The car suddenly lurched to a halt, sending John tumbling forward into someone's lap as he had no way to hold onto anything, the handle slipping from his grasp.
Strong arms pushed him upright and back in the seat again. The henchman, no doubt, since the madman was busy shouting and cursing at his driver, but John only heard the tail end of that argument:
"And if you so much as jostle us again, I'll skin you myself and have you made into a handbag to send back to your mommy! Vamos!"
There was movement and the rustle of cloth as the maniac seated himself again and the car swerved left and right, but not as fast as before. This was his chance, he just needed to find the door handle again.
"Iceman playing silly buggers with me," the madman muttered, probably to himself, before his voice picked up, more commanding. "We're going to the closest switch, four minutes."
John had no idea what he was talking about and wasn't sure he wanted to know. He had managed to squirm closer to where he thought the door was, but at that command, the henchman kept a strong grasp on John's arm. Too late.
The car soon screeched to a halt, doors were flung open, someone pulling on John's arm, air that smelled oily and musty… an underground parking lot? Then, he was pushed into... a boot, he realized when the lid slammed shut. A friggin car boot. His day just kept getting better and better. Well, at least the madman wasn't in here with him. Yep, he had the boot all to himself, lucky him, but he still counted that as an improvement over sharing space with the other maniac. Quickly, John squirmed in the cramped space, trying to rub his face against... Anything really, his shoulder, the smelly carpet, the side of the car... Until he managed to wedge his blindfold down. He had regained his sight at least, well... technically, because it was too dark in the boot to actually see anything. Still, it was a step in the right direction.
John doubted he could do anything about his hands though, tied as they were behind his back and too tightly to loop them to the front, so that left trying to pop the boot open and jump before they arrived at whatever loony bin his kidnapper had crawled out of. John knew the quickest way to do that was to find the latch or the release cable. Something he'd learned in army training because occidentals made good ransom hostages. Of course, he and the others guys in his squad had then made a game out of it, betting who would get out the fastest. It usually took John a couple of minutes to free himself out of a boot but he had never tried it with his hands tied behind his back before.
Overlooking small details will get you killed.
John turned onto his back, his wounded shoulder protesting as he tried to pry the carpet he was lying on away in order to reach the cables he knew were running underneath. John was breathing heavily, his arms getting numb but he finally got his hands on the thickest cable and twisted to follow it...yes! It was connected to the boot latch. It had taken him well over ten minutes but he could escape. However, as soon as he pulled that cable, the driver would know the boot was open, so he would have to run, run as fast as he had ever done before.
John gave a sharp tug and was rewarded with a soft pop, a blast of fresh air and lights everywhere. Still in the heart of London, thank God for small mercies. John braced himself. Even if the car was not moving very fast, this was going to hurt like hell. He jumped, aiming for the pavement and trying to tuck his head in as he rolled several times. Cars honked, tires screeched, metal crunched, but John was too disoriented to care right now and just prayed he wouldn't be run over like a stray cat.
Come on! Up, up, up!
John pushed on his legs, swaying as he took a few steps forward but froze when he heard a shot ring past and shatter the nearest window shop. Too close. The few pedestrians nearby screamed as they fled.
"Stop right there, Watson!" someone yelled.
John glanced around to see a tall blond man levering a gun at him.
Fuck that.
John bolted forward, running blindly as he zigzagged around the cars blocked in the street, or just slid across their hoods on his arse, but his gait was made awkward with his hands still tied behind his back and he tripped a couple of times. There, sirens. Sirens! Flashing red and blue lights! Police, firemen or ambulances, he didn't care. John made himself run faster, he was desperate, he just needed to push a little more and he'd be free. He didn't dare look behind him, had no time to and he might trip again.
And get shot. Or worse, captured again.
John's lungs and muscles were burning by the time he saw the first police car. He made a beeline for it, staggering more than running now, and stopped, His legs wobbling like jelly as he finally glanced behind him. No trace of his pursuer. John fell to his knees, completely exhausted.
Police officers swarmed around him, asking questions, helping him up, cutting his hands free, but he was too dazed to do anything but let himself be guided away from the road and sitting against a car hood as they waited for the paramedics.
I got away! I made it!
This was the only thought John could process right now. It went round and round in his head.
I got away! I made it!
He was safe.
"John? John Watson? Blimey! It is you!"
John knew that voice but his mind was all fuzzy. Concussion. He shouldn't close his eyes.
"John! Stay awake, John. Stay with me," the voice ordered and John nodded because that's what he would advise too.
"I sent Sherlock a text. Christ, he was going ballistic."
John felt something warm surround him and it took all his strength to focus. A long greyish coat. That was nice, better even than a shock blanket because it was already warm and not as scratchy.
"Thanks," he mumbled, trying to concentrate on the face of the man who'd been talking his ear off. "Lestrade."
"Good to know your brain isn't too damaged," the DI tried to joke but winced as he looked John over.
God, he must look a right sight. Lestrade helped him up and led him to the ambulance that had just arrived, adding to the chaos of lights and sirens.
"Go on. Sherlock will meet you there, he's already on his way," he told John as he was helped into the vehicle, then hesitated. "Do you want me to come with you?"
"Sure, yeah," John replied, giving a weak smile. He didn't know Lestrade all that well, but it was nice of him to offer since John didn't particularly feel at ease at the back of a vehicle with a bunch of strangers right now "Got questions, right?"
"Yeah, and you got my coat," he teased.
Lestrade hopped on, easily staying out of the way of the paramedic - probably used to it given his line of work - who was hovering over John, taking his vitals, dressing his still bleeding wounds and... damn his wrists hurt! - but that didn't stop John from really wanting to sleep even as the paramedic kept nudging him into wakefulness. He was good at his job, thorough and gentle, John noted approvingly and immediately passed out.
°oOo°
"Sherlock!" John screamed and bolted upright, immediately regretting it as his body protested, pain signals flooding his brain from just about everywhere.
"Shh," came a soothing voice before his bed dipped and he was overwhelmed by the smell of all things Sherlock: expensive shampoo, cigarette smoke and a mix of chemicals you only found in specialized labs. "I'm right here."
John fell back in his bed and leaned towards Sherlock, grateful for his heat because it meant he was alive and well.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Three in the morning. You've only been out for a few hours," Sherlock shifted his weight on the mattress, seemingly hesitant. "Dream?"
John nodded, but didn't say anything, not here in such a public space where anyone could overhear or spy on them.
"Go back to sleep. I'll be right here," Sherlock promised, running a hand softly through his hair near his temple. It felt nice, soothing, and without realizing it, John was drifting off into a more peaceful kind of sleep.
°oOo°
John could hear whispers nearby. People assume they won't wake you if they whisper rather than talk, when it's in fact the contrary that happens. Whispers are an anomaly, something to be wary of, so your subconscious nudges you awake in case of impending danger.
"He what?" Sherlock whispered but even then, it sounded completely outraged.
"Oh, yeah!" Lestrade was whispering back, hardly able to contain his excitement. "My guys found a video from a nearby shop, the one that got it's window busted. It's not very good quality, mind you, but you can clearly see John popping out of the boot like a demented Jack-in-the-Box, jumping from the car into the middle of traffic, dodging the cars and then a bullet before running like a wild hare across the traffic jam all the way up the street until he found us. All that with his hands tied behind his back! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. Let me tell you he's become quite a celebrity at the Yard. You should bring him around sometime."
Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible.
"Yeah, I know," Lestrade sympathized. "But it was still amazing. Do you think I can recruit him on my team? I could use someone that resourceful."
"You bloody well will not!" Sherlock barked and Lestrade immediately told him off for being so loud.
"S'kay," John rasped, his mouth feeling like it was full of flour. He reached over to the side where a small glass of water had been left and took a sip. Just that simple act drained him of his forces again and Lestrade hurried over to catch the glass before he dropped it. "M'awake, anyway."
Sherlock approached too and glared down at him, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Is it true?" he demanded.
"I'm amazing, yeah," John answered, trying to smile but even his face hurt so he gave up.
Sherlock wasn't smiling. Quite the opposite in fact. His expression was thunderous, like John had never seen it before. Anger, hurt, confusion, fear, too many emotions flickering across his face at an alarming speed.
"That was stupid! Careless! You could have died!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"He was going to kill me anyway," John huffed, annoyed now. He didn't regret his actions, he was alive after all, if a bit worse for wear. "And slowly at that. I wasn't going to do nothing like a lamb taken to slaughter!"
"I would have found you," Sherlock argued.
"You don't know that, Sherlock. They were very clever about it, believe me. And I'm not some bloody helpless princess who needs to wait on her knight in shining armour to come save her! I can take care of myself!"
"A helpless... Is that how you see me, then?" Sherlock snarled.
"No! Damnit, Sherlock! You know that's different-" John growled but cut himself off.
This was not a conversation they could possibly have here with the DI as a witness. Especially because the latter's mouth was hanging open, and his cheeks slightly flushed.
"I- Sorry," Lestrade stuttered. "I hadn't realized you two… that you were like that," John and Sherlock shared a puzzled look with the DI. "A couple, I mean. It's obvious, now. Should have seen it sooner really. Ha! What a copper that makes of me," he added, laughing nervously as he finished.
"What-" John began.
"No, we're not-" Sherlock said at the same time.
John recalled the times Sherlock had deliberately invaded his personal space for no good reason and how his own body had reacted to such proximity… he quickly ducked his head, blushing. Maybe he could just pretend to go back to sleep and forget this whole messy conversation.
"It's not like that," Sherlock said smoothly. "We live together, that's all."
John felt his heart ache at those words, although he knew Sherlock didn't really mean them. However, he certainly couldn't explain the nature of their bond to an outsider. It was secret for a reason and who would believe them anyway?
"Erm… You're not helping your case, Sherlock," Lestrade pointed out with a grin.
"As flatmates. We're flatmates," John snapped, wanting the discussion over.
"Riiiight," Lestrade said, drawing the single word out and not looking the least bit convinced. "So... if you're well enough, I'm gonna need you to tell me what happened, John."
And John did. From the moment the bald man stepped out of the car to his escape from the boot. The rest of his flight up the street, Lestrade already knew about apparently and it was all a bit of a blur to John who had been focused on running and not much else. Some details prior to that had become fuzzy too, whether because of the concussion, all the excitement of running for his life or the large quantities of painkillers that had been pumped into his body, John couldn't say. It was
difficult enough concentrating on not giving up any detail of his involvement in the cabby's death and Lestrade was very thorough in his interrogation. Sherlock seemed to understand John's hesitations and silences for what they were, lies and deceit, whereas Lestrade gave him sympathetic smiles and reassured him that it would come back to him eventually, making John feel even more like shite.
"Okay, well, sorry if I tired you out, John, but it was important to get your statement as soon as possible, especially because we're stumped on our side. The two cars seem to have just disappeared into thin air, but I'll get the artist to come around after you get a bit of rest, see if he can get a portrait of the two men you saw."
John nodded and waved him off. He was exhausted, truth be told. He lied back against his pillow and felt his eyes drooping heavily.
"You're still an idiot," Sherlock told him, but his expression was one of fondness this time as he sank back in the visitor's chair Lestrade had just vacated.
°oOo°
"Urgh! I can't stand it! It's just bruises! Can't they let me go already?" John muttered after a nurse had bandaged his raw wrists and knees anew.
He'd been there for three days already and the inaction was driving him crazy. He had so much to tell Sherlock about the madman, about The Dream. Time was running out! Once The Dream had taken form, that meant Sherlock's end was close. They needed to take his dream apart, analyze it and plan ahead to avoid… John shuddered. And yet he could do nothing because he was stuck is a stupid hospital bed. He couldn't even fathom how Sherlock was managing to stay so calm.
"So it's true," Sherlock commented mildly from the chair he'd elected as his new residence for as long as John was there. "Doctors do make the worst patients. And it's not just bruises, as you very well know: one concussion, deep lacerations on your wrists and forehead, your knees are reduced to the state of mince meat and you have two fractured ribs. How you didn't actually break anything is a mystery."
"Don't," John said, holding up his hand in warning. "Not this again, or I'll have to remind you who was about to take a poisoned pill, voluntarily."
They'd been having this argument on and off during their stay in the hospital and both were getting fed up with it: Sherlock, because he disliked the dullness of repetition and John because Sherlock was in full denial about ever being in danger.
"But seriously, can't you get me out of here?" John pleaded. "Please? I just need time to heal now, there's no reason to stay in the hospital and you're going to have to sleep sooner or later. Let's go back home?"
Sherlock looked at him until the mulish expression he'd worn since their argument broke into a malicious smile that didn't bode well for whoever was going to be at the receiving end of whatever he'd plotted.
"Give me twenty minutes," he said with a wink and disappeared through the door before John could try to curb his enthusiasm.
Well, John did want to go home. If Sherlock had to make a few nurses and doctors cry in the process, it would be worth it. He wanted calm, not the constant hubbub of the hospital all around him. He wanted the familiarity of Baker Street, not the sanitised anonymity of his sick room. He wanted tea - real tea, not the sock juice they served here - his bed, his own damn pajamas. But most of all, he wanted to be able to talk with Sherlock without fearing eavesdroppers. He wanted home.
With painstaking difficulty and many groans, John dressed himself, with the spare clothes Mrs Hudson had had the foresight to bring on her last visit. John was doing his best to delete the fact she had picked out his flashy red pants personally when Sherlock strode in with a smirk, pushing a wheelchair in front of him.
"Just under fifteen minutes," he announced. "Embezzlement and an affair, you're in luck, John."
John snorted. Only Sherlock could come up with something so outrageous and that should in no case be taken out of context. He helped him into the wheelchair while John tried not to groan or wince too much just in case Sherlock changed his mind and aborted his bid for escape. Then, John borrowed his phone while Sherlock pushed him across and down floors to text both Mycroft and Lestrade before they thought they'd both been kidnapped from the hospital and sent their men after them. It could be embarrassing if they kicked down the doors of their flat while he was having a bubble bath or something.
°oOo°
221B Baker Street had been just as they'd left it before running after the cabby, which was to be expected since neither he nor Sherlock had been back since then. If John did not hurt so much everywhere, it would almost feel like returning home after a holiday but he was panting and using Sherlock as a makeshift crutch. The stairs had been murder and he glared at the flight of stairs that led to his own room as he collapsed in the sofa. But first things first, they had a lot to discuss.
"We really need to-" John started before he realized Sherlock wasn't there anymore. Where had he run off to? "Sherlock?"
"In a minute!" he called back and John could hear a flurry of activity behind him.
Then, Sherlock reappeared with a blanket he carefully laid on John's lap and a steaming cup of tea he set on the table within easy reach.
"Thanks," John said with a warm smile that the other reflected before he became serious once more. "Listen-"
This time it was Sherlock who interrupted him by pressing his index finger to his lips and winking, both gestures so furtive, he wasn't sure he had not imagined them. But Sherlock started stalking around the room, his eyes darting everywhere, his long fingers plucking at random objects.
"There," he announced throwing a bunch of small devices into one of his old experiments that was, as far as John could tell, a big vat of acid where the objects fizzled and died. "That should be all of them."
"All of them...what?" John asked, mystified.
"Mycroft has a very peculiar concept of security. Some might call it spying."
"You mean those were…"
"Microphones and cameras, yes. But don't worry, Mycroft is not so crass as to have wired our bedrooms or the bathrooms, and I already took care of the kitchen. Now, we can talk."
John gaped at him, but Sherlock seemed to find the situation completely normal, as if it was an everyday occurrence to have your brother wiretap your flat.
"If you're not too tired that is," he added with a touch of concern, completely misreading his befuddlement.
"No, fine, yes." John cleared his throat. Where to begin? Ah, yes, of course. The man from his Dream who was so set on killing Sherlock: "Moriarty."
Sherlock flinched ever so slightly.
"So you've heard the name before," John stated and received a nod.
"The cabby told me I had a 'fan' who acted as his sponsor for the murders. I coaxed a name out of him before he died: Moriarty."
John blanched, worrying Sherlock.
"It's just… the man who kidnapped me said the cabby was 'his'. I didn't see him but he sounded nothing like the man, Moriarty, that was in my dreams." John frowned in thought. "No, that's not it... he talked the same way except for the strong Irish accent."
"Accents can be concealed, or added, as need be, with a little training," Sherlock told him, changing his accent every few words.
"That's amazing," John said. "Well, that explains a lot…"
John filled Sherlock in on what exactly he'd left out from his official statement to Lestrade, and Sherlock nodded, having apparently guessed most of it anyway and they soon got on with The Dream he'd started having since that first night in the hospital.
°oOo°
John knew he was in one of his special prophetic dreams. They just didn't feel the same as reality or the dreams he used to have, those normal people have. But he was startled nonetheless to see himself there. He did a double-take and had and minor episode of vertigo at seeing a John Watson outside of himself, identical in all aspects. Like having a twin, he supposed, but he wasn't as battered as he was now although there were still telltale traces of the bruises and cuts that he'd just gained. But such a thing had never happened before and John was terrified of what that could mean. Could it be that he wasn't capable of saving Sherlock this time around?
John tried to get his tangled thoughts to just shut up for a minute in order to observe and memorize the scene playing out before him.
Old abandoned warehouse, no surprise there but the rest was surprising. The room was full of flood lights, blinding them as they walked in given the way they were shielding their eyes and squinting, the telltale flashes of red and blue lights visible through dirty or broken window panes and policemen were everywhere, going about their business. Undeniably coppers from Scotland Yard given their uniforms, although the lack of a forensic team puzzled him. He'd expect to see Anderson, being an arse as usual upon their arrival.
"Lestrade?" Sherlock called, having as little success as either dream-John or dreaming-John at locating the Detective Inspector who usually came to meet them with either a tired scowl or an abashed smile, depending on whether the case was gruesome or just plain weird.
As if on cue, in one smooth motion all the policemen were pointing their guns at a surprised John and Sherlock, the sound of multiple safety catches being pulled back the only sound echoing in the warehouse before a man stepped out gingerly from behind one of the floodlights in his expensive suit, looking very much out of place in such a derelict building.
"James Moriarty. Hi!" he said with a strong Irish accent as he planted himself at arm's length from them. "Am I glad you two have decided to join me. You've been causing so much trouble together that I decided to take a preemptive strike. Nothing personal."
The two John's were observing Sherlock, seeing he was looking frantically for a way out, a diversion, an angle of attack and finding none. Too many people had their guns pointing, not only at him but at John too.
"Oh, you look so sad, Sherly," Moriarty mocked, pouting exaggeratedly as he shoved his face in Sherlock's personal space. "Are you afraid for your little friend here? I must admit I didn't know what you found in him at first, but there's much more to him than first meets the eye. Like an angry grizzly passing himself off as a cuddly teddybear. I even thought of keeping him for myself," he said as he trailed a finger down the side of dream-John's cheek who barely managed to hide a shudder. "But we both know he's far too loyal to you to be brought over to the fun side."
Moriarty sighed heavily.
"So you're just going to shoot us here? Tedious," Sherlock said with apparent boredom although he probably wasn't fooling anyone and neither Johns could fathom why he was trying to get a rise out of a criminal with an army of hired guns, but Moriarty cocked his head at Sherlock pensively.
"I did play games with you, Sherly, for years, decades, and you never caught on. You could have died many times over but you always make it out at the last minute. That overdose was quite fun to watch, I had my dealer sell you something a little purer than usual and you should have noticed if you hadn't always been as high as a kite. I'm starting to think you're more lucky than clever."
Sherlock scoffed while both John's looked at Sherlock in horror: He? Sherlock? A junkie?
"Uh-oh," Moriarty chuckled. "It looks like you kept secrets from your little pet. That's not very nice."
Sherlock spared John a worried look before glaring back at Moriarty.
"He's inconsequential," Sherlock said, tossing his head in John's direction. "Kill me and he won't be any problem to someone like you."
Moriarty laughed. It was a grating sound, high pitched and tinged with madness.
"I don't think I believe you… but it is interesting. How would one live if the other died?" he asked no one in particular as he took out his own handgun.
"Sherlock, no!" John barked. "If that's the best you could come up with, it's not worth it."
And just as Sherlock tried to convince him otherwise, Moriarty started shooting near their feet, effectively shutting them up as they stood frozen on the spot, wearing similar expressions of "what the fuck do you think you're doing?" aimed at the Moriarty's poor marksmanship.
"There," Moriarty said happily after he had fiddled with the chamber's content, pointing the gun at John, then Sherlock before turning it against John again. "Now, we can play a little game: one bullet left, two targets. Let's see who's luckiest then, shall we?"
John moved forward, wanting to rip the gun out of the madman's hands but a bullet coming from one of the fake policemen surrounding them fired off and grazed his arm, forcing him to retreat hastily, holding the wound as he hissed at the burning sensation. Sherlock stepped closer, his worried look turning to one of horror when the hot barrel of Moriarty's gun was pressed to John's forehead.
"Since you're offering to go first," Moriarty said with a manic smile and pressed the trigger.
"No…" Sherlock breathed out.
Click.
Moriarty laughed while John's legs turned to jelly and he fell to his knees. Sherlock moved to help him up but Moriarty stuck the barrel to his forehead and forced him to stand ramrod straight. Dream-John face twisted in a grimace of such rage that dreaming-John now understood what his army-buddies called his warrior face, and he lunged himself at Moriarty's legs before any of his henchman could react, but his finger, already curled around the trigger pulled taut as he fell, letting a bullet loose. Moriarty then backhanded John in the temple with the heavy gun before springing back to his feet.
"You chose… poorly," Moriarty mocked, looking not John who was trying to blink his vision back into focus but at the spot where Sherlock had stood.
But Sherlock wasn't standing anymore, his lanky form lay on the ground, a bright red stain blooming across his white shirt at heart level.
"I'll be watching you, Johnny boy. Do keep me entertained!"
Shocked, the two Johns were screaming Sherlock's name over and over as the false policemen filed out of the warehouse in orderly fashion behind their leader before John woke up, still screaming Sherlock's name.