A/N: Warning for violence.
John was ducking even as his elbow connected with the stomach of the man behind him, slipping from a loosening grasp. Fingers tightened convulsively on his jacket but he pulled hard, dodging, only to grunt when someone else slammed into him. He connected with a wall, head ringing, shoulders hunching instinctively to protect his face, to get into whatever space he could as he swung his left fist, hitting just below the ribs. A hot gust of air hit his skin with a startled gasp and he took the opening to get free but it hadn't been enough and a shoulder drove into his chest, forcing him against the wall again, one side of his face pressed against the uneven mortar, the sound of scrambling footsteps as the first man joined them. A word he didn't recognize, his mind informing him uselessly that it wasn't English.
"I haven't got any money," John managed, the scrape of jagged brick against his lips to his right, a gloved hand holding his jaw to his left.
"We don't want your bloody money," someone spat – the first man because the voice wasn't close enough, he couldn't feel it against his skin.
"We only want to talk," the second man added.
"Just come around for a chat?" John asked, knowing it was stupid.
The grip on his face tightened, knocking his head against the cold masonry once, sharply, almost perfunctorily. He hummed, or his head did, and his knees gave way.
The blurred feeling resolved itself into cold and the pinprick of a few distant stars overhead. He tried to move his legs but felt sluggish, heavy, cajoling his brain into working – he didn't think he'd lost consciousness. If he had, it hadn't been for very long. The knock had been hard but not hard enough; he wanted to reach up and feel his skull, to check if the sticky sensation was blood or just the haze of a mild concussion.
"We coulda done a lot worse," a voice told him. John tried to focus – the second voice. The one who'd done the hitting.
"Yeah," he agreed. He'd felt that in the hands that had held him. Guessed it from the way the man hadn't gone straight down from a punch to the diaphragm.
"You gonna sit still and not be stupid?"
What would Sherlock do? John asked himself and started to snicker, swallowing it hard with a wave of panicked euphoria. Sitting still and not being stupid was not Sherlock's forte.
But focus. He could focus. There'd been two of them – no, two that he'd fought. John listened in the darkness, trying to get his eyes to adjust. Very little light coming through so they had to be away from the street but they were outside because it was cold and the ground and wall against him was hard and frozen. It smelled of rubbish – an alley.
Christ. He'd been almost in sight of the flat. Almost home.
He was probably still almost home.
He felt a wave of regret that Sherlock had cornered Mycroft into eliminating the security years ago. They weren't watched anymore. Most of the time, John appreciated it. Right now, legs numb, head ringing, he didn't. He wanted torchlight at the end of the alley, shouts, the sound of footsteps scattering, someone helping him up, taking him home. He couldn't bandage himself but Sherlock could and there would be tea and Mrs. Hudson would fuss and bring him something hot and heavy to eat and–
Concentrate, John, he told himself, listening to the pattern of breathing in the darkness. Just the two of them, and himself. He could take them, if only he could see better, if he could plan, if he was sure his legs would respond in time.
Absurdly, he realized he still had his wallet and his phone. He could just call Sherlock. He wasn't aware he'd been moving but there was a smooth pressure on his chin suddenly, gloved hand forcing his head back, searing the raw patch on his skull to the wall.
"Bloody tan," the voice hissed.
Something clicked, something in the voice, in the word. A faint Irish accent. Black and Tans.
He almost laughed, swallowing on it hard, focusing on the pain to quell the absurd humour. Less than an hour ago, Morgan had been regretting too many choices for who had put Riley in the hospital.
Oh god, John thought dully.
"What d'you want from Riley?"
You, John thought, a frown drawing his brows together, making his head ache. I wanted to find you. Oh well done, John.
"Nothing," he managed. His tongue felt thick, clumsy, so he swallowed. It helped a bit but did nothing for the way the world wouldn't stop spinning gently. If he could just focus a little bit more – stupid, he told himself. Don't fixate. "I'm a doctor."
There was a faint echo of laughter, two overlapping tones, edged with raw humour.
"Time was, he'd have blown you to bits. Better times, those."
John said nothing, concentrating on breathing over the pain in his head where the wound was grinding against dirty brick, droplets of blood prickling as they trailed down his neck, behind his ear.
"What do you know?"
John pursed his lips, keeping his silence, listening to the patterned breathing in the darkness. The grip on his jaw tightened, pulled him forward and slammed him against the wall again, just enough give on impact to let a whimper escape his lips. He felt the world spin and dip and there was a flash of heat beneath the cold, spreading outward from his skull.
"What do you know?"
He shook his head – or tried to – ignoring the bright stars that flared behind his eyelids. He was released abruptly, gasping at the sudden loss of pressure, the air driven back out of him immediately with a hard foot to the stomach. John doubled over but there was a blow to his side and another, the pain a crack that ran along his ribs, stabbing his lungs.
"Let up!" That was the first voice, closer now, the sound of shoes on the hard ground. "He can't bloody talk like that."
"You gonna talk?" the second voice asked, vice-like grip back on John's jaw, hauling him back when he wanted to curl forward, forcing the screaming muscles in his abdomen to extend despite the pain.
"Don't know anything," he managed. There was a hand in his hair now, yanking his head back.
"What's he said?" the first voice hissed. "John bloody Riley. What's he told you?"
John swallowed, trying to breathe properly.
"First the bloody cops, now this," the second voice muttered. "Think you can use him to get to us? Think your army mates'll find us? What's he told you?"
They don't know, John realized, a flash of shock overpowering the cold and pain for a moment. They'd put Riley in the hospital and they thought the injured man knew that.
"You want walk out of here? You ever want to walk again?" It was the first voice this time, low, serious. John repressed a shudder; what they'd done to Riley, they could do to him. And wouldn't leave it to chance this time.
Tell them and they'll vanish, he thought, coughing weakly to buy himself some time, listening to the sneer in response. They don't know he doesn't know. Keep them around.
"Nothing," he managed and the hand in his hair was tighter. John choked down a gasp, eyes shut against the sudden flash, against the way the world threatened to tip him over. He could feel the wall so close and didn't think his head could take another impact, not if he wanted to stay conscious.
"Nothing," he repeated, breathing hard around the focused pain in his skull, fingers on his left hand twitching, closing into a fist, itching to reach for his phone. So close. Sherlock could be there in two minutes.
They could snap his neck in far less time.
"He can't," John gasped. "He's not awake."
It was a gamble and he felt himself standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing he'd be pushed over the precipice if they had any idea at all. The air caught in his lungs, muscles in his throat too taut to let him breathe.
Stupid! he told himself.
"Then what?" the second voice hissed. "Who're you, tan?"
"The police," John gasped. "I'm a doctor. I work with the police."
There was another teetering moment then a hiss, dissatisfaction, surprise, he couldn't tell.
"And what're you gonna tell them?" the first voice asked. It was almost a purr, almost understanding, but John heard the venom beneath it.
"Nothing," he said again.
"Too bloody right." The fingers in his hair yanked and he felt his skull collide with the wall.
It couldn't have been long, a couple of minutes, John thought, but he was alone when he could think again, when he could feel the cold creeping back in, pushing at the pain. He listened but there were no footsteps, no sounds of breathing except his own, breaking into whimpers on the edge of each exhalation. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of the city, the purr of traffic, the call of sirens, the far-off vibration of aeroplanes.
Concentrate, he told himself, remembering that he'd thought it before. Cold fingers fumbled for his phone but it slipped through his grasp in his pocket, too slim and slick for clumsy, unresponsive digits. John drew a deep breath, winter air burning in his lungs, held it, released it slowly. He forced himself to do so again, calming the hammering of his heart. The adrenaline singing in his veins might get him up but collapsing halfway down the alley wouldn't help.
The wall scraped against his coat as he pushed himself slowly to his feet, fighting the haze of stars that flickered around the edges of his vision, working to keep the ragged edge from his breathing. Standing wasn't so bad – once he got used to it – but moving would be. He couldn't slump along the wall the whole way; there were bins and other hazards in his path. He curled the fingers of his right hand into the brickwork whenever he could, steadying himself on the bins and railings as he went past, one slow, deliberate step at a time. He watched for movement, forcing the alertness on himself.
He should have been alert before. Ten years ago, his guard wouldn't have been down.
Do you feel safe, Sherlock? John laughed, a hoarse sound that seemed too loud in the empty alley. He'd felt safe. A block from home, the flat almost in sight. The familiarity was lulling, so easy to trust.
The blood had dried on his skin in places, was still dripping in others. He'd have it matted in his hair, he realized. Someone would stop him if he went out like this. There would be ambulances and police and Donovan would find out and they'd tip the one advantage they had. She'd be furious and would cut him off and then–
Should let her, John thought. Should let them find John. What's it matter? Bloody terrorists.
"Bloody tan."
It's not the same!
Working against the numbness in his fingers, John pulled up his hood. With his head down, it would hide the worst of it. His slow pace could be mistaken for anything – ambling, laziness, drunkenness. It didn't matter, as long as it got him home. One foot in front of the other, eyes on pavement that was unfamiliar if only because he didn't normally look down when he walked.
The front door gave him some trouble but he managed, half stumbling inside, blinking in the sudden light and warmth. The door knocked shut behind him again and John felt that sense of safety returning. He couldn't call it false no matter how hard he tried – this was home.
He managed to get his keys back into his pocket, slumped against the wall, breathing hard. He wanted to sink down but sitting down now meant not getting up, it meant falling asleep with his head still bleeding.
The stairs swam in front of him, the flat invisible beyond the turn. John sucked in a deep breath, trying to steel himself. He'd faced much worse before, in much worse condition. Fourteen steps with a handrail for support.
He could do this.
His legs trembled in protest, muscles begging to sit down. Another deep breath just made his ribs ache, made him want to curl forward against the bruising pain that seemed to be spreading as the warmth seeped back into his body.
C'mon, Watson, he told himself. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back then wished he hadn't.
Come on! he repeated. This wasn't so hard. One foot in front of the other, like he'd done all the way here, and so gravity would be working more against him, but it wasn't that far. He'd done this on a cane, leg screaming in protest. He'd done this backwards, kissing Sherlock as he went. He'd done this drunk, just as dizzy as he felt now, but lighter, laughing. He'd done this with Sherlock's weight slumped against him, dragging the detective back upstairs to patch him up.
And now he was being hauled up, he realized, an arm slung over Sherlock's shoulders. For a moment, they were face to face, so close that John inhaled Sherlock's breath, startled by the pinched expression, the banked anger beneath pale grey eyes. Not at him, though, because Sherlock said nothing. No ranting, no acerbic comments about John's stupidity, no questions.
The gentleness of the firm grip surprised him; somewhere between the tube and here – in the alley – he'd forgotten how carefully Sherlock could manage him when needed. And now it was one step at a time, going up very slowly, but it was easier with someone to lean on and Sherlock was murmuring meaningless encouragements the whole way.
"How'd you know?" John managed when the door was shut behind him and he was being lowered onto the couch, trying to ignore the way the flat was spinning gently.
"Standing at the bottom of the stairs ignoring my calls?" Sherlock replied and there was almost a hint of humour, of 'obvious' in his voice.
"Oh." His coat was removed and then Sherlock vanished, returning with John's medical kit. John talked him through the cleaning and the stitching, hissing and wincing, earning sharp apologies that made him want to shake his head but he couldn't move without risking getting jabbed in the skull. Sherlock's fingers were steady and sure, working evenly but carefully.
"You can't sleep," Sherlock said, fingers curling under John's chin when his head dipped forward. The doctor had a flash of panic at the touch then it was gone, vanishing under the familiar feeling. "Not yet."
"I know," John managed. His voice was thick and tired.
"What do you need?" Sherlock asked, crouching in front of him, a sharp edge in his deep baritone.
Sleep, John thought, keeping his eyes open. The idea was too appealing, to curl up in bed next to Sherlock, all of that warmth against him, around him.
"Water," he made himself say instead. "A bit of food. Something light. Toast. Maybe tea."
Sherlock nodded but there was a flicker in his features – that anger again. John wondered what would happen after he did go to sleep. Sherlock had eyes all over the city, and no one noticed the homeless, he said. They blended in with the background.
They would have noticed, though. There'd been no one there but them.
John wondered if men like them ever felt safe.
The thunder in Sherlock's eyes made him wonder if they'd ever feel safe again.