Author's Note:
Warnings: abuse, implied/referenced drug use, implied/referenced past domestic violence
Not me screaming in late to whumptober LITERALLY at the end of the month. I am doing my best. I am a mess. I am trying. I hope you enjoy this, it didn't turn out exactly like how I wanted it, I might make a more fleshed-out version later from joan or sherlock's pov, but we'll see.
Thanks for reading :)
Sick Day, Sick Week
MARCUS:
Hey did you get that email I sent about the Rafael case?
(received, Saturday 5:46 p.m.)
SHERLOCK:
Gng 2 b late. Mtng ran over. I'll meet u Doug Smith's 2nite
(received, Saturday 7:34 p.m.)
You are typing…
EMILY:
Hey, Joanie! You missed our lunch. Everything okay?
(received, Sunday 3:04 p.m.)
LIN:
Call me. I have the most wild story for you. I hate my job.
(received, Sunday, 7:22 p.m.)
WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME THAT OREN IS COMING TO NY? I HAVEN'T MET HIM YET JOAN!
(received, Sunday, 9:34 p.m.)
MOM:
Call your sister.
(received, Sunday, 10:24 p.m.)
LIN:
Joaaaan :(
(received, Monday, 9:05 a.m.)
Hey are you okay?
(received, Monday, 5:32 p.m.)
Sherlock isn't answering either. Call me. I'm worried.
(received, Monday, 11:03 p.m.)
ALFREDO LLAMOSA:
I can't get ahold of Sherlock. Is he alright? Are you?
(received, Monday, 8:34 p.m.)
MARCUS:
It's been a few days since you guys came to the station. You still alive?
(received, Tuesday, 12:23 p.m.)
CAPTAIN GREGSON:
Did you get your phone line disconnected again? You're not answering calls.
( received, Tuesday, 4:24 p.m.)
MARCUS:
I'm going to come by your place if you don't show up today. You better not be dead.
(received, Wednesday, 8:13 a.m.)
000o000
Sherlock shows up to the station at exactly ten a.m. looking like he's in the middle of the worst case of pneumonia in recorded history. He's pale and shaky, dressed in one of those sweaters that Marcus hasn't seen in years. His hair is a mess and his facial hair clearly hasn't been shaved in several days.
"Sherlock," Marcus gets up to his feet as the man approaches him, and can't help the way his eyes widen. "What happened to you?"
"Sick," Sherlock's voice is raw. One of the detectives laughs loudly, suddenly, and Sherlock's head whips in the direction of the sound with wide, hunted eyes. Marcus' heart picks up speed just looking at him. Marcus grabs his arm.
"Hey, why don't you sit down? You're really not looking good, man."
"No," Sherlock says, "I can't stay. Busy."
"Where's Joan?"
"Not here."
"Yeah, I can see that." Marcus reassures, eyebrow raising.
Sherlock's head turns back toward him. "Is the Captain here? I need a word with both of you," there's a hesitation, "About a case."
As if Marcus would assume it's not about a case? Marcus nods and puts a hand on Sherlock's back, guiding him toward the Captain's office. Gregson looks up at both of them as they enter and his eyes linger on Sherlock.
"What happened to you?"
"Sick," Sherlock dismisses. "You have to-I need-" He looks between both of them, opens his mouth, and something catches. He pulls down the sleeves of his sweater to cover his wrists. "I'm working with a private client. I need access to department resources. Watson and I are attempting to find some very value stolen items."
Sherlock prattles about the case for a minute, insistent that he can't say who the private client or any additional information despite his desire to. He's lying, and badly, and that more than anything is what tells Marcus that something is wrong.
Sherlock doesn't lie badly. Marcus didn't even know he could lie badly. The man has a poker face that could fool God. He could convince anyone of anything, even that they don't know their own name. And he's not lying.
Marcus chews on the inside of his cheek. "You really can't say any more?"
"No," Sherlock snaps.
Marcus looks at the Captain. Gregson's eyes are tight around the edges. "Alright," Gregson says, which surprises Marcus. Gregson isn't one for letting leashes sag if he can help it. "But I want you to check up with us. How much money did you say your client was missing again?"
"15.6 million," Sherlock answers. He rocks on his heels. Clenches his hands.
He's nervous, Marcus realizes.
"Okay," Gregson says, "did he bother to mention what the 'valuables' were?" the air quotations practically ooze from him.
Sherlock shakes his head.
Gregson sighs. "You have the department backing you, but I don't want you taking any unnecessary risks. You play this clean, got it?"
"Yes," Sherlock assures, which means very little. Puppies and babies in distress come to mind.
Sherlock nods and then stumbles toward the door. Marcus and Gregson share a significant look before Marcus hunts down Sherlock. He finds Sherlock at his desk, already going through wanted posters for gang members. Given that their private client is supposed to be a rich businessman, Marcus is surprised. What does SBK have to do with this? Because those are SBK members. At least, the ones that used to be SBK. Marcus isn't completely sure what happened to the remains of the group after the mass arrests two weeks ago.
"So private client?" Marcus asks and leans back against his desk. Sherlock closes the tab and sits back in the chair. His gaze flicks up to Marcus before jumping away like he can't withstand the pressure.
"I would tell you, but it would put you in an awkward position," Sherlock says. "It's better this way."
Marcus thinks about that. So their client has a warrant? That or they're close to getting a warrant. The only reason Sherlock would lie about this is to keep the client safe. Marcus isn't happy about that, but he understands.
"Hey, so long as no one ends up hurt, I'm not complaining," Marcus assures.
So long as you and Joan don't end up hurt, is what he doesn't say.
Sherlock's smile is tight. "Will you look into the shell corporations I said earlier? I need to find Watson," he says, and then starts to get up. He wobbles a fraction. Blinks like he as to orient his position in the room. This isn't sickness. Sherlock doesn't even have a fever.
Marcus grabs his arm, making the pressure as gentle as he can. "Sherlock," His voice is quiet. "You know you can talk to me, man, right?"
Sherlock's face takes on that nervous twitch again. "Yes."
"Is something going on?" Marcus asks, "Do you need me to take you to the ER?"
"No," Sherlock pales visibly at the suggestion. "No, I need to go home. Now. Watson needs me."
Marcus doesn't let him go. He thinks about finding Sherlock after the Oscar Rankin mess, high as a kite and unable to focus. It was like this. That same dissonance from reality. Did he relapse? But Joan would have said something. But that's only if Joan knew. "Sherlock, do you need medical attention?" Marcus asks.
"No," Sherlock pulls out of his grip. "I need to find Watson," and then he's up and gone. Marcus doesn't see him for the rest of the day. He texts Joan about his concerns, but she never answers, so he forces himself to dismiss it. If Sherlock wanted to talk to him, he would have. When he gets home that night, his first text is to Joan Sherlock okay? And his second is to Sherlock to update him on the shell companies.
Nothing helpful, no paper trail. The companies don't have 15.6 million in their back pocket.
Neither of them answer. Again. Radio silence like this isn't like them, but if Sherlock really is sick, then Joan is probably focused on that. Marcus lets it slide. At work the next day, he texts Joan again.
Marcus solves a separate case. He meets with Chantel at lunch, asks about her physical therapy, and the two of them discuss nothing that has to do with work or her assault. They keep circling it but Marcus doesn't know how to land. Chantel doesn't either. She promises to meet him at his apartment later and leaves to catch up on work. Marcus goes back to the precinct.
Joan still doesn't answer.
Please don't be a relapse.
Marcus debates with himself before finally pulling up the SBK members that Sherlock was looking at yesterday. How do they add up to the theft of 15.6 million? Marcus closes the tab, worrying his lip between his teeth. He texts Joan again.
Checking in. You alright? Call me when you get this.
He starts on paperwork, runs calls for another case, and gets dragged into Hanford's case on a consultation, and by the time the two of them have finished arguing over the dead woman, it's past five and Marcus still hasn't seen Sherlock or Joan. Gregson gives him a significant look as he passes to refill his cup of coffee, so Marcus grabs his gun, his coat, and then turns off his computer before leaving.
The Brownstone looks completely fine. There are no obvious signs of damage and it's not exploded, so Marcus is a little annoyed as he trumps up the stairs to knock on the front door. It's closed. Locked. Completely normal. Marcus makes brief eye contact with the camera before he knocks. Unless the two of them are dead, they're about to get an earful.
It takes Sherlock almost two minutes to answer. He's not wearing shoes and looks worse somehow, bedraggled and slightly wild. "Marcus," he says in surprise. His fingers are white on the doorframe. "Why are you here?"
"So you're not dead," Marcus replies, irritated. "That's one mystery solved. The other would be if you got hacked by Everyone again."
Sherlock blinks. "No," he murmurs, "not dead."
A beat.
"Are you alright, man?" Marcus asks. The answer is clearly no, but Marcus asks anyway because he doesn't know what else to say. "You're not looking so hot."
"Sick," Sherlock says. He shifts. His wrist is red and raw and looks like it's starting to develop bruises. Given what little Marcus does know about his sex life, that could mean anything. But his gaze lingers on it. Sherlock's gaze follows and his fingernails dig into the wood.
"You're still sick?" Marcus clarifies. "You need a hospital."
"Yes," Sherlock agrees, looking relieved, "Yes, I'm sick. I need to lay down."
"Sherlock," Marcus lets the word hang, trying to figure out a way to ask this. How do you just ask someone if they relapsed? It's something you find out second hand, through hospital staff, the police, friends, family. Marcus doesn't know how to ask. "Can I talk to Joan?"
"No," Sherlock blurts.
Marcus' mouth is beginning to dry and he's getting the familiar pull in his stomach he gets with cases when something isn't adding up right. Sherlock is blocking the inside of the house, plastered inside the doorway like his life depends on it.
Marcus thinks about the SBK members again.
"Before you go," Marcus says, careful, "how is the case going? Any updates?"
Sherlock's eyes flit to the side. Then again, and again. Sherlock is signaling him to leave. "Detective," his voice is even. Marcus' mouth tightens. He can't remember the last time Sherlock called him detective . "You didn't need to come all the way out here. Joan and I have the case well at hand."
"You solved it?" Marcus asks, doubtful. They would have told him. If this was a normal case. If anything about this was normal.
"Yes," Sherlock says, still not moving. "That's why we were out of contact today. Tracking down leads. You can go. We found the money. All eight million."
Eight.
It was 15.6 earlier.
Sherlock's eyes flicker again. Marcus has to fight with himself to not shove his way past the man into the Brownstone and demand to know what's going on. His fingers flex for his gun. He doesn't grab it. Instead, he gives a light shrug.
"You'll be at the station tomorrow? I need your help with the Maria Volkova case."
There is no Maria Volkova case. They both know that.
Sherlock looks like something jabbed him hard. "We'll see."
Marcus nods. With effort, he turns and walks down the steps then goes back to his car. He turns on the engine and then watches the house for as long as he can without drawing suspicion. Nothing looks wrong with it, but there's something wrong.
Maybe he's just paranoid. Maybe nothing is happening and Sherlock and Joan just had to contact Everyone, or their phones were out of service, or some big name decided to pull something on them in revenge. It could be anything.
It could also be nothing.
But Marcus didn't get this far dismissing everything as nothing, so he bites his lip and calls the Captain.
"Marcus?"
"I think something's wrong with Sherlock and Joan. I don't know what it is, but Sherlock was acting weird."
"You went to their house?" Gregson doesn't sound surprised. If anything, he's relieved.
"Yeah, I'm down the street from them," Marcus confirms. "I don't know, Captain, I've just got a bad feeling about this one. I haven't seen Joan. They weren't answering their phones all day and with the private client business…they've been acting weird all week."
Gregson sighs. "I know."
"Eight," Marcus murmurs. Sherlock could have said anything. He purposefully messed up the money. At Gregson's inquiry, Marcus explains, "Sherlock said that to me. He said they were looking for eight million. Do you think he was trying to signal us?"
"It's not exactly a neon sign."
No. It's not. But it's still a sign. "I don't know. What do you want me to do here?" Marcus asks.
"Nothing," Gregson says, "you know how those two are. For all we know they've got some foreign king locked up in their basement. I'll call for backup." Gregson leans in toward the phone. " Do not go in there by yourself. Wait for backup, understood?"
Marcus' lips twist. "Yes, sir."
Gregson hangs up the phone. Marcus' hands tighten on the steering wheel and he grits his teeth. He thinks about the bruises on Sherlock's wrist. The SBK photos. He thinks about Joan's unhappy face. And he thinks about his mom, bruised, broken, and bloody, and Marcus unable to stop any of it.
He thinks about Chantel. Her body. The swollen limbs, the bruises -
Marcus gets out of the car. He's not doing this again. He's not going to sit back and watch as something awful happens to his family. He can't do it. Not after Chantel. He's terrified.
He can't walk into the aftermath again.
He can't.
Marcus doesn't go to the main entrance of the Brownstone. Instead, he goes to the back where Joan's office is, and tries the door. It's unlocked. Great. That doesn't bode well. He withdraws his service pistol from his jacket and slowly pushes open the door.
He doesn't know what he was expecting to see, but nothing wasn't it. The room is dark. The only light comes from a few small windows along the far wall, bleeding fading daylight onto the scene. Joan's laptop is sitting open on the desk, off.
Marcus steps into the room, mindful of the noise, and eases the door closed behind him. He moves toward the laptop and tries tapping it open. The desktop does not conveniently load to show him what Joan was working on, instead, the request for a password pops up and Marcus grits his teeth in frustration.
An unlocked door is apparently the only convenience God is going to give him today.
Upstairs, he hears something clatter. There's a shout from a male voice. Not Sherlock.
Marcus moves toward the staircase. The Brownstone is old, and every creaking step he takes makes him feel like he's announcing his presence with canons. He pushes open the basement door and steps into the next level of the house. He can hear the shouting more clearly.
"-is what you get for being smart, chico!" An unfamiliar voice, New York twang.
"Get off of her!" Sherlock. "Stop! Stop!" Begging.
A strangled, wet sound. Muffled groaning. Joan. Hitting. Over and over and over.
"Stop!"
Marcus closes his eyes. Forces in a deep breath. Someone is hurting Joan. I'm going to kill something. He thinks about Chantel again. He can't stop seeing her broken body. He thinks about Joan like that and his stomach clenches into knots too painful to describe. God, please.
Marcus pulls out his phone and types as quickly as he can with one hand need SWAT. STAT. KIDNAP. ASSAULT. and mutes his phone before the Captain can blow it up with texts of retaliation.
He can't just sit here. If he gets shot again, at least he'll die with the bittersweet knowledge that he didn't just stand by and let it happen. Marcus moves closer to the scene. The kitchen. Why does everything awful happen in the freaking kitchen? He found his mom in the kitchen beaten and bloody before she stayed at the hospital for a month. He edges close to the doorway, close enough to see.
Sherlock, being held back by two large gang members, their faces drawn tight. Sherlock is wrestling with them, baring teeth and fighting like a man possessed, to get to Joan, who is crumpled on the floor next to the table. Her dark hair is a mess around her head, looking almost like a pool of blood. She isn't moving.
There are six other gang members-SBK, Marcus isn't stupid, he recognizes several of them from Sherlock's search yesterday-and one of them is playing with a kitchen knife between his fingers. The ease in his posture, compliance and the encouragement of violence, make Marcus want to hit him.
"Just let me look at her!" Sherlock's voice is raw. He has eyes for nothing but his partner.
"You get to help when you've helped us, Holmes," the first voice again. The leader? The man with the knife. He's smug. Marcus immediately loathes him in a way that's beyond words. "Come on, chico, you managed to take down our leadership, put us in the ground over a weekend. You really can't find Wilcox's stash? Pathetic."
Wilcox's stash.
Tyus Wilcox. The leader of SBK. Where he was hiding all the money he was getting from his brother. The stash that was supposed to be about fifteen million. 15.6 million. God damn it. Why didn't Sherlock say anything? They would have helped him.
"I think your girlfriend's running out of stamina," the leader says lightly. "How many more broken ribs do you think she can take before the internal bleeding sets in?"
Sherlock lurches . The men holding him have to scramble to keep him from escaping and the leader actually takes a half-step back. "Your family will never stop finding your body," Sherlock's voice is low and terrible, "you're not going to walk away from this."
The leader makes a so-so face. He moves toward Joan and Marcus' hand tightens on the gun. "The thing is, Holmes, we didn't just come here for the money. Your girl is the reason Bonzi's dead. Why Wilcox is in prison. For me and my boys, this is about retaliation . And we've been here for days, overstepped our hospitality and I'm getting tired of waiting."
The leader grabs a fistful of Joan's hair and forces her head up. Marcus isn't in the position to see her face, but the full body twitch that she makes in response to it answers enough about how she's doing. At least she's conscious. He has to do something. But what? There's eight of them, and Marcus can't tell if they're armed.
"So until you find that money, we're going to keep breaking bones." The leader warns. He smashes the hilt of the knife into her face and Joan gags. All at once, Sherlock slumps with defeat.
"The money isn't there. I told you that yesterday. The NYPD took it, the FBI, it's not there. "
"Holmes," the leader's voice is warm. "I really just don't believe you, chico." The leader drags Joan into a seated position, hauling her closer toward Sherlock by her scalp. The knife goes to her throat. Marcus makes the executive decision he really, really doesn't care about backup anymore. He could kill all eight of the SBK members without breaking a sweat. He might.
They don't get to do this to his family.
"Please," Sherlock begs.
"Where is the money?"
"I don't know."
The man tightens his fistful of Joan's hair. The knife presses harder. "Where's the money?"
" I don't know!"
"Guess the weekend thing was a fluke, right?" The leader's unbearably jovial about this. His wrist flicks to the knife, to Joan's throat, and Marcus steps into the doorway and pulls his gun. The gunshot explodes through the air, deafening in intensity and he sees more than one gang member jump at the sound.
So does Sherlock, a full-body wince that's not of relief but terror.
Joan crumples to the floor. So does the leader and his knife.
"Police!" Marcus yells. "Hands up! Everybody on the ground! Now!"
There's a lull of movement like no one knows what to do now that the leader is dead. They look at each other. They look at Marcus's gun, and then at the leader who is on the ground, dead.
Seven to one, but they get on their knees anyway. As soon as Sherlock is released, he crawls toward Joan and gathers her into his arms, pressing her face close to his chest, his entire body wrapped around her protectively. He's panting. Crying. Marcus doesn't move, holding point on the gang, though his entire body aches too.
SWAT arrives a minute later, and the Captain is only a few after that, followed closely by the paramedics, who can't get Sherlock to let go.
Threat neutralized, Marcus finally moves toward them. He rests a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He hasn't got off the floor, or let go of Joan. "Sherlock," Marcus murmurs, and squats down next to him.
Sherlock looks up at him, fingers tightening around his partner. Joan looks small in his arms. The recognition is brief, but it's there. Sherlock's body relaxes a fraction. "It's okay. You're safe. You need to let the paramedics look at her."
"What?"
"The EMTs," Marcus explains patiently. "You need to let them look at her." Sherlock looks like he's going to be sick at the idea. Marcus tightens his grip on the man's shoulder. "You can ride with her to the hospital, she's going to be okay. You've gotta let her go, man."
"No, I can't…"
"Sherlock," the Captain's voice is impossibly soft. "It's okay, you're safe."
Sherlock blinks. He takes in a ragged breath. Instinct fighting over logic. Sherlock finally lets Joan go. The paramedics lay her flat and begin to assess her, and Marcus watches that for a moment, throat tight, before he pulls Sherlock back a step. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Sherlock looks at him like he just asked the question in Elvish. Marcus repeats it. Sherlock fumbles, his eyes moving toward Marcus' hand. "Um. I don't…three? Why? Marcus, this doesn't…I need to…"
"You're in shock," Marcus says. "You need to take some deep breaths."
"I'm not in shock," Sherlock protests.
"You're in shock," Marcus insists. Both of them look at Joan again, who is being loaded up on a gurney. Sherlock scrambles to follow, and Marcus doesn't stop him. He and Gregson share a long look before they follow after the two.
000o000
"So what exactly happened?" Marcus asks Joan two days later. She looks exhausted, pale, and tired, but her face has been cleaned up and the life in her eyes in the same. Sherlock was finally dragged out of the room by the Captain a few minutes ago on an extended coffee run. He hasn't slept since he got here, even though everyone keeps telling him that's what's best for his concussion.
Marcus has suggested to more than one nurse that they should just sedate him, and in the last day, they've started to look like they agree.
"SBK," Joan's voice is hoarse. "They showed up a few days ago at our house, and demanded that we find their money or they'd kill us."
Marcus had put that much together. "Why didn't Sherlock say anything when he came to the precint?"
Joan grimaces. "They were going to kill me. I told him he should, but he was adamant that I stay safe. They were watching for police, if you came in guns blazing, they were…" her lips press together and she doesn't finish the thought. Marcus feels cold and sick. "You were going to show up so he had to go."
"He's worked kidnapping cases, Joan," Marcus says, tired, "he knows how this normally ends."
Joan is quiet. "I think it's different when you're inside it. Everything stops being this…fiction. You can't believe it's happening to you." She takes in a deep breath, winces, and then closes her eyes. "Is he okay? He won't talk to me."
"No," Marcus says. He can't imagine days of the scene he saw. Joan getting beaten, Sherlock forced to watch, unable to draw up money that doesn't exist anymore. Sherlock was right, it was seized by the FBI. "Are you?"
Joan shakes her head.
"I'm sorry," Marcus says, "If I had known…"
"I know," Joan reassures. She meets his eyes for the first time since they started talking, and the bruises on her face make him flinch. Chantal. Mom. Joan. Are all the women he loves in his life destined to end up like this, bloody and broken on a hospital bed, Marcus waiting and waiting and waiting?
Sherlock and the Captain come back into the room a few minutes after that and Sherlock immediately takes his abandoned chair next to the bed. He needs sleep. It's getting to the point that Marcus is genuinely convinced he's about to pass out.
Joan gives Sherlock a very small smile of reassurance. Sherlock doesn't return it. Joan falls asleep again, and Marcus shifts, moving his chair around the bed to sit next to Sherlock. He takes the coffee cup from the detective and drinks from it.
Sherlock slumps into the chair. "I didn't know what to do," Sherlock's voice is quiet. Marcus looks at him over the rim of the cup, waiting, "They were going to hurt her and I didn't know what to do. I just…" Sherlock buries his face into his hands.
"You made the best decision you could." Marcus promises. He doesn't know what he would have done in that set of impossible circumstances. He doesn't want to know. "Sherlock, she's going to be alright. You're safe. We're not going to let anything happen to you. You should get some sleep, okay? We'll keep watch."
Sherlock takes in a shuddering breath. He looks up at Marcus, and the raw tension in his face makes something in Marcus' stomach clench automatically. "Just for a few hours."
Marcus nods. "As long as you need."
Sherlock forces in another breath, then murmurs, "alright," like the fact that Marcus said it is enough. He climbs onto the hospital bed next to his partner and Joan adjusts to make room for him. Neither one of them says a word about it, but Sherlock relaxes incrementally. He falls asleep, and Joan opens hazy eyes to mouth "thank you" before she falls asleep herself. It's impossible to tell who thinks who is protecting who in their tangled limbs, but Marcus knows that it's neither.
It's him. Late, again, but at least he's here. That has to matter for something. Because there's not going to be a next time, not if he can help it.