There was a child sleeping behind him.
Sleeping.
There were no movies playing at the front- no odourous neighbours, no chatty women.
He'd gotten a window seat.
Never in his long and detailed history of flying had he ever gotten a window seat.
So this was what it felt like to have the British Government, personified, planning your itinerary.
Take away the gross invasions of privacy and, yes, John really could get used to this.
The steward was Australian, imagine that, with short brown hair and a professional sort of kindness.
When she asks him what he wants to drink, he decides for an orange juice and- what the hell- a self-serve bottle of vodka.
He smiles at her, and she smiles back at him before pushing the cart onward, leaving him more or less alone again.
John can pretty much sleep anywhere, but this is the first time he's actually been lulled to sleep by suggestion of the jet engines. He's not in first class, but he's still in a comfortable seat, alone in the aisle, his forehead pressed against the cool window. He falls asleep and he actually dreams.
He dreams he's going shopping, but every time he picks up the milk it falls through a hole he can't find in the basket;
He dreams he's swimming on a beautiful day towards land;
He dreams he has a daughter but he never actually sees her;
He dreams he's on the phone with a familiar voice, standing on a rooftop, someone counting down from three, he's hung up the phone but from the other side of the road, he hears his voice being yelled out to him-
John shook himself awake.
No one's looking at him- it wasn't a nightmare, he hadn't hollered or shook or called attention to himself in any way. It had been a bad dream, though- it left him with a deep feeling in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at him.
Changing his name, going to America- it felt a lot like running.
John's had to do a lot of things for Sherlock, but hiding had never been one of them. It just wasn't a mode that he could run on comfortably.
Though, compared to what he'd done for him in the past, it probably wasn't the worst thing.
Killing a man after knowing him for less than twenty four hours.
Lying and stealing for information.
Offering to give his own life up for him.
Twice.
He didn't think much of it, either. Both times. It was a split second, instinctual decision- it was the soldier in him. It must have been. Protect the greater good at all costs. Sherlock was, of course, the greater good- he helped so many people with that arrogant intellect of his.
He'd felt an overwhelming need to protect it. Lord knew that hardly anyone else was doing it. Mycroft did the best he could from afar, and John was sure that had he not been there for his younger brother during those unseen but hinted-at years of addiction, John would never have had the opportunity to meet him.
But there was only so much he could do from an office.
Which was why Sherlock needed John.
John, to make sure Sherlock eats. John, to make sure Sherlock plays nice with others. John, to make sure Sherlock keeps away from his bad habits.
John, to take the fall for Sherlock when a maniac wanted him dead.
It had started well before that, however- Mycroft had taken an even greater interest in him since… Well, since the Irene Adler case, it seemed.
He called, once, at three in the morning just to ask if Sherlock had brought back Chinese food that night. He'd sounded disappointed when the answer was yes.
Kept picking him up, more and more, just to drive him to a secluded area to ask him absurd questions about Sherlock- how was he sleeping? How long did it take him to solve the case about the action figures?
By the time the stewardess comes back around, the feeling still hadn't dissolved.
"Enjoying your drink?"
"Yeah, Yeah."
She smiled.
"That wasn't a very strong reaction,"
He smiled back at her- flirting. He could do flirting.
"Well, it wasn't a very strong drink."
She laughed, slipping him two more self-serve bottles and a wink before pushing the cart farther back.
He poured both of them into the juice at the same time, taking generous sips until he felt drowsy. With the drinks, however, came more memories.
Sherlock's apparently broken heart at the death of Irene Adler;
He'd forced Henry Knight to look at the body of the dog, not the hound, the dead, ordinary dog;
He would have killed that American if he'd so much as hurt Mrs. Hudson…
John had been sleeping in the hospital when he'd gotten the call.
Sherlock had been doing- something, he didn't know- and was barely paying attention.
An unfamiliar voice had told him that Mrs. Hudson had been shot- oh my god, right, yes I'm coming- he had to go right away.
Jesus, Jesus… She's dying, Sherlock, Let's go.
But he didn't go.
Alone is what I have, alone protects me.
No, Friends protect people.
That was the last thing he'd said to him before-
The car ride.
The agreement.
The phone call.
The fall.
He'd been running, trying to catch a cab, when a familiar black vehicle pulled up beside him, door swinging open. Not in the mood for this… He stuck his head into the car with the purpose of expressly telling the driver and whatever attractive woman Mycroft sent to collect him just that.
You knew it was serious when the man is willing to represent himself.
"Do get in the car, Dr. Watson, time is of the essence."
"Mycroft-"
"Get in the car, Dr. Watson."
Spat with such venom that John did what he was told. He spoke up only when the vehicle pulled away-
"Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson is-"
"Fine. She's fine. That was my people. We needed to get you away from St. Bart's at least six minutes sooner than expected."
"Than expecte-"
"There is hardly any time to explain to you what I need to, Dr. Watson, if you could refrain from superfluous questions. At the moment, Sherlock is walking freely into the throes of James Moriarty-"
"Then why are we here? You have an entire army, a secret service, the universe at your disposal, shoot the bastard down!"
"It is not as easy as you suggest-"
"Of course it is, you got him into this mess, you get him out-"
"If you will let me continue, Dr. Watson, I am trying. I, however, require your aid. And your attention."
John had stared at him unsympathetically, silent just long enough for him to continue.
"We will drop you off at 221B when this is done- you are to remain there for six minutes before exiting to hail a cab. When a car pulls up with three men inside, find it in yourself to trust them."
"Excuse me-"
"Do not interrupt. Do not fight them. Allow them to blindfold you and hook you up to an intravenous drip feed-"
"What-"
"- Do not interrupt me. Allow them to connect any apparatus to your person. If you fight, they are permitted to use force against you. They will take you to a rooftop highly visible to Sherlock and James Moriarty where you will-"
"Wait, rooftop-"
"- Call Sherlock, say goodbye, and jump from the building."
"… What?"
"If you do not, Moriarty will surely kill Sherlock."
"Because of you."
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Yes, because of me. When you return to 221B, do not bring anything with you. You need to make it seem as if you had been unwittingly abducted. Especially not your gun."
John didn't know how Mycroft knew about the gun. He hardly cared- he was used to it. Very, very used to it.
"And if I don't-"
"Moriarty will win. Sherlock will die. You will be just as much at fault as I."
"Why aren't you the one jumping from the building, then? If you're the one at fault."
The car rolled to a stop in the middle of the street, in front of his doorway.
"Because this is not my part to play."
Mycroft opened the door for John, nodding his head for him to exit.
"Now Goodbye, Dr. Watson."
John had made his way out of the car and into the flat, confused and a little disoriented. Mrs. Hudson was there, she was okay, she was with one of the assassins who were helping her fix something up- he scaled the staircase to stand awkwardly in the living room, touching nothing-
Six minutes.
Six minutes and then, what? Someone would be there to kidnap him? And then he would jump to his death?
Bring nothing. There was no way that John was going to go anywhere without his gun.
It was in a shoebox on the top shelf of his closet- the exact place a normal person would hide their gun, because he'd given up on trying to hide it from Sherlock.
He'd had to stand on his toes to pull it from the shelf, the box tumbling down on him. He picked up the gun, loaded it expertly, and stuck it in the back of his jeans, where it sat concealed under his jacket.
He stood in his room, looked at the plain walls, Mrs. Hudson's linens.
Was this the last time he'd see this room?
Don't get sentimental now, Captain. You're needed.
Well, that inner monologue hadn't shown himself in a while.
He didn't know exactly what he was needed for, but since when did he beg for answers?
He'd left the house, and no later had he done that than he had been swept into another car.
Don't fight them.
As soon as the car rolled on, one of them started preparing a syringe.
Like hell he wouldn't fight them.
He didn't get very far, however- two (much larger) men procured a bloody nose and two black eyes between them, but John hadn't much of a chance at all- the drive from Baker Street to the hospital was a blur, the trip from the ground to the seventh floor forgotten.
And suddenly, he was on the top floor-
Someone had taken his phone, dialled Sherlock's number; put the phone in his hand.
"He's not going to answer, he doesn't… He doesn't call…"
"Hello?"
He was talking too quickly for John to get anything out. He was really just very tired.
One of the men behind him suggested to have him turn around, which John did. He'd wished he hadn't, though- now he was talking even faster, with that panicked tone that was usually reserved for a puzzle with seconds left to unravel.
"-I've got about four plans right now that could possibly work depending on the make of the gun behind your back and the history of the man holding it, I'm too far away, I can't see much more than the obvious military training-"
"Sherlock."
And for once, he'd actually shut up.
John wasn't entirely sure what to say next- what was there to say? What could he possibly do to explain something he wasn't completely sure of? Probably would never be completely sure of?
"It's going to be okay."
Said at the same time the man behind him started counting down- just close enough for the receiver to pick it up, just enough for John to remember that his life was on a sixty-second timer.
It's going to be okay.
He hadn't meant it, when he'd said it. But it had, in its own way- turned out okay. They were both alive, even if John had to flee to America, of all places.
And what would have happened, had John not jumped? Would they both be dead? Did Sherlock have his own escape route, had he been forced to jump? Would he have been the one left stranded at 221B, forced to recollect himself after his flatmate's funeral?
It made him feel guilty, but mostly it just filled him with a strange pang of feeling that, he guessed, would be called alone. He'd gone a month without having to deal with fingers in the fridge, gunshots in the morning and that unmistakable tone when he flopped himself onto the couch, shouting BORED! At whatever would listen.
The man was intolerable.
He missed Sherlock, as unlikely as it seemed.