As ever: thank you.
Q
John could have kissed Mycroft's feet for putting them into the poshest room available – it also happened to be farthest away from the entrance of the ward. A few precious minutes to flee, he thought, grabbing a wheelchair. Sherlock would need it.
"Sherlock!" he hissed as he burst through the glass doors. "Sherlock, there's –" He stopped dead. "What are you doing?!"
"John," Sherlock snapped, "this is hardly the time for scolding. Help me." He looked up from his attempts to cut the threads of the suture holding the chest tube in place. He was sitting on the side of the bed, legs dangling, stark naked.
"Jesus," John gasped but rushed to his side. "There's an evacuation going on. Police just came in – only, they didn't look like police."
"I know," Sherlock replied. "Moriarty. Bomb threat. Perfect excuse to send in men in uniforms taking hostages instead of evacuating people."
"How did you – never mind." John frantically looked around. "There are no gloves!"
"Do it without."
"Shit," John, cursed, and added a few more choice words while he hurriedly prepared tape and gauze; he cut the threads and steadied the tube. "God, if you're going to get an infection because I didn't wear gloves –"
"I won't," Sherlock snapped.
"Deep breath, and hold it," John instructed, then pulled out the tube and slapped the bandage over it as fast as lightning. "Done. Now, the wheelchair." He jumped up, pushed it in front of the bed and put the brakes on. Sherlock was edging forward on the mattress, tentatively feeling the floor with his feet.
"Okay," John hurried back to his side. "We'll wrap you in the sheet. Now, put your arms around my neck."
"The Foley," Sherlock hissed.
"No time," John huffed. "Now, arms around my neck, and up!"
Sherlock puffed out an angry breath, but wrapped one arm around John's shoulders. With the other, he dragged the sheet with him, throwing it onto the wheelchair. John placed him as gently as possible in the chair, wincing as his back punished him with a stabbing pain. He stiffened for a second, breathless, and noticed with growing concern that Sherlock was trembling from pain – he had buried his head on John's shoulder, humming in a low voice, eyes squeezed shut.
"You okay?" John whispered.
"Mhm," came the muffled reply.
"Sorry." John pulled the sheet up and wrapped him into it as best he could. Alarmed, he noticed that Sherlock's eyes were rolling back in his head. "Keep breathing, Sherlock," he commanded, tapping him on the cheeks.
"M'fine," Sherlock mumbled. "John, the Foley," he complained, tugging at the line leading to the bed.
"Oh, sod it," John hissed and yanked the urine bag off the bad, dumping it in Sherlock's lap. He quickly bundled the woollen blanket over Sherlock's legs and tucked it in on all sides. "Ready?"
"Need that," Sherlock pointed to a pillow case on the bed, filled with unidentifiable stuff.
"What's that? Never mind," John shoved the bundle at him. "Okay." He went to his knees and fetched Sherlock's phone from where it had fallen under the bed. "We have to call Mycroft. My phone's dead."
"Useless," Sherlock drawled. "Moriarty will have blocked all communication. New toy from the Americans."
"Oh, bloody f…" John trailed off in an indistinguishable curse. "Never mind. Let's go."
"John."
John froze. Then heard it, too. "Oh HELL!"
Someone was approaching the doors – and it was not the quiet treading of rubber soles.
"John, over there," Sherlock hissed, and John pushed the wheelchair into the corner next to the door, yanking the infusion stack with him. Sherlock grabbed it and held on to it, breathing heavily.
John placed himself opposite, on the other side of the doors.
A bulky silhouette appeared, then the glass doors were pushed open; Sherlock let out an impressive roar and knocked over the infusion stack, right into the intruder. The man, clad in police uniform, gave a surprised shout, and before he knew what was happening, John had jumped him from behind, doing his best to strangle him with a tube. A wild scuffle ensued; it ended abruptly when the man yelled, stiffened, and sank to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
"What the …?" John let go, confused.
"Sedative, John," Sherlock brandished a syringe. "Plenty of it in the medication trolley."
"Jesus," John wheezed, "you're pretty lethal, even in a wheelchair."
"Learned a few tricks," Sherlock smirked and gathered up the blanket. "Out, now!"
John picked up the man's gun and shoved it behind his back, then grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and dashed out into the corridor. Thankfully, no one noticed them – the men were busy searching the rooms, and the guards holding the staff hostage had their heads turned away.
"Freight elevator," Sherlock declared.
"Guess where I'm going," John hissed, flitting down the corridor. "Thank God," he gave a sigh of relief when they found the broad elevator doors unguarded. John lunged for the buttons, stabbing at them repeatedly. "Come on," he mumbled, biting his lips.
Sherlock sighed. "John, it's not going to move faster –"
"Shut up!"
The doors slid open and John pushed Sherlock through so fast that the wheels scratched along the doors. He hit the buttons to take them down, then made a u-turn to face the doors again. He could look down the entire length of the corridor, all the way to the opaque entrance doors of the ICU. The guards still kept their heads turned away, but as long as the elevator wasn't moving, they were trapped in a fishbowl: there was nowhere to run. John squeezed past Sherlock and, taking out the gun, he positioned himself protectively in front of him.
"John," Sherlock protested.
"Sherlock, just shut it!" John hissed back.
The elevator doors were finally moving, agonizingly slow.
Sherlock huffed. "Are you aware that this is the third time you have told me to shut up withinng–ngh!" He was cut off abruptly by a firm hand over his mouth.
"I've wanted to do that for ages," John growled into Sherlock's ear. "It's one of the things I regretted never having done when you were alive. I made a promise at your grave to catch up on all of that if you ever came back – this is number one on my list! And don't you dare biting me!" He let go of Sherlock, who eyed him dubiously from his sitting position.
But instead of the stream of insults he expected, Sherlock withdrew his hand from the bundle in his lap, holding out an empty syringe. John blinked at him uncomprehendingly.
"The Foley, John!"
"You gotta be kidding," John deadpanned.
"John," Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "We have about twenty seconds until the elevator reaches the ground level. Sufficient time. If you do not remove the Foley catheter, I shall do it myself –"
"OK!" John exclaimed, yanking the syringe from his fingers. "Oh God," he groaned as he knelt down between Sherlock's knees, shoving the sheet out of the way. He quickly connected the syringe to the port and began withdrawing the water from the balloon while Sherlock took off the strap on his leg. Suddenly, John chuckled. "You do know what this looks like, right? If the doors of that elevator open … you naked, me, between your legs."
Sherlock smirked and handed him some gauze. "It means you should not play spin the bottle this year at the Yard's Christmas party."
"Oh God, for ff…sssake!" John hissed, realisation hitting him. "Great," he growled, "thank you. This year I can definitely NOT solemnly swear I've never touched Sherlock's cock. Brilliant," he muttered while pulling out the catheter and disposing of it in the corner of the elevator. "And what now?" he asked, bundling Sherlock up in sheet and blanket. "Now we run," Sherlock announced.
The elevator doors slid open. They were on the ground floor, somewhere close to the delivery area for the canteen kitchen. The air was crackling with panic, and a wall of noise hit them – people shouting, sirens wailing, engines howling.
"They'll know by now we've escaped," Sherlock said, "we can't join the crowd. Streets are too narrow, we'd be trapped." He nodded at the stream of people heading for the exits on Tooley Street where most of the police and undoubtedly Moriarty's men were.
"Riverside, then," John declared and swung the wheelchair around. They avoided several policemen trying to channel the masses of people and generally fighting the panic threatening to break out among the patients.
"Have you got your phone?" John panted while running towards the exit, trying hard not to bump into people. "Sorry," he wheezed, grazing a nurse's toes, incurring a torrent of curses.
"No signal, as expected," Sherlock said and slipped the mobile back under his sheet.
"Damnit," John hissed as they emerged under the white pillars facing the Thames. He was greeted by a gust of cold wind carrying moist river smell and a faint drizzle; here, people were streaming along the Thames as well, heading for the pier or further on towards Tower Bridge. John groaned: great, so much for their plan to slip away – and being out in that clammy weather was the last thing Sherlock needed, recovering from pneumonia and wearing nothing but a sheet. Nevertheless, they joined the throng, moving sluggishly down the walkway.
"Sherlock, we should – what's wrong?!" he screamed, panic rising. Sherlock had suddenly dropped his head to his chest, collapsing in the chair. John grabbed him by the shoulder. "Sherlock, speak to me! What's wrong?"
"Nothing, John," Sherlock drawled, "I'm in a coma, remember?"
"What?" John frowned, but resumed pushing the wheelchair.
"Look discreetly ahead, men with guns, not the police. Do you see them?"
"Shit," John hissed, "yeah. What now?"
"You're conveniently dressed in scrubs, I'm a patient. Maybe they don't recognize us. Try to avoid a shoot-out in this crowd, will you?"
"Not keen on it," John growled and sped up a bit, trying to get as far away from the false policemen lining the embankment as possible. They managed to dodge the first few, but when they reached the pavillion next to the pier, they were stuck. Too many people clustered, unwilling to go any further, not realising what was going on and clogging up the area. John didn't want to think about what would happen if panic broke out now.
"Sherlock, we're stuck," John bit out between gritted teeth.
"Yes. Keep moving."
"I'd love to, but we're stuck in a crowd, remember?" John fought to keep the panic from his voice. The slow moving throng left them no room to change their route – John tried to get people to make way by shouting at them in his best military voice. "Please move on! Make room, please, we need to get through! I'm a doctor with a patient, let me through!" It was useless: most people were too focused on themselves, others simply didn't listen, and the rest was just as stuck as they were.
"Damnit," John hissed, "they've seen us."
"Where?" Sherlock asked, head still lolling, faking unconsciousness.
"Right ahead, two thugs coming straight at us, shit!"
"Let them. Keep up the pretense. Don't pull your gun."
"I don't intend to," John grated, "last thing we need is a panic. By the way, coma patients don't talk, Sherlock."
He was greeted with a world-weary sigh. "Get us as close to the river as possible."
"The railing of the pavilion is right in front of us, Sherlock. Any closer and we're taking a dive in the Thames."
"Hardly." Sherlock lifted his head ever so slightly. "I'm in a wheelchair and you're too short. Neither of us is going to topple over the railing."
"Then we'll bump our knees, Mr smart-arse," John snarled. "I hope you have a plan. And here we go," he muttered, changing his expression into a relieved mask. "Sir! Oh thank God for coming over, we need help here, we're stuck! I was trying to get my patient to one of the buses but we were lost in the crowd. I'd be so grateful if you could – hey!"
The hulking man in front of him grabbed Sherlock's hair, yanking his head up.
"What are you doing?!" John yelled. "This is police violence! Help!"
A second man, tall and wiry, appeared next to him, pressing the muzzle of a gun into his side. "Shut up, Dr Watson." He nodded at his companion, "What's with him?"
"Vegetable," the man chuckled, giving Sherlock's head another tug, and Sherlock, mouth hanging open, let his eyes roll back quite impressively.
"Holy shit," the other man shuddered. "So much for genius."
The genius, however, came to life in a flash, kneeing his opponent in the balls with stunning force; the man doubled over instantly, a gasp escaping his mouth, knocked out cold. John wasted no time tackling his own opponent: he twisted away from the gun, punching the man square in the face and clamped his fingers around the hand holding the gun. A fierce struggle for the weapon ensued, the gun firing into the air; people around them screamed and started pushing forward, desperately trying to get away from the fight, triggering the dreaded panic reaction.
John was still busy subduing his opponent, when Sherlock rammed a pair of scissors into the man's thigh, making him roar with pain. John punched him hard, but the man was still staggering, refusing to give up. Sherlock moved the wheelchair forward, pushing into him; he got up as far as he could and slammed his fist into the man's ribcage. John used the distraction and bore down on his opponent with all his strength; they crashed into the railing, and with combined forces they managed to topple him over it. A loud splash was followed by shouting and thrashing.
"Told you," Sherlock wheezed, collapsing to the ground, "it's not easy to topple over the railing." He groaned and doubled over, trembling from pain and exhaustion.
Cursing under his breath, John gathered him up and heaved him back into the wheelchair. "Stay awake, Sherlock, please," he muttered, dragging the blanket over him.
"I am awake, John," Sherlock rasped, "more than I care to be," he hissed, desperately trying to stifle a groan and failing miserably.
"Just hold on," John huffed and broke into a run, skillfully manoeuvring the wheelchair through the masses of fleeing people. "At least they're moving now," John muttered. "We need to get out of here before the crowd tramples us!"
Sherlock just wheezed.
Towards Tower Bridge, the crowds thinned and John slowed down to a rhythmic trot. "Try the phone again, will you?" he huffed. "And why the hell is there no public phone booth? Oh, sod it!" He jogged along, eyes darting to all sides, looking out for more of Moriarty's men.
"Phone's not working," Sherlock muttered, shoving it back into the pillow case.
"What have you got in that bundle, anyway?" John asked curiously. "Any more useful stuff? Knifes, guns, grenades?"
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock chided. "They don't keep weapons in a hospital room."
"Didn't stop you from turning a syringe and a pair of scissors into pretty deadly instruments," John chuckled.
"True," Sherlock smiled, pressing a hand against his ribs.
"Do you think you've torn anything?" John asked quietly.
"No," Sherlock ground out. "Just general pain."
They were approaching the City Hall now, with Tower Bridge looming ahead; at the Scoop, London's odd amphitheater, the throng finally dissolved, as people spread out into the wide area surrounding the dent in the ground and the egg-shaped glass construction of the City Hall.
"Alright, let's take a break here," John slowed down, huffing out a long breath. "Someone must be able to help us. We need to get–"
"I've got a signal," Sherlock interrupted him, holding out the phone.
"Jesus! Yes!" John snatched the mobile from his fingers. "I'll call Mycroft. Jesus …" he muttered, stabbing furiously at the phone. "Shit. Sherlock," he frowned, "I can't find your brother's number, neither under M nor H–" he looked up in horror. "You know it by heart, right?"
Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. "I delete useless information, you know that, John."
"Sherlock!" John hollered, "This is not funny! We're in a bloody awful situation–"
"Try the letter Q," Sherlock sighed.
"Q?" John skipped through the alphabet, dumbfounded. "There's only one entry – haha, very funny, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes and hit the dial button. "If this is a joke, I'll strangle you."
Sherlock just closed his eyes, a sunny smile on his too pale face.
"Right. It's ringing. Huh." John cleared his throat, straightening imperceptibly. Sherlock squinted up at him, smirking. John gave him a stern look. "Sherlock, if I'm rousting the Queen from her bed thanks to you – hang on," he broke off, staring at the phone. "The line's gone dead." Cursing under his breath, he dialled again. "Damnit!" He tried several more times, randomly dialling everyone he knew. "I don't understand," he said, perplexed. "Every time I have a connection, it gets interrupted. Maybe we should try it further away, though the signal's not really the problem."
Sherlock just pulled the blanket up to his chest, huddling under it. He was still smiling to himself, seemingly untroubled, but John noticed how frail he looked; it hit him that they were out in the cold, the chill seeping into his bones despite all the running, and the persistent drizzle threatened to turn into a proper London downpour any minute now. Sherlock in his sheet was inviting death. John didn't even have a jacket to drape around him, being clad only in scrubs over a long-sleeved shirt.
"Okay, we'll move up to the street, stop the next passer-by, force them to call Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, anyone, even Harry, I don't care – or better, we stop a car and get them to take us to the nearest hospital – no, bad idea, will be full of evacuees – the Yard, then. That's better. Sounds like a plan," John hummed and started running, pushing the wheelchair around the Scoop at a breakneck speed.
"John," Sherlock protested.
"No," John huffed, "we need to get you warm. Priority!"
"John!" Sherlock shouted.
"There are people over there, see?" John wheezed, "We'll ask them!"
"John, listen!"
"Nope, need help," John panted, giving an extra vigorous push, just before he crashed full speed into the suddenly static wheelchair: exclaiming in surprise, he toppled head first over Sherlock's shoulder. The handle dug painfully into his stomach but he was still driven by his own momentum, landing face down in Sherlock's lap, wheezing and desperately clawing at the chair to get his balance back.
A firm hand grabbed him by the shoulder, steadying him. "John," Sherlock demanded, "listen."
"Damnit, Sherlock!" Spluttering, John scrambled back to his feet. "You put the bloody brakes on! Are you trying to kill me?"
"You weren't listening, John."
"What? You mad – oh, sod it," wincing, he rubbed his bruised stomach.
"John, we need to go to Potters Fields."
"Huh?" John stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"Potters Fields. Do you need me to spell it?" Sherlock looked at him with raised brows, mouth pinched.
"I heard you," John snapped. "Why the hell do you want to go there?"
"It's just around the corner. Get going, John!" Sherlock snapped.
"I bloody know where it is, Sherlock! Plus, I know what it is: a wind-swept patch of grass next to Tower Bridge and sodding cold – no way am I taking you there!"
"John, please, it's important." Sherlock tilted his face up to him, looking all pale and vulnerable.
"Don't try that look on me," John growled, "I know what you're doing."
Sherlock sighed deeply. "Mycroft will pick us up. Leave the phone on, he'll follow the signal."
"If he follows the signal, he can do so while we are in a nice warm car on our way to the Yard," John declared, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair and pushing it forward.
Sherlock slammed the brakes on again.
John hissed in anger. "Release the brakes," he demanded quietly, his voice threatening.
"I'll walk if you don't take me there," Sherlock stated just as quietly.
"As if you could," John spat.
They remained silent for a long moment, locked in a stubborn struggle.
Finally, Sherlock sighed, and he sounded utterly exhausted. "Trust me, John." His lips were almost blue and trembling from the cold, John noted, and he was clenching his hands in his lap to keep them steady. "Please, will you do this for me?"
John walked around the chair, stopping in front of it. He straightened his back and crossed his arms. "You have nerves, asking me that," he growled in a low voice, barely above a whisper. "You know what happened the last time you said those exact words."
"Yes, I stepped off a building. And you know why I did it," Sherlock responded, clamping his mouth shut to stop his teeth from chattering.
"That doesn't undo the damage, Sherlock," John replied, steely composure written all over him. "I've read your diary. I know you better than ever. I understand. But it doesn't make the anger go away, or the pain."
Sherlock stared at him intently, eyes flickering, taking in every emotion mirrored on his face. "Yes," he finally said, "I see." A muscle twitched in his cheek. "Is there anything I can do to make it better?"
John nodded. "Yes. Stop shutting me out. That's what led to this whole disaster."
"I'm not shutting you out," Sherlock grated.
"Yes, you are. You shut me out before the fall, and you did it again after your return. You don't ask me whether I want your protection or not – just like your brother, by the way. It drives you mad when Mycroft interferes, but you're doing the same thing to me. You don't give me a chance to decide whether I want to go along with your plans or not. You just storm ahead."
Sherlock scoffed, "It's hardly my fault if you are too slow to follow my train of thought. I did explain to you. Have you any idea how tedious that is? And I wrote that diary to let you in, John. That was its sole purpose," he spat, annoyance written all over him.
"Right." John felt a sudden burning pain in his chest, the same kind of hurt that had haunted him ever since Sherlock's return. They were back to scratch. "Sometimes you bothered to explain. But not always. Not now. You're not telling me why you want to go to Potters Fields."
Sherlock closed his eyes. "Mycroft will pick us up. The phone signal, John. Do keep up!"
John wanted to shout at him for his impertinence, wanted to yell do you take me for a complete fool? but suddenly he noticed that Sherlock's fingers were twitching and pointing at him, giving him some kind of signal.
John stared blankly at Sherlock, his mind racing. "Okay, sorry. Uhm, I'm just exhausted and … freaked out. Forgot you told me. Hey," he stepped closer, "peace, okay? Friends, right?" Bending down, he said, "Come here."
Sherlock stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights. "John, what are you – don't force me – I-"
"It's a hug, you clot!" John scoffed, and it certainly was, but probably the world's most awkward one. John wrapped his arms around Sherlocks stiff shoulders and brought his mouth next to his ear, whispering, "I trust you."
Sherlock exhaled a deep sigh of relief. "Thank you."
"Right." John released Sherlock and straightened into his military stance. "Potters Fields. Let's go."