A/N: A thousand apologies for the late-ness of this chapter and a huge thank you to Lauren (AKA: Guesswhofoundyourfanfiction) for the help. You are endlessly sexy and amazing. West siiiide, bruv.
xxxxxx
In the buzz of activity and the writhing of doctors forcing their way forward with their intents set on John, Sherlock migrated backwards much against his own will. Hands guided him towards the hard plastic of the generic hospital chairs, words of encouragement were whispered –reassurances. None of it was registered. The thrum of movement like a blur to his eyes, Sherlock wrung his hands and twitched in his impatience. He wanted, no – needed to know the damage John had accumulated. That was his top priority, above all else. Just the mere knowing that John was injured clouded his thoughts and sent logic into disarray. He knew, distantly, that he should be on his mobile to Mycroft, whom had sent him a text regarding Moriarty's position (Mycroft stated he had agents who had tracked consulting criminal down to South America).
Hours wheedled by.
John Watson Senior was in Mycroft's custody being interrogated. Sherlock was almost pleased – he didn't want to overwhelm John when he was still recovering. There was still so much he had to tell him, including the explanation that he was free from Moriarty's power – but also the fact most of his colleagues were now, it would seem, imprisoned or in questioning. Mycroft planned to acquire the locations of Moriarty's organisations in order to take them out one by one – a plan he had all but embezzled off Sherlock. Not that Sherlock wouldn't be helping, oh no. As soon as John was well enough, Sherlock plotted to have them both straight off to America. That way, with John rightfully by his side, they could take down Moriarty, and Sherlock pondered – Wilf Hudson while they were at it. Now that would be the perfect case to take up as their first case together. One for John to write down in his diary where he would appropriately gush over Sherlock's deductions, as he always did. Sherlock smiled to himself. John always saw the good in him.
"Mr Holmes?"
Head jerking up, Sherlock regarded the nurse in front of him. "Yes?"
"Mr Watson is out of surgery now," The nurse explained, "You can come and sit with him if you'd like to follow me…?"
Sherlock leapt to his feet in an instant, his expression stern. The nurse turned, and Sherlock swiftly followed. They made their way towards the Burns Ward, weaving in and out of the mass of activity.
"How are his injuries?"
"The surgeons used skin grafts on his back." The nurse rattled off clinically, "It's too early to know if its taken or not, but there is no sign of infection. His head wound is healing nicely - it was a clean cut. All in all, he's likely to make a good recovery. Mr Watson is a lucky man."
Sherlock breathed out a sigh of relief, and after hours of pain-filled waiting, his heart began to beat normally; John was going to be OK.
The nurse led him up a single flight of stairs and towards the private wards. The clock on the wall read 1pm. Sherlock did the calculations in his head. The invasion on Liberty House was initiated at 6am, and had lasted a full three hours, meaning they had been residing in the hospital since nine. Four hours of waiting. And now, finally, he was to able see John again.
As the door was pointed out, Sherlock made his way inside John's room, before taking a step back in shock, his back colliding against the doorframe.
Oh, John.
The little army doctor looked so small, insignificant even - curled in on himself as he was and blanketed in layer after layer of flimsy covers. A thick bandage swathed John's skull, providing him with a white cap. His cheeks and neck were flushed, his wrist containing countless tubes, all foreboding with plastic attachments. Sherlock knew the worst of his wounds were away from sight, hidden from his eye. He was almost thankful. There was not a hope he would be able to see John as he had before and not loose himself to tears once more.
But what made all the difference to Sherlock was that for the first time, in his eyes… John seemed so vulnerable. Breakable. Fragile.
Ignoring the hollow sensation inside his chest, Sherlock took up the hospital chair by the soldier, and smothered John's hand with his own spindly digits. The sight allowed him something for his gaze to fall upon other than the drawn, pale face of his injured boyfriend. The juxtaposition of Sherlock's pale, elegant fingers against John's tanner, blunter ones was pleasing and familiar. For the shortest of moments, the sight of two identical rings displayed on their fingers flashed like lighting through his mind, before dispersing amongst the cacophony of auxiliary thoughts.
A hand smoothed over his shoulder. Comforting, almost. A warm weight. The voice was distantly recognisable.
"Mr Holmes? I'm afraid your brother needs to see you."
xxxxxx
It was three weeks before John could even consider removing himself from his bed. He complained furiously, of course he did; despite his medical training it would seem being beside Sherlock and companioning his boyfriend in the retrieval of Moriarty was put above his own health. Then again, Sherlock would continuously muse, in John's mind everything took precedence except his own well being. The man's heart was truly too big for his own good.
For the duration of those weeks, Sherlock didn't visit. This was against his will and was met with fiery temperament. Mycroft required Sherlock's "amour de la chasse" (love of the chase) as he would so fondly joke to aid him in tracking down the fleeing criminal Moriarty and bringing him to justice.
It was only within the deep recesses of Mycroft's mind would he admit the depth of admiration he so sorely kept for the detective and his work. Mycroft would never did inform his little brother of that compulsion, nor did he ever plan to. As Mycroft was so frequently reminded – Sherlock's ego was stroked enough without him adding his praises. But Sherlock worked on, regardless of whether or not Mycroft's approval extended his way; blind, in fact, to any emotion his brother would fleetingly show. He cared only for the hunt, the chase, the facts, and then the thought of being reunited with John once his work was done.
John, his dull hours broken by hospital meals and infrequent calls from Harry, spent most of his time supplying text after text to Sherlock's mobile, not always expecting answers and savouring those that filtered through.
1:33am, [I'm bored. The hospital is quiet at night. Especially when you're not here. –JW]
1:34am, [But then any room with you in is really hard to mistake for an empty room. –JW]
1:35am, [I miss you. –JW]
2:01am, [I've been thinking. -JW]
2:01am, [You, chasing after another man day and night. I should be jealous. –JW]
2:02am, [You really shouldn't. –SH]
2:02am, [Hello! I was joking, you big dope. I didn't expect you to text back. –JW]
2:04am, [I happen to have some time off. You'd love South America. I'll have to bring you here when you are well. –SH]
2:05am, [What, so you can see me with my top off? –JW]
2:05am, [Oh, undoubtedly. –SH]
Small moments of digital banter between them left John glowing for hours after, a grin fixated on his worn features, eyes bright with adoration and delight. It was the little things, he told himself.
The skin of John's back was healing nicely, or so the doctor's informed him. His nurses were lovely, treating him like a human being and responding with vigour when he questioned them. Sherlock held the opinion John was constantly unleashing his so called, "deadly charm" upon them, and that John should cease his niceties before he had to fly back and fight off the lustful nurses in their droves with the sharpest object to hand. John had laughed at that one. Sherlock hadn't been joking.
10:56pm, [John, are you awake? –SH]
10:56pm, [No. –JW]
10:58pm, [Once again, your wit astounds me. –SH]
10:59pm, [Ha. Thank you, love. How are you? –JW]
11:02pm, [Bored. We traced Moriarty to an isolation unit in Moscow but it was a false lead. Again. –SH]
11:02pm, [He's a sneaky bastard; you have to give him that. So you're what – a four hour flight away? – JW]
11:03pm, [Approximately. –SH]
11:06pm, [Ha, this is the closest you've been to me since you left. When will you back in London? I miss you. –JW]
11:07pm, [1559 miles is hardly considered close, John. –SH]
11:07pm, [How's this: please come back so I can punch you in the face. –JW]
11:09pm, [What a lovely incentive. –SH]
11:10pm, [Come back, and I'll make it one. –JW]
11:10pm, [I miss you too, by the way. Most ardently. –SH]
11:11pm, [I've got to sleep; the nurses are badgering me. I'll text you in the morning. I love you. And stay safe. –JW]
11:14pm, [I will. Good night, my love. –SH]
Sherlock, on the other hand was thoroughly enjoying himself. Finally, he was having the chance to do what he did best in new and thrilling countries; he could express his thirst for knowledge in the language of others and traverse the mounds of information he could ingest from the natives. His brain was alight and buzzing and firing on all cylinders.
Finding Moriarty was not going to be easy – that much Sherlock knew undoubtedly. But there did lie the challenge. Moriarty was smart, devilishly so, but Sherlock and his team were constantly one step ahead. Moriarty was using the alias, "Richard Brook" to elude his pursuers, but the Irishman had the fatal flaw of being overconfident. His overconfidence being he relied on the fact he believed Sherlock to be slower than him; to falter and to stumble. His trail was sloppy, not that Sherlock was objecting. Although, it had to be said that he was hoping for a more challenging chase. But still, the sooner Moriarty was captured, the sooner John would be safe. And what an incentive that was.
Mycroft visited John on a regular basis, often to bring him baked goods, but more often than not just to chat animatedly. The elder Holmes was different, John noted, away from the stress of his work. With the trap closing on Moriarty, Mycroft had the indulgence of relaxing, just slightly. And John, he found, was good company. They often conversed for hours, Mycroft aside John's bed, umbrella hooked punctiliously in the crease of his elbow. Sometimes Sherlock would pop up as a subject of interest, some times not. They discussed their joint admiration for the bakery shop two roads from Baker Street, the news, books, and in true British etiquette – the weather. There was many a subject that was left untouched; John's time with Moriarty, his father, his "betrayal" of Sherlock. But Mycroft found himself avoiding them purely out of a sense of friendship; he had no intention of upsetting John whilst he was in so fragile a state. Sometimes, when Mycroft was in one of his lighter moods, tales of his and Sherlock's childhood would arise and John would spend the next hour or bent double, his eyes creased with delight as Mycroft recalled the times when a toddler Sherlock would smear himself in mash potato. John had later received photo evidence of the event.
One night, two months after the storm on Liberty House and many hours after Mycroft had left John to sleep with a gallant farewell, John was up late, enraptured in a book when an obscured text alert sounded from under his pillow. Drawing out his phone, he held it up and opened the text.
His grin was enough to light up cities.
1:43am, [I'm coming home, John. -SH]
xxxxxx
"OK, you've got questions."
John grinned delightedly, "Yeah, where are we going?"
"The Diogenes. Next."
"Is Mycroft is hunting Moriarty now?"
Sherlock almost surcame to laughter at such a notion, "Mycroft isn't, John, some of his agents are. To think that Mycroft would ever leave the comfort of his own armchair to track down a criminal in South America is frankly absurd."
John attempted a scowl, but a smile played around the corners of his mouth, "You know what I meant."
The government car they sat amid hit a pothole and John was thrown forward slightly. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as his tender back came into contact with a bump in the leather seat and growled, frustrated. Sherlock frowned in annoyance. Knowing John was in pain when he could do nothing was truly aggravating him.
Sherlock looked… different. Older somehow, despite only being away for just over a month. He looked tired, deeply so; his eyes a tad wiser. Skinnier, if that were possible. Worn down.
To distract himself, John continued his questioning. "Did Moran get away?"
Sherlock's heart lurched like a caged bird around his ribcage. He found himself avoiding John's eye. "No."
"Oh." John looked taken aback, his eyes shooting open. "Is he with Mycroft then?"
Again, Sherlock's heart gave a painful squeeze. "No, he… " Was there tactful way to go about this? "He was shot."
John froze, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Slowly, he inched his head to the side. All the colour had drained from his face. He looked horrified. "What? By who?"
The ragged breathing emitting from between John's lips was the only sound. Sherlock continued to chew dejectedly at the side of his mouth, rolling the answer around on his tongue. Well. Best get it over with.
"Your father."
Heavy silence.
The sleek government car pulled up parallel to a large, grand building that almost seemed to lean out over the pavement. Sherlock hauled himself out then turned to offer his hand to the stunned John, and helping him out also. The blond hissed and breathed through the pain, before straightening. He seemed almost lost in his mind, playing their conversation over and over as if it would have a different outcome if he continued to do so, face empty of emotion.
Sherlock waved off the driver, before retaking John's hand and leading him inside the Diogenes Club. John continued to say nothing, his eyes glazed and distant.
A smartly-dressed servant, whom recognised Sherlock in an instant almost fell over his feet to bow respectively, gestured them to follow him through the winding corridors. It would seem they were expected. As the trio approached a heavy, ornate oak door, the servant rushed ahead to hold it open to the couple, whom swept past. John had the mind to give the servant a small smile of thanks. He'd already clocked the several 'NO TALKING' signs that hung with forbiddance sparsely along the walls and so held his tongue.
The room revealed was as a plush, Victorian affair. Several armchairs were situated artfully around, a coffee table the centre of their correlation. Demure, decorous curtains dressed the wall length windows, shielding light from the dim zone, and lamps littered the room, lit listlessly. A rug, extravagant and royal red yielded gently under their footsteps as they entered.
Mycroft sat as if he was a monarch addressing his subjects. His elbows were placed on the arms of the chair, fingers interlaced in front of him. His expression was stern, but not overtly so. His eyes followed the pair as they advanced.
With a voice like liquid silk, the elder Holmes crooned, "Do sit down." Smugness practically radiated from him in waves.
"I thought we couldn't talk-?" John began, taking his place in an armchair woven with intricate designs.
"This is a private room, Mr Watson, where we may do as we please." Mycroft's smile grew as he spoke, as if the sound of his own voice pleased him greatly. "I must ask, do your nurses know you are out of your bed so soon?"
John's eyes flickered up and back to Sherlock, whom was lingering erratically behind John's armchair, eyebrows drawn in apparent confusion where he appeared to be picking dejectedly at a loose thread.
"I discharged myself," John explained. He raised a hand and tugged gently at one of Sherlock's, which rested on the back of his chair. The ivory digits twitched vigorously at the contact before pulling away. Sherlock's face was set in confused concentration, or as John had named it, 'the Deduction face'. Knowing better than to derail the train of thought Sherlock was working his way down, John lowered his hand.
Meanwhile, Mycroft gave a slow nod. "I see. "
"Cut to the chase, Mycroft," Sherlock bit suddenly, with all the withering tone of someone whom has long suffered. "You called us here to discuss something of importance."
"I called you here," Mycroft corrected, "and your arrival came six hours late. The traffic wasn't that bad, surely?"
"I was waiting for John," Sherlock replied. His grey irises flitted restlessly towards the sandy top of John's head and back.
Mycroft gave a quick, wry half-smile. His brother's infatuation for the little army doctor was amusing to say the least. "Of course."
Long, slender arms like vines slid and encircled John's shoulders, and a warm face was pressed and nuzzled into the back of his head. Sherlock's voice was muffed now as he spoke, John's hair invading his mouth.
"I take it you have news on Moriarty, brother."
Leading to the side, Mycroft unlocked his iPhone from where it lay on an adjourning table. He read from the screen, face illuminated in the pale light.
" 'We have Moriarty imprisoned and within our power. ETA four hours.' " He ran a thumb along the screen, almost thoughtfully. "It would seem since you returned, our illusive criminal's reign is finally at an end. We have the full cooperation of the European and American Governments in bringing Mr Moriarty's association with terrorist groups to a halt, and we have gleaned the locations of over two hundred of his recruitment camps from our captured assemblage."
Before Mycroft could continue his narration, John cut in swiftly.
"And, my dad?" He queried.
"In safe hands," John didn't miss the quirked eyebrow sent in Sherlock's direction.
"I've told him," Sherlock breathed, answering an unsaid question. Suddenly, John was hit with the paranoia that Sherlock's position meant his face was purposefully unseen to John's eye.
"Told me what, exactly?"
The answer followed hastily, "That your father-" An ample pause. "-shot Moran."
John's face crumpled once more, a cringe barely concealed. It just wasn't sinking in, no matter how many times it was repeated; Moran couldn't be dead. It was not possible, surely? But the sincerity of Sherlock's voice…
"I should remind you that your father's safety resolves your debt with Moriarty; you are free from his power." Mycroft's tact was outstanding, changing the subject as he watched John's expression cloud. He could have smiled outright at the expressive switch in John's features at this: his eyes brightened and his chin lifted.
"You mean I don't have to work for him anymore?"
"You are free to do whatever it is you see fit." came Mycroft's haughty reply, one that sent the arms surrounding John's shoulders in a protective gesture to tighten momentarily. It was only by sheer force of will that John refrained from an implication that what he would be doing was, in fact, Mycroft's brother before laughing at his own wit.
"Now. If you'll excuse me for a moment," Mycroft began to rise from his armchair – struggling slightly to heave himself from the furnishing, "I arranged for a celebratory tea to be sent here and it would appear the kitchen staff have forgotten."
"God forbid your cakes be left unserved," Sherlock snorted, a blast of breath cascading along the length of John's neck. They both shivered with suppressed laughter, much to Mycroft's annoyance. With a final glance behind him, he sauntered across the Victorian rug and made his way out of the room.
It was only once he had left did the iPhone situated on the table give a meagre ping.
In a flash, Sherlock was before John, the iPhone within his grasp, tapping furiously as he typed out the password. It was simple enough; Mycroft's fingertips had left a faint residue about the screen; it was only a matter of putting those numbers in order. Their mother's birth date, tut tut. How obvious and cringingly sentimental.
"Are you seriously about to read your brother's texts?" John snickered, watching the brunette in amusement. Sherlock gave him a jerk of his lips in reply before, with a flourish, opening the text.
[Moriarty uncaptured; man imprisoned is a fake. He never left London. –A], it read.
Before Sherlock could even turn to John in his shock, the lights of the Diogenes were suddenly shut off, and the room was plunged into darkness.
Through the unlit obscurity, a single voice crooned lyrically.
"Sorry boys! I'm sooooo changeable!"