A/N: Last instalment. Thanks for sticking around.
Some people are resuming their lives, others wait. Precautions remain.
Keep safe, keep strong. -csf
'John! Help!'
I turn around, alert, fists clenched, muscles tensed. But I can't find my friend anywhere. Sherlock is vanished.
Five.
Sherlock wonders how John can be so close and yet so unreachable. Take the nightmare that terrorised John earlier in the night, spinning out of axis the usually steady solid presence that is the former army soldier. Sherlock ransacked his brains for a distraction, a balm to pull back the familiar undertones out of the shivering mess that inhabited the soldier's bedroom. Of course the detective knew his intervention, whilst appreciated secretly by a tight lipped John, was not essential to the man. John has an innately hopeful, bravely optimistic, daringly confident, way of returning to himself. Give him time. It's Sherlock that worries, impatient. Worries every single time as he watches the doctor return to himself, land after land of the wretched distance from the Afghan sands. It's Sherlock that wants to speed it up, confront John with the evidence of who he is, one Sherlock never stops recognising through his admiration of strength and sturdiness.
Sherlock wanted to extract John from his battered shell and bring him, resplendent and anew to the world. If at all possible, leave those accursed shadows behind.
In that process, Sherlock had bullied a sleep deprived veteran off his bed and pushed through dirty underground passages onto a lost world in no ones' knowledge – where phones don't get network bars, he has just learnt – where he John got prime spot to see his mate vanish. Leaving him cold and alone in a forgotten world.
Great work, Sherlock, that should really do wonders for the soldier's battered psyche.
Only it's not, is it? John is the strongest human Sherlock as ever met. John's tenacious loyalty and love are as dead certain as a sunrise, a constant in a changing world, a certainty to be counted upon.
As it happens, Sherlock's life currently depends on that strength and on John's loyalty alone.
He hears John's feet, in small steps upon the stage as the man searches about for his lost friend.
All Sherlock has got to do is to trust John...
Hold his breath...
And don't drown before John discovers him.
.
Whose brilliant idea was it to part the two men team, let them explore the unknown alone?
Sherlock should revise his I'm-a-genius self-appointed title soon. I'll make sure to remind him of such.
'Sherlock, where are you?'
No answer. Is it a faint tapping that I hear from under the stage?
'Sherlock? Where the hell are you? Cut it out!'
I'm not having a good feeling about this.
Hmm... Okay, it's not funny anymore. I'm more than a little worried. Sherlock can be a jerk at times – take Reichenbach's after events for quick extrapolations – but he and I talked about this. I was sure he understood. I was even a bit certain he, deep down, felt guilty over my mourning of an alive detective.
But he always repeats the alone-is-all-I-have trick.
'Damn it.'
I've got a bad feeling about this.
.
As the oxygen saturation levels drop in his bloodstream, and starved lungs scream in agony, the last accursed thing Sherlock Holmes wants to hear is Mycroft's voice. He'd petulantly block out his older brother's voice if only he wasn't already using most his mind power not to panic.
He's got John. The steady soldier is the best associate a drowning goldfish could ask for.
He means, a drowning detective, of course.
His mind is starting to play tricks on him. Interesting. He must store that for later analysis, if only John gets him out of his watery grave.
"How mundane, your trust over the soldier, Sherlock. Going by capabilities alone, wouldn't you had been better off trusting someone more in our intellectual league?"
Damn Mycroft. He's but a lonesome genius himself, isolating in his ivory tower of excellency, pushing any one else away, even Sherlock who he seems not quite at par.
"Use your head, Sherlock! Don't be stupid, your life is disappearing into unconsciousness as we converse and all you can think of is John Watson?"
Apparently Mycroft's apparition is right.
Sherlock sees no way out from the locked tank under stage, he's banging on the trap door that separates him from John, and pins all his hopes on his amazing friend.
His big brains are no match to a stubbornly solid trap door.
You must hurry, John – his desperate mind tries to reason with the soldier on the other side, before darkness gathers threatening at the corners of his vision.
The dark grey waters get darker and darker.
Then blinding light erupts above him.
.
Clear, angular blue eyes snap open, unfocused yet. I'm holding my breath, pressing fingers to Sherlock's carotid artery, counting those steady heart beats in the cold, clammy skin. He hiccups and I know to turn him to the side, just before he regurgitates a good portion of the buried Thames river's water. That's where I found Sherlock, struggling inside a water tank, under the stage.
I reached out whilst cursing him for his bad luck. He managed to find my hand and cling on, too exhausted to pull himself out of the death trap. I hauled him up, back and shoulder muscles teared to shreds without care, and laid him out on the old wood planks. Gasping for air, shivering in cold and shock, dripping water into a circular pool around him that presently soaks the fabric between knees and hems of my pyjama bottoms.
After the quickest medical check up I can gather, I divest myself from my jacket and wrap his lanky shivering figure in it, desperate to preserve his body heat. I wrap him up, not for the first time wishing there was more fabric in it, Sherlock's long coat missing.
We are alone on the death trap stage of a theatre suspended in time. Can't quite call the paramedics in. His life still in my hands alone.
I wonder how Sherlock's managed so tenaciously to hang on – there will be hell to pay when I know who to blame for almost losing my detective friend once more – glancing at the square trap door opening on the stage. I see only dark grey water, mostly flat but with some undercurrent at the bottom. An ominous maelstrom that nearly took Sherlock from me.
Don't want to leave a wretched detective, dry heaving on his side, prone against the stage except for his chest, periodically rattled by deep bouts of cough. Even if logic dictates I should get some external help. No, it'd take too long away without making sure my friend doesn't drown on solid ground from all the water he ingested.
Don't you ever do that again, mate.
I shake my head. Adrenaline dying down, Sherlock's physical presence under the hand I keep splayed on his back absorbing the heart beats for reassurance. Steady, I'm rubbing comforting circles on the back of his hands, his legs, his shoulders, trying to stimulate blood flow to keep him warm. He looks small, curling on his side on the floor, like a lost child with dark bruises under his eyes. A frightened child, freshly rescued out of a terrible nightmare. I feel my eyes dampening, confident he's too wrap up in his discomfort to notice my emotions slip.
This is the trouble with Sherlock. Caring about the skinny genius is a permanent pass to living in fear of losing him.
I brush the back of my other hand over my eyes, my damp forehead.
The soaked through genius senses something, he glances at me. Just in time – his reflexes are delayed – I plaster a placid expression on my face and straighten my shoulders. He squints, suspicious.
I'm not about to let him get all cocky, knowing he scared the living shit out of me. He'd enjoy it far too much...
'You ripped it open, John.'
What is he talking about? 'Ugh?'
'The trap door. You bulldozed through it with fury and righteous anger.' He stops short, looking a bit grey, before he surges forward, dry heaving again.
I patiently hold him by the shoulder and drag those soaked curls out of his face, hoping my small actions may comfort him, reach him wherever his mind goes when his pride is wounded. He's about to revert to a cold mathematical vision of the world, deriding emotions as weaknesses, equalizing his body's weakness with a personal failure, because his heart refused to beat at the rhythm of a machine.
I'm here to stop that nonsense. Keep him human.
'You were drowning, Sherlock. Hardly the time to question my methods.'
'Could have been a bit faster, John, but I'm rejoiced that you solved the mystery of Chandler's disappearance.'
I huff. Nope. What did I care some dead guy did to amaze society over a century ago?
I raise Sherlock's exhausted form from the waterlogged stage, holding his chest to mine, trying to impart some of my body heat on his cold skin. I hug him tighter. 'Hush, Sherlock. You are safe now. You are not alone.'
I can feel the first chills rattle his thin frame as he grabs a fist full of my t-shirt. We can't stay here too long. We must head back and I will force Sherlock under a hot shower or a warm bubble bath.
'You didn't solve the puzzle, John', he deduces at last. He squints at me and glances around, finally taking some interest in our surroundings. His weary gaze falls on the open trap door just to the right side of the stage platform. Damaged by desperate fists pounding the old wood. Some kicking too. Anything to get through to my friend.
'I couldn't care less about the case, mate. I knew you were in trouble, nothing else mattered.'
He shakes his head. 'Hardly a time to solve a case', he agrees at last. I can feel his locked muscles starting to relax as his core body temperature increases steadily. 'You were brilliant, John. A hundred percent effective... As for understanding what happened to The Great Chandler, you can leave the deductions to me. It's what I do for a living, anyway.'
I shake my head.
'Let's get back to Baker Street. We can return here at any time. Preferably with you dried up and having avoided a pneumonia.'
His eyes narrow. I can sense the grey undertones returning to his eyes, and as always I wonder how he does that. His mind is inscrutable, but I can sense the swirls of beautiful melodies and vibrant connections lurking under the surface of I really look into his eyes.
'My coat, John!'
'You had to part with it', I point out, deliberately misunderstanding his urgency.
'Of course I did! It's made of wool! It weighed a ton, once it soaked half the water from the tank.'
'Right...' I frown. 'We'll fish it out later.'
He shakes his head, obstinate, as he struggles to control his limbs and get up. Trying to dissuade him through common sense advice, I follow his movements closely nonetheless as he forces himself up.
I'll put it down to pride. He wants to be brilliant and dazzling as ever, even as his hair plasters against his pale face and he looks visibly shaken.
'Sherlock, we don't have to do this right now...'
'We must', he insists. 'I want you know how the illusionist did it.'
'What?' Why would I care?
I keep a close watch on Sherlock, determined to give the smallest leeway to his need to solve this case with witnesses. It's part of his recovery.
The gangly detective stands tall, shirt plastered on his chest and shoulders, frizzy hair sticking out in revolving directions like a wild mane, frantic gestures as if he was trying to distract me from his state with his brilliance, which he probably is.
'This theatre, John! Chandler refused to leave this theatre, set up his acts elsewhere. Sure, there are a lot of constructions here: sets, mechanics, lighting, a lifetime of work. But out there is a sick late 1800's London with people dying of typhoid fever. Surely he knew it was time to start again elsewhere. Yet he refused. He absolutely refused, even opening the stage one last time just before the quarter got locked down. We can only guess how many people attended, and of those how many got their fates sealed. Chandler had a dwindling audience for his last act. A planned illusion, one memorable last performance, one that did not go according to plan.'
'Look, Sherlock, we need to get you dry. It's still a trek back to Mrs Hudson's basement flat.'
He ignores my good sense.
'There was a musical act. Then in Chandler comes, riding a mechanical elephant. The audience delights at the exotic sight. Two assistants make their own entrance and proceed to shackle the magician for the escape number. He is further placed in a steel cage and a timer counts the time he has to set himself free behind a veil, before he's crushed to death.'
'Yes, yes, you said all that. We really must get going, it's getting rather late.'
'But did you see the pamphlet, the advertisement poster on the wall? I mean, really looked at it?'
I know Sherlock is too desperate to tell me this. All common sense in the world couldn't stop him from telling me how it's been done. It's a compulsion, I would say. A necessity, he often tells me. He once likened it to a decluttering of his overwhelmed hard drive. I understand he needs to tell me this even before he fully regains control of his walking and I help him back up the tunnel.
'I don't follow, Sherlock.'
'We both saw it. In the poster Chandler's elephant emerges from the right hand side of the stage, carried by extra assistants dressed in dark clothes to match the background and darkened stage. They go from right to left. But on the pamphlet they used a photograph...'
'The elephant emerges from the left.'
'You got it, John!'
'Got what?'
'The poster. The plates were printed in reverse of what the reality had actually been like, as in a mirror effect. The poster was a xerographic engraving that got transferred faithfully but reversed from left to right and right to left. That last night...' Sherlock looks on to the gigantic effigy of an Indian elephant adorned in colourful silks and gems. That night the elephant got wheeled the wrong way around.'
I blink. 'So?'
'Inside the metal cage, behind the veil, Chandler released himself from the shackles through the expedient use of a master key he had hidden in his mouth the whole time. He now needs to plan his escape and reappearance on stage, outside the cage. He opens the trap door – you have do thoroughly sent to trial door heaven, John – and slides into the water holding tank that nearly drowned me. He let's the soft undercurrent drift him to the next trap door along, flowing with half breath under the stage. He tries to lift the second trap door, hidden in the shadows by clever use of the limelight spotlights. It won't give. There is something wrong, something too heavy under the second door. Can't you see? Chandler, the great, never planned escaping to South America. He had a beautiful career he loved, he couldn't bear to hold one last botched performance when he had perfected it so much. A new act, maybe, but not the old escape trick. That night the deadly mistake was made because everyone was frazzled. Reality as they knew it was changing too quickly. The mistake escaped even the man who had built the contraptions. The elephant was left on top of the escape hatch. Chandler tried to swim back, we can presume, but the current must have been stronger. He lost his strengths, his air, he didn't have a faithful assistant to pummel the trap door open and yank him out, sputtering and heaving but alive. Chandler lost the battle with his own trick. He died in his own act. His fame endured.'
I blink. Right.
'So you're saying you were down there sunk with a rotted corpse. Right, that's it, off to Baker Street with you', I grab him forcibly now.
'But my coat!'
'Oh, hush, I've fished it out with you, you never parted with it. Why do you think my shoulder throbs? I got the wet weight off you and whisked it away on the stage. It's been two feet behind you this whole time. You're welcome.'
Sherlock glances sharply behind him. Opens his mouth to say something. Closes it. Gapes at me.
In different circumstances I would be very proud indeed.
'Back to Baker Street, mate.'
.
A few nights later.
'John, it's alright. You are safe now.'
I wake up with a start, and determinedly grab my gun from under my pillow and aim it at the insurgent. My breath chocked on my chest, my vision is blurred alternating between reality and vivid memories, my left hand shakes uselessly, but my right hand fits like a glove around my gun in a steady, vital aim. The shiny steel barrel trails my attention to the enlarged green eyes ahead. A cold shiver runs down my back and I immediately lower the gun.
'Ffff...'
Gentle fingers extricate the gun from my grasp. I allow their familiarity as I gasp for breath, confused, nauseous.
'Here, John.' His deep voice travels the short physical distance between us, as a premonition of the hug he envelops me in next. 'You are not alone.'
I blink and allow myself to feel the comforting presence around me.
'Thanks, Sherlock.'
He huffs, deriding my perceived need to thank him. I further gather, soon after:
'No air vents this time, like that other time last week?'
He shakes his head, I feel his curls brushing past my ear, tickling me.
'I chose to take a risk. Thought you'd sock me. I was wrong.'
'We all make mistakes', I huff. I very nearly shot him.
'Don't', he pre-warns as I'm about to stumble my apologies into the most sincere words I can gather while shivering in his arms. 'I can tell when a gun remains with the security latch on.'
When will these wretched nightmares end?
It's a tough time, all these pandemic fighting analogies, the restrictions to a lifestyle that made London so very unlike itself. I lost my sensory anchors when I wake up in a quieter London, on a hot night, filled with stale air, disorientation leading me to believe I'm back there, in the real war. It's frightening to a grown man that remembers the war only too well.
'Thanks for checking up on me, Sherlock.'
'Just drop it, John. I will always go get you where your mind wanders, I will always bring you back home.'
I smile to his pyjama's cotton shirt.
'That sounds incredibly mushy.'
He stiffened, but won't relinquish our embrace.
'If you relay my words to anyone I will kill you in your sleep, John.'
'You wouldn't stand a chance', I retort, lacing my own arms around him and allowing one drowsy yawn.
I'm safe now. London is Sherlock, and I've got it in my arms now.
.
