Disclaimer:
Sherlock BBC is property of BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
My undying gratitude goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Thank you for your reviews. I'm happy that you like this story so far.
I'm always a bit unsure of my writing and it helps to know that someone out there is actually reading this. ;-)
BTW: If you find mistakes I'd be happy if you could point them out to me.
Once More, with Feeling III
Great Britain, London
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'
18. January 2010
After exactly three hours, twenty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds Sherlock resurfaces from his excursion into his own mind. His bare feet are cold and his neck is hurting. Sherlock registers those sensations and promptly deletes them as unimportant. He still has to check on his latest mould culture in the shower stall, the experiment on the dissolving rate of human body parts in the digestion fluids of the Nepenthes Ventricosa isn't going to perform itself and…
The flat is absolutely silent.
Sherlock jumps up from his sprawled out position on the sofa like a jack in the box and starts to prowl through the premises of 221b. John's jacket (far too thin for the weather of mid January) is not hanging from its hook on the wall near the front door, his shoes are nowhere in sight. No new mug has joined the pile of used dishes to the right of the sink in the kitchen. And John always drinks tea when he comes home. Without exception. (Unless Sherlock has used the last of the tea for his experiments – which he hasn't. Today.)
No jacket, no shoes, no tea. The only logical conclusion is that John hasn't come home yet. Sherlock doesn't have to consult his wristwatch to know that it is half one in the morning. That's unusual. Tomorrow (or rather today, since midnight has already rolled around) is Monday and John has to be at the surgery at eight for his long day shift. His overtly developed sense of duty prevents him normally from staying out too late when he has to go to work the next day.
Sherlock decides to go up to John's room to verify his theory. Avoiding all the creaky steps he creeps upstairs and peeks into his flatmate's room. The bed is empty, still crisply made and undisturbed.
The Consulting Detective pushes the door wide open and enters. He twirls around himself and steeples his fingers under his chin with a frown. This is highly curious. Sherlock would have known if John's had something planned for tonight. The good doctor isn't able to keep a secret for very long, not when Sherlock puts his mind to it.
So where has he gone?
Sherlock pulls his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown and fires off a quick series of texts.
John, where are you? –SH
Are you still at the clinic? –SH
Come home, even if occupied otherwise. –SH
Bring milk. –SH
When no immediate answer is forthcoming Sherlock sprawls down on John's bed with a frustrated huff. The doctor had still been angry with him when he'd left the Yard yesterday. It is possible that John is executing his usual tactic of evasion. When upset, the doctor tends to walk his temper off rather than confront Sherlock with an argument.
Lestrade. Is John with you? Send him home! –SH
Lestrade! –SH
Lestrade! –SH
It takes three minutes and sixteen seconds until his phone buzzes with an answer.
Crzy sod. Do you kno what time it s? Im at home. Sleepin.
Sherlock sneers at the typos. It seems Lestrade's limited ability to use his brain diminishes significantly when woken up unexpected. He types his reply.
That doesn't answer my question. Is John with you? –SH
NO! Bugger off!
Hm. So much for that. His next alternative is – of course – Sarah. She and John broke up a while ago, but there is still the distinct possibility that she'd allow John to sleep on her sofa for a night or two. So it's her nightly rest Sherlock disturbs next:
Have you seen John? –SH
No. Not today. Did something happen?
It's interesting in itself, that her reply comes within forty seconds after he sends his question, but since her answer too is of no use to him, Sherlock has to take his research elsewhere. He stands up and leaves John's room without bothering to close the door behind him.
Back into the living room he flops down into his armchair, grabs the (John's) laptop and starts to type.
The visiting hours at Bethlam end at six, but Sherlock wouldn't put it past John to have an agreement with the staff. The man is good with people. They like him and that makes it likely that they would make an exception for John. But he doubts that those exceptions would last past midnight.
A quick call to the front desk confirms this. Apparently John has left shortly after ten, after a rather long conversation with the head-nurse of the night shift.
The young woman at the phone (smoker, will be sick with a cold next week) tells him that Doctor Watson left on foot and didn't seem to be in a hurry, even if the poor man had looked like he was cold… That's the point where Sherlock hangs up on her.
His phone vibrates with an incoming text. It's from Sarah, so Sherlock ignores it, choosing rather to text John again.
Your presence is strongly required. I set fire to the kitchen. –SH
No I didn't. But the idea looks really appealing. –SH
John? –SH
John! –SH
Still no answer. Either John is ignoring him on purpose or he isn't able to answer him and Sherlock likes neither of those possibilities. He hacks into the database of John's bank and checks his account for good measure. Tesco's, Tesco's, Tescos', the abonnements for his medical journal and a porno website, Tesco's. Nothing. Sherlock switches to his credit card next and here he finds something interesting. It seems that John has used it to pay for a rental car not even two hours ago.
Sherlock leans back and staples his fingers under his chin. Why would John be in need of a car? Certainly not to reach a destination within the city. Ergo: He has left London. But where has he gone and why.
His flatmate has left him with a really interesting puzzle here.
The drawback is that, since John is no longer in the city, it will be no use to consult the traffic cameras for his search. His only option is to use the GPS chip in John's phone to discover his location. But unfortunately he doesn't have the resources to hack into NAVSTAR.
Sherlock curses involuntarily.
It seems he will have to call Mycroft.
ooOO0OOoo
Great Britain, Birling Gap
N 50° 45' E 0° 12'
18. January 2010
After leaving his car in Birling Gap, John had just zipped up his jacket, buried his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and then he had started walking. He'd paid no heed to streets or pathways, just following the coastline over the first sloping hills of the Seven Sisters. He'd dropped down on the crest of what was probably Baily's Hill when the need to just walk had finally deserted him.
John has lost the feeling in his fingers ages ago. The wind out here is freezing and harsh but the panorama of the white moonlit chalk cliffs glowing in the dark over steep precipices and the churning sea of the English Channel is absolutely breath-taking.
He sits on the ground, legs bend, his crossed forearms planted firmly on his knees. The cold wetness of the earth has already started to seep through the seat of his trousers but for once John is absolutely oblivious to the signals his body sends him. His mind is far away, still ensnared by events that not only happened on the other side of the world, but also – seemingly – a whole lifetime ago. But not even time and space can dull the crippling terror he still feels whenever something drags those memories kicking and screaming out of the dark, tightly locked places he keeps them in.
John shudders, but the gooseflesh that ripples over his skin has nothing to do with the ice cold caress of the wind.
ooOO0OOoo
North Korea, Kijŏngdong
N 37° 56' 43.9902" E 126° 39' 21.6072"
July (?) 2005
John's huddled in the farthest corner of the tiny cell that he had come to think of as his during the last few weeks. Arbitrary shivers wrecked his weakened muscles; his skin's hot and dry, like ancient parchment, vulnerable and prone to break at the lightest touch. The numerous scratches that covered his body were inflamed, infected due to the absolute lack of hygiene.
It had been days, since he last saw or heard a sign of life from his comrades. For all he knew they could be dead, but John was already well past the point of caring. Too weakened by hunger and dehydration to do more than force one breath after another into his resisting lungs.
It was too exhausting to move, too exhausting to think. A small clinical voice in the back of his head informed him matter-of-factly that his body had started to shut down. He was removed from everything but the tiny miserable bubble he had surrounded himself with. That's what dying feels like. A part of John embraced that thought with something akin to relieve. He wanted it to end. Wanted this ordeal to be over. He had no strength left to fight any more…
The sound of gunshots and the dull roar of a helicopters engine didn't really register in John's sluggish mind. But the sharp grind of wood over concrete when the door of his cell was pulled open, forced a helpless whimper out of him. Nothing good ever came through that door. John tried to force his uncooperative limbs into compliance, tried to curl himself up, to sink into the dirt packed floor, or vanish, or die, or simply cease to exist.
He accomplished neither and just a moment later gloved fingers pried his resisting eyelids apart. The sudden, violent assault of brightness brought a sharp pain that burned like acid along his optic nerves. He wanted to scream but his mouth was so dry that all that came out was a hoarse groan.
"That one's alive, Sir."
There was a soft rustle of cloth and then warm fingers were searching for his pulse at his carotid artery.
"Hey there, mate. Are you with us? Can you hear me?"
Deft hands were feeling along his body, taking his vital signs, searching for major injuries, but John didn't even flinch. He knew better than that. He'd been here long enough to know how they played their games. Deception, lies, false promises and always the looming threat of pain. If he was able to convince them that he was too out of it to react, then he could perhaps buy a few more precious hours before they started their game anew.
One of the hands returned to his forehead to smooth the outgrown spikes of his hair out of his face.
"Don't worry, soldier. We're here to take you home."
Those words wrenched a desperate sob out of his parched throat and John would have cried, had his body any liquid left to spare.
Because that was the worst lie he could imagine.
ooOO0OOoo
Great Britain, Birling Gap
N 50° 45' E 0° 12'
18. January 2010
"You could have simply answered your phone, you know?"
John has been aware that Sherlock would be able to find him at some point, but he still flinches violently when he hears this smooth, dark voice so unexpected directly behind him. A shaky breath steals itself over his lips and the blond doctor blinks rapidly to force his memories back into the shadows before he dares to look over his shoulder.
Sherlock Holmes stands a few feet behind him on the sloping ground, his coat and curly hair whipping in the strong wind and looking once more like a dark hero right out of a romantic novel. The man's arms are crossed behind his back and he looks down at John, eyebrows arched in a disapproving frown.
"I texted you. I… even tried to call you."
John's gaze wanders back to the dark, unfathomable ocean, unable to hold the eye contact any longer. "I know."
The unspoken hint that he'd ignored Sherlock's attempts at communication sits heavily between them. To be honest: Normally John would never disregard a text Sherlock sent him but after the first twenty messages (which consisted mostly of his name with a variety of attached exclamation and question marks) he'd simply put his phone on silent to get rid of the persistent beeping.
"I just needed a little time for myself."
Sherlock arches his eyebrow even higher and John thinks that it will probably merge with his hairline if the detective keeps this up. The thought makes him chuckle despite himself and Sherlock huffs indignantly.
"I am glad, that I can somehow contribute to your amusement. But just though you know; I really was… concerned about your lack of communication." The younger man steps forward and folds his lanky body down until he sits next to John on the damp ground.
A small, tired smile finds its way onto John's face at this reluctant confession. Under normal circumstances this self-proclaimed sociopath would have never admitted that he could develop something akin to worry for another person. But somehow John seems to have wormed his way under the icy exterior Sherlock presents to the world. Enough at least, to merit a bit of concern and to follow him to the coast of the English Channel in the middle of a sodding cold night.
For a few minutes there is nothing between them but the cold wind and the sound of the dancing sea. Then Sherlock takes a deep breath. "John. Will you… please… look at me?"
The doctor ducks his head until his chin rests on his crossed forearms and his fingers tighten their grip on his dark jacket, but he doesn't take his eyes from the invisible horizon. "I'd rather not."
Sherlock eyes his flatmate with a thoughtful gaze. John is reluctant, almost afraid even of what the Detective might see in his eyes; what he might deduce from what he finds there. His visits with Matt always remind John of the days past. The better and the worse. Today's events have unearthed dark and painful memories that the doctor has buried deep within himself. And as open as he is with other aspects of his life, he is reluctant to have those memories examined, taken apart under that merciless, laser like gaze.
"Why here?" Sherlock's question startles John once again out of his reverie.
"What?"
A new gush of wind whips his dark curls into the Detectives face with punishing force, but Sherlock ignores the discomfort in favour of his newest puzzle. "Why did you come here of all places."
John chuckles darkly. It's a dangerous mood he's in right now. He hurts. A sharp fundamental pain deep within his soul. And John desperately wants to leash out at the next available target. He has to reign himself in with a conscious effort of will.
"What? You can't deduce that?" A challenge. He knows that he is giving his flatmate carte blanche to do his worst and turn the full force of his deductive abilities onto him. But there is a little, twisted part inside of him that wants to feel this pain, needs it even. It's the same primal part that urges him on to jump headfirst into danger, as soon as an opportunity presents itself. That makes him drop everything, as soon as Sherlock calls him to his side.
John doesn't know if this is some sort of deeply ingrained need to accommodate Sherlock or just some sort of masochistic streak manifesting itself. Whatever it is, it certainly can't be healthy, but considering his lifestyle he seemed to have screwed up his sense if self-preservation a long time ago. He grins darkly. So; bring it on, then.
Sherlock's gaze follows John's over the dark, rough sea. "You've been here before. You know this area well enough to find your way up here in the dark and without a torch, but you never lived here. Not on a permanent basis. The fact that you use this place as a refuge when in psychological distress tells me that you associate mostly positive memories with it. So you either have extended family in this area or you used to come here during holidays as a child. Since you never mentioned any relatives aside from your sister I assume it's the latter." Sherlock's gaze wanders back to his flatmate. A deep frown lies on John's face. "Today has been stressful for you. You visited an old army mate, who is now patient in a mental health facility and regarding the state of your cuffs and the residue of talcum powder on your hands, the visit didn't go over well."
The younger man pauses; either to collect his thoughts or perhaps just to add a bit of drama to his statement. "You have a very compassionate nature. But your friend's distress alone wouldn't be nowhere near enough to drive you to such extreme measures. You have literally fled the city. The only logical conclusion would be, that the reason for your friend's agitation touches you on a very personal level. So; a shared hardship? Your common military background points to a mission gone awry, personal loss maybe. A very traumatic event that connects both of you and that draws you to his side again and again, no matter how painful the reminders may be. You hold yourself responsible for his situation. And that, combined with today's disagreement between us triggered your habit to retreat to safer ground when you feel emotionally compromised. You came here because this is the closest available place that you don't connect with the army or your current life in London."
The harsh wind steals the shaky sigh directly from John's parted lips. "That was… really impressive. Truly remarkable, yeah." The doctor's voice lacks the usual admiration that colours it when he praises Sherlock's deductions. In fact, his tone is flat and far, far away.
"We've known each other for a while now. Served in the same unit for a few years. I… ehm. We were… " The doctor shakes his head absentmindedly and starts again: "It's just… It's so hard to see him like that. There are days when I just can't bear to look at him." John's voice is strained. His hands are balled into tight fists, his fingernails biting painfully into his palms. Punishing himself for thinking badly of his friend. "And then I feel guilty because of it."
Sherlock responds to John's words with a moment of introspection. Numerous dissertations concentrate on the analysis of psychological effects of battlefield dynamics. Stress and a violent environment often forge a strong interdependence. And not always for the better.
Holmes steeples his fingers under his chin in a familiar gesture, but he doesn't look at John when he asks: "What happened?"
The blond doctor grunts something incomprehensible, but doesn't react otherwise, so Sherlock feels the need to specify the parameters of his question: "You overcame your depressive tendencies when you moved into the Baker Street flat with me. Something triggered you today and it put you in a remarkably black mood. So, what is it?"
John pulls a heavy sigh from deep within his chest and rolls his left shoulder in an uncomfortable gesture. His muscles twinge with a sharp, stabbing pain. "Today was an awfully long and…" He hesitates for a second, "and trying day. Can't you just leave it alone for now?"
"Well, actually that was yesterday, because it's already past…"
"Sherlock! Don't." The demand comes crisp and military sharp.
The Consulting Detective falls silent with an irritated shake of his head. This isn't the first time John has used his army voice in Sherlock's presence. It isn't even the first time he used it on Sherlock himself. (For such a lenient man John can have a remarkably short fuse and the man has a temper to be weary of.) But John's lack of cooperation in this matter is, well… irritating.
"And I don't have depressive tendencies," adds the doctor as an afterthought.
Sherlock arches an elegantly curved eyebrow. "Your psychiatrist says otherwise."
"Bloody hell!" The doctor punches his closed fist into the half frozen ground in a bout of frustration. "Is there anybody, who hasn't read Ella's notes?" He looks up at Sherlock and the other man returns his gaze with a meaningful expression on his angular face.
John huffs exasperated. "Forget that I asked. I really don't want to know."
Once more silence grows between them. John's gaze is fixed onto the dark sea, as if he is trying to stare down some sort of invisible demon and in consideration of the new knowledge Sherlock has gathered today, this euphemism doesn't seem to be too far off.
But it doesn't take too long until the Consulting Detective starts fidgeting again. "John?"
"Hmm?"
"What are you planning to do now?"
John looks at his flatmate with a suspicious frown on his face. "Concerning what?"
"Well." Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on his place. "Just sitting here is terribly boring. Furthermore it's dark, it's cold…" And here his voice drops to a, uneasy whisper, "and the seat of my trousers is all wet."
A surprised chuckle steals itself over John's lips. "I'll give you the boring. But what happened to 'the body is just transport'? You point that out often enough, after all."
Sherlock huffs indignantly. "And as you like to point out, transport needs to be maintained. And a cystitis may be fascinating from a purely scientific point of view, but personally I'd prefer to avoid it."
This dryly delivered remark finally makes John laugh. (As intended; but Sherlock would never admit to such a sentimental intent.) His dark mood doesn't vanish per se, but it seems to recede a bit, leaving room for a lighter atmosphere.
"Yes, I absolutely see your point." Enduring Sherlock when he is sick or handicapped in any way really is hell on earth, not that John would ever say this out loud. His sense of self-preservation may be a bit whacky, but that doesn't mean that he's killed it altogether. And they may not live together that long yet, but John has already learned his lessons.
Sherlock looks at John with a patronizing expression that tells the doctor exactly, that his flatmate is once more able to deduce his thought process without difficulties. A small grin lifts the corner of Sherlock's mouth: "And aside from that I came to the conclusion that it would be necessary to inform you, that you are expected to start your shift at the surgery in about…" He looks at his watch in an exaggerated gesture. "…four and a half hours."
In an involuntary gesture John checks the time on his own wristwatch. He pulls a face when he sees how late - or early – it already is. "Oh, damn it. I totally forgot… Bugger." He stands up, his limbs stiff and uncooperative after the long exposure to the cold. "Let's go." John takes a moment to stretch, before he extends his right hand to help his flatmate to his feet. Sherlock accepts without hesitation, his gloved fingers warm against John's icy skin.
John shrugs deeper into his jacket. His jeans and boxers are sticking uncomfortably to his behind but he bears it stoically. There are certain things an Englishman doesn't talk about, even if their flatmates are able to deduce the state of their underwear by the length of their stride.
"Well then, let's move," John beckons Sherlock to follow him. "I left the car down in the village. Isn't that far. If we hurry I should make it just in time for my shift."
"That isn't necessary, John. I have a car right here." John's gaze follows Sherlock's outstretched arm to a black limousine that is nearly invisible under the starlight. The doctor opens his mouth, clearly taken aback, but Sherlock interrupts him: "And don't worry. Mycroft will take care of your rental. I wouldn't be surprised, if it is already halfway back to London."
John chuckles. "Mycroft. Did you actually ask your brother to help you find me? Voluntarily?"
"Well." Sherlock puts both hands into the pockets of his Belstaff and with his protruding lower lip he suddenly looks like a sulky teenager. "Since you felt it was necessary to leave the city, I was lacking the required resources to find you. Mycroft was the only logical choice."
"Yes, I'm sure he was." The doctor resists the impulse to dig deeper and squints in the direction of the car instead. "Is that the BMW with the white leather interior?"
Sherlock nods affirmatively and John shrugs. "I hope the driver brought towels, then. Or he will be very busy cleaning those seats later." His left hand brushes the wet seat of his trousers in a self-conscious gesture.
The detective grins unabashed. "Shall we, then?"
John returns the grin without restraint. "Let's go."
The easy camaraderie between them isn't quite back yet, but John is visibly getting there as they stroll down the hill side by side. Sherlock Holmes is stealing a sideway glance at the man he has reluctantly started to call a friend. There is a thoughtful expression on his angular face and he hopes that John won't be too angry, when he inevitably finds out.
ooOO0OOoo
TBC