A/N: Super-hot here. Difficult to concentrate and write, so yeah, slow updates, sorry!
John woke up with a strangled cry, his limbs flailing wildly as he tried to reach a Sherlock who had become as insubstantial as the thin air his fingers curled around. The image of that curly head he loved so much exploding right in front of him, his blood spraying his face with warm droplets, the metallic tang of his blood… John's stomach lurched, his only warning before he vomited all over himself.
He should be used to these kind of visions by now, but John had been standing too close this time, he'd been taken by surprise, both by the abruptness and the violence… John fell back on the small uncomfortable cot when he heard the unmistakable fall of Billy's heavy boots echoing down the passage to the basement and an idea struck him. He could almost feel a light bulb pop above his head and wondered if Sherlock always felt like that. It might not work, but it was worth a shot, and the worse that could happen would be that he would be injected with another dose of tranquilizers, which would, right now, be a blessing, because he he didn't have the Dream play over and over in his mind when he couldn't do a damn thing about it, locked as he was, away from the world, away from Sherlock.
"Hey," Billy grunted, then tapped the metal bars with something hard, his gun maybe, when he got no response.
John lay very still, knowing he couldn't fake being dead half as well as Sherlock probably could, but the lack of light should help and he'd positioned himself, so he would look his worse while not giving away how very much alive he was.
"Hey, you! Wake up!" Billy repeated more loudly this time, more anxiously.
John was almost certain the guard would not just turn around and ignore him. He would be too afraid to have to explain to his crazy boss why exactly the prisoner he was supposed to be guarding, while he hadn't escaped this time around, was, on the other hand, very dead. That probably deserved a bullet to the head in Moriarty's books too.
What didn't? he wondered, trying to ignore the itch at the tip of his nose.
Cursing, Billy fumbled with his keys. John heard the lock turn, the door creak open and the boots thump closer and closer, stopping right next to his bed. He could almost feel the man's eyes on him.
Just a little more…
Billy nudged his shoulder.
A little more...
"Wake up!" he ordered, his voice on the verge of panic. Poor sod.
And then Billy did the unthinkable and bent forward over John's prone body to check for a pulse, or to see if he was breathing, John would never know, because in that instant he had the long chain that tied his ankle swiftly wrapped around Billy's thick neck and he pulled, and pulled with all his might, getting hit a few times by the man's flailing limbs before he stopped thrashing around like an idiot and tried to pull the chain away instead, but it was too late by then and he soon slumped forward over John's body.
"Sorry Billy," he said, not meaning it in the least, but he was giddy on adrenaline and success and that always made him a bit silly.
John pushed him off and checked for a pulse. Not dead. John didn't care either way, but he might as well leave the dirty work to Moriarty, or rather, Sebastian.
John picked up the ring of keys Billy had dropped next to the bed, glad he hadn't left them in the door's lock or he wouldn't have been able to reach them, and he unlocked the cuff at his ankle, smirking as he clasped it shut around Billy's.
Turnabout is fair play.
John pulled the scratchy blanket over the guard. He was way too bulky to be mistaken for John but it might pass a cursory inspection. He locked the door and tossed the keys in a dark corner where no one would think to look. They were too noisy to risk taking with him anyway.
John quickly made his way out of the basement, the tranquilizer gun in hand, with an ominous impression of déjà-vu. He hoped he'd get further this time, hoped he wouldn't run into Moriarty and Sebastian again at the last minute. Maybe he would at least get to see the outside this time. He knew it would be night since he'd just had a dream, probably around three or four o'clock since that's when they usually occurred.
At the top of the steps, he listened at the door, his finger on the trigger, but he couldn't hear anything. He had no idea if there were more guards on the other side. He hadn't seen any when he'd glanced the inside of the warehouse on his first escape attempt, but he had been a bit busy trying to breathe through Sebastian's chokehold. Besides, would Moriarty still leave the place unchecked when John had almost managed to escape once before? John pressed his ear closer to the door but couldn't hear anything.
Here goes nothing.
John pushed the door open, very slowly. All was dark and very quiet, but there was enough moonlight pouring through the large dirty windowpanes set high up on the walls and roof that he could make the outlines of the warehouse: crates, old metal pipes, a car - presumably Billy's, piles of junk, an old newspaper being slowly blown across the building… it seemed safe, but caution is the mother of safety. John inched his way out, staying close to the shadows against the wall and carefully made his way for a small door at the back. It wasn't until he was almost at the door that he froze at the sight of another guard, sitting on a folding garden chair that squeaked every time he shifted.
Holding his breath, John walked back, one step at a time, his eyes never leaving the second guard. Could there be more? But more importantly, was there another exit? John could just shoot him to sleep but there was always the chance he might miss, not that he doubted his skills, but his weapon was only a dart gun and if he was wearing any kind of armour of thick material under his black fatigues, it would be highly ineffectual. No, John couldn't risk him raising the alarm if there were other sentinels, especially not if that door he was guarding was locked. Maybe he should have kept the keys, jingling his way through the warehouse. Huffing in annoyance, John looked around the desolate place, heading for a patch on the ground where a clear triangle of moonlight detached itself from the rest of the shadows, like a moth drawn to a flame. He almost wept with relief when he realized the light came from one of the old metal panels of the building that had been bent out of shape, then poorly hammered back into some semblance of repair. John pulled at the edge, wincing when the metal protested until it was finally just big enough for him to wriggle through. Maybe he should thank his captors for the few pounds he'd lost. However, he was slowed down by his clothes that kept getting snagged on the jagged metal bits sticking out. He even had to leave his coat behind when it stuck on a nail and started ripping all too loudly for his taste, but he made it. John Watson was standing proudly outside in the open, relishing the fresh air, the cold, and even the drizzle. A free man. But only for a second because fear that there might be guards posted outside overtook him.
John scuttled away from the warehouse, sticking to the shadows where he walked at a brisk pace, but running as fast as he could across the bare and lighted patches. He did this for quite some time, slowing his steps only when he started reaching civilization again. But even then, he was still weary of the cars passing him by, especially sleek black kidnapping cars, or the likes of Billy's battered old Jeep.
John finally crossed paths with another normal human being, and by that, he meant someone who wasn't likely to kidnap him, drug him or beat him up. But the man yelped at his sight, crossed the road and all but ran in the opposite direction. John was puzzled for only a second before he realized he must really look a sight: dirty, beaten up, with more scruff on his face than he'd ever had in his entire life and he was holding what appeared to be a real gun. He probably looked miserable and like he might make use of said gun any second since his finger was still on the trigger.
Yeah, no wonder he had scared that poor bloke. It was the middle of the night, too. Or were they approaching early morning by now? Probably the latter, he had been walking for quite some time and the sky had lightened somewhat. John chuckled at the improbable situations he managed to find himself in and threw the gun in the next bin, looking around him for unwanted attention or pursuers, when he noticed a CCTV camera. He walked up to it and waved at the camera, feeling a stupid grin spread across his face, but he was so relieved that he couldn't keep it off. Mycroft did not magically appear in front of him unfortunately, and John had to admit he was a bit disappointed. Sherlock's brother had always seemed so all knowing and all powerful that he had half expected it.
John walked on, annoyed that he was so far from anyone he could ask for help, and annoyed at himself for not having the forethought of going through Billy's pockets for a phone. Oh, well, nothing for it. Scotland Yard was probably the closest place to go from here and Lestrade would probably give him a ride back home. Maybe the DI had even been looking for him. He could file the report saying he had found the victim in his office.
John smirked, hoping his new brand of crazy mind-wanderings would stop once he got back home. One madman in the flat was more than enough. He crossed paths with four more CCTVs and waved at each of them, just in case Mycroft was looking, or maybe one of his lackeys would finally notice the trend and report it to him. He thought it might very well be the case when the fifth camera turned his way and even followed him as he walked passed.
Ha! Looked like it had worked after all.
"Hey, you!" someone hollered and John froze, ready to bolt away, but it was only a couple of police officers in yellow jackets. Patrolling, maybe? Or were they looking for the crazy homeless guy with a gun? John congratulated himself for having binned it. "Papers, please."
"Don't have them," John said, knowing they were in his wallet. "Say, can you take me to Scotland Yard. I'm a friend of Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Yeah, right," one of the police officers snickered.
"Been drinking much, mate?" the other said, his nose crinkling in distaste. "Or something stronger?"
"What?" John asked, blinking before remembering he had vomit all over his front. "Oh, no, no. That's not it. I was kidnapped by this madman and-"
"Yeah, right. I think this one is ripe for the drunk tank. Come along, mate. Let's not disturb the Queen's peace."
John shrugged and followed the two officers. He wanted to go to Scotland Yard, and to Scotland Yard he was headed with an armed escort. It was better than he'd hoped for.
ooo
The police officers wouldn't hear another word about alerting DI Lestrade for him, so he just followed them meekly into Scotland Yard, hoping Mycroft would think to look for him in the drunk tank. The light in the entrance hall was blindingly bright after so long in the gloom and darkness, so much so that he squinted and covered his eyes with an arm, when he heard the most beautiful sound in the world.
"John!"
John jolted up, squinting around, searching for Sherlock whom that voice belonged to. There he was, taking long strides towards him with a stunned Lestrade in his wake, pushing people out of his way and wearing the biggest smile he had ever seen on his face.
"Sherlock," he croaked out, feeling the prickle of tears trying to escape.
No. I'm not going to break down now in front of the whole bloody Scotland Yard. Not after everything I went through.
Sherlock was extending his arms, looking ready to hug him despite the very public surroundings, but John took a hurried step back.
"No!" he cried out.
"What?" Sherlock said, seeming lost and a bit hurt. "John?"
John blushed.
"No. It's just that… I stink, Sherlock. I'm disgusting and could use a couple of baths before you even think of hugging me," he said, his voice gruffer than before from sheer lack of use, despite his one sided-monologues with Billy.
Sherlock's face broke into a grin again and he grabbed him, smothering him into a warm hug. It was the best feeling ever. He could stay there forever.
"As if I care. John. My John. I was worried sick. I've been looking all over for you," he murmured in his ear.
Sherlock then held him at arm's length, looking him over, scowling from time to time but seeming satisfied on the whole. He chuckled.
"You do stink," he announced and finally let him go, although he did stay close as if he might disappear again.
"I did warn you," John teased and felt a heavy blanket fall on his shoulders.
"Hey, Greg," he greeted the DI. "Still my official shock blanket provider, I see."
"Yeah, but you're not getting my coat with that stench. I'd never get it out again. And it would be nice if you could avoid needing shock blankets in the first place," he said looking both happy and tired. "It's good to see you, John. Sherlock was becoming unmanageable without you."
"He threatened to have me arrested," Sherlock muttered.
"I can imagine. Oh, could you send some people down at this warehouse?" John asked the DI, grabbing a pen and paper from the welcome desk to jot down an approximate address and directions. "They might not have realized I left yet."
Lestrade's eyes bugged out a little, looking between the address and John.
"I guess I shouldn't be surprised after the last stunt you pulled off. Just give me a sec to get this organized. Do you need medical help by the way?"
John shook his head and waved him off. Sherlock then navigated the building until they were in Lestrade's office, a few of the Yarders he knew gawking at them as they walked by.
"How did you know I was coming?" John asked, sitting in one of the visitor's chair, appreciating having a chair to sit on for the first time in days.
"Mycroft texted me. The smug bastard gave me a countdown of your arrival at the Yard without any explanation. Lucky I wasn't far."
John nodded. That made sense. He wanted to ask Sherlock what Moriarty had made him do, when the door opened. Sherlock expression became blank and John turned to see Sally Donovan. She wasn't really a fan of him any more than she was Sherlock, so he hoped she wasn't here to poke fun at them because he wasn't in the mood. But, to his astonishment, she put a large, steaming cup of tea in front of him with a couple of biscuits wrapped in plastic, then left without a word. Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow at him after she left.
"Reckon it's poisoned?" John whispered, stifling a fit of giggles. The onset of hysteria, he thought, but Sherlock was laughing too.
"I'd wager she's just glad she'll have to put in less hours looking for you."
John chuckled but he was appreciative of the gesture. A cup of tea was exactly what he needed right now. He downed half of it and was feeling quite full already when Lestrade reappeared.
"Are you feeling up to giving a statement? Or you can go back home to rest first if you'd rather?"
John shook his head adamantly.
"I've slept more than enough, believe me. Those guys had a thing for drugs. It was bloody annoying."
John filled them in on his kidnapping from A to Z, needing to edit his tale only once for Lestrade's sake about his Dream, feigning a mild food poisoning instead. Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look, because John could literally eat anything and not get sick. He was almost certain he'd eaten one of Sherlock's experiments once, but he hadn't wanted to ask. Sometimes, ignorance is preferable. John gave Sherlock a pointed look, urging him to figure it out. It took only a few seconds for Sherlock's mouth to part slightly in understanding and John gave a sharp nod, wondering much later when they had mastered nonverbal communication.
"You sure I can't tempt you into joining the Yard?" Lestrade asked when he had finished.
"No, Lestrade. He's mine. Find you own John," Sherlock replied.
John could get used to his possessiveness. It was kind of endearing, but knew it was only because he had lost him for a few days... A week? He was about to ask about that when the door opened and Donovan's head poked in.
"The SO19 teams called in. They picked up one man passed out in the basement and one at the door, just as you said, Dr Watson, but there was a third one outside that got away. No conventional firearms were found. SO19 said we could have gone in ourselves."
"They still managed to lose one," Lestrade grumbled. "He probably ran off to his master too, so we can't set a trap at the warehouse now."
John shifted on his seat at the mention of Moriarty.
"About that..." he said trying to find the right words and motioning for Donovan to step in, which she did after a moment's hesitation, closing the door behind her. "I think it would be best if it wasn't widely known that I escaped on my own. Let Moriarty continue to underestimate me, and think the police have more resources than they really do. No offence."
"None taken," Lestrade assured him and paused thoughtfully, considering his request. John was glad he hadn't refused outright. "I guess that can be arranged. The timing between the two events is tight enough that we can muddle things up, especially since John walked in with a couple of our officers. I didn't know you were so devious, John."
"Yeah, well. You try dating one genius while being stalked by another, and you'll start thinking on a different set of tracks entirely too."
Sherlock's eyes crinkled in amusement, mesmerizing John, who only vaguely heard the two Yarders bicker with one another in harsh whispers. Lestrade finally ordered them to go catch up on some rest while he sorted out all this mess.
"And for God's sake, John, take a bath. In the Thames if you have to."
They returned home in a police car, much to Sherlock's chagrin. John had noted before that Sherlock absolutely loathed riding in one of the Met's patrol cars, but he hadn't gotten the story behind it yet. Maybe Lestrade would know. The DI had doubted any cab would stop with John looking like that, so they caved in and accepted his offer of a car. On their way home, John shared his doubts about the wisdom of returning to such a blatantly obvious place when Moriarty was still after them, but Sherlock had assured him that 221B was safe and locked down more tightly than the Crown Jewels.
"He's going to be pissed," John said, talking about Moriarty's reaction to his "rescue" by the Met.
"So? Let angry dogs bark. He can't reach either of us there without having a whole platoon of SAS swamping him. Or whatever other special ops Mycroft deemed necessary," he amended after a beat. "You'll be safe there."
It was hardly his own security John was worried about, but he held his tongue. They would come to this argument soon enough when they discussed his latest Dream... vision of the future. He wasn't sure anymore.
The first thing John did when he stepped into their flat was to peel off all of his clothes and throw them directly into a garbage bag. He might have tried to wash them if they hadn't all been shredded to some degree after wriggling out of the warehouse. Actually, he was glad for the excuse to throw everything away that may link him to that place.
The second thing John did was to hop into the shower. He knew he'd only be stewing in his own filth if he tried taking a bath. He turned the taps full on, making the water as hot as he could tolerate, and scrubbing viciously at his skin until it was pink and as clean as he could hope it to be. He might be a clean freak for the next few days just to compensate for the lack of it during his absence.
The third thing John did was to brush his teeth, because he fully intended to kiss Sherlock to show just how much he'd missed him. Unfortunately, vomit-breath could deter even the most enthusiast of lovers so he'd had to reign himself in and wait until he made himself more human. John wiped the steam clinging to the mirror and froze at the face he saw in the mirror. It was still him, very much so despite the fading bruises colouring one side of his face and the sharper edges of his cheekbones, but it was the facial hair that surprised him: it was darker than his hair, with copper hues. It gave him quite a rugged look and he wondered if he should just keep it that way.
"Sherlock?" he called and laughed when the door opened immediately. "You were standing behind that door the whole time, weren't you?"
"Well, you didn't invite me in. I didn't have much of a choice," he muttered.
"Since when have you ever needed an invitation?" John asked waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.
"I'm going to hold you up to that, you know?" he replied with a low, dangerous tone that made John wonder if he hadn't just made a terrible mistake.
"The beard?" he asked, grappling for the first thing to come to mind. "What do you think? Should I keep it?"
Sherlock let his fingers trail in the coarse hair for a while before kissing the tip of his nose.
"Shave it. I like my doctors clean-shaven."
John turned around and went to work on it, fascinated by how fast it grew out if you let it.
"How long was I gone by the way? Between the dark and the drugs, I couldn't count the passing of days all that well."
"Thirteen days and nine hours from the moment I was alerted," Sherlock answered, his voice sounding hollow now.
John dropped his razor.
"That long?" he asked, fishing his razor back out of the sink and flicking the water off.
It exceeded his worse estimate by over three days and he couldn't even fathom at what moment those had been misplaced.
"Wait… You were alerted? By who?" John asked, he hadn't been able to do it himself, that much he knew. Could it be someone from the shop? Or Mycroft? John wouldn't be surprised if he had more eyes around London than just the CCTVs. It wasn't Moriarty after all, or Sherlock wouldn't look so amused by his befuddlement.
"By whom," Sherlock corrected automatically, earning himself an eye-roll when their eyes met in the mirror. "Your sister barged in here unannounced demanding to see you."
"Harry?"
"Do you have any other sisters I'm unaware of?" he teased. "No, I didn't think so. She came straight from her office judging by her appearance and said you had called her, which was already surprising in itself since you never call her, but she said you had sounded very strange and that you weren't picking up your phone anymore. From there, it was the usual legwork to find where you had disappeared from, when and how. But I still couldn't find you."
Sherlock fell silent, his expression somber for a moment, then became animated again as he typed in a text at lightning speed and sent it off.
"I promised to keep her updated," he explained. "Although I don't think she much appreciated the 'not dead" messages, or the picture Moriarty sent to prove you were, in fact, not dead."
John breathed in sharply.
"Not good?"
"A bit not good, yeah..." John replied, shaving off the last of his beard.
"Oh. Is this one of those instances where it's better to lie and pretend everything is fine and dandy when everyone knows it's not?"
John couldn't help but smile at that. He was right, logically speaking, but that's just not how it was done. Sherlock's phone chirped again and he read the message.
"She's on her way," he said.
Oh, boy. John was not looking forward to his sister's visit and all her drama, especially because he had been looking forward to making up for lost time with Sherlock. He looked disappointed too, in fact, but not for long.
"Come here," Sherlock purred, pulling him flush against him and wiping away a bit of shaving cream he had missed on his neck, just below his ear. Oh...sensitive spot. "We have twenty-two minutes before she gets here, and that's if she doesn't bother with make-up."