Greg sounded worried. "What's going on?"
John's heart suddenly pounded at double speed. "Greg. We need a bomb squad."
What followed was the longest, loudest and most colourful string of curses he had ever heard. He couldn't have agreed more fervently.