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John had made a mistake.He had always thought of himself as a very patient man. Always the type to think of every possible scenario before acting; to mull over every decision he had to make; to think over his words before he spoke them. And yet, as he stared at the gaunt man before him, John felt his words leave his mouth like vomit. Where usually his filter held strong like a fortified medieval castle, he felt words tumble from his mouth as if they were bricks being torn from the walls.“You bloody bastard!” John couldn’t bring himself to hit the haggard man and so instead he threw his fist against the wall, denting it before turning away. He ran his hands shakily through his graying hair and turned to glare at his visitor, “What the fuck were you thinking?!”The man across from him said nothing but stared resolutely ahead, as if John were merely a part of the furniture.“Jesus, Sherlock…I—I don’t understand…” John felt his energy drain out of him and the familiar sting of tears waiting at the rims of his eyes.Sherlock cleared his throat; finally turning his piercing eyes to meet John’s gaze, “You weren’t meant to understand.” His voice was cold and detached, a far cry from the tear-filled confession only 18 months before.“Wha…” John couldn’t wrap his head around it. Sherlock stood with his hands behind his back, stiff as a statue, as if warding off any sort of physical contact. And yet, John desperately wanted to wrap his hand around his friend’s wrist. To feel the pulse beating steadily underneath.John lowered himself down into the old worn chair he had once favored back at Baker Street, the only thing he had bothered to salvage during the move, “Well, are you going to explain anything or have you just come to make me feel like a bloody idiot for mourning over you the past year and a half?”If John had been paying closer attention, he would have noticed Sherlock’s jaw tense; he would have seen the flicker of desperation in his friend’s quicksilver eyes. But John purposefully stared down at the carpet.He was ashamed for his behavior during the first year without Sherlock. He had withdrawn from the world, form his friends and even from his family. He isolated himself, protecting himself form socializing by turning into the hermit version of his sister. How could he trust the society that had so brutally and callously pushed Sherlock to jump from that rooftop? The things they had said. The lies they had spread. Even now, even with Sherlock standing alive and well in front of him, John felt anger boil up in his stomach over how they had treated him.Seven months ago, John had looked at himself in the mirror and he felt horrified at what he had seen. And so, he pulled himself together and started anew. And since then, life had been bearable. It had even been good sometimes. He found a job he enjoyed, a girlfriend who loved him, and an apartment that wasn’t full of body parts and potentially explosive experiments.He told himself he was happy.Sherlock’s voice pulled him out of his reverie and when he looked up, he noticed the tall form of his friend standing at the window, “Moriarty offered me an ultimatum. Myself for the lives of others. I made the most logical choice.”John felt like laughing and crying at the same time. It was such a Sherlock statement and yet his life had been in pieces when the man had left. He waited for Sherlock to continue, to offer some semblance of an excuse but when Sherlock turned around to face John again, the doctor knew that was the only explanation he would ever get.“And that’s it?” He attempted to get his visitor to elaborate but the detective only gave him a blank stare, “Okay, so where have you been for the past year and a half then?” John leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he watched Sherlock lean against the windowsill. The tension in his body vibrated through him like an electrical pulse.“Taking care of Moriarty’s cells,” Sherlock shrugged slightly, and John felt a burst of red-hot rage settle in his chest at his friend’s indifference.“Oh. Of course. I should have known that, right?” John stood up and paced, “I should have known that my best friend was actually alive and well and only gone for a short vacation to take out criminal henchmen! Of course! How could I have been so ignorant!?!” John felt like retching. His body was quivering with silent rage. Vaguely, he thought about punching the wall again but Mary would not be pleased if she came home from her vacation to two dents in the wall and so he restrained himself. John found himself getting even angrier when Sherlock said nothing at all. When he turned to glare at the former detective, he found him still casually leaning against the sill.Determinedly, John took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and looked down at the carpet again, “I can’t do this, I can’t deal with you. Not anymore. I have a life to live. I’ve moved on, Sherlock,” John looked up at his former best friend. As ever, the sociopath’s face was completely wiped clean of any emotion. That didn’t deter John; he kept going, “After you died…I—I thought I’d never live normally again. But I had to move on for the sake of sanity. I’ve never grieved for anyone like I grieved for you…and I can’t go back to that life ever again. Do you understand, Sherlock?”Sherlock’s jaw tensed but he replied in an eerily calm voice, “You have too much at risk should you return to your old lifestyle…”“Yeah…” John felt tears forming but he bit the side of his cheek to keep it in check, “I’ve got a really lovely life here. A job and Mary. I love Mary. I think I might marry her, and I can’t go off gallivanting with you if I did…I don’t want to go off gallivanting with you anymore.” John looked down. He was lying and he knew it; but a part of him wanted his words to hurt the impenetrable man that was Sherlock Holmes, “You hurt me, Sherlock. I—I can’t let you have the chance to hurt me again.”When John eventually looked up at the end of his speech, he saw Sherlock nod and open his mouth as if to speak. He promptly closed it. Then opened it. John never thought he’d see the day when Sherlock Holmes had run out of things to say.Finally, Sherlock spoke, his voice was not full of its usual arrogance but was softer, quieter, “I understand, John. I understand. I shall not attempt to persuade you into this dangerous lifestyle. Please, give Mary my best.” And with that, the man swooped out of the room, pausing only briefly at the front door to add softly and with no contempt at all, “I hope you two are very happy.” With that the man left the apartment, shutting the door dutifully behind him.The minute John heard the door shut he knew. He had made a mistake.Pride had kept him from fixing his error. For hours he mulled over the idea to text or call Sherlock but then he remembered that he no longer had his old best friend’s phone number. A year and a half is an awfully long time and John had ruined his old phone when he had taken Mary on a boat off the coast this last summer. Mary. Jesus, what would she say once he told her all of this? When they had first met, John had been a broken man. With the patience and kindness of a saint, Mary had lovingly glued all his shattered pieces back together.Much later that evening, Mary came back home from her vacation and asked him about how everything had been while she was gone. He took the cowardly way out and told her he wasn’t feeling well, not to worry, that he’d be right as rain in the morning. He told her that he would sleep in the spare bedroom tonight because he didn’t want to keep up and she fussed over him like she fussed over her primary school students.In the solitude of the second bedroom, John cried for the first time in seven months.The next morning, when John woke up, he considered his options. He had to tell Mary. She deserved to know. And so, he slid out of bed and soldiered on into the kitchen where he found her munching on a piece of toast while reading the paper.“So, do you think he’ll leave you alone—as in, forever?” Mary asked him after he had told her his entire story. That was the great thing about Mary. No matter how crazy your story seemed, she always gave you the benefit of the doubt. After John had finished telling her about his mad genius friend returning from beyond the grave John began to wonder himself if he wasn’t going slightly insane.John shrugged at her question, “I don’t know. But Sherlock never used to give up that easily on things. If he didn’t get his way, he’d always come back to it later.” For some reason, saying this aloud made John feel slightly better. As if, because he had said this one truth, his best friend would return in a few months to try and convince him to go chasing after serial killers.Mary reached across the kitchen table and rested her hand atop his, smiling slightly, “Maybe he’s just trying to give you some space so you can get used to the idea of him being back.”John nodded absentmindedly, turning her words over in his mind. A day later, when John turned on the evening news, he was surprised to see none other than Sherlock Holmes himself, sitting between Greg Lestrade and the Chief Superintendent at a press conference. So, at last, the cat was out of the bag. John found himself vaguely relieved. Over the past two days he had been wondering if he was losing his mind. His lack of contact with the once dead Holmes had made him wonder if his brain had merely made it all up to begin with and yet, there he was: Sherlock Holmes sitting quietly between the two police officers while reporters fired questions between the three of them.John perched himself on the arm of the couch, balancing the remote control on his knee as he watched the press conference. It appeared as though he had missed most of the first bit and the reporters seemed to be wrapping things up.“Are you planning to return to your old sleuth lifestyle, Mr. Holmes?” The camera swooped over to the pudgy redhead in the third row who had asked the question. She held a pen and notepad at the ready as if Sherlock’s word were a lifesaving antidote.When the camera moved back to focus on the star of the show Sherlock showed no signs of attempting to answer the question, instead he nodded to Lestrade, who smiled briefly before leaning toward the microphone in front of him and answering the question himself, “Mr. Holmes would very much like to get back to solving crimes; however, he first planning on taking a rather long and relaxing holiday in order to recuperate from the past year and half.”Lestrade sat back and waiting for the follow up questions that were bound to follow. John leaned closer to the television. A holiday? That didn’t sound at all like Sherlock. Perhaps this was Mycroft’s doing, John thought snidely. And even stranger still, no one seemed to be questioning why Sherlock hadn’t answered a question which was directed at him in the first place.“And what about Dr. Watson? Will he also be returning to crime fighting?” The pudgy lady spoke up again, raising her pencil tentatively in the air as she did so.Once again, it was Lestrade who leaned forward and not Sherlock. John looked more closely at the graining image of Sherlock on the screen. Was he sick? He did look thinner. And paler. But the last time John had gotten a close look at Sherlock was over a year ago. Of course he’s changed since then. John scoffed at himself and waiting patiently for Lestrade’s reply. This should be interesting, he thought to himself, “Dr. Watson has decided to retire from the public eye. While Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson still value each other’s friendship, the doctor felt that it was time to focus on other things.”John had to give Greg kudos. He had done a fantastic job at answering all of the ridiculous questions regarding the nature of his and Sherlock’s relationship. He had even managed to do so with a smile. But with every question, John found himself more and more worried at Sherlock’s lack of response.Finally, after another seven minutes of ‘do you miss each other’ and ‘how was the reunion’ type questions, the Chief Superintendent cleared his throat and raised his hands in front of him, placating the salivating gossip mongers, “I think that’s all the time we have for now ladies and gentlemen,” he said with the air of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, “I know this is a very exciting story but I please ask all of you to respect Mr. Holmes’ privacy; especially during the next few weeks as he attempts to recuperate from his long journey back to London. After all, in order to solve crimes, he’s got to be able to communicate his thoughts,” Everyone laughed jovially, except Sherlock, who had remained as stoic as ever throughout the press conference, “So please, let him enjoy his holiday in peace and quiet.”With that, the three men who were seated at the table stood up and left through a side door. John leaned forward intently; Sherlock did look a bit shaky. So, he was sick. Perhaps he had lost his voice…that would explain his lack of answers. John felt a familiar knot of worry in his stomach but pushed it aside know that, at least with the press conference out of the way, Sherlock was probably being doted on by Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly.Despite not hearing from Sherlock for several more days, John assured himself that he was just getting over a rather bad case of the flu or some other virus. After all, he had not looked well at the press conference. Due to the overwhelming popularity of Sherlock’s return, clips of the press conference had been played continually on the nightly news and other programs. They had even been analyzed. John had seen the scene of Sherlock getting up from his chair 12 times now, and he had not been the only one to notice how shaky he looked.At the beginning of the conference Sherlock had spoken hoarsely into his microphone only to alert the reporters that, “I seem to have come down with a rather nasty cold and have almost completely lost my voice. As such, my colleague Detective Inspector Lestrade will be communicating on my behalf. Thank you.”Still, something didn’t seem right. John felt himself questioning every clip that was played back on a variety of programs. He felt himself becoming more and more paranoid with every showing. Something was off. He knew Sherlock and that was not Sherlock’s sick voice. Mary had told him that he sounded like a crazed fan when he spoke like that; but John felt himself only becoming more embittered by Sherlock’s lack of communication.Maybe Sherlock had taken his ‘I don’t want to go off gallivanting with you’ as ‘I never want to see you again.’ Now that John looked back on all that he had said he realized that probably was what sherlock had interpreted from his rant. Socially inept Sherlock. John should have known better.And yet, pride held him back. He couldn’t go and contact Sherlock now. He was afraid that he’d look like he was giving in. That he was craving for an adrenaline filled chase and so he just decided to bite the bullet and call Sherlock up. Maybe that’s what Sherlock had planned all along. John wouldn’t doubt it if it was. Sherlock was always at least 10 steps ahead of everyone else. Maybe he was just pretending to be sick in order to get John out of his hermit’s cave. In order to get John to crack.Well Sherlock was going to be very disappointed. If the newly risen detective thought he could get away with this, he had another thing coming. Just as John thought this, he sighed and put his head in his hands. He was turning into a paranoid mess. Since when did every interaction become some sort of puzzle to figure it out? John must be going mad.That night, Mary made banana pudding and John knew she had something important to say. She always waiting until he had something sweet in his stomach to say what she really felt. John took a spoonful of the dessert and waited.“I think you should try to contact Sherlock.” She spoke quietly, almost as if she had hoped he hadn’t heard her.“Excuse me?”“It’s just that—well, I think you need to talk with him…about all that’s happened over the past year and a half. He was your best friend, John. And even though he lied, you still care about him. That much is obvious. I mean…you go over the tapes of that stupid interview to see if you can pick out any signs of pneumonia…” Mary let that sentence hang in the air for a while and John felt almost ashamed at how obvious he’d been.“They’re not tapes…they’re just replaying those clips on different programs…” John said in his defense. Though, the minute it came out of his mouth he knew he sounded like an utter idiot.“I’m just saying—I think you need him. And I think he needs you.” Mary got up quietly and removed the bowls once filled with banana pudding from the table. John sat quietly and thought about what she had said.Despite his agreeing with her, John decided to wait a few more weeks before he made contact. After all, what was the rush? It was a Tuesday, and he didn’t have to be at work until half past three, so John took his time getting ready that morning. He turned on the television, not really caring what was on, and went into the kitchen to fix himself some toast and tea.By the time he had returned, he realized what used to be the news what now replaced by some sort of gossip program. Just as he started looking for the remote to change it, the breaking news caught his eye.“After weeks out of the public eyes, Sherlock Holmes, the king of crime fighting, makes his long-awaited return to detective work. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite the return we were all hoping for…Lindsey Sanders has the story…Lindsey?” The clip cut to an attractive young woman standing at the entrance of an alley. John felt his heart drop.“Hi Henry. Today, after weeks of awaiting a grand return, some fans of Sherlock Holmes were disheartened when the detective arrived at a Scotland Yard crime scene only to be wheeled away by paramedics minutes later. Not much is known about the incident, but one onlooker caught most of the action on his camera phone,” Moments later the grainy image of the same alley way flashed on screen. Sherlock was seen getting out of a taxicab, dark wool coat waving dramatically behind him. He walked up to what appeared to be Lestrade and Donovan standing at the mouth of the alley to have a short conversation. Moments later, Sherlock collapsed. John hadn’t realized that his toast was now on the floor.“Minutes after collapsing, an ambulance arrived at the scent to carry the superstar detective to a nearby hospital. When questioned about the consulting detective’s condition, Detective Inspector Lestrade only had this to say,” The image cut to a frazzled looking Lestrade who was clearly attempting to get into his car, “’We don’t know anything yet regarding Sher—Mr. Holmes’ condition. I can tell you that when he was lifted into the ambulance he was breathing.’” And with that, Lestrade climbed into his car, ignoring the shouts of the press as he slammed his door and sped off.“Hopefully more details on this story will be released within the next few hours, Henry.” Lindsey Sanders nodded at the camera, signifying she was well and done with her story and the pictured returned to the brightly lit newsroom where the two newscasters were looking at one another.“Well, he certainly didn’t look too well, did he, Henry?” The woman said as she shook her head in dismay.“Indeed, he did not, Kathy. We can only hope that our Reichenbach hero makes a full recovery.” Henry smiled widely at the camera and began on another tangent. But John wasn’t listening anymore. He had jumped from the couch, knowing his leg against the coffee table, and spilling his tea all over the white carpet. He couldn’t care less. He patted down his jeans, desperately feeling for his phone. Ah ha! There it was!Thank God he still had Lestrade’s phone number. Had Sherlock really neglected to take care of himself for so long? The seconds before Lestrade picked up his phone seemed to drag on forever.“Lestrade.” Greg’s voice seemed clipped and strained. John could sense the worry leaking through the detective’s voice.“Greg, it’s John. What happened? How’s Sherlock?” John barely noticed how close the sounded to tears.“Jesus. John. I—I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.” John could hear the rustling of clothes and John imagined he was moving to a more private location. “I—I thought that you and Sherlock had…I don’t know…fallen out.”John fought the urge to groan, “That’s not really important now, is it? Please—Greg, just tell me how he is.”Greg let out a shuddering breath, “I don’t know…they haven’t come out and said anything yet…”“What happened?”"I honestly couldn’t tell you…I mean—I knew he had been feeling a little under the weather, but I hadn’t seen him since the press conference, and he promised me that it was just a case of the flu. Jesus, if I had known it was going to be something as serious as God-only-knows then maybe I would have visited him…”John felt the air leave his lungs, “But Mrs. Hudson must have known something…” He said as he desperately looked for his coat. Hang his stubborn pride, John was going to the hospital and damn all the medical staff he was going to see his best friend."She’s gone to stay with her sister for the month. Sherlock’s been alone for the past week.”John switched ears as he threw his coat on, grabbing his keys and wallet off the breakfast bar and marching toward the front door, “What hospital did they take him to? I’m coming by.”“Fuck John, it’s already a bleedin’ media circus out there. What do you think they’re going to do once you show up?” Lestrade hissed quietly, “Tomorrow morning there’s going to be rumors that Sherlock’s bloody well dying or some bullshit like that. He’s already dealing with their antics as is; do you think he really needs anymore?”John paused to lock the door but didn’t’ stop his determined march outside, despite not knowing where the hell he was going, “Greg, if the doctors haven’t come out to tell you what it is yet, it’s not a good sign. Take it from me. I know. I want to be with Sherlock. He needs me. And I need him,” John felt himself mentally sighing at how Mary’s words came back to him. She who is wisest, he thought idly, “Look—I made a mistake when I threw him out. I—I honestly can’t even tell you how much I’ve regretted it. It’s just been my stupid pride holding me back from contacting him. I should’ve done it sooner…I—I just want to see him.” John felt tears pricking behind his eyes as stood on the front step of Mary and his flat.“We’re at Charring Cross. A and E entrance.”“Thanks, Greg. I’ll be there soon.” John hung up and shoved his phone hastily into his coat pocket while waving for a cab. With any luck he’d be there in less that 15 minutes. He felt his body shake with nerves and he swiftly wiped the tears from his eyes as he directed the cabbie where to go.
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Lestrade looked pale. He was standing by the water cooler in the A&E waiting room, wringing his hands, occasionally pulling out his mobile to check the time. John could barely keep from tripping over his feet as he rushed toward the detective.“Greg!” John stopped short of the graying man who turned around to see John stumbling forward.“John, hey.” Lestrade reached out a hand and shook John’s with a weary smile.“Any news?”Lestrade shook his head, “No, not a word no for,” He paused and pull out his phone to check the time, “three and half hours…”John felt his anxiety reach a whole different level and let his head drop to his chest as he ran a hand through his hair, “Jesus, what in the hell is taking them so long?”Greg dropped into one of the green vinyl chairs and rested his elbows on his knees, dropping his head into his hands, “I should have visited him…” Greg’s voice was just a whisper.John shook his head and dropped into the seat kitty corner from him, “You didn’t know…no one did.”“I know…but, I don’t know—I should have visited him. I knew he had been sick. And I knew that you two had had a falling out. I should have taken it upon myself to make sure he was alright. I just—I just figured he wanted some time to himself, you know? Some time to wrap his head around everything.”John rested a hand on Greg’s shoulder, “If anyone should feel guilty right now, it’s me Greg.” John felt said guilt making itself known with a deep rumbling within his chest, “Listen, I should probably call Mary. Let her know what’s been going on and where I am.”Greg nodded, looking up at John and waving him away, “Of course, I’ll be fine.”Just as John went to get up, however, he saw a harried looking doctor push open the door to the visitor’s area, “Greg—I think this may be us.” John nudged the detective and both stood up as the balding doctor marched toward them.“Are you two for Mr. Holmes?” At their rushed nodding he frowned slightly, and John felt himself break out in a cold sweat, “He’s stable. For now.” The doctor took off his round glasses wearily and held the bridge of his nose, “His condition, I’m afraid, is severe.”“What is it?” John asked quietly.“We’re unsure right now. Currently, we’re just trying to make him comfortable until his blood test results come back. Tell me, do either of you know if Mr. Holmes has been traveling outside of the country recently?” The doctor shot both of them a severe look. John looked toward Lestrade who shrugged slightly."Indeed, he has.” A voice spoke from behind them, and John didn’t even have to turn to see who it was. Mycroft Holmes, looking slightly more careworn than his usual pristine condition, came to stand right at John’s elbow, “He has been traveling extensively, in fact.”The doctor stared at him as if deciding whether or not to question the ostentatious man in front of him; Mycroft, perhaps, sensing his unease, saved him from the trouble, “I’m Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft Holmes,” He held out his hand to shake the doctor’s, always one for manners, even in the face of disaster, “This is Sherlock’s colleague and friend, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he pointed toward Greg who nodded and then rested a well-manicured hand on John’s shoulder as he made his final introduction, “And this is Doctor John Watson, my brother’s closest friend and confidant.” Mycroft squeezed John’s shoulder and released it almost immediately afterward, “Now, please, tell us what you can regarding my brother’s condition.”“Well, Mr. Holmes, it was touch and go for a while there, if I may speak frankly.”“Please do. I am not one to mince words,” Mycroft nodded politely toward the doctor, but John could see the strain behind his eyes.The doctor hesitated for a short moment and then, seemingly made a mental decision and continued on, “Mr. Holmes fainted outside of your crime scene, Inspector Lestrade, due to a cardiac arrhythmia. Essentially, his heart slowed significantly, to the point where he lost consciousness. He was lucky the EMTs arrived when they did. They had to restart his heart once inside the ambulance.’John gulped down bile and then nodded toward the doctor to continue. He felt the others giving similar nods of understanding as they stood on either side of him.“When he arrived, he had a high fever. And once he regained consciousness, he was pretty rattled. At first, we assumed it was just a nasty case of influenza that had been left untreated. But shortly after he woke up, he became rather ill. I’ll admit that he didn’t vomit anything of substance but what did come up contained blood. It isn’t a GI bleed from what we can tell. We’re running a number of tests. He’s come back negative for TB but in order to narrow down the possibilities I’d like to know where he’s been in the past month.”“Jesus…” John moaned quietly, turning away from the doctor to run a hand down his face.Mycroft cleared his throat, “My brother has just returned from the Democratic Republic of Congo.”“What?!” John felt as if everything he had known in the past few weeks had just been flipped upside down, “When?”Mycroft smiled sympathetically at John, “My dear Dr. Watson, that’s where Sherlock had just returned from when he went to speak with you.”John looked around in disbelief but quickly regained his self-awareness, “So—what does that mean? If he’s been to the Congo?”The doctor frowned, “Well, did he get his vaccinations before he went abroad?”“That’s highly unlikely as he was not necessarily planning on traveling to sub-Saharan Africa,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. He didn’t grace John with a glance when the ex-blogger gave him an incredulous stare. So instead, John looked toward Greg who looked just as lost as he did.“Then that narrows it down significantly,” The doctor said, nodding, “The test results will be in within the next few hours. I’ll let you know when we get them. I would let you go in and sit with him Mr. Holmes but until we know exactly what it is, it would probably be safer for everyone if you waited out here.”“Of course,” Mycroft nodded resolutely and reached out to shake the doctor’s hand again.“I’ll see you in a few hours.” With that, the doctor spun on his heels and returned to where he had come from.John stood and stared at the double doors for a minute, feeling utterly hopeless, until Lestrade cleared his throat and said quietly, “What do we do now?” Mycroft, unwavering as ever, walked over to the cheap vinyl seats and sat himself down, “I should think that would be obvious Detective Inspector Lestrade. We wait.” The elder Holmes crossed his legs and settled himself in such a patient pose John almost thought he could have been a stand-in statue.Greg nodded quietly and sat down next to Mycroft.“Should you need to return to work, though, we will, of course, notify you of any changes in his condition.”“I’ll stay here for a little while longer…then I might have to go deal with the paparazzi circus that’s bound to be happening outside.” Lestrade ran a hand over his face and let his shoulders sag.“I’ve taken care of that but, as journalists, they’ll no doubt be at it again soon.” Mycroft gave Lestrade a tight-lipped smile and leaned back in his chair.“Why was Sherlock in the Congo?” John still hadn’t sat down. He looked over to Mycroft and felt the tremor in his hand begin to act up. Thinking back on it now, it was amazing that it hadn’t shown up until just now, what with all the stress he had been dealing with.Mycroft shifted in his chair and John was reminded of when he had confronted the elder Holmes after the release of Kitty Riley’s tell-all article, “John—”“No.” John ran his shaky hand through his hair, looking away from Mycroft toward the double dors and then ack to Mycroft. He felt the stinging behind his eyes return, “Just—just for once, tell me the truth, okay?”For a moment all three men were silent, John and Mycroft staring resolutely at one another as if battling it out purely through kinetic will.Finally, Mycroft cleared his throat and looked away, “Sherlock as not had an easy time these past eighteen months. While I offered him my help and the service of an elite squadron, Sherlock and I both agreed that, in the end, perhaps it was best if the majority of his work was done completely under the radar. Since his…fall, Sherlock has been traveling in an attempt to…extinguish Moriarty’s associates. We had very little contact while he was away. This was meant to protect all parties involved. Without my name attached to him in any way he had less of a chance of being recognized and utilized…unadvisedly.”Vague but John would let it slide while he waited for Mycroft to continue.“Should Sherlock be captured, he did not want his own identity known. This was in in an effort to protect his closest relations. Ultimately, this plan was our saving grace.”John moved quietly to the chair kitty corner to Mycroft, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, “And? The Congo?”“Things went…” Mycroft paused, as if considering which words would incite the least amount of panic in his brother’s friends, “poorly while he was in Riyadh. His identity was compromised, and he was transported to the Congo.”“Transported?” John moaned, “You mean forcibly taken hostage.”It was not a question, so Mycroft did not respond with an answer, instead, he spoke with the air of a man who had all the authority of a King, “The situation was dealt with appropriately.”John scoffed, “Yeah, I’m sure. Well, we can see how well it worked considering he was there long enough to contract some unknown disease.” He felt a bubble of anger and disgust and hopelessness and, worse of all, guilt, well up in his chest. It made his whole body tense in a way he hadn’t thought possible since his time in Afghanistan.Mycroft shook his head, “Please, Dr. Watson, don’t misunderstand me. I—I regret not acting sooner to extricate my brother but, unfortunately, I could not communicate with Sherlock for the majority of his time in Goma. Speaking quiet openly, it was a miracle we found him. Moriarty’s connections are just as devious as their former leader.”“How long?” John’s voice was muffled by his hands, and he looked up at Mycroft to repeat himself clearly, “How long was he in the Congo?”“Fifteen days.”“Jesus.” Greg said under his breath as the news sunk in.John felt as if he was floating outside of his body. He never felt more out of control. For the first time since Sherlock had returned, John put himself in his friend’s position. Perhaps that explained why Sherlock looked so awful during the press conference or, come to think of it, when he visited John.John had, self-indulgently, thought that Sherlock had looked worse for wear because he no longer had a keeper to force food down his throat and threaten him to get some sleep. Of course, it was something much worse. Sherlock always did have a flare for the dramatic. John felt himself grow queasy at the thought. And now, his best friend was alone and in pain and in a hospital bed suffering from malaria, or cholera, or some other horrific illness.Why hadn’t he engulfed Sherlock in a hug when he had shown up on his doorstep weeks earlier?Why hadn’t he continued to go on adventures with him?If he had been with him this past week, would he have noticed Sherlock’s illness?Could he have prevented this?“John,” Mycroft’s voice silenced his thoughts and he looked up from where he had been staring at the floor, “If I hadn’t noticed the progression of my brother’s state then there’s very little cause to blame yourself. Sherlock has always been very adept at hiding.”John nodded but felt the tightness in his chest increase and the sinking feeling in his gut descend further. “He’s stable as of right now. The test results came back and taking into account his other symptoms its’s looking like yellow fever. Unfortunately, when it’s this far along into the toxic phase the only thing we can do is try to make him more comfortable and attempt to lessen the symptoms. He has to fight this one on his own.” Dr. Hinley shook his head, removed his glasses, like he had done earlier, and wiped them off on his white jacket.“May we see him?” Mycroft spoke quietly, so unlike himself.“Of course. Well, you may,” Dr. Hinley nodded at Mycroft as he said this, “But due to his condition, the ‘family only’ rule applies.”“I’m sure we can work around that,” Mycroft offered one of his tight-lipped smiles that left little room for argument.Dr. Hinley appeared to have received that hint and nodded, saying, “If you’ll follow me then.”All three men followed the doctor past the double doors and down a long, illuminated hallway. Several turns later they found themselves in a bustling ward. Dr. Hinley stopped outside the door marker 156 and nodded toward Mycroft, “We gave him some sedatives earlier so he will probably be asleep for some time.”Mycroft pushed the door and held it open for John and Greg.Sherlock looked dead.It became painfully obvious to John that his best friend had lost more weight than he could afford to. His skin pulled tightly at his sharp cheekbones and his eyes appeared sunken further into his head. His skin was an unhealthy yellow hue and John noted the likelihood of jaundice. The only thing that fully assured that Sherlock was, indeed, alive was the steady beep of the heart monitor set up next to his bed. IVs and monitoring wires ran crisscross over his chest and lap and upon reviewing the bags hanging by his bed side that he was receiving an antipyretic to manage the fever, fluids to keep him hydrated, and a mild analgesic.John moved to his friend’s side, eyeing the IVs wearily. Lestrade, as if unsure of how to deal with the situation, came to stand awkwardly behind the doctor. Any Mycroft, who appeared, for all intents and purposes, completely put out at being there at all, stood by the door, ready to bolt at any given moment (or well-timed phone call).The ex-blogger tentatively reached out and put his hand atop Sherlock’s pale thin one. The heat of his skin radiated through John and the doctor inside of him felt his nerves shoot out in all directions. Sherlock was horribly hot. Even without touching him John could feel the heat emanating from his ex-flatmate’s body. And yet, there was not a single drop of sweat eking from his yellow skin. How dehydrated must he have been when they brought him in? The detective didn’t stir once while John sat beside him, gripping his hand; he didn’t flinch when Greg stroked his forehead, or even when Mycroft ran a hesitant hand through his curls. Sherlock, himself, felt like he was swimming through molasses. His mind, which he treasured most, was barely cognizant. It stuttered between short bursts of intense consciousness and long periods of dark confusion and pain.He vaguely recalled meeting Lestrade for a case but then he wondered if that might have been all in his mind. He did dream an awful lot about his old life: consulting on murders, visiting Molly at Bart’s, arguing with Lestrade about the rights of a consulting detective when apprehending a criminal, and, of course, John. Always John. During his time away, he thought of little else in in his spare time. Had he returned at all? He disappeared so often to the confines of his own mind that, for all he knew, he could still be laying in his holding cell in Goma.The day that Lestrade had called he had woken up form a particularly restless sleep and had an overwhelming urge to act as if the past 18 months had not occurred at all. And so, he left his flat and met Lestrade at the crime scene where he was promptly overcome with the most excruciating pain. He had noticed how his head had throbbed over the past few days. Yes, he had suffered from fevers, chills, aches, pains, and vomiting but he attributed to his poor immune system and his return to London via germ-filled air travel.And now Sherlock was severely confused, which rarely happened. In fact, the last time that had happened was when he was in Goma. Or was he in Goma now? Was this the same instance?Then he sensed the warmth of cotton sheets beneath his boy and felt of jolt of hope at the thought of being home. Of being somewhere safe and warm and needed. But even as he thought this, he was reminded of how vivid his mind was. How vivid all of his daydreams were. It was the only thing that got him this far (wherever that was.) He could disappear into his mind, into his memories, when things became too much.Was he doing that now? God, how could he not know? He always knew.And now he was lying here wondering what was going on. His mind refused to supply the answers. Instead, it chugged along slowly, almost painfully. In fact, his whole body felt slow and heavy and achy. If he was still in Goma, this was not surprising. His limbs groaned at the slightest of movement, so Sherlock stayed still. He attempted to open his eyes but felt nausea rise to his throat. As consciousness began to creep over him, he noticed that what was once a welcome comfort, the cotton sheets, began to burn his skin. His bare legs and arms tingled and ached at anything touching it and Sherlock bit back a groan.If this was his mind, it was cruel.
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True to the doctor’s word, Sherlock was unconscious for the next several hours. During this time, Greg was called away on important phone calls three times until finally he felt he had prolonged his return to work for far too long. John agreed to call Greg should Sherlock’s condition change. Mycroft too returned to his work. Though, he made frequent visits to his brother’s bedside in between phone calls, emails, and meetings.By the fifth hour, John felt his eyelids beginning to droop but then, just as he was about to nod off, Sherlock’s fingers twitched, and he groaned quietly.“Sherlock?” John whispered, leaning forward so he would be within his friend’s line of sight.The younger man began to twitch. He appeared to be prying his eyes open with sheer willpower and he whimpered quietly as the light assaulted his eyes.“Sherlock,” John smiled despite the situation, now that he saw the detective’s mercurial eyes he felt a little tension leave his body.Finally, Sherlock’s gaze found his friend’s face and those ever-changing eyes squinted in confusion as he turned his head to face John.The doctor reminded himself that Sherlock probably didn’t remember anything from the past few hours, and so, John leaned forward, placing a hand on Sherlock’s clammy forehead to move some of his black curls from his yes, “You’re in hospital, Sherlock. You’ve been very ill.” John hated speaking to Sherlock like he was a child, but he began to feel the panic he experienced earlier in the day return as the look of confusion remained on his friend’s face.John stroked Sherlock’s forehead, almost unconsciously. Then he reached over to the side table and grabbed the small glass of water that the nurse had left there earlier, straw and everything. He put the straw to Sherlock’s lips, “Drink slowly though, you won’t feel too good if you start slurping it down.” Sherlock, strangely enough, did as he was told. Yet, the confused expression did not leave his face.By the time Sherlock had stopped drinking, John was frantic to make that look leave his friend’s face and so he began to ramble, “When I saw it on the news I—I panicked. I came as soon as I could. You know, that stuff I said earlier…when you came to visit me I—I didn’t mean any of it. I guess I just didn’t know how to…you know…deal with it.”John had been looking anywhere but Sherlock during his rant, and now that he had finished, he found his eyes return to his ex-flatmate’s face. That look had not gone away. Sherlock, if anything, looked paler.“Do you—do you need anything?” John knew the desperation was evident in his voice and yet, he couldn’t be bothered to care.It was silent for a short while. John had removed his hand from Sherlock’s forehead but then just placed it lightly against his shoulder instead. He had an overwhelming need to just touch his friend. To make sure he was there. That, despite the illness, he was alive. And then Sherlock spoke. It was not his usual voice. In its place, a much quieter and raspy baritone whispered, “Date?”John leaned forward once again, “What?” And for one ridiculous moment John thought Sherlock was asking him out.“What’s the date?” Sherlock said in a hushed voice, moving his face closer to John’s in an effort to have himself heard better.John stared at the younger man’s yellowish face. Of course, Sherlock would ask the most random question and, perhaps thankful for a little normalcy, John smiled, “It’s November twenty-second. You’ve been here for…” John checked his watch, “thirteen hours.”“Hm.” Sherlock promptly turned his head away and closed his eyes. The next two days followed in much of the same way. Mycroft had managed to pull some strings and John was allowed to stay on a cot in Sherlock’s room. He barely used it. During Sherlock’s semi-conscious moments, he barely spoke. He spent most of the time shivering from fever, vomiting in a bin, or groaning, almost as if he were unaware of the noise he was making.While Sherlock slept, which, with the medication he was given, was for most of the day, John read aloud from the newspaper or spoke about the months his friend had been absent. He found himself asking questions aloud as if the detective would somehow come to and offer a snide answer like his usual self.Often, Greg would stop by to visit with John and check up on Sherlock in between shifts. Molly even stopped by briefly only to crumble into tears at the sight of Sherlock in the hospital bed and John had to usher her out of the room so as not to disturb his rest. John assured her he’d call with any changes which she seemed grateful for as she all but sped out of the ward. It was the most “catching up” John had done with them since before Sherlock’s death. The doctor hadn’t realized how much he had missed their company.Mycroft made less frequent visits. When he did make an appearance, it was mostly to consult with the doctors outside his brother’s room in the hallway. He seemed uneasy seeing Sherlock in such a fragile state and John didn’t push the issue because he was sure the younger Holmes would rather wear Christmas sweaters for an eternity than to have his brother see him so weak.John had also received a very distressed phone call from Mrs. Hudson. Mostly because he didn’t want to trouble his old landlady any further John promised there wouldn’t be anything she could do if she were in town anyway. She said she would be on the first train back if Sherlock needed her, but John felt there was no need. It wasn’t like Sherlock needed biscuits and tea.Mary, bless her, had dropped by the hospital to offer her moral support and to also bring John some spare clothes, his laptop, and some paperbacks to entertain himself. She smiled lovingly at John and asked diligently about Sherlock, but the staff had put the hard stop on anyone else visiting the invalid by that point.When he wasn’t speaking aloud to Sherlock, monitoring his condition, phoning the others to notify them of changes, or taking care of his own everyday needs, John spent a lot of his free time wondering what had happened to Sherlock while he was abroad. Mycroft had mentioned Riyadh and Goma. And so, John took it upon himself to delve into research of the areas. In fact, he took it upon himself to research all the areas he thought Sherlock may have been.Looking through old international articles, John began to piece together a somewhat hazy picture. All of his research was guesswork, at best. He put together article after article that sounded like they may have been related to Sherlock in some fashion. All of them were curious to say at least: ‘International Arms Dealer Arrested for Unbelievable Hit and Run’ in Germany, ‘Prostitution Ring Discovered through Decoded Messages,’ in Taiwan, ‘Money Laundering Philanthropist Killed in Suspicious Mountaineering Accident,’ in Peru. And so, the articles got more and more dark. The closer he got to the Middle East the more John began to worry. If all these were related to his friend,, or even if some of them were, Sherlock had clearly been waging on one-man war against Moriarty’s syndicate.When he finally got to Goma, he felt his hands begin to shake. Granted, the Democratic Republic of the Congo was an area of tentative peace the majority of the time But Goma. Goma was an entirely different ball of wax. The city, and even the entire Kivu province where it was located, appeared to be in a constant state of turmoil. Trapped between the DRC, Rwanda, Uganda, and a whole mess of rebel groups, Goma seemed to always be stuck between two warring factions.The political situation was one thing, but the actual push to power was over the country’s mineral resources, largely used for the manufacturing of smart phones, airbags, and numerous other first world commodities. The situation sounded like the perfect bait for Moriarty’s men. Give one side enough backing and you can control an entire region for your own purposes.John wondered if Sherlock knew where he was going when he had been taken. He wondered if he knew the extent of the syndicate. He also wondered where he had been kept, the conditions he must have lived in if he was liable to catch such an illness and then let it get to the toxic phase. He wondered if his friend had been tortured for information. Or worse, if he had been tortured for fun. He wondered how he got out of there. And most of all John wondered who he should thank for getting him out of there.By the third day, John was exhausted and worried sick. He hesitantly took to his cot to catch a quick nap and was dozing off when he woke up to screaming. He fumbled for the light on Sherlock’s bedside table, his heart pounding in his chest. He reeled back at what he saw.Sherlock was sitting up clutching at his bed sheets. His screams did not come out bloodcurdling but in soft, short bursts. Deep and raspy from his illness. Sherlock was gasping for breath, his face ashen and glistening with sweat.“Sherlock?” John leaned forward, gently touching Sherlock’s bare arm, which caused his friend to jump and turn a wary eye toward the concerned doctor.“John.” Sherlock reached forward, shakily, grasping at John’s t-shirt to pull him closer.“Sherlock—you need to calm down.” John glanced at the monitors surrounding the detective’s bed and inwardly grimaced, “You’re very ill. You need to take a deep breath.”“I—I don’t have time.” He looked crazed. His curls were plastered against his head, his eyes wide and glassy, “You must get out of here,” he whispered as he looked round his shoulder, as if expecting Moriarty, himself, to sneak up behind him, “You must get out—please. John, I—I can’t protect you here.”“What?” John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s hands to try and pry them from his shirt. He only gripped tighter, surprising John with his strength.“You must get out of here.”“Sherlock—where? Where do you think you are?” It was then that John realized Sherlock was crying. Though, not just tears. Large droplets of blood streaked down Sherlock’s yellow-tinted face. John felt his gut drop. His heart thundered against his chest. Despite his doctor-voice telling him this was a symptom of Yellow Fever, he barely felt he had the stomach for it.“I don’t know how they got you here.” Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, blurred over now with bloody tears, and his brows furrowed, “Perhaps—Mycroft…I—I don’t know. You must get out of here! Please, John—please—before they come back.”John felt his friend’s hands shake and he gripped them more firmly between his own, “It’s okay, Sherlock. You’re safe. You’re just recovering from an illness. Take a deep breath.”“No—no, no, no…” Sherlock reached up and gripped his hair, a sight that was so familiar it made John’s heart clench, “What have they given you? Have they given you anything?” He looked up and reached for John’s face to peer into his eyes. “What?” The doctor reached for his hands, pulling them gently away from his face, “Sherlock—they haven’t given me anything—I don’t know—”“John! Please—please, listen to me—” Sherlock’s voice was harsh, and he gripped John’s lapels tightly, “they will break you. You must leave. Before they come back, please, you must—” the deep baritone broke off as the door opened and a pudgy-faced nurse entered. Sherlock groaned and released John’s jacket, falling back against the pillows.“Mr. Holmes? We heard some commotion…”“Nurse! I do not know this man and I would like him removed from the room immediately.”“What?!” John felt the air leave his lungs, “Sherlock—what are you talking about?”“Nurse!” Sherlock’s voice cracked and he swung an arm up to cover his face, “Please! This is far too much.”‘He’s delirious,’ was John’s first thought. He tried not to take it personally but the fear in Sherlock’s voice before the nurse had come in and the complete indifference afterward shook him to his very core. This was not Sherlock. Just as he thought this, his friend groaned and shuddered. He covered his face with his hands and ran them up to grip his hair tightly, smearing blood along his cheeks and temples.“Mr. Holmes, you need to calm down, you’ll make yourself sicker.” The nurse had hurried to the bedside, attempting to check his vitals as Sherlock stubbornly turned his back on her.“He’s making me sicker. If Mensah intends to have me well enough to meet Moran in a few days, then I suggest you remove this stranger from my room immediately,” Sherlock had turned his face into his pillow, smearing more blood over the white linen. Even as he said this, his voice shook, and he gasped in pain from the movement.“We will have him removed immediately. I’ll go get security.” The nurse, whose nametag read Jillian, shared a knowing look with John, which relieved some of his tension and fear of being forcibly removed. She turned her back and rushed out the door, presumably to get a doctor and reinforcements.“Sherlock, what the—”“I have to get you out of here. Even if you won’t save yourself, maybe I can force you.” Sherlock turned to glare at him angrily, but it seemed off. The blood smearing his cheeks didn’t help but the more John studied him the more it seemed like the way he was moving his entire body seemed off. Unlike his usual feline grace, his movements seemed jerky and tight. He picked at the bed sheet moodily and turned to stare at John, running a tongue over his lips as if he had just eaten a particularly satisfying meal.“Sherlock—how do you feel?” John leaned forward to push Sherlock’s sweaty hair from his face.His friend swatted his hand away, smacking his lips as he did so, “Is this really the time, John?”“Yes, considering you’re unwell and bedridden in hospital, I think it’s the perfect time.” John grasped Sherlock’s face in his hands, observing his dilated pupils and flushed face, “Answer me, how do you feel?”Sherlock just turned his head slightly and smacked his lips together, “I—I—”Quite suddenly, Sherlock’s body tensed up and he let out a low grunt. John took a step back. Even before the convulsions started John knew it was a seizure. Sherlock’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell limply against the pillows only to have his limbs snap back together against his body seconds later.John pulled up the railings on the hospital bed, hoping it would keep Sherlock from falling off all together and doing even more damage to his already abused body. Then he looked up to the clock and began timing it, his training kicking in even though his heart was breaking. This was always the worst part. John could only sit and wait for it to end, taking solace that at least Sherlock was unconscious for this part. Keeping his eyes firmly on the clock he reached out to press hard on the call-button near Sherlock’s head.John felt like time had slowed. Why had no one answered his call yet? Why was Sherlock still seizing? Good Lord, it felt like it had lasted hours when the clock hands confirmed it had only been a little over a minute. The consulting detective was still convulsing violently on the bed. Already, several pillows had fallen off the mattress and the bedsheet were now pushed down at Sherlock’s thighs, tangling around his legs. John could only be grateful that he had had the foresight to pull the security railings up since Sherlock was now thrashing wildly against them.It was nearly two minutes before the door burst open to reveal a calm and collected pair of elderly nurses whom John recognized.“How long?” One of them asked as she reached for several vials on a counter near the door and the second one came over to attempt to take Sherlock’s pulse.“A minute, fifty-two seconds.” John replied, hardly recognizing the doctor-voice that came out of his mouth especially considering how much his stomach was churning.But, finally, after what seemed like forever, Sherlock stilled. John and the nurses turned him onto his side, should he vomit in the aftermath of his convulsions. Instead, Sherlock’s body was slack and still.The nurse who had been gathering vials drew out a clear liquid from one and inserted it into one of Sherlock’s many IV catheters. She smiled tightly at John before explaining herself, “It’s a mild anesthetic, to help with the pain. I’ll go get the doctor.”John nodded and watched as the other woman cleaned up Sherlock with the practice ease of a career nurse. Sherlock had not moved. The ex-soldier stood in quiet shock while the nurse tried to get Sherlock out of the tangled mess of sheets so she could change his gown and bedding. Finally, John seemed to notice his lack of movement and leapt forward to help the woman, “I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m so sorry…”The nurse smiled at him, “My name is Abby. I understand. No matter how long you’ve been in the business it’s never the same when it’s someone you love.” She shook her head and threw the bedding she had just untangled from Sherlock’s long legs on the floor.John turned away while she changed his friend out of his soiled hospital gown. Something told him Sherlock would be more than slightly mortified if John were to see him in this state. When she finished, John helped her lift Sherlock onto the cot while they changed the sheets and bedding on his own bed. By the time they had Sherlock back lying comfortably on his original bed, he was starting to come to.The nurse excused herself as John came to stand by Sherlock’s side, taking the long, spidery fingers in his hand, “Sherlock?”The man in question opened his quicksilver eyes and stared dazedly at John’s face. Those eyes which were usually so sharp and intelligent appeared foggy and confused. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but instead only a groan came out. Blood-red tears formed again at the corners of the detective’s eyes and John rushed to smooth sweat slicked curls from his friend’s face.“Shhh, it’s okay, Sherlock. You just had a mild seizure.” Mild. Even as John said it, he felt panic well-up in his chest at the thought of Sherlock convulsing so violently again, “They’ve given you some medication to help with the pain.”Sherlock shook his head, the bloody tears only falling faster, and John felt horrified at the thought of his immovable friend brought to his knees by an infection.“You’re going to be fine, Sherlock.” John felt his voice waver but continued saying soothing words as he leaned down to kiss the distraught man’s forehead.“No.” John pulled back at Sherlock’s whisper and stared down at his gaunt and bloodied face. Sherlock had never looked so fragile than he did right then. His eye sockets were sunken and his face skeletal. But more than anything, his eyes were wide and desperate. John had seen that look before. He had seen it 18 months ago while Sherlock stood dangerously close to the edge of a building. (‘Please will you do this for me?’) He thought he’d never see it again. Sherlock licked his drying lips and brought a shaky hand to John’s wrist where it rested against the side of his face in an attempt to wipe some of his tears away, “I’m going to die, John.”John felt the breath knocked out of him. He felt a familiar dread well up in his chest, constricting around his heart and windpipe like a snake. Anxiety wrapped around his body like a cloak, and he wondered if he was reliving some sort of a nightmare where Sherlock was walking along the edge of a building again like a circus performer on a tightrope and John was standing helplessly below with no net to catch him.“No.” John’s voice came out in a strong, definitive tone. He would not allow this to happen again, “No, you will not die.”Sherlock stared up at John, his eyes still wide and his breath shallow. But John didn’t see desperation there anymore. Instead, he saw surprise and….esteem? Maybe even affection. John felt Sherlock’s fingers slide down from his wrist to his fingers where he clung to them, “I…I thought I’d never see you again.” Sherlock’s voice was just a ghost of his usual deep authoritative tone. He sounded small. Scared.John smiled, “It’s harder than that to get rid of me.”Sherlock smirked, his thumb rubbing circles into John’s palm, “I should have never doubted you.”“You won’t make that mistake again once you’re out of here.”Sherlock’s grin fell slightly, and he looked away from John toward the numerous machines standing by his hospital bed like watchmen standing guard.“Don’t,” John gripped tightly at Sherlock’s fingers, “I need you here.”Sherlock glanced back up at John, the long column of his throat glistening with a sheen of sweat, his curls plastered against his forehead and down the side of his cheeks, “I thought you couldn’t risk it?”John shook his head, “I was an idiot.”“Obviously.”Unexpectedly John let out a little huff of laughter. It was so Sherlock. So arrogant and said so carelessly that John felt his eyes prickle with the familiar beginnings of tears. Instead, he leaned forward, pushing his face into the crook where Sherlock’s neck met his shoulder. He expected his old friend to push him away disdainfully but, instead, he felt long spindly arms wrap loosely around his shoulders.The tears John had been trying to ward off suddenly seemed to spring free while he hid his face his Sherlock’s curls. He pulled back when he heard the door open, wiping his nose and staring guiltily at the wet spot on Sherlock’s blue hospital gown. He glanced down at Sherlock who, despite being bedridden, sweat drenched, and more ill than John had ever seen him, looked as if whoever had just entered the room was not worthy of his time or attention.John turned to face Dr. Hinley, who, perhaps as a nervous habit, cleaned his glasses. Maybe he felt that taking them off gave his patient and friend a modicum of privacy. He cleared his throat awkwardly and came to stand at the foot of Sherlock’s bed. His assistant handed him a tablet and them stood behind him like a bodyguard though she was probably no taller than 5 feet and 120 pounds soaking wet.Dr. Hinley hummed while he scrolled through the tablet, “Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you remember about the past few days?”Sherlock bristled at the question but whether it was because of Hinley’s tone or because of the fact that Sherlock, who remembered everything, was struggling to remember the past few days, no one could be sure, “I’m aware I suffered a tonic-clonic seizure.”Dr. Hinley looked toward John, giving him a knowing glance, and stared down at Sherlock’s chart with a little more determination, “Do you remember anything before that?”Sherlock looked away, toward the machines again, refusing to answer.John stared at his friend but when it became apparent that Sherlock was going to be his usual stubborn self, the doctor in him stepped forward, “Prior to the seizure, Sherlock suffered a brief period of delirium. His heartrate picked up to a dangerous level and he was under a lot of duress. It’s probably what caused the seizure. But I’m not sure I know what caused the delirium.”Hinley pushed his glasses up his nose and handed the chart back to his assistant, “I’m afraid I have the answer to that question.”“Afraid?” John clenched his fists compulsively.“We lowered his dose of Panadol to see if he could fight the infection on his own. It was the only way we could see what stage of toxicity he was at.”“You risked him potentially going into a coma to see ‘what stage of toxicity he was at’?” John gave the doctor a disbelieving look, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, “He’s barely been able to retain consciousness the last few days and you decided this was the time to do it?”At least Dr. Hinley had the intelligence to look slightly uneasy. He swayed awkwardly on his feet, “I would never needlessly endanger the lives of any of my patients Dr. Watson. Unfortunately, with Yellow Fever, there are few ways to be sure if the worst of it has passed or not.”The doctor in him agreed but seeing Sherlock so helpless and scared and sick made John reluctant to approve. Instead, he stood up straight and militant and glared at holes into the man in front of him, “So obviously, it isn’t over yet.”“Unfortunately not. We’ll keep Mr. Holmes on a rigorous medication plan for the next few days. But…” Dr. Hinley’s eyes moved to behind John to stare at the bedridden man, “if this fever should keep up for much longer, I fear there may be permanent damage.”Behind him, John could feel Sherlock tense. He had done all that he could to convince Sherlock he was capable of fighting this. That things would return to normal in no time. That, no matter what happened in the Congo, or the Middle East, or wherever else Sherlock had been, he was home now. He was here. He was safe. But no matter how much John tried to mean the words he said, he couldn’t protect Sherlock here. He couldn’t protect his friend from himself.
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The next several days were spent rather quietly all things considered. Sherlock was given a generous dose of painkillers and spent the majority of his time drifting in and out of uneasy consciousness. When he was cognizant, he was miserable, and John spent much of his time cringing in sympathy.Sherlock talked in his sleep. He twisted and turned and moaned and groaned. He puffed out insults and whimpered names John did not recognize. Often, he screamed. He screamed in ways John had never imagined him capable. Since the reinstallation of Panadol, his friend had not experienced another full-blown delirious outburst but he more than made up for it through vivid nightmares. So vivid that the ex-soldier in John found himself looking around as if he expected Sherlock’s dreams to be real life.John had barely gone back to the flat he shared with Mary. He went only to shower and pick up spare clothes. Mary spoke soothing words to him over the phone but, despite all her mollycoddling, John yearned to hear the condescending tones of his best friend. The “obviously” he had spoken to him days before seemed more like years and with every hour sitting next to his bedside John felt himself lose a little more hope that things were going to be alright.He found himself waking up from his own nightmares, the likes of which he hadn’t had since he’d first been invalided home. They always began the same. He was back in Afghanistan. It was quiet. One of those calm before the storm moments in war that made men tense with anxiety and pull pranks just to lighten the mood. John quite possibly thought the beginning of this nightmare came from a memory.He was spending his time cleaning the leftover remnants of a previous group that had been caught in a fire fight. And somehow, in the back of his mind, dream-John knew he would have been part of those remnants if, at the last minute, the Lieutenant Colonel hadn’t decided to send in a new batch of RAMC recruits to give the senior officers a break. Surely, John would have been leaving the desert in a body bag, the only thing left of him a dark red patch soaked into the sand.All the sudden, there was commotion everywhere. The walls shook and he could hear screaming from outside of the hospital barracks. John rushed to where he kept his gun, on the desk in the corner of the crowded room. Next to his Browning sat his medical kit, but he didn’t give it a second thought before he grabbed his gun and left the kit on the table. If there were injuries, they would bring them here anyway.He had to shield his eyes from the sun when he finally got outside. There were bodies everywhere. Bodies of strangers. Bodies of acquaintances. Bodies of friends. But John felt his stomach clench when he caught sight of bloodied curls behind a pile of debris. John stumbled forward, ignoring the bullets whizzing overhead and not giving a flying fuck where they landed. All that mattered was getting to the man who wore those curls like a crown.And there he was. Just like on that day that he had been trying to forget for over 18 months. But unlike that day, those ever-changing eyes were not unseeing. Instead, Sherlock was blinking rapidly and looking around as if the answer to some great puzzle was hidden somewhere in the clouds.John let out a huff and blinked back tears before kneeling before his friend, “Sherlock? Sherlock, I’m here to help. Where are you hurt?”Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but then blood began to pour from it in bright red spurts. John felt frantic and patted desperately at his friend’s body to find some sort of injury. Even Sherlock looked shocked, and he began to claw at John’s forearms. Hurriedly, the doctor turned the bloodied man on his side to make sure he didn’t choke on the liquid gushing out between his lips and then he looked toward the medical barracks in hopes of finding enough courage to make the trek back to find his kit.But there was no medical barracks. There was nothing there. Only desert.John jumped up hastily and left the protection of the debris Sherlock and himself were hiding behind. There was no more gunfire. No more shouting. No more bodies. There was nothing. John turned back to Sherlock and was startled to find the detective lying in a pool of his own blood. And not just a little pool. There was blood outlining the lanky man’s entire body, staining his clothes, and soaking his dark hair.John fell to his knees by his friend again. So much blood was pouring from his mouth he was beginning to choke on it despite being on his side. Perhaps sensing this, Sherlock turned on his back to look at his friend. His eyes were wide and scared and John felt tears pouring freely from his own. Why had he not grabbed his medical kit? Why was there no one here? Could no one help? Where was all this blood coming from? And where was the injury? The doctor cradled his friends head in his lap. He felt his whole-body shutter as Sherlock began to choke.Sherlock reached up to grab John’s hand. He gripped it tightly between his own and then placed it over his heart. John reached down to push that great long Belstaff coat to the side, away from his chest. There, where his heart should be beating steadily, was a grisly hole. Skin had been ripped a part, leaving bare muscle, tissue and bone. But there was hardly any blood seeping from the wound.John stared down at the torn flesh, the butchered muscles. Sherlock squeezed John’s hand where he still held it against his stomach and gurgled, blood running down his chin to pool between his clavicles and neck. He was scared. John knew it. He could see it in his eyes, feel it in the shaking of Sherlock’s body, hear it in his gasps. He had seen it countless times with men coming back from the frontlines. But there was nothing for it. John hadn’t a clue how to even begin to go about fixing Sherlock. So, he sat there. Helpless. Frightened. His eyes so blurred with tears that he could barely make out Sherlock’s bright blue ones gazing back at him. And then Sherlock wheezed, moaned, and finally stopped moving all together.Whenever he had this dream, he woke up with sweat pouring from his forehead like water from a well. Sometimes, dream Sherlock would close his eyes after his last breath. Sometimes they remained open like after the fall. Sometimes he just gurgled and choked and suffered until John finally shook himself awake, just to put an end to the dreadful feeling. Always, John reached out to touch a real Sherlock. Often, he ran his fingers over the unconscious man’s face and chest, just to make sure there wasn’t any blood.He found that not sleeping was easier. By the third day, John could barely keep his eyes open long enough to get food into his mouth. Mycroft had been visiting more frequently since the seizure and finally, after seeing John struggle for 30 minutes to get a single piece of toast down his throat, he convinced John to go home after much patronizing, finally having to resort to veiled threats. “Besides, I haven’t had a chance to check on 221B since Sherlock’s illness,” the official added quietly, “perhaps you could make a stop there to pick up a change of clothes for him.”John was secretly relieved that Mycroft had suggested staying at Baker Street rather than going back to the flat that he shared with Mary. Seeing her right now seemed wrong somehow and the thought of it left a funny taste in his mouth. And, despite the turmoil he felt at returning to the flat he had once shared with Sherlock, he knew he was ready to go back. He had to be ready, he was needed. He couldn’t imagine the mess Sherlock had left in since both John and Mrs. Hudson weren’t there to clean up after his tornado-like tendencies. He expected he’d be spending much of his time there cleaning rather than resting.He was, however, not expecting the media circus waiting for him outside the front door of 221B. From the confines of the sleek black car Mycroft insisted he take, John cringed at the reporters, bloggers, and general gossipmongers milling about the street.“Sir? Would you like me to call Mr. Holmes and set up a barrier?” The suited man driving the car asked John quietly.The reporters, having noticed a mysterious car with tinted windows up against the curb, began to swarm. John felt his resolve falter. He should’ve just returned to his flat rather than come here. But staring at the front door, the familiar gold address gleaming back at him, John thought back to when he first met Sherlock here. And then he thought of Sherlock’s bloodied face, though whether it was from a dream or reality, John could not tell. He owed him this. At the very least.“No, I’ll just squeeze past. Hopefully, they’ll lose interest once I get inside. I’ll call if they don’t leave by tomorrow morning.” John nodded with determination, opened the car door, and shielded his eyes against the flashing lights that met him.He could barely see. He felt like he was standing at the forefront of a nuclear bomb, with all the bright lights gleaming at him. He could barely hear over the shouts of the so-called reporters, but John remained stoically quiet as he pushed his way forward. He had had the good wit to think ahead and have the keys Mycroft had lent him out and ready as he pushed the door open and tried to ignore the questions being thrown at him“Dr. Watson, is Sherlock Holmes dead?”“Does your return to the flat you both shared mean you’ve renewed your partnership?”“How is the detective’s health?”“Can you confirm that Mr. Holmes is fighting the last stages of cancer?”“Has the detective’s drug habits returned?”And so on and so on.When John finally closed the front door behind him, he felt himself let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. At last, he made it to the living room and looked down at the mob that had gathered below from the front window. Immediately, he regretted it because they soon spotted him and pointed their cameras upward to get the iconic ‘heartbroken looking out a window’ photo they could all post on their blogs and publish in their newspapers and magazines.John angrily drew the curtains shut, only allowing the barest of light to shine through. When he finally turned around to face the room he knew so well, he felt the situation finally catching up with him. The room lacked the character he had come to associate with it. It was still, quiet. There wasn’t chemistry equipment crowding the kitchen, no skull sitting sulkily on the mantle place, no grisly photos or puzzles tacked to the walls, no piles of books or newspapers, and no Sherlock. Most of the detective’s things appeared to be there, just packed up and hidden away in the numerous boxes that sat in the corners of the room.John took off his jacket and threw it over some of said boxes. He pushed up his shirt sleeves. The place smelt uninhabited. In fact, it smelt worse than uninhabited, it smelt sickly. On the coffee table and sitting at the foot of the couch were dozens of empty teacups. This wasn’t where the smell was coming from though. John walked down the hallways and warily pushed open Sherlock’s bedroom door. But it was as if Sherlock hadn’t set foot in the room since he had returned. Not a thing out of place. In fact, it looked as if the entire place was set up for some sort of promotional photo. From what he could tell the bed hadn’t even been sat on. The dresser drawers unopened.John moved on to the bathroom and discovered where the smell must be coming from. This room looked more lived in than any other room thus far. John could only imagine how sick Sherlock must have been to have been spending most of his time laying on the cold tiled floor. At the foot of the toilet, there was a makeshift bed made up of a combination of towels and blankets. The sheer stink of the cloth had John immediately grabbing them to throw in the wash. Sherlock must have thrown up on them, or near them. There were specks of blood on some of the towels and John shivered before throwing them in the washing machine.Then he went back to the bathroom to try and clean up what he could. The countertop was a mess. There were several pill bottles including several that must have been prescribed to Sherlock upon his return. Sleeping pills, a mild antibiotic, and to John’s dismay, heavy anti-anxiety medication. John gathered the bottles and put them in the medicine cabinet. He collected the Kleenex thrown carelessly aside, the empty glasses and teacups left on the floor, and, randomly enough, several melted bags of peas that Sherlock must have been using as ice packs.When he had finished in the bathroom, he cleaned what he could in the living room. He even began to unpack some of the boxes left strewn about. When he finally looked at the clock, he was shocked that it was already well past dinner He turned away from where he had been trying to put away Sherlock’s vast collection of books to look at the couch on the far wall. Sherlock’s yellow smiley face remained where he had vandalized the wall and John grinned slowly and shook his head.He remembered the day Mrs. Hudson had called him up, some 6 months after Sherlock’s funeral, and told him she had to get rid of the monstrosity gracing her walls if she were to find a new lodger. She had asked him to come over and help her re-wallpaper and he had agreed because he felt guilty for pushing her away, for not visiting, for not being man enough to go back to the flat he had once shared with his best friend.When he had arrived, he felt a wave of nervous energy hit him but Mrs. Hudson, with her kind words and gentle nudging, helped him to reenter the flat. Together, they spent the better part of an hour staring at the wallpapered wall. The smiley face grinning back at them and the bullet holes shamelessly telling their story. After 45 minutes of trying and retrying to approach the wall, Mrs. Hudson finally turned to John and said, “Sod it, I’ll make tea.”They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting against the wall opposite of the smiley face and exchanging stories. It was the happiest John had been in 6 months. But it didn’t last. When he went back to his bedsit that night, he had his usual nightmares, except this time there were significantly more yellow spray-painted smiley faces in them.Now, as John bumbled around the flat, he couldn’t help but be thankful that Mrs. Hudson had decided to keep the it as it was, before Sherlock’s death. He suspected that Mycroft had something to do with that but didn’t dwell on the subject. He poked his head in the refrigerator and was unsurprised to find nothing edible inside. What he was surprised to find was nothing inside at all. John wondered if a trip to the grocers was practical, and he shimmied his way to the front window again to peak out.The reporters had not left. If anything, the crowd looked more amped up then when John had first made his appearance. It was freezing out there, the threat of sleet imminent. Jesus, didn’t these people have anything better to do? John scrolled through his options and his stomach gave a loud grumble in response. He made up his mind and dialed a number.“Greg?” John felt relieved to hear the Detective Inspector’s vice on the other line. He hadn’t realized how quiet it had been in the flat until he spoke aloud, “Listen, there’s a paparazzi mob outside of Baker Street. I can’t possibly get out of here without attracting some sort of attention and I’m starving in here.”On the other end of the phone, John could hear Greg excusing himself form a meeting. “I had a feeling that’s where they would go next. We had a few out here earlier this morning. They can’t seem to get enough of Sherlock. Well, how about I come over in, say, 15 minutes or so with some takeaway? I need a break anyway and you can fill me in on Sherlock. Mycroft told me you’d gone back to Baker Street when I called this morning.”“Yeah, after being practically threatened. I could do with the company though. And the food” John smiled into the phone as Greg agreed to be by as soon as he could wrap up his work and stop by the Thai place on the way from the station.While he waited for Greg, John wandered the flat as if he were wandering through a museum. He was sure that if he were Sherlock, he would be able to tell a lot from the clues left behind. But all John could see was the emptiness of his old home.He wandered upstairs to his old room and pushed opened the door, expecting it to be as barren and bare as he left it all those months ago. Rather, just as the bathroom had appeared to have been lived in, so too, was his old room. The bed was a mess of sheets and thick blankets. There were several books lying about. On the bedside table were opened medication containers, used Kleenex, empty glasses. In the corner of the room, in the old chair John had purchased from an army friend, were a pile of clothes. John, not knowing what hit him, perhaps sentimentality, ran his hands over his friend’s used clothes.On the very top were Sherlock’s pajamas and blue dressing gown. He must have thrown them there when he got dressed to meet Lestrade on the day he passed out. Something about this made John’s heart clench strangely in his chest. The fact that Sherlock had taken to sleeping in what used to be his old room rather than downstairs where he was, not only closer to the toilet, but also closer to where the action was made John wonder what exactly was going through his friend’s head.John sifted through all the old clothing lying on the chair, debating whether or not he should throw another load of laundry in tonight. He stopped short when he reached the very bottom. It was one of his jumpers. An old one at that. One he must have forgotten here when he moved away. It was well worn and when he held it up to get a better look, he could only smell Sherlock on it.John couldn’t take much more of it. He grabbed all the linens from the bed and the clothes and brought them downstairs to the laundry machine where he haphazardly threw things in. While he had been cleaning the flat, he had more than convinced himself that Sherlock would be returning. But standing there in the kitchen, knowing that Sherlock had spent the better part of a week in the throes of illness, not only in 221B by himself but also in John’s old room by himself, John felt his muscles tighten and his heart hurt. It had been his own pride keeping him from his best friend. He had lost him once and now he was close to losing him a second time because he had been too pigheaded to admit that losing the mad detective the first time had nearly killed him.The more John thought about it, the more he thought about Sherlock’s face when he first came to John after returning. The look of acceptance so clearly painted on those sharp features had John beginning to wonder if Sherlock knew his only friend would be so cruel. Why had he turned him away? Why had Sherlock expected him to turn him away?And now, with Sherlock sitting at Death’s doorstep, John could only feel terror at the thought of having to say goodbye a second time. But perhaps even more terrifying was what was waiting for Sherlock should he return to 221B. John wouldn’t be there. Mrs. Hudson was quite the force but not one that could go toe-to-toe with Sherlock, even on his best-behaved day. The memory of the sleeping and anxiolytic pills sitting quietly in the medicine cabinet gnawed at the back of John’s mind.Obviously, Sherlock could barely take care of himself as it was. The truth that he had come back more damaged than when he had left made John theorize what would happen if Sherlock should recover from his illness only to have to deal with the emotional tidal wave that was bound to hit shore. John remembered what it was like returning from hospital after being invalided. While he had been recovering in the ICU his only focus had been on survival; on breathing, in and out, in and out. But once he had been released – the real struggle began. The memories alone haunted him. But the emotional turmoil of having once been at the top of his game and then ruthlessly cut down made him struggle to get out of bed in the morning. The pressure of ‘being somebody’ of ‘returning to doing good’ made him stumble. It made him wish he had never recovered.And now, with the media waiting for Sherlock’s prodigal return after his rise from the dead, the pressure would, no doubt, be immense. Sherlock needed time to recover. Physically and mentally. He needed help. Whether he would admit it aloud or not, John knew that his friend needed him. Guiltily, John thought of Mary and of the life he had built up for the two of them in his mind. It was built up on false hopes and lies. It was built up on the idea that John would, one day, have to settle down. Mary didn’t deserve anyone settling for her, but John had turned their relationship into that. As he considered moving back into Baker Street, John saw clearly for the first time in weeks.And then the doorbell rang, and John shook himself out of his thoughts. It would all be better in the morning. He jogged down the stairs and opened the front door. Lestrade managed to squeeze himself through without bringing any of the paparazzi scum with him.“Jesus…I’ll have to get some men out here before I leave. You can barely move from curb to door without them trying to drown you.” The detective smiled gently at John as he lifted his hand to reveal a plastic bag carrying several Styrofoam containers of Thai food, “I come bearing gifts.”The two men sat quietly in the living room, picking at their meals. Despite John’s growling stomach, he found he didn’t have much of an appetite now that the food was sitting right in front of him. It appeared Lestrade mirrored his thoughts.“How is he?” Greg finally asked gently, pushing noodles around on the lid of a Styrofoam container, as if that would make it more appealing.“About the same as before, I suppose.” John made no attempt to hide his frustration.Lestrade cleared his throat, “And how’s that?”John stared up at the man sitting before him. Greg looked hopeful but the doctor knew what false hope did to families with loved ones in the hospital, “Not good. Not good at all.”Greg took a deep breath and shook his head, “I thought as much. I was hoping for some good news. Thought that maybe you leaving his bedside meant something good, you know?”Irrationally, John felt tears begin to well up again and he took a steadying breath to right himself again, “I wish, Greg. I’ve never seen him like this before. It honest to God scares the hell out of me.” And with that John found himself letting go entirely. Vaguely he heard himself divulging his fears and anxieties. He heard himself tell Greg all about Sherlock’s delusional episode and the seizure that had resulted from it. He voiced his concerns about what had happened to their friend in the Congo. It was as if every thought that had crossed his mind in the past few days was regurgitated out in word vomit, and John was helpless to contain it.Finally, after what seemed like days but was probably no more than an hour at most, John sat quietly. The stillness in the room was palpable but John couldn’t bring himself to break it.Greg licked his lips and looked down at the Styrofoam lid full of cold noodles that sat on his lap, “When I first met Sherlock, he had O.D.-ed. I don’t know if it was on purpose or not but, when he came to, later, in the hospital, he looked…disappointed.”John couldn’t help but lean forward anxiously. The subject of Sherlock’s past had been somewhat of a taboo topic during their time together. And while there were certain hints and sometimes odd insights, John had never gotten the courage to ask his friend about it.“I don’t think he was trying to survive back then. But he’s trying now. And you’re helping. And I guess so are the rest of us in our own small way. But you – he’d live for you, John. I don’t want to freak you out or anything but when you moved in with him, we all saw it. He was, for the lack of a better word, alive.”John felt heat rush to his face at the statement, he had heard it a dozen times before, but it didn’t matter because knowing that he had made an impact on Sherlock’s life was incredible. The wonderful, fascinating, maddening man who had saved an old, invalided army doctor’s life and, in return, perhaps the same army doctor was making his own small mark. But he couldn’t let the comment slide without voicing his real concern, “But, even if he does recover to become his usual arrogant self, what about after all that? Greg, something happened in the Congo. I don’t know what, I don’t know if I’ll ever know what, but something happened. I found sleeping pills, heavy duty anxiety medication, sedatives in the bathroom. He can’t recover mentally with the pressure the media is putting on him, let alone his own body. I just – what are we going to do?”“Support him, I suppose. What else can you do? What helped you when you got back? I mean, I know they’re not the same thing, but in your own ways you were both off fighting a war. What helped you when you got back from yours?”John sat back thoughtfully, Greg had a point, “Sherlock did.”“Maybe this is your turn then.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
John woke up slowly and surrounded by Sherlock’s scent. Greg left late in the night after he had some of his officers set up a police boundary to ward off the media. That, of course, wouldn’t stop the die-hard paparazzi that seemed to be hiding in trees and underneath cars to get the perfect shot of the grieving ex-blogger. So, John took his time getting ready that morning, hoping that, by the time he left for the hospital, all the errant photographers would have gotten bored and left. He finished the laundry, cleaned up the takeaway Greg and he had left on the coffee table, and attempted to unpack a few more boxes. And then his phone rang. The sound was almost shocking after spending the morning quietly alone. John scrambled to pick it up as the phone vibrated along the side table. He didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID and felt his heart pound painfully when he heard the cool tones of Mycroft Holmes’ voice on the other line.“They took him off the Panadol earlier last night,” the voice said quietly, “After several hours of observation, the doctors agree that the worst of it is over. They’re allowing my brother to fight the rest of the infection on his own. So far, Sherlock has been nothing but vocal in his discontent.”“I’ll be right there.” John hung up, threw on his jacket, and ran out the door without giving a second thought to the media circus that had been there only less than 24 hours before.John could barely follow a single train of thought the entire cab ride to the hospital. At first, he tried to think of all things that should be done before Sherlock was released from the hospital. And then he thought of the blood red tears that had stained Sherlock’s face the last time he had had a real conversation with him. He thought of the vague statements he had made during his delirium. Then he thought of their time together. He thought of the shy smiles Sherlock threw his direction every time John complimented him. He thought of the ashtray Sherlock had stolen from Buckingham Palace just because John had mentioned it. And he thought of Sherlock’s face lit by the computer screen when he had accused John of believing all the media’s lies, the look of dejection masked by bland acceptance.He could barely remember the walk to Sherlock’s hospital room but when he arrived the door was ajar, and John could hear Mycroft’s nasally voice through the crack.“—understand that you’re recovering from a serious illness; not to mention the aftermath of…your time away.”Sherlock’s voice was hoarse but loud enough for John to hear and he stepped aside so his back was to the wall next to the cracked door, “Don’t treat me like a child, Mycroft.”“Then stop acting like one. You knew the sacrifices you were going to have to make. You cannot expect your life to continue on as if nothing happened. As if you weren’t gone for 18 months. It’s simple physics. Every action has an opposite and equal reaction. Just so, actions have consequences, Sherlock.”It was silent for a moment and then Sherlock whispered, “It was worth it?” It was formed like a question which confused John. Usually, Sherlock was firm and decisive; it was undeniably odd to hear such vulnerability from him.Mycroft’s answer was soft, almost tender, “Of course. You’ve seen it yourself.” It was quiet for a moment before Mycroft spoke again, his usual authoritative command firmly back in place, “I shall leave you to rest, dear brother.”Before John could hide or come up with a decent excuse as to why he had been standing there obviously eavesdropping, Mycroft opened the door and gave the doctor a knowing look, “Perhaps, wait a few minutes?” The elder Holmes suggested as he walked away down the brightly lit hallway while swinging his umbrella, “I’ll be returning in a few hours.”John leaned against the wall outside the hospital room door. Sherlock had sounded more aware than he had in all the time he had been admitted. But he had also sounded lost and vulnerable. So unlike himself that John wondered how to even begin talking to his best friend. And then he reminded himself, ‘this is Sherlock.” Conversation had always come easy for them.When John had finally summoned enough courage to walk through the door, Sherlock had already started nodding off again, but he came to with the sound of John’s footsteps.“John?” At the sight of his ex-flatmate, Sherlock tried to sit a little straighter in bed, “What are you doing here?”John thought that a stupid question but didn’t let it show on his face while he sat down in the chair that had, no doubt, been previously occupied by Mycroft, “I’ve been here ever since you were admitted, Sherlock. Don’t you remember?”The consulting detective frowned, “I wasn’t sure how much of that was reality…” Sherlock adopted a look that wasn’t dissimilar to the expression he assumed while trying to solve a puzzle.“Well,” John smiled to see such a familiar expression on his friend’s face, “I’ve been here. Mycroft had to practically threaten me last night to leave and get some sleep.”“No doubt due to the doctor’s decision to take me off the antipyretic. I vaguely remember your disapproval.”John grinned even wider, “You remember correctly. And you’re probably right. Mycroft, the sneaky git, knew you were bound to be taken off Panadol and saw fit to get rid of me before I had a strop.”Sherlock smiled slightly but it looked strange on his thin, ashen face and John was reminded that this was not the indestructible consulting detective he wrote about in his blog. Instead, this was his ‘more-human-than-he-would-like-to-admit’ best friend.“How’re you feeling, by the way?” John was tempted to reach forward and tuck one of Sherlock’s fly-away curls behind his ear, but he resisted and instead clenched his fists tightly where they rested on his thighs.Sherlock let out a wheezing breath that John surmised was supposed to be a laugh, “About as well as can be expected I suppose. The fever isn’t at a dangerous level, they assure me, but it feels like my skin is trying to crawl away from me.”“That’s probably the fever chills. Are they giving you anything else besides fluids right now?”Sherlock shook his head, “Once I was cognizant, they took away the pain medication.”He didn’t have to explain why. John knew that the NHS and most healthcare facilities had strict protocols on treating recovering drug addicts. And whether Sherlock had used months ago or decades ago, he would always have the flight risk of relapsing attached to his name.“Any other symptoms that maybe they can help with?”“No, I suspect it will get worse before it gets better. Might as well cross that bridge when we come to it.”Sherlock looked exhausted. His cheeks were flushed red with fever, but the rest of his face took on a sickly yellow hue. He was thinner, much thinner than any good doctor would condone. His sunken eyes were glazed over, giving them the appearance of frosted glass and his wild curls clung to his sweaty forehead. But he was looking at John with a recognition the doctor thought he might never see again. It was glorious. More than glorious, it was a miracle.John found himself fighting off both tears and laughter at the same time. He ended up in some sort of maniacal giggle-sob that made Sherlock give him his familiar “social conventions confuse me” look. It only made John laugh harder. Tears rolled freely from his eyes, and he finally reached forward, happily, to grasp Sherlock’s hand in his; damn his pride.“I’m sorry,” John finally managed to get out, “I’m just so very glad to see you.”Sherlock, if possible, looked more confused, “If what you told me was true you’ve seen me for the past week or more.”John shook his head because no matter what he said, Sherlock would probably never understand. It was sentimental and foolish, but John could not be happier to see his friend’s puzzled expression, “Don’t worry about it. Listen, you look exhausted, you should get some sleep.”Sherlock looked pointedly down at their conjoined hands and raised an eyebrow. John released Sherlock’s hand and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, “Oh sorry. I’ll be here when you wake up.”“No.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to blush with embarrassment, “I—I don’t mind.” Gracelessly, Sherlock left his hand palm up where John had dropped it and it looked sadly empty sitting there all alone.John didn’t care if it was in bad form, he reached forward and took Sherlock’s hand again and settled more comfortably into his chair by his friend’s bedside.It was silent for some time and John closed his eyes to get a little bit of rest, hoping that Sherlock would take a hint and follow his example. But then the raspy deep voice spoke again, “If it’s any consolation,” it said quietly, “I am very glad to see you, as well.”John smiled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand tightly in his own, pleased that Sherlock squeezed back. When he opened his eyes again it was well into the evening and Sherlock was sleeping fitfully in his bed. John knew that fighting fever the natural way would not be easy; but he could not help but feel relief at the sight of beads of sweat dripping from Sherlock’s brow and the tip of his nose. John imagined that every drop was draining the disease away from his friend’s body. He happily cheered them on.Mycroft made another visit, as promised, and agreed to watch over Sherlock while John stepped out to call Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, informing them on the change in their friend’s condition. Mrs. Hudson told him she would be making her way back to London in a few days’ time and that she would be sure to have the house clean and ready for her tenant’s return. The delighted tone of her voice betrayed the business-like statement of tidying the flat and before John hung up, Mrs. Hudson broke down with a sob, whispering, “I just don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost him a second time.” John silently agreed but assured her he was in good care.Lestrade, on the other hand, yelped happily into the phone receiver, stating matter-of-factly, “He’s just too stubborn to go down with something like that.” He agreed to visit tomorrow afternoon after Sherlock rested a bit more, even though he was wired with excitement and made several threats to “come down there right now and knock some sense into him for scaring us all like that.”Molly merely sobbed loudly, continually trying and re-trying to gasp out questions and exclamations of relief. In the end, John awkwardly disentangled himself from the phone call by promising to call again soon, though he had no idea what Molly was saying on the other end.John also called Mary. He knew she was worried. More likely for John himself than for Sherlock, whom she had never met and had only been acquainted with through John’s embellished stories. She was, as he expected, supportive and pleased with the good news. He briefly toyed with the idea of bringing up his fleeting notion of moving back in with Sherlock but the sound of her voice, so kind and sweet, made him reconsider. Instead, he suggested that she come by when Sherlock was feeling a little better; if not to meet the great detective himself than to, at least, have lunch with him in the hospital cafeteria.When he was finally all done with all the phone calls and had gotten himself something to snack on, he returned to Sherlock’s room where Mycroft promptly excused himself to ‘take care of some international affairs which cannot wait.’ It wasn’t much longer before Sherlock began to come-to again. John chewed cheerfully on his crisps and grinned when Sherlock’s glassy gaze found him sitting at his bedside, just as he had left him.“Welcome back to the land of the living,” John smiled and leaned forward, closer to his friend. He was ridiculously giddy with the sight of Sherlock, and he could barely contain the excited energy that felt fit to burst from his veins.Sherlock grunted, nodded, and then winced at the movement.“I think they’re going to run some more tests. Just to make sure you’re on the road to recovery and all that.” John shoved the last few crisps into his mouth and threw the bag into the bin by Sherlock’s bedside table.Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eye sleepily, “There’s nothing I look forward to more.”“You okay?” John knew the question was silly, considering Sherlock was worn and weary laying in a hospital bed but the doctor part of him couldn’t help it.“Tired.”John reached forward and pushed an errant curl away from Sherlock’s half-lidded eyes. His friend still had a yellowish hue to his skin which worried him slightly. He would be relieved once they collected a recent blood sample. Once he could see the evidence of Sherlock’s recovery on paper.Sherlock closed his eyes once John’s fingers brushed over his brow, “I’m glad you’re here.” John was absolutely certain that Sherlock didn’t even know he was whispering aloud.“Of course I’m here.” John murmured and stroked gently at the inky curls, which seemed to act as a cheap hypnotic, sending the younger man into a light doze.Sherlock sighed and leaned into the touch, “I thought of you often…” The words being spoken were barely audible and John leaned in to hear clearly, “Actually…I thought of you all the time.”John smiled fondly. Sherlock was running on empty. Despite only being awake for a few minutes his immune system was pushing for rest. He was still fighting a low-grade fever and after the tribulations his body had endured for the past few weeks, it was no wonder it was shutting down without his consent.“I thought of you, too.” John ran his index finger over Sherlock’s brow, down those infuriating cheekbones and along his philtrum before cupping his jaw to subtly check his pulse.“I’m only resting my eyes.” The baritone voice mumbled.John chuckled and silently counted beats before replying, “I think you should. Rest your eyes, I mean. I’ll make sure they’re open for the blood withdrawal.”Sherlock muttered something and turned his face in this pillow, his eyes closed and breath shallow.It was surreal hearing that Sherlock had thought of him. Not only was it surprising but it was a little breathtaking. Sherlock was John’s best friend. He had been before…and he would continue to be. But the doctor had always assumed that the enigmatic consulting detective was above such human conditions. After all, caring was not an advantage. His actions on Bart’s roof proved contrary. Not only was he entirely able but it appeared that he felt more deeply that anyone had ever dared believe him capable. John barely had time to reflect on it when a nurse came in and smiled happily at the two men, “We’re just going to run some tests.”“I thought you guys might be making an appearance.” John sat back but not before gently patting his companion on the check, “Sherlock, they’re here.”Sherlock grumbled quietly but opened his eyes, “Take what you need.” He muttered while throwing an arm out from underneath his blanket and exposing the soft flesh of the crook of his elbow.The nurse chortled and went to work quietly, professionally taking multiple blood samples, collecting print outs from the machines lining the bed, and even taking a urine sample from Sherlock’s catheter bag. “We’ll be back with the results by tomorrow evening. I think Dr. Hinley wanted to check out Mr. Holmes’ progress,” she noted before taking her leave.The room was left in silence once again and John secretly wanted to resume his tactile exploration of his friend’s face but refrained. When had he become so touchy-feely?Sherlock’s hoarse voice snapped him out of his reverie, “You should leave.”“Excuse me?”“It’s been some time since you’ve slept in your own bed, John. I’m feeling significantly better, and this is the perfect chance for you to excuse yourself from overseeing my care. There’s nothing for you to do here but watch me sleep, which sounds horrifically dull.” Sherlock said all of this with his eyes closed and John was promptly reminded of all those times when the detective would solve cases from the couch, curled up his robe and mind palace.John was very tempted to say, ‘Maybe I like watching you sleep,’ but quashed the idea quickly and brutally. Nothing said creepy stalker like watching someone sleep. Besides, that was decidedly not ‘a friend thing to do.’ When had he started doing things like this? Jesus, maybe he did need sleep. It had been quite some time since he’d seen Mary too, “You’re probably right.”Sherlock scoffed, “Of course I’m right.”John grinned despite his friend’s arrogance, “Well, I’ll be back in the morning then.” Without thinking John sat up, threw on his coat, and leaned down to kiss Sherlock’s forehead, running a hand through the black curls as he did so. His lips tasted the salt that still clung to Sherlock’s skin, but he didn’t even give it a second thought. In fact, he didn’t think about it at all until he was halfway home and stuffed between some overweight banker and a Uni student with a penchant for facial piercings in a crowded underground train.“Shit.” John swore quietly as he walked the four blocks from the station to the flat he shared with Mary. What was he thinking? What was he doing? It was too late to change anything. And even if he could, would he want to? Friends kissed friends all the time. Besides, it wasn’t even a real kiss. It was like the kisses his mother gave him before he left for school. But his mother had definitely not groped his face and stared at him while he slept. Well, if she had, John didn’t want to know about it.He desperately tried to remember what Sherlock had looked like when he had left. Had he been uncomfortable? Or asleep? God, John hoped he hadn’t ruined anything with the thoughtlessness of his actions. But it hadn’t been thoughtless. It had been natural. John was so unbelievably delighted to see Sherlock. Especially after having disregarded him so harshly after his initial return. He honestly didn’t even care about rethinking his actions. Life was too short. It could change in an instant. If the fall hadn’t taught him that, then Sherlock’s illness had. He wouldn’t question these things anymore. He would just do it.He just hoped to God Sherlock would see where he was coming from. That his actions wouldn’t ruin anything.By the time John arrived home it was nearly 10pm. Mary was sitting on the couch, balancing a cup of tea on her knee while she watched a re-run of EastEnders. She looked surprised to see him but unquestionably pleased, “I wasn’t expecting you,” She smiled widely and got up off the couch to meet John at the door, setting her tea down on the coffee table as she moved.She kissed him soundly on the mouth, pulling John against her as she nuzzled at his neck, “How’s the patient?” She whispered into the sensitive spot just behind his left ear.John breathed in the scent of her, wrapping his hands around her waist before pulling back to look into her doe brown eyes. It felt like a lifetime since he had last looked into those eyes, “He’s doing much better.” John didn’t elaborate. Not because he wasn’t ecstatic about Sherlock’s improved condition but mostly because sharing his friend’s circumstances with Mary seemed strange. As if he was intruding on Sherlock’s privacy by doing so. He didn’t dwell on the thought though and pulled Mary to him again to kiss lightly at her neck, “I missed you, though.”Mary sighed contentedly and ran her fingers through the short strands of hair at the base of John’s skull, “I missed you, too.”This could easily lead to sex. John knew it could. She was pliant under his hands, her body curving in to meet his, back arched under his touch. But despite being a red-blooded male, John couldn’t imagine having sex tonight. The entire Sherlock ordeal had left his body weak. His mind exhausted. Emotionally, he was on cloud nine after seeing such a change in his friend’s health; but he hadn’t even had the chance to sort through the wreckage that was bound to rear its ugly head once Sherlock was more…Sherlock-y.Just a few hours ago John thought about bringing up the possibility of moving out with the woman who was now nipping playfully at his collarbone. Christ, he needed to sort through this mess. And fast.“Mary,” John whispered, and she stopped in her ministrations to give him a questioning look, “I’m sorry, I just…. I’m so tired. And there’s a lot to sort through and…”Mary smiled softly, “It’s okay, John.” She ran her hands down his biceps and forearms to grip at his wrists, “I’m sure you’re knackered.”John nodded, “And I’m going back early tomorrow morning. They’re running some more tests and I want to be there for the results.”“Of course.”“Listen,” John paused and debated bringing this up but decided to trudge forward anyway. The least he could do is breech the topic, “there’s going to be a shit storm when this is all over.”Delicate eyebrows turned inward and the creases in Mary’s forehead became more noticeable as she frowned up at John, “What do you mean?”“I mean, I stopped at Baker Street today and there were nearly two dozen photographers and journalists standing outside waiting to pounce. They’re mad for him. It’s going to be like sending a bunny into a cage full of foxes.”Mary’s frown deepened, “I hardly think Sherlock Holmes qualifies as a bunny rabbit.”John smiled sheepishly, “True. But…I don’t know if he’ll be able to handle this on his own. At least, not quite yet.”“You’re a good friend John Watson.” Mary learned away from him, her smile suddenly sad and distant.A sudden panic gripped John and he reached forward to stroke at the underside of Mary’s wrist, “It’s a good thing he’s got me. I just wanted to warn you in case things get a little crazy around here.”“Okay. You know, I can always help. You only need to ask.” She stared at him and something in his gut felt wrong. It was John’s job to care for Sherlock and, even though it was childish, he felt a little possessive of this task. Mary smiled, bit her bottom lip coyly and ran a painted fingernail down his chest, “I’ve been known to play nurse well.” And John hated that. Oddly, inexplicably, John felt disgusted at her coquettish behavior. Sherlock didn’t need a nurse. Sherlock certainly didn’t need her as a nurse. And certainly not in a sexual capacity. He felt almost, strangely, angry with her.She quirked her eyebrow at him questioningly and he cleared his throat awkwardly hoping his thoughts weren’t obvious from his expression, “Sherlock barely tolerates strangers when he’s healthy. I think he’d probably throw a temper tantrum if you saw him in a hospital gown.”Mary’s face fell despite John’s attempt to make a joke, it had obviously fell short and he quickly tried to backtrack, “I’m sure he’ll agree to finally meet you once he’s back at Baker Street.”She smiled sweetly at him, stood on her tiptoes and placed a feather light kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, “I’d like that. Let’s go to bed, we both have to be up early.”John was thankful that he didn’t have to go into much more detail. Mary understood. At least she understood the gist of what he was trying to communicate. Perhaps, she was right anyway. Sherlock was no docile bunny rabbit. He was tough. Everyone knew that. Look at how he had dealt with Anderson and Donovan for all those years. Maybe John worried too much about him. Once he was released and settled in 221B he would be fine. Even when John was living there Sherlock hardly noticed when he was absent. Mary didn’t deserve John moving out “temporarily” when even an idiot could see that it could very well turn into “permanently.”John made up his mind. He would do what he always did. He would take care of Sherlock and live his life at the same time. He managed it perfectly fine all those months ago. John could make sure his friend took care of himself while also maintaining a healthy adult relationship. The only real difference now would be that John would be sleeping a few tube stations away. The next couple of months would be slow enough with Sherlock’s recovery to allow for John to find a happy medium.As John climbed under the cold sheets of the bed he shared with Mary he couldn’t help but think of his bedroom back in Baker Street. He imagined Sherlock curled up in his bed, under all his blankets, wrapped tightly in his jumper. He smiled into the darkness that shrouded the bedroom, but it faltered when he felt Mary’s cold feet against his legs, seeking out his warmth and eventually nudging themselves under his calves.John closed his eyes and tried to focus on the toes wriggling beneath his legs and the blonde tresses spread out on the pillow beside his own. He tried not to think about the taste of cool salty skin and the feeling of silky curls. He definitely did not think of a deep raspy voice and inappropriate jokes made at crime scenes. John fell asleep smiling.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Mr. Holmes’ liver readings are still slightly high, as to be expected, but his fever is low-grade and his heart rate has returned to normal,” Dr. Hinley stood at the foot of Sherlock’s bed with his eyes glued to the tablet he held. John couldn’t blame him. The ill detective had reacquired much of his acerbic tongue and had used it shamelessly and frequently throughout the morning. It would be hard for anybody to stand there giving report-outs and fear having that foul nature turned on them.
“So, I can leave?”
John snorted at Sherlock’s question but quickly shut his mouth at his friend’s icy glare.
Dr. Hinley shook his head, deciding to ignore the exchange between the two men, “I’m afraid not. We’ll need to keep you under observation for the next few days in order to monitor your liver function and keep an eye on any other changes with your heart, brain, and other major organs. There’s a slight risk for what’s called a cytokine storm in which your immune system overcompensates and can begin to attack your organs. It’s a very slight risk, but a risk all the same.”
Sherlock groaned and threw an arm up to cover his eyes. John rolled his eyes at the dramatics but managed to hide his grin behind his hand. It was good to see some of the old Sherlock.
“Well, when can I leave?” Sherlock spoke into the crook of his elbow loudly enough for the room to hear him.
From nearby the door, Mycroft cleared his throat, “What my brother means to ask, Dr. Hinley, is how long is the expected recuperation time for Yellow Fever?”
“Barring no further complications? We could be sending you home under GP observation in another week. That’s not to say you’ll be 100 percent by then. You’ll probably be dealing with a few of the less serious symptoms for months to come; fatigue, occasional nausea, joint stiffness, and soreness.”
Sherlock groaned again from his place on the bed, and one would think the doctor had just informed him that he would be spending the rest of his life in the hospital.
John decided this was probably his cue to step in, “One week is pretty good, Sherlock. I mean, just a few days ago you were unconscious.”
“What am I going to do for an entire week?”
“I’d suggest resting.”
“Resting? Resting is boring.”
“Just like breathing then, huh?”
Sherlock smirked from underneath his arm, “I may have underestimated how fascinating breathing can be.”
“You won’t be making that mistake again, I’m sure.”
“Indeed.”
Mycroft awkwardly cleared his throat from the corner of the room, “Well, thank you very much Dr. Hinley. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we are grateful for your professionalism.”
Dr. Hinley nodded and left the room in a hurry, obviously in an effort to duck out of the line of fire.
John sat down in the chair by Sherlock’s bedside, “Maybe we can persuade Lestrade to give you some cold case files while you’re here?”
Removing his arm from his face, Sherlock turned to stare at John and nodded slightly, “Yes, I think that would be wise. My mind must be kept occupied.”
“Yes, yes, yes, we all know, Sherlock. ‘Without the work, it rots.’” John attempted to poke fun at Sherlock’s manic devotion to the work, but his friend turned to look out the window near his bed and the mood in the room shifted rather suddenly into something darker and more distressed.
Sherlock clenched his fists at his sides, “Yes. I’ll rot.” His voice was hushed and his tone vacant, as if he didn’t realize he had been speaking at all.
“Sherlock?” John leaned forward to get a look at the younger man’s face.
The tap of an umbrella distracted him. Mycroft had made a swift move to his brother’s bedside, where he took post blocking the window from his view, “Sherlock.” His voice was firm, and it appeared to have shaken the younger Holmes out of whatever room in the mind-palace he had been briefly trapped.
Back was the arrogant man John knew so well as he curled his upper lip at his brother, “Mycroft, your sheer girth is rudely hindering the only view I’ve had of the sunlight in days.”
“Ah, I apologize for my thoughtlessness,” Mycroft moved aside, sharing a meaningful look with John who was still halfway between sitting and leaning over Sherlock’s bed with a look of utter confusion written all over his face, “I believe it’s lunchtime, is it not?”
“Well, you would know.” Sherlock waved his hand in the direction of the door as if to shoo his brother away.
“You should probably eat something too, Sherlock.” John spoke up as he again took a seat.
“Not hungry.” Sherlock settled into his pillow and closed his eyes, as if he were ready to fall asleep then and there.
“Sherlock…” John gave a disapproving groan.
“I’ll eat later. I’ve data to sort through.” Sherlock waved his hand again in the vague direction of his room’s door, “Go. Eat. Drink. Be merry.”
John rolled his eyes and looked up to where the elder Holmes was frowning at his brother’s supine form.
“John, would you like to join me for lunch? There’s a lovely café across the street,” Mycroft’s voice was in full pretentious mode.
Sherlock groaned louder, “Please, John, go. Leave and he will leave with you. You’ll be killing two birds with one stone. You get to eat, and I’ll no longer have to deal with my brother’s irritating presence.” His eyes were still closed, and he took on his thinking pose while he spoke.
Mycroft shook his head and looked pointedly at John who nodded and got up from his chair, “Okay, let’s go.”
Fifteen minutes later John found himself sitting across from Mycroft in a boutique-y café. It was strange seeing the British government sitting in a cramped restaurant waiting for a soup and sandwich. While he was living with Sherlock, John often wondered if Mycroft ate or slept at all. He seemed more machine than his younger brother. And yet, here he was, sipping contentedly at a cup of black tea.
John cleared his throat determinedly, “What was that in there?”
Mycroft set his cup down and looked out the window their table was pushed against at the façade of the hospital, “The beginnings of a panic attack, perhaps?”
“What? You can’t be serious.” John shook his head at Mycroft’s words.
“I’m quite serious, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft looked back at his lunch partner and frowned, “Sherlock, when he was young, used to retreat into his mind palace like monks to their round towers during Viking raids. He used it as a means to push away reality. He became rather accomplished at it. Even during his more…dark periods, he had the most remarkable ability to clear away the static of the world around him and focus on the entirely made-up world in his mind. I rather envied him.”
John stared in shock at Mycroft’s words. It was probably the most surreal experience he had ever had with the elder Holmes brother. To hear about Sherlock’s beloved mind palace from someone who had known him all his life was odd, but it was even odder still to hear about a younger, more naïve Sherlock.
“But I believe that Sherlock’s mind palace has been, for the lack of a better term, invaded. His body is weak right now. His mind, however, may be just as weak. He is only a man, despite his ravings stating the opposite.”
John frowned and went to pour more milk into his tea just for something to do instead of responding to Mycroft’s statement. He was saved for several fortuitous minutes while the waitress brought their meals to the table.
“What happened to him?” He finally felt himself word-vomit.
Mycroft took a bite of his sandwich and wiped his hands against the cloth napkin lying across his lap while he swallowed, “I’m not entire sure, unfortunately. I do know that in the months leading up to his capture, Sherlock was having a more…difficult time remaining as distant as we had previously agreed he should. I’m getting new information on Sherlock’s time away every day but,” Mycroft paused and glanced out the window again, “I haven’t the courage to look at all the material found yet.”
John squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, “Well, what do you know?”
“I know that when we found Sherlock, he was not entirely himself. Physically, he was not…well.” He looked back at John and stared at him straight in the eye, “Mentally, I have no idea the damage done to my brother,” Mycroft took a deep breath and continued, “He spent the next several weeks after the extraction recovering in a safehouse in Southern Italy. I had a trusted psychologist there to evaluate Sherlock’s mental status, as we do with all recovered agents; but unfortunately, the doctor was rather unsuccessful. Actually, we learned more from the nursing staff.”
John tapped his fingers against the sides of his cup, “And? What did you learn?” He was getting tired very quickly with Mycroft’s read-between-the-lines politician persona.
Mycroft shifted in his chair, the only hint that he was uncomfortable about releasing any more information, “I learned that Sherlock spent much of his time in captivity in the depths of his mind palace. I also learned that he often struggled to separate reality from his mind’s creations. Whatever trauma my brother suffered at the hand of his captures, it left him trying to cope using an alternate reality of sorts.”
“His hallucinations?”
“Likely due to his illness and his heightened fever but I believe that it no doubt was related to his time away. Sherlock probably spent plenty of time in the Congo falling in and out of a made-up world.”
“Christ….” John ran a hand over his face, “What do we do?”
“We soldier on, Captain Watson.” Mycroft gave John a sad tilt of his lips and took a sip of his tea, “I believe before Sherlock took ill, he was doing much better. Despite physical weakness, he seemed willing to continue on with his old life.”
John looked down at his cup, feeling his world zero in on the swirl of the tea and milk. He struggled to string a coherent thought together. He struggled to even think in terms of words. He thought in images and the look on Sherlock’s face when he thought John had come to save him from the Congo. The look of terror that John would sacrifice his life for his friend’s. But, isn’t that just what Sherlock had done?
“Who had him? And why?” John felt anger. Anger at whoever had dared to hurt his friend. Anger at Moriarty for forcing Sherlock to disappear in the first place. And anger at himself, for not being there, for not believing him.
“The Congolese M-23 militia in conjunction with agents of Moriarty’s crime web. We always knew Moriarty had a hand in arms dealing but we had traced back most of his patrons to eastern Europe and the Middle East. We should have been more aware of his African connections before Sherlock went.” Mycroft spoke honestly and openly, probably more openly than he had all afternoon.
“Why was he there?” John looked down and realized he hadn’t even touched his sandwich yet.
Mycroft stilled, sitting back in his chair, and staring at John for a long time. Whatever he had been questioning, he seemed to have come to a decision because he nodded and recrossed his legs, “Sherlock was in the Middle East investigating arms dealing and the possible link between Moriarty and a Dutch business conglomerate owned by Charles Magnussen. Shortly before his death, Moriarty transferred a significant amount of his resources to one of Magnussen’s small fronts in Egypt. We followed those resources to the DRC where we believed Magnussen was funding opposing political groups to ensure unrest. He’s been known to do it in the past: Venezuela in the 80s and Colombia in the 90s. He purchases companies under the guise of continuing their current practices but, in reality, he drains their resources, launders it through his many businesses, and pockets most of the money. His greed alone should be punishable but Magnussen’s influence with terrorist groups and organized crime families like the Islamic State, the ETA, the Dobroshi and any number of mafias, has become more worrisome in recent years. Additionally, it appears Moriarty’s right-hand man, ex-lieutenant colonel in the Canadian army and sharpshooter Sebastian Moran decided to sanction Magnussen’s expanded regime and may now be acting under his direction.”
“Sebastian Moran?”
“We were aware of him before Sherlock’s…departure. He was extremely loyal to Moriarty and was the obvious successor to his empire, but it appears the soldier prefers a more…active role.”
John nodded and slowly picked up his sandwich, figuring he should probably make some effort to eat.
“While we were cognizant that Magnussen had a hand in removing the DRC’s resources: copper, diamonds, cassiterite, tantalum, we were willing to overlook it all to bring Sherlock back from his arms dealing investigation in Riyadh early. In fact, Sherlock did not feel convinced the two were related. Regardless, we had agreed we would send in a covert operation to stabilize the DRC at a later date. Magnussen must have discovered Sherlock’s location and intercepted him in the Middle East. He was transferred to the Congo from there. We’re still not entirely sure why he was transferred there in particular.
Sherlock, despite being in captivity, discovered and disclosed very important information about the rebel militia known as M-23. But, to be honest, I’m not sure how much of that information we can reliably trust. He seems to think that his capture was not on direct orders from Magnussen and, as I said before, believes the arms dealing in the Middle East to be wholly unconnected to the business in Africa. And he certainly does not think there is a reliable link between Moriarty, Moran, Magnussen and the Congolese insurgency. I’m not so sure. He was so…troubled when we extricated him, I just can’t trust his instincts alone. That doesn’t mean I’m not investigating his concerns thoroughly but…” he trailed off in an uncharacteristic manner.
John set down his sandwich. He had taken only a few bites, but he had completely lost his appetite now. He swallowed almost painfully and sat back, thinking of his friend, alone in a hospital room, and alone in the Congo.
“John—” Mycroft seemed hesitant, which was unusual but not unwelcome, “I don’t expect you to drop everything in your life to help my brother. Nor does Sherlock. He left London to ensure that you and others could continue to live. I know my brother acts like a child at times, but he is capable of selfless acts on occasion. He never does anything by halves.” Mycroft smiled as if he was telling an inside joke and then he suddenly turned serious and looked out the window again, “I only ask that you remain a good friend to him. He has never fully appreciated the depth of feeling people have for him. Having you by his side can only speed his recovery.”
John looked away as well, trying to tempt his eyes into not watering. He bit his lower lip and squeezed the napkin in his lap. Finally, after he deemed himself capable of speech without embarrassing himself, he cleared his throat and sighed loudly, “I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else than by his side to help him through this.”
Mycroft smiled, “Sherlock doesn’t want you to give up the life you made for yourself, John.”
The doctor cleared his throat, again, still feeling the well of feeling in his chest move north toward his sinuses, “He’s my best friend, Mycroft. I owe him my life. In more ways than one. The life I live now would mean nothing if it weren’t for him.”
The elder Holmes nodded. He leaned back in his chair and loosened the tie around his neck, “Just don’t sacrifice your happiness for his health. He would never forgive himself.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” John ran a hand through his hair, as was becoming his habit and felt his hand begin to shake as a strange and unbidden thought swept through his mind, What if they’re one and the same?
The next several days were a mix of deep relief and outrageous frustration. The more Sherlock’s health improved the more John felt hopeful for his full recovery. But the longer the consulting detective spent in the hospital, the more it seemed that he was quickly losing his sanity.
Lestrade brought cases every day and Sherlock jumped on them like a starving man who had just entered an all-you-can-eat buffet. He flipped through pages of case files and poured over crime scene photos with the sort of desperation few could relate to. If it wasn’t for Sherlock being bedridden and dressed in a hospital gown, John could almost imagine him pacing back at Baker Street.
But sometimes Sherlock would become quiet and still. Usually after he had solved another one of the cases left at his bedside. He would withdraw and curl around himself as if protecting his body from something. There were times when John felt a need to curl up beside his friend, to let him know that he wasn’t alone. But he always refrained. He watched him closely but would let him be. Sherlock would usually snap out of it on his own and John felt comforted that his direct interference wasn’t required.
Mycroft managed most of the publicity issues, but John had caught glimpses of the headlines on his walk to the hospital and sound bites from newscasters on entertainment shows. All of which were ridiculous testaments to the famous detective’s condition and outlandish predictions to what caused the collapse in the first place. When John finally came across The Sun’s proclamation ‘Famous Detective Battles Brain Parasite’, he couldn’t put off talking to the press any longer.
The stories were only going to get more outrageous the longer someone waited to update them on Sherlock’s condition. This was the problem with the first time they began reporting on the detective’s success. They found a way to twist facts to suit ludicrous statements and that was part of the reason Sherlock had been absent for so long.
And so, the good doctor spoke to Mycroft who agreed with him. John felt that putting Sherlock in front of the press during this particularly volatile time would be a huge mistake. Convincing Sherlock to remain quiet in his hospital room was another thing entirely. John felt a knot of anxiety at the thought of bringing the press conference up to his best friend, so he brought it up the only way he knew how; by blurting it out during a peaceful, calm moment.
“I think we should hold a press conference about your illness.” John cringed at the random outburst and waited for Sherlock to laugh the idea away.
“Well, it certainly is newsworthy.” Sherlock said dryly and with all the sarcasm he could muster before returning to reading.
“Look, all the headlines and news stories are getting to be beyond absurd. Just the other day the Daily Mail reported that you had poisoned yourself with a homemade chemical mixture to prove a hypothesis.”
“Poetic.”
John sighed, “Seriously, Sherlock. If we don’t act now people are just going to believe all the rubbish they read in the papers.”
Sherlock set down the scientific journal he was reading and stared at John from where he was propped up in his bed, “Who cares? People will believe what they want to believe.”
“I care. I just don’t want this to affect the work now that you’re back.” John stood his ground. He would not let this turn into another Richard Brook situation; even if it didn’t seem nearly as detrimental, he would stand behind his friend and protect him in any way he could.
Sherlock raised his eyebrow questioningly, “Fine, if it’s so important to you, do what you will. I hope you don’t expect me to participate.
The older man let out a breath and relaxed into the chair he was sitting in, “Of course not, I’ll be there on your behalf.”
“You? Why? I thought you didn’t want to become involved.” Sherlock stared at John like he had grown two heads.
“I’m your friend. It’s too late to not be involved. Besides, your health is always important to me, and the work is tied to that so I’ll do what I can.”
Sherlock sat still for several moments and then gave a slight nod before returning to his journal, “When will it be?”
“Sometime before your release. We want to give them a false lead on when you’ll be leaving hospital so that we can get back to Baker Street without too much trouble.”
“Inventive.” Sherlock said derisively but John ignored it and smiled. The doctor would take the biting behavior as a blessing.
Mycroft managed to schedule the press conference for two days later. Dr. Hinley and John would be in attendance and Lestrade had agreed to act as a mediator if it was required. The paparazzi, as everyone knew, could be brutal and John only hoped that Sherlock’s recent return would sway their questions to a more positive note.
There were over 20 reporters waiting for them to arrive in the conference area of the hospital. Lestrade looked at John and nodded before marching out on stage and taking his place on the far-left side of the table in the front of the room. Dr. Hinley and John followed moments later.
“Hello and welcome. I know the press has been very curious regarding Sherlock Holmes’ condition and recent hospitalization. Hopefully, by the end of this press conference we can clear up any questions, concerns, or theories you might have,” Lestrade said into the microphone, not bothering to hide his disenchantment with journalism on the whole, “We’ll begin with Dr. Hinley’s assessment of Mr. Holmes’ state.”
Dr. Hinley nodded, pushing up his glasses, as was his nervous habit, and leaned toward the microphone, “Thank you, Detective Inspector. On November 22nd, Mr. Holmes was brough into the A&E after collapsing outside of a crime scene. We identified the cause of this episode to be cardiac arrhythmia or a slowed heartbeat. His condition was severe enough that the medics arriving on the scene had to act quickly to bring his heartbeat to a somewhat normal rhythm and stabilize his condition.” John smirked inwardly at this: Mycroft, John, and even Dr. Hinley himself, had decided to lessen the severity of the symptoms slightly. They all feared that announcing that Sherlock’s heart had stopped en route to the hospital would incite panic and no doubt to a flutter of false accusations and fabricated theories. It was already bad enough the poor man was in the hospital at all; Sherlock would no doubt resent anyone treating him like he was made of delicate glass.
“Upon examining him in the hospital, it was apparent Mr. Holmes was suffering from a rather serious condition,” Dr. Hinley continued, “He exhibited a dangerously high fever and symptoms similar to influenza. But, perhaps what ended up giving us a decisive diagnosis was that his bile and sputum contained a significant amount of blood. We ran a number of tests and, with the aid of family and friends in obtaining a clear history, we managed to narrow it down to Yellow Fever.” At this, the doctor cleared his throat and preemptively added, “Yellow Fever is not common among this part of the world but with Mr. Holmes extensive travels, it is most likely he picked it up while abroad.”
Before anyone could blink an eye, a reporter was standing up near the back of the room, “Would vaccinations have prevented this illness, doctor?” She was dressed in a bright blue business suit and was clearly a veteran journalist. She stood calmly, acting for all the world that she hadn’t just interrupted the flow of the conference. It was clear she was here for a reason and that reason was to get her questions answered, damn the informative prologue.
Dr. Hinley opened his mouth to answer but Lestrade quickly leaned over to place a hand over his microphone, “And, you are?”
The woman smirked, caught red handed, “Veronica Flemming of The Strand Telegraph.”
Greg huffed quietly but removed his hand and nodded toward Dr. Hinley who, once again, opened his mouth to respond, “Yes. In most cases, vaccinations would have prevented this. Just as it would with most identifiable infectious diseases.”
John decided to jump in, it was now or never, he thought vaguely, “As you well know, Ms. Flemming, Sherlock was doing most of his traveling under the radar. Vaccinations were somewhat hard to come by.”
Ms. Flemming, in turn, raised an elegantly drawn-on eyebrow at John’s conclusive addition and nodded, “I suppose my next question then would be how—”
Lestrade jumped in once again, interrupting the woman quickly, “There are another two dozen reporters in this room Ms. Flemming, they all have questions too. Perhaps one of them will ask a few on your list.”
Veronica Flemming sat down gracefully and not at all looking like a child scolded. One would think she had just arrived at a business meeting for all her detached poise.
Several other reporters jumped up at the interruption. So, it had begun.
John answered questions as calmly and collected as he could, but he worried about Sherlock’s reaction to his answers once he returned to the hospital room. He knew that John’s ‘Sherlock is feeling significantly better, he’s practically foaming at the mouth to get back to work,’ would bring out the cynical nature that his friend had perfected.
After the expected questions, the ‘How is Sherlock now?’ and ‘When can London expect him back on his feet?’ the reporters moved to a decidedly more personal nature. Veronica Flemming led the war party.
“How was the reunion between the two of you Dr. Watson? Were you aware of Mr. Holmes’ whereabouts this past year and a half?” John felt that blue outfit made her look like the girl from the original Willy Wonka movie, and he’d happily pay someone to roll her out of the room like a giant beach ball.
John plastered a fake polite smile on his face and leaned toward the microphone, folding his hands in front of him to keep them from balling into fists, “I had no idea about Sherlock’s whereabouts. I, like the rest of the public, thought that Sherlock was…gone the day he jumped from Bart’s roof. I—I spent the last year and a half mourning him,” John cleared his throat, “So, you can imagine when he showed up on my doorstep still very much alive, I was…shocked. Overwhelmed. Confused. I honestly can’t describe to you all the emotions I felt that day,” John gave a derisive chuckle, “I’m still trying to figure out all the emotions I feel. But Sherlock’s illness definitely put it in perspective and now I mostly feel so incredibly grateful that we have a second chance.”
When he had finished John immediately regretted laying so much of his heart and the private relationship between himself and Sherlock out for the reporters to see. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and saw Veronica purse her lips in thought before taking something down in her notebook.
Quickly, in the silence that followed, another reporter stood, his paisley tie crooked on his neck, “Adam Beech from The Union. Are you to continue your work with Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson?”
“We haven’t actually discussed any of that in detail yet.” John scooted forward and licked his lips in an effort to bide his time, “Things will be different. The last eighteen months have moved our lives in separate directions. That’s not to say I wouldn’t like to continue helping Sherlock out while he’s on cases but ultimately it can’t be the same as it was before…. our priorities have changed. I think we’ll continue to be very good friends but I’m not sure how much assistance I’ll be able to provide in the future.”
Lestrade cleared his throat quickly, darting in to grab the microphone before any other journalists could pop up like unwanted weeds, “I think that’s all the questions we have time for today, ladies and gentlemen. Sherlock Holmes will be spending the next several weeks recuperating from his illness and I’d thank you all not to pester him during this vital recovery period. That means staying away from his home when he’s eventually transferred there in a week’s time.”
As he finished his conclusion, Lestrade stood and nodded toward John and Dr. Hinley who followed suit. All made their way out of the room while the paparazzi continued to fire questions and snap pictures and John could only cringe inwardly, knowing that the likelihood of them leaving his friend alone was slim to none.
When they all entered Sherlock’s hospital room, they were shocked to see him out of bed, standing out the window with his hands locked behind his back. If it weren’t for the hospital gown and the slip-proof socks he would have looked very much like his old self. John bit his lip at the obvious tension Sherlock held throughout his shoulders and back.
John cleared his throat, and, at the noise, Sherlock turned stiffly and nodded at the group of men standing in the doorway.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Mr. Holmes.” Dr. Hinley spoke from behind Lestrade’s shoulder.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I assure you, I’m not some fainting damsel in distress, Doctor.”
“Sherlock, you’re still on the mend, get your arse back in bed.” John used his Captain Watson voice and found himself slightly surprised that it worked. Sherlock scowled and returned to the edge of the bed where he sat down like a petulant child.
“Shall I inquire how the press conference went, or guessing from the number of vehicles out in the car park and the look on the faces of the so-called journalists as they left, can I assume you left them wanting all the sordid details of my illness and private life?”
Lestrade groaned and ran a hand over his face, “Just like old times, eh, John?”
John suppressed a grin, “Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered what we said in there, Sherlock, and you know it.”
The man in question nodded slightly and moved to lay down, “They will always want drama. And I supply it.”
Both Greg and John frowned. Sherlock sounded tired and almost…sad.
“We’re going to try and get ahead of them. We’re planning to move you from the hospital early tomorrow morning. We announced that you’ll be recuperating here for another week so, hopefully, with the press conference footage being released tonight and tomorrow, they won’t be expecting any other news from you this soon. They’ll leave you alone for a while.” Lestrade said quietly, nodding to Dr. Hinley to give him the okay to leave the room.
Sherlock hummed and nodded, “I’m sure Mycroft will be supplying the security detail and the car.”
“Yes, I’ll be with you too, though.” John said as he walked toward the chair pulled up to Sherlock’s bedside, “You’ll need doctor supervision for little while, so I’m going to stay with you while you recover.”
“Doctor supervision. I’m so glad you volunteered to sacrifice your precious time,” Sherlock scoffed, “Your doctorly duty. You’re a prime example of the profession as a whole.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” John sat back and gave his friend an incredulous look. Sherlock wasn’t even looking John in the eye. He was staring at some spot on the wall behind John’s shoulder. The doctor in question could feel Lestrade shifting awkwardly in the doorjamb, so he turned around in his chair to give him a pointed look that allowed the detective inspector to escape from the emotional shit storm that was about the reign down on the hospital room.
“Kidding? I rarely joke, John.” Sherlock’s eyes were cold, but they were still seeing past his best friend.
“Well, this seems like a pretty good one, Sherlock. A few months ago, I was getting ready to visit your gravesite. And here I am now, sitting by your hospital bed. I’m not staying with you these next few weeks because I’m your doctor. I’m staying with you because I’m your friend who happens to be a doctor. Jesus Christ, are you being daft on purpose?”
Daft? Me?!” Sherlock yelped angrily, “If I remember correctly, you had moved on with your life. Baker Street isn’t your home anymore, John.”
The wind was knocked out of John with the last statement, and he tried to take a deep breath to calm himself down. It was several seconds before he could respond. When he did, his voice was low and composed, spoken with all the authority and sureness of a military man, “My initial response to your return was…wrong. Very, very wrong. I was shocked. And angry. I felt betrayed and confused. I was a shit friend. An absolute shit friend. I’ve regretted my words that night every day since.” John took a deep breath and let out a cynical chuckle at his own foolishness, “I honest to God cannot tell you how terrified I was when you got ill that I wouldn’t be able to tell you how much I—how much I missed you and how much I admire you. Not many people get a second chance, Sherlock. And I’ve gotten three chances so I’m not going to fuck this up. Look at me, God dammit!”
The older man leaned forward and gripped his friend’s gaunt and clammy face between his hands. Grey blue eyes found John’s and blinked several times. John licked his lips and continued, staring at the best friend he’d ever had, “I’m coming to stay with you because I care about you more than I care for anyone else. I want to take care of you. And I don’t ever want you to suffer alone ever again.”
Sherlock licked his lips, almost as if he was copying the doctor gripping his face. John felt heat pool in the pit of his stomach and ran his thumb over his friend’s shockingly visible cheekbones.
“Don’t feel obligated to care for me, John. I can very well take care of myself.” Sherlock’s voice was deep and raspy.
John let out a bark of laughter, “Take care of yourself? Like you did before being admitted to the hospital?”
“That was an outlying incident.”
John smiled fondly, still stroking his friend’s cheek, “I’m going to come stay with you because you’re my friend and you’ve been through a lot lately. And, quite frankly, I’ve missed you and I want to be near you right now. Maybe it’s not so much that you need me to take care of you but that I need to take of you…”
It was quiet for several seconds and John went to lean back, to remove his hands from Sherlock’s face but stopped when he felt a steel grip at his left wrist, keeping his hand against the cool skin, “Then, for your sake, perhaps you should accompany me to Baker Street.”
John sighed, tension oozing from his shoulders, “Thank you.”
Sherlock’s hand, the one resting on his wrist, slid up to squeeze at John’s fingers and he turned toward his friend’s palm. If Sherlock were anybody else, John would swear he was nuzzling his hand, about to kiss at the love and life lines charting their courses over his palm; but, since this was Sherlock, it was stiff, awkward, and most assuredly not a nuzzle.
Sherlock’s deep baritone vibrated through John’s fingers, down his arm, and straight to his gut where it bubbled happily, “I cannot promise I will be any more welcoming to your help now as I was two years ago. Though….” The consulting detective hesitated momentarily before closing his eyes to continue, “I will always enjoy your company when you’re free to offer it.”
The doctor smiled, almost goofily, and ran his hand down Sherlock’s cheekbone, along his prominent jawline, pushing up so the younger man was forced to look into his friend’s face, “I’ll always enjoy your company, too.”
Sherlock nodded and then leaned back, putting space between the two of them, “I suppose you’ll be the one to pick me up tomorrow morning.”
John squashed down the slight disappointment settling in his chest at the distance between them, “Yup, bright and early. Mycroft arranged for me to be here at around 4:30.”
“I’ll be ready. Has he supplied me with clothes or am I to walk around in a hospital gown? He would force me to humiliate myself like that, the prat.”
John laughed, “I’ll bring some things with me when I come. Mind you, it won’t be your usual posh suits. We’re traveling incognito.”
“Incognito? From the hospital room to the car park? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
John only laughed harder, leaned in to kiss his friend’s temple, pat his thigh and leave, “Just be ready and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mary had her hands on her hips. When the hell had that happened? When John had gotten home, they’d been going through the normal niceties of ‘how was your day?’ and ‘Mine was fine,’ and all that nonsense and then, out of nowhere there she was – hands on her hips and talking dangerously low.And John had no idea how it had happened. At some point during the niceties, he had taken a mental nap and now he was desperately trying to backpedal to recall anything that could’ve led to this.“So, how long will you be gone this time ‘round?” Mary still had her hands on her hips, and she shifted her feet as if she had been standing there waiting for an answer for a long time.John shrugged slightly, “I don’t know; I mean, he’ll be dealing with the symptoms for a few months but probably only a week or two to make sure he stays stable.”Mary crossed her arms over her chest, and she suddenly looked small and vulnerable standing there in the sitting room in her flannel pajamas, “Why didn’t you call to tell me?”“I did.” John couldn’t help but feel a little offended at her outburst. He was a good boyfriend and he had called her every step of the way during Sherlock’s hospitalization to let her know what was happening.“No, John. No, you came back here last night and told me that Sherlock was doing much better. That they’d release him soon. Then, you went to bed. You didn’t tell me that I’d be turning on the news tonight and see your sodding face. Or! That you’d be moving back into Baker Street. You didn’t tell me any of that!” Her voice shook and John could tell she was so angry that she was shaking.“I didn’t tell you about the press conference because it was all planned rather suddenly. And besides, it was supposed to be kept quiet. And as for staying at Baker Street, I’ll be there temporarily to keep track of Sherlock’s health. I still plan on seeing you every day, so I really don’t see what all the worry is for.”Mary scoffed and turned her back to him. John assumed it was to wipe away an errant tear before she turned around to face him again with a scowl, “I don’t feel like I’m in a relationship with you anymore, John. I barely see you. You come home at night and we exchange small talk and then –” Mary scoffed an gestured wildly around their cozy flat, “then you leave the next morning and it’s like you’re just here to sleep. What happened to my boyfriend?”John held back a sneer, “I didn’t plan for Sherlock to rise from the dead, Mary! I didn’t plan for him to get sick and nearly die a second time around! And I most certainly didn’t plan for him to be so mentally scarred that he needs me to –” John squeezed his hands into fists and took a deep breath, “He’s my friend. My best friend. He needs me. I’ve failed him in the past; I’m not going to let it happen again.”“Listen, John—I don’t want to be one of those crazy girlfriends. I’m not that person. I know that you only want to be a good friend. I…admire that about you. But you have to understand – in the last few weeks, you haven’t been the same. You haven’t been my John. I feel like I’m losing you. That I’ve lost you. And, I can’t…I can’t let that happen without at least trying to –” Mary broke off and made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat.John bit the inside of his cheek and took a deep breath, “Just the same, Mary. You have to understand. I owe Sherlock my life. He’s my best friend. After he jumped I…I thought I’d missed all the signs. I thought that I’d failed him. And I should have been able to recognize those signs. I saw them in myself when I got back from Afghanistan. So, when he came back, and I truly did miss the signs…the signs of his illness but also of his…mental state. I can’t let him down. I won’t allow it. So, I’m sorry that I can’t be here at half five to eat dinner and watch some ridiculous evening program but I’m going to stay with Sherlock. He needs me more right now.”Mary’s chin scrunched up and her eyes lit up with pent up rage, “I need you!”John let out a long sigh, “I love you, Mary, but if you can’t be okay with this then maybe we need to start talking about where this relationship is going.”“Where this relationship is going?!” Mary seethed, her voice louder than John had heard in a long while. “We were talking about marriage, you berk! I can’t marry someone who’s never around!”John felt a well of anger build up, “This is kind of an extenuating circumstance, don’t you think? Most couples don’t have to deal with a Lazarus situation. I don’t think I was doing too terrible as your boyfriend before Sherlock came back.”Mary scoffed and her face contorted into something ugly, “You were always waiting for Sherlock to come back, and you know it. Even when we first started seeing each other, I knew I was going to have to compete with a dead man.” She spoke viciously, her mouth practically foaming, “And then he miraculously returns, and you’re gone. I don’t recognize you. You’re not my John…you’re his.”“I don’t know what to tell you, Mary,” John rubbed his forehead and leaned heavily against the kitchen table, “Maybe I’ve changed, I don’t know. I’ve been too busy worrying about other things to really notice. I don’t know how to prove to you that I mean what I say: that I love you and I’m doing the best I can—”“Don’t go back to Baker Street.”Mary’s words hit John straight in the chest almost knocking the wind out of him like a fall would. Before he could even think about what he was saying, words were already spewing from his mouth, “No, I won’t abandon him.”Mary fumed, “But you’ll abandon me?”John shook his head and gave an exasperated sigh, “I’m not abandoning anyone.”“Then let me come with you.”John, if possible, felt worse than he did when Mary had suggested he not go at all. Something deep in his gut felt wrong, “To Baker Street?”Mary nodded impatiently, “Yes, of course.”John shook his head again, “No, Mary. No. He…he’s recovering and, I just don’t think—”“I can help! He won’t even know I’m there most of the time anyway. And I’ll be—”“Mary.” John spoke commandingly, halting Mary’s words completely, “No. I’m sorry, but no.”Mary’s face twisted fiercely, and John almost didn’t recognize her for a moment. She quickly composed herself, clenching her jaw and shaking her head, too overwhelmed to speak.“He’s recovering both physically and mentally, Mary. He clearly has some sort of PTSD and, as someone who knows the toll it can take on a person, introducing him to someone new is not a good idea. This is not the time, Mary. It’s not what’s best for him.”Mary harrumphed, “Well, as long as it’s what’s best for Sherlock. Who cares about us.”“I’m not going to argue with you about this, it’s useless. You’re being selfish right now and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I’m going to bed. I have to be up early tomorrow. We can talk about it later.” And with that, John left the room, trying to block out the sound of Mary’s anger being taken out on the rest of the living room.Sleep didn’t come that night. John spent it listening to the creaks and moans of the flat, the traffic outside, the thuds and shuffles of the neighbor next door coming home from the late shift, and, distantly, the sounds of a distraught and outraged Mary.He didn’t know what he thought of the situation. Obviously, he was troubled over Mary’s tantrum, but he had no clue how to deal with it any better than he already had. He felt helpless. Leaving Sherlock on his own was not an option. It never could be. From the moment John had met the mad detective he was hooked. He signed his freewill away to the man the minute he pulled the trigger during The Study in Pink case. Maybe even before then. Maybe from the moment he handed over his mobile. Mary was right, in a way.John shivered as he thought of the time after Afghanistan. He’d heard of men who went off their rocker after finishing their tour. How could you return to a quiet civilian life seeing the things you’d seen? He’d spent two tours in Afghanistan. He remembered his first month there; the taste of sand and how his mouth always felt thick with it. How it not only stuck to the roof of his mouth but how it clotted underneath his fingernails, in between his toes, and in the crevices of his ears. The heat was one thing, but the sand was another entirely. He was relieved when they finally moved up in elevation and the sandstorms became less and less frequent.Mostly, it wasn’t the idea of being in a foreign country that bothered him. It was the idea that he was in a foreign country and sent there to potentially kill people or, at least, allow the murder of them. It was the idea that he was sent there and if he didn’t allow the murder of people, he would be murdered. He’d seen violence and death and horror before. He’d even seen it in England during his resfidency. But it was the violence of war that shocked him. And maybe it shocked a little bit of life into him.He followed suit with all his compatriots and began separating his military life from his civilian life. Seeing the occasional stabbing, beating, or motor vehicle accident in the A&E was completely different from seeing gunshot wound after gunshot wound and attempting to pull together a man who had been ripped a part by an IED. His days were full of reassuring young men that things were going to be alright while desperately trying to sew them back together. The adrenaline and fear made him feel alive and his talent as a field surgeon made him feel useful.And then he suddenly wasn’t. Suddenly he was a burden. And if there was anything John Watson couldn’t stand it was being a burden.Civilian life nearly killed him when military life hadn’t. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He did most things on autopilot. Days blended together. Things became grey. He yearned for the camaraderie of the military and the feeling of being needed, of being useful. But society told him he should feel glad to be back; that he should be glad he would never have to return to that desert. He felt guilty for missing his past life. He felt like a bad person for wanting to return to that desert; for thinking that even the nothingness of death seemed better than living in this grey wasteland of civilian life.And then there was Sherlock, a walking battlefield. A minefield of danger and adventure. And John felt like he was back where he belonged.When he’d lost Sherlock, he’d lost home. Not just the exciting lifestyle but the man. He hadn’t realized how much the man and the lifestyle had become entwined. How much they were his definition of home. He wouldn’t lose him again. He wouldn’t lose his home again. And the more time he spent with Sherlock, the more he recognized the signs of a greying world in his friend’s eyes. He wouldn’t leave him to handle this alone. And even if Mary meant well, the worst part of PTSD was feeling worthless, inadequate, and so unlike yourself and having it be there on display for everyone to see. He must have been staring at the ceiling for a few hours when he heard the guest bedroom door open. He listened to Mary shuffle in the doorway like a child waiting to be invited into their parents’ bedroom after a nightmare; but John didn’t move. Maybe it was petty but all he could picture was Sherlock’s pale face. It didn’t take long for Mary to gather her courage and slink into the bed next to John, resting her head on the pillow next to his.John stayed quiet. He didn’t look over at her but instead stared at the ceiling with a newfound ferocity. He could practically feel her gaze etching itself into the side of his face, he clenched is jaw.Finally, Mary sighed, “I’m sorry,” her voice was scratchy, probably from crying, “I’m so sorry. You’re right. It was wrong of me to ask you to leave him, right when he needed you the most.” Mary scooted closer but John wouldn’t bite, “I…I was just feeling…” the pause hung in the room like a thick cloud of miasma, “left out.”There were several minutes of tense silence, but John had no desire to break it. There was something that deeply irritated him about Mary’s attitude. It was childish, no doubt, but there was something else. Something that pulled deeply at John’s conscious and nagged at his gut and heartstrings. Sherlock had been there for him when no one else was and despite all her hard work to heal John, Mary, could never mend the deepest part of John’s soul. Maybe the part that he had never wanted healed in the first place. The part that he was idly proud of, the part that showed he’d gone through some shit and came out the other side stronger for it.“Please John,” Mary tentatively reached out to run a finger along John’s forearm, where it rested against his chest, “please, say something.”John let out a breath, “What would you have me say?”Mary let out a gasping sob, “Say that you forgive me. Say that you love me.”“I’ve said it. But I won’t say it again, Mary. I think we both have a lot of thinking to do. And I don’t think that it can be blamed on the situation with Sherlock. Maybe that was the catalyst, but you just said you’ve always been competing with a dead man.”Mary bowed her head, “I love you; you must know that.”“It’s not a question of whether or not we love each other. It’s a question of whether or not you feel that this is worth sticking around for.”“Of course—”“No, Mary. Think about it before you go off spouting declarations. Things are going to change now that Sherlock is back. I tried to pretend I could live a normal life, but I was lying to myself all along. If he decides to go back to detective work, I’ll follow him.” John spoke clearly and with conviction. He knew the words coming out of his mouth were nothing but the truth. He had never been happier than when he had been chasing criminals around the streets of London and following Sherlock’s coattails down alleyways and over rooftops. Mary had been right. She had been competing with a dead man. A dead man who had miraculously come back to life.Mary sucked in a deep breath, “You’d move back in with him?”“Not unless you wanted me to move out. I’m going back to Baker Street right now to look after him temporarily, as I’ve told you.”“But do you want to go back there permanently?”John finally turned to look at where Mary had curled herself up on the pillow next to his. Her face was blotchy, and she had her hands curled up into fists by her face. John shifted in the bed so he was lying facing her. He gripped one of her hands, enclosing her small fist in his palm, “I’m committed to this relationship. I’ve told you I love you, Mary. And I’m not a man who says one thing and does another. I am nothing if not honest. I will not abandon you or this relationship just like I won’t abandon my friendship with Sherlock.”Mary let out a sigh and ducked her head down against John’s chest, who wrapped his arms around her tentatively.He had meant what he said. He wouldn’t just leave Mary and their relationship in the dust now that Sherlock was back, but things would change. They had to change. John knew, the moment he had met Sherlock, that any relationship he was going to have would have to involve the mad man in some intricate balancing act. Mary was no exception. It was just that now, after not having to work around Sherlock, they would have to learn how.After another hour of Mary letting out odd little gasping sounds, she dozed off. John couldn’t bring himself to detangle himself. She was clearly distraught. She was behaving as if his return to Baker Street was a death sentence for their relationship. Unless she knew something John didn’t, John didn’t expect the way he treated her to be so different than pre-Sherlock. All he could hope for was just a little shut eye, he only needed a good hour of rest to be ready to pick up Sherlock the next morning. God, it was just like when they were living together. No sleep and babysitting. How he had missed it.Mary saw him off in the dark early morning hours, face still puffy and mouth downturned in a sullen frown. She didn’t say anything as he kissed her cheek to bid her goodbye, but she firmly gripped his forearm before he closed the door and whispered, almost ominously, “I better see you soon. Even if Sherlock is still recuperating. Talk to him. I expect to be a part of your life. Every part of it.”John nodded but felt a pit of agitation in his stomach at her words as he loaded his bag into the boot of Mycroft’s pre-arranged car. Sherlock was still weak and far too thin when John helped him from the hospital wheelchair into the back of the town car. It was still dark out as they snuck out the back of the hospital, but John was glad it was relatively quiet that morning. There was no telling what might over-stimulate the consulting detective. He hadn’t been in the company of more than four or five people over the last two weeks.The younger man was a shaky, sweaty mess by the time they made it up the 17 stairs into the living room. Mrs. Hudson met them up there with snacks and freshly brewed tea as promised in her conversation with John the day before when he’d rung her with the good news. She coddled Sherlock for a short while, combing her fingers through his wet curls, and tutting at the lack of meat on his bones. Sherlock had the good grace to put up with her ministrations before John insisted on peace, quiet, and rest.The frailty of Sherlock alone made John uncomfortable with leaving him. When he helped Sherlock sit down in his chair, the consulting detective looked like a man overwhelmed. He was still shaking and sweating from his trip up the stairs. John poured two cups of tea and stirred in minimal sugar for Sherlock.When he handed over the cup, Sherlock’s hands shook so violently that dark liquid splashed out and onto the rug below and finally John reached forward to hold the cup steady to his friend’s lips. Sherlock sipped delicately and sat back in his chair. John put the cup down on the side table and watched as his friend attempted to calm his own body down.“Are you hungry?” John busied himself by spreading apricot jam over one of Mrs. Hudson’s scones.Sherlock scoffed and John smiled at the familiar sound.“They’re homemade. I’m sure you’ve missed Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. Besides, she’s even brought clotted cream and raspberry jam for you.” John bit into his scone and licked his lips at the delightful burst of flavor. After so many days of hospital food, this was sheer heaven. He set down his own snack and began breaking off smaller bits of scone and spreading a generous amount of jam and cream over them, “Come on, I know you’re hungry.”Sherlock glanced up from underneath his lashes at the scone John was holding. Then he nodded. Just a small, slight nod. But it was enough for John, and he reached forward to lightly push the bread against Sherlock’s lips. The younger man, in turn, opened wide and bit down on the small piece, pulling it inside his mouth and dragging a sliver of a pink tongue out to lick up the jam/cream mixture that had escaped out of the sides of his mouth.John felt his heart pattering painfully in his chest but pulled his hand away to start on another piece of scone. He cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly in his chair, “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His voice was husky and he coughed in an effort to make it seem like it was due to a cold or allergies or some other sort of nonsense.The consulting detective gave him a withering look and nodded toward the cup of tea and John felt both relieved that Sherlock failed to notice his discomfort and also, strangely, slightly disappointed. Dutifully the doctor grabbed the cup and brought it to his friend’s lips again. This went on for some time: scone, tea, scone, tea, until Sherlock finally leaned back and said quietly, “I’ve stopped shaking. I think I can hold a scone now, John.”John sat back and nodded, “Yes, of course. I’ll leave it to you then. I’m going to get your bed ready.”“It’s not even noon, yet.” The petulant tone made shivers run down John’s back and he shook it off, questioning what the hell was going on with his own body and why was it choosing now to act like a complete git without his permission.John didn’t bother to turn around to answer him, “And you’re already shattered.”He heard Sherlock groan quietly and smiled at the sound.The next several days followed in a similar manner. Sherlock slept most of the time. John begrudged leaving him for much of anything and thank God he didn’t have to. He had stayed as a locum practitioner and merely put his availability to as close to nil as possible to allow for a long break. Besides, he had a feeling everyone at the agency knew about his situation and were giving him a wide berth.It was odd, sleeping in his old room. It smelt like sickness and dust. He let it air out for the rest of the first night and into the next day before deciding to just sleep on the couch instead. It was probably better that way anyway. He would be able to hear Sherlock.Thanks to illness and to the mild painkillers and sedatives given to Sherlock by the checkout staff, he slept soundly and often. John was relieved because it allowed the consulting detective’s body to heal but also because it allowed Sherlock some much needed mental rest too.John helped him in almost any situation, but the younger man drew the line at anything that took place past the bathroom threshold. If he noticed that John had stashed his sleeping and anxiety pills somewhere else, he didn’t comment on it. John worried about it affecting his already fatigued state, so he saved them for a later, healthier conversation. While Sherlock bathed and did his business, John waited outside, sitting against the door in case any suspicious noises warranted his speedy arrival.By the third day, Sherlock shuffled out of the bathroom door, looking pale and fatigued but more vexed than anything. He crossed his arms over his worn cotton t-shirt and gave John a stern look, “This really must end, John. I have a hard enough time focusing on not passing out in there while shampooing my hair; I don’t need to also waste brain cells on worrying about making any sort of noise that could be construed as upsetting.”John gulped and looked away guiltily, like a child caught playing with a toy he was told not to, “Yeah, I know you’re an adult and everything. I just—I don’t know—worry, I guess. Wanted to make sure that you weren’t collapsing in there.”“I assure you, if I collapsed you wouldn’t need to be standing by the bathroom door to hear it.” Sherlock smirked slightly and then reached out to put a shaky hand on John’s shoulder while the doctor led him toward the living room couch, as had become their routine.They fell into living together easily. It was almost as if no time had passed at all, as if this was how it always had been. John felt happy and alive. Even though they weren’t jumping across rooftops or tracking down murderers, he felt more like his old self than he had in months.He dutifully texted Mary but had yet to bring it up to his friend. But he knew, from the unsettling feeling sinking into his bones and down his spine, Mary would not allow him to put off bringing her to Baker Street for much longer.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Sherlock thought in colors. He thought in abstract sounds and shapes and little messages written on the wings of paper airplanes he used to make as a child. He thought in rooms: big rooms, small rooms, brightly lit rooms, and locked rooms. He thought in staircases and greenhouses and entire cellars devoted to the soil samples of West London. Today, he thought in 221B Baker Street. It was, after all, his favorite room in which to think.
It didn’t hurt to have a physical connection. Like a monk meditating, Sherlock’s body was present, but his mind wandered. He couldn’t help that it wandered right back to where his body was currently occupying. He found himself doing that a lot lately. His mind wandered constantly. It always had. But he used to be able to focus somewhat on the present.
These days it wandered even when the present was fascinating. It wandered even when there was a triple homicide with a locked door scenario. It wandered even when John was sitting at his bedside with his undivided attention. Even when he was licking his lips in that way that he did. That sneaky way that always managed to make Sherlock catch his breath and make his heart beat a little unsteady for a few moments.
Why couldn’t he focus? He felt like ripping his hair out by their roots. He felt like banging his head up against the wall. Like tearing his own skin off. Like sticking a needle into his arm and shooting the glorious poison in his veins that used to allow him clarity.
Suddenly, burnt food and sweat assaulted his nostrils and Sherlock felt squeamish. In his mind, a door that he kept locked broke open, and the smell intensified. The room grew humid, and he felt sweat drip down his back. He tried to move but he was frozen. The smells and the heat almost too much for him to bear.
Sherlock kept his eyes closed. If he kept his eyes closed, he could still imagine he was sitting in his chair in Baker Street. This could be some sort of horrible flashback. He didn’t dare move. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard that static signal of a radio attempting to play doo-wop. Only Mrs. Hudson listened to doo-wop, there was no way M-23 militants would be into the sultry sounds of The Flamingos. Right? Right?! His brain was yelling at him. He wanted to reach up and pry his eyes open. He needed to be sure that he was in 221B. But his body would not obey.
“Sherlock?”
“Quoi?” [What?]
The voice sounded far away and from this distance he couldn’t tell whose it was, “What?” It said. It sounded like it was underwater. Was Sherlock underwater? When had that happened?
“Pourquoi sommes-nous sous l’eau?” [Why are we underwater?] Sherlock ventured. But if they were underwater, why did he sound so clear?
The voice didn’t say anything and for a moment Sherlock feared that he had angered the owner with his questions. They should have fed him. He would make so much more sense if he could just get some bread. Maybe some water. Jesus, when had he become so reliant on food? He makes a mental note to blame John later.
“Sherlock—I don’t have a clue what you’re saying. I don’t speak French. Maybe in English, yeah?”
He opened his eyes. Only John’s voice could make him do that. Sure enough, as if he had been drowning and had suddenly been revived Sherlock could breathe again. John was standing over him looking anxious, his eyebrows drawn together, and his mouth pinched in that funny way when he was trying to put two and two together.
“I apologize. I was just…thinking. What’re you doing here, John?”
“Are you kidding me?” John ran a hand through his hair and Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that it made it fluff out in appealing manner. The door with the locks was suddenly forgotten. Pushed into the recesses of his mind palace where it would no doubt throw itself open again.
“I’m not really one for practical jokes, you know that.” Sherlock felt as if he was missing some big piece to a puzzle he didn’t know he was supposed to be working on.
John sighed, turned around and headed for the kitchen. Sherlock watched him go, frowning at his friend’s back.
“Sherlock, I’ve been here for the last four days. Do you remember any of that? We were just talking about a case Greg brought over and you got all quiet. I asked if you wanted tea. Do you remember that?”
Sherlock briefly wondered if he should feel offended. He remembered everything. Unless he deemed it delete-able. Even then, some of that material had lingering data still mucking about in his mind palace. He sat back in his chair and attempted to focus on the way John pushed up the sleeves of his jumper before he poured the hot water from the kettle into the cups he had set aside for tea. He focused on the way his forearms still held a subtle strength, even after so long of not seeing those forearms. John’s whole body was subtle strength. So, Sherlock focused on that. On the way he moved with purpose and quiet confidence. How he still sometimes marched without knowing it. On his standard military haircut. Why didn’t he grow it out? Sherlock probably wouldn’t like it grown out anyway.
"Well?” John set down the teacup on the table next to Sherlock. When had he gotten over here so fast?
“Of course, I remember, John. Don’t insult me. I was just lost in thought is all.” Sherlock was surprised at the surety of his own voice. He didn’t feel so certain. Then again, his brain was trying to dig itself out of molasses. It felt slow. He felt slow.
John looked as uncertain as Sherlock felt, “Okay.”
This is why they made a good pair. John looked what Sherlock felt. Was that why they made a good pair? Sherlock couldn’t remember. Were they even a pair? Wait, John didn’t live here. When had that happened? You see but you do not observe, you idiot, Sherlock reprimanded himself.
One look at John said it all. He didn’t have to remember what had happened. John would tell him, wouldn’t he? Whether he wanted to or not, John held the key. Judging from the wrinkles in John’s clothing, he wasn’t living here anymore, just staying here temporarily. Who was he living with? And why?
Sherlock closed his eyes. I’ve got a really lovely life here. A job and Mary. I love Mary. I think I might marry her, and I couldn’t go off gallivanting with you if I did…I don’t want to go off gallivanting with you anymore. Oh yes, that’s right.
He’s off living a normal life. Dull. Inane. Pedestrian.
John could be incredibly happy. Wasn’t that what normal lives led to? Outrageous happiness? Sherlock sighed. It was good then. This normal life of John’s. It was very good. Sherlock should support it. Some desperately childish part of him wanted to scream, wanted to yell out that it wasn’t good. That it was stupid and unimaginative. And look at all the fun John was missing out on! Look at all the juicy murders and exciting chases and ridiculous blog posts to be written!
And look at the desperation of your ex-flatmate.
He wasn’t a flatmate anymore. He had no sway in John’s life anymore. There was a silly, small, and very deeply shut away part of Sherlock that called John his best friend. And in the cellar of the deeply shut away room Sherlock hid all the other things he wanted to call John. Some of those terms were not for the faint of heart. He shoved these thoughts further into that room, slammed the door shut and barricaded it shut with planks of wood and chains, “How is Mary?”
John looked surprised and Sherlock felt a little bit of glee at that. Look at how good of a friend I can be, John! Look, you thought I was incapable of thinking of anyone besides myself. Silly John, I always think of you. I only think of you.
“She’s good.”
“Good.”
It was quiet and Sherlock listened to the crooning voice of Roy Orbison singing ‘Running Scared’ downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. The tilework in there made the sound bounce through the vents. He would have to tell Mrs. Hudson that she should keep her gossiping to a minimum in the kitchen. He could hear every word. He should tell her to turn down the radio.
John cleared his throat, “I was thinking about bringing her by. Mary. Someday.”
Sherlock hummed noncommittally.
“Maybe tomorrow?”
Sherlock nodded and rubbed his eyes. He felt tired. Exhausted, really. How long had he been up?
“Three hours,” John sounded just as tired as Sherlock felt and the detective looked up at him in surprise. When did the doctor become so good at reading his mind, usually that was Sherlock’s job, “You said it a loud.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe you should lay down for a little bit. You’re still recovering after all.” John pushed himself from his chair and went back into the kitchen to clean the dishes, “What do you think about Mary stopping by? Are you feeling up for it?”
Sherlock shrugged and opened his mouth to speak but somehow nothing wanted to come out. If he were to be honest with himself, the thought of a stranger in his space made him uncomfortable. No matter how important this stranger was to his John, he could hardly force himself to be interested in it right now. He squirmed at the thought. Meeting Mary would mean another room. Would mean categorizing. He was already mixing things up. Just the other day he found lullabies mingled in with his explosives’ library.
“I could always have her come by later. I mean, it’s still pretty soon after the hospital.” Sherlock could feel John’s gaze on him from where he stood leaning against the kitchen archway.
“Okay.” Sherlock felt his voice come out gravelly.
John sighed, “Well, let’s get you to bed. You look knackered.”
Sherlock was still weak. Both in mind and body he realized quietly. He had disappointed John and he hated himself for it. He attempted to lift himself from his chair, but his arms shook with the effort, and he felt John’s steady form next to him. He felt his gentle hands holding him underneath his armpits and lifting him with grace.
Sherlock didn’t remember the trip to his bedroom. But he remembers John’s tender voice and the soft glide of John’s fingertips against his forehead brushing his hair aside. And he definitely felt the light touch of John’s lips to his cheek. Just like at the hospital. And Sherlock could almost convince himself that John still lived at Baker Street. That his friend hadn’t just sighed with disappointment after Sherlock hesitated in meeting his new love interest. He could almost convince himself that John was merely saying goodnight and that the last 18 months had never happened.
Almost. But when he closed his eyes, the humidity of the jungle was waiting for him, imprinting itself on the insides of his eyelids. The sound of gunfire and roughly spoke French and the lilts of Swahili spoken in conjunction with the jabs from the butt of a gun.
And Sherlock was back to piling sandbags in front of the door he had desperately been trying to keep closed. But the flood of information would not let up. He felt it soaking into the sandbags, seeping through the cracks.
John worried about Sherlock sometimes. At first, he told himself that it was just the illness. That the man was recuperating from a sickness that had nearly killed him. But sometimes, when Sherlock would sit in his chair, John felt like his friend was empty. Like a vessel waiting to be filled. Like a dummy they dressed in the shops. And he couldn’t think of how to fix that.
John found himself watching his friend’s every move. He found himself of obsessing over every sound, over every flinch. Sherlock was here and alive and on the mend, but mentally, he was gone and John was desperately trying to figure out where to so he could follow.
Before Sherlock had left, John would remember the chaos that surrounded his friend. Even doing something as simple as reading a newspaper was a flurry of motion set to the sound of crazed mumblings. But now, it was quiet. Sherlock read his paper slowly and carefully as if he were holding back. He didn’t mumble like he used to. John never thought he would miss Sherlock’s rants as much as he did. The good doctor even tried to entice him with crap television.
But most of the time, Sherlock seemed to be somewhere else entirely.
He answered when spoken to, but John missed the randomness of Sherlock’s conversations in the past. The way he would seemingly connect two entirely different topics and make them seem like they were so intricately woven it was a wonder why people didn’t talk about them in conjunction more often.
And this was why John was keeping Mary at arm’s length. Despite his promises, despite knowing he had committed to his relationship with Mary, he knew it was imperative to keep Sherlock away from strangers right now. No matter how important Mary was to him, Sherlock was equally important and right now, he needed John to play interference.
Not that Mary was happy about this. They met. Not often but they met. For coffee, for pastries, or sometimes at the flat they shared when John had to pick something up and Mary was there in between work and whatever else she did in her spare time. It was always tense. And Mary was always pushing to spend more time together, to talk more, to be a part of the whatever John’s life had become. She was evening using the impending Christmas holidays as a way to guilt John into seeing each other more often and of meeting Sherlock. And John was always delaying. He knew it was only a matter of time, but he also knew the longer he waited the more time he could give Sherlock to heal.
Lestrade came by late at night on the eighth day with the case notes from a murder/suicide that had happened a few days prior. He made the excuse that he was growing desperate, but John knew that he was worried about a bored Sherlock. Sherlock moodily agreed to take a look at the file and shooed Lestrade from the room with a wave of his hand.
John used the pretext of showing Greg out as a means to gossip. Something that the two older men were sure didn’t escape the attention of the obscenely observant detective in the sitting room.
“How’s he doing?” Lestrade shuffled awkwardly in the foyer before shoving his hands in his coat pockets like he was cold.
John shrugged, “I think well?”
“You think?”
“I don’t know, Greg. I mean, physically he’s doing heaps better but mentally? Emotionally? I have no clue. I don’t know if it’s partially the illness but he’s definitely not the same as…well…as he was before all that.” John kept his voice down, but he still felt like he was betraying his friend’s trust by saying these things in the same house.
“How so?” Lestrade glanced up at the top of the stairs and John turned to look to see if Sherlock’s gangly shadow was there. Nope, they were just being paranoid.
“He’s just…quiet. He’s still. I don’t know how to explain it. He’s not manic. He’s not wild. He’s not…Sherlock-y.”
Lestrade grinned a little, “I think that sums it up pretty nice. I’d never seen someone so like a hurricane as I had when I first met him.”
John smiled sadly, “I know, I never thought I’d miss the mess he used to create and, God—the noise, I miss the noise. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m ecstatic that he’s here and we’re getting on just fine, it’s just—I can tell he’s not mentally here, you know?”
“Like he’s in his, what’d he call it? His mind palace?”
“Not even that. Usually when he’s in his mind palace he’s there on purpose. He sits down and he goes there and comes back just fine. But now, it’s like he just zones in and out and he doesn’t even know where he is.”
Lestrade hummed quietly, “Did you talk to Mycroft?”
“No, not yet. He’s already aware of it. He thinks I can help Sherlock somehow. I just—don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe getting back into his old routine will help? Or, at least getting back to as much of his routine as he’s able. I know he’s still on the mend but solving crimes and all that, it may help.”
“Yeah,” John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “I just—I don’t know what happened to him while he was gone. But whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Mycroft gave me that much. But I don’t know how to help him. When I got back from Afghanistan—only the adrenalin of chasing around serial killers brought me back out to the real world. Somehow, I don’t think that will help Sherlock this time around.”
Lestrade shrugged, his shoulders hunching up near his ears and gave John a hopeful look, “Who knows, mate? Sherlock’s never been normal. Maybe solving crimes will give him closure. Or something like that.”
“Maybe.” John opened the front door to the crisp December chill and nodded at Lestrade as he made his way out, “Thanks, Greg. Really. It means a lot to have you come by.”
Greg waved, “Anytime, John. I’ll stop by tomorrow unless Sherlock has something for me sooner. By the way, I’m keeping an eye on the flat just in case the paparazzi get it in their heads that you two need a little more excitement.”
“Thanks, mate.”
John couldn’t get the idea of closure out of his head. The fact that he had no idea what Sherlock needed closure for made his skin crawl.
It took Sherlock less than five hours to solve Lestrade’s murder/suicide. He had John text Lestrade for him and eerily enough left out most of the name calling he usually resorted to when he felt a case was beneath him. He must be desperate for intellectual stimulation, John reasoned.
Sherlock sometimes spoke in French. Sometimes when John would ask him how he was or if he wanted raspberry or strawberry jam with his toast, Sherlock would speak fluently but in a language John couldn’t understand. He researched everything he could about the Democratic Republic of the Congo. He attempted to google translate words but found he couldn’t spell French words for shit.
So finally, John asked Sherlock the big question. He did so without even expecting it to come out of his mouth, it just sort of came out like word vomit after Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon strumming melancholy melodies on his violin, “What were you doing while you were away? What happened to you?”
Sherlock glanced up at John as if he was surprised his friend was there, as if John hadn’t been sitting in the room for the last four hours watching him hold his violin close to his body like a child would a doll. For several moments, John thought Sherlock would ignore him and go back to his melodies. He was partially right. Sherlock’s fingers resumed their dance on the neck of his violin, but he answered in a quiet, reserved voice, “I told you, John. I was eliminating Moriarty’s web.”
“Where?”
Sherlock shrugged and cleared his voice, “Everywhere. Europe, Asia, the Middle East. Moriarty had syndicates all over the world.”
“How did you find them?”
“Mycroft, mostly. Then I followed leads and followed the news of strange crimes I thought suited him. Turns out many of his lieutenants shared similar tastes in crime as he did.” Sherlock was avoiding eye contact, choosing instead to stare at where his fingers plucked away at the strings.
John shifted, “How’d you end up in the Congo?”
Sherlock tensed but it was so miniscule you’d have to John Watson, who had been focusing almost entirely on his friend’s behavior for the past several days, to notice, “I was intercepted while completing a mission in Riyadh.”
“Intercepted?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was low and barely above a whisper.
“By who?”
“An associate of Moriarty’s apparently. He recognized me. It was a stupid mistake on my part. I usually took better care to disguise myself, but I was—I had just finished in Riyadh. It was the last of Moriarty’s known lieutenants but one.”
“What happened?” John’s voice was soft, as if he was afraid of spooking the man sitting across from him if he spoke too loudly.
Sherlock took a deep breath and suddenly he was a flurry of motion. He was putting away his violin with quick, choppy movements but John could see he was trembling.
“Sherlock?” John didn’t move but he did lean forward toward his frantically moving friend and clasped his hands together between his knees.
Sherlock had his back turned toward John, but the doctor could see where he was running his fingers along the velvety inside of his violin case. It seemed ages until the younger man spoke, his voice raspy, “I wasn’t paying enough attention. I was walking back to the safe house—I took a shortcut and was ambushed; drugged. I woke up while being transported.”
“Where did they take you?” John felt his heart pounding but not in a good way. It felt like anytime you knew your fate. In that terrified acceptance way.
“Goma.”
“Where in Goma?”
“The rebels had seized an abandoned healthcare facility in the western part of the city.” Sherlock had not turned away from his violin case.
“What’d they do to you?” John sighed, the air leaving his lungs in one long breath. He felt his heart pounding in his chest.
Sherlock was silent before he scoffed loudly, turning around to give John a slightly manic sneer, “Why are you asking me this, John? Hasn’t Mycroft told you all there is to know? I’m sure you two have been sharing all the dirty secrets of my time away. He does like to gossip.” Sherlock gripped the back of the chair he had been sitting in, his knuckles turning white from the effort.
John frowned but didn’t look away from Sherlock, “That’s not true, Sherlock. I’m asking because I’m your friend. Maybe it would help if you shared with me what happened. Maybe I could help.”
“Help?” Sherlock guffawed, “Help how?”
“I don’t know. When I got back—”
“When you got back from Afghanistan you attempted a number of trite methods for recovery. Tell me, John, which method worked best for you?” Sherlock’s voice was low and threatening.
“You…you worked best for me.” John felt the words tumble from his mouth before he could stop them. But once they were out in the open, he didn’t regret them at all.
“What?” Sherlocks question came out as a breathless puff.
John smiled sadly, “You’re right. I tried a lot of ‘trite methods for recovery.’ And a lot of them were a waste of time. And I was real close to giving up a few times. But then, I met you. And you shocked some life back into me. I mean, the nightmares and the memories didn’t evaporate or anything but—they got better, more manageable.”
Sherlock’s grip on the chair had slackened and he was starting at John intensely, his eyes moving back and forth as he scanned John’s face, “I helped you?”
“Of course, you did,” John chuckled, “how could you not know that?”
Sherlock shrugged and looked out the window and John feared that he was going to lose Sherlock again to the corridors of his mind.
“So, let me try to help you, Sherlock. Please.”
The consulting detective smiled sadly, “You already have, John.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“This girl…she was murdered?” Sherlock held the newspaper up for John to glance at the large black and white photo taking up most of the page from across the kitchen table.
The doctor, in turn, surprised at his friend’s voice, looked at the article he was pointing to. It was front page news and John vaguely remembered hearing about the story on the television earlier that week.
He reached out to take the paper from Sherlock’s hands. The headline read, ‘Foreign Conflicts on Domestic Soil?’ inlaid in the text was a picture of a beautiful young black woman smiling at the camera. Obviously, Sherlock hadn’t read the story but something about the headline or the picture must have grabbed his attention. Below the photograph it read: ‘Ruth Amondi shown above during her first year of university abroad, was the daughter of the controversial Kenyan dignitary and former UN ambassador Samuel Omondi.’ John scanned the first paragraph of the article:
The body of Ruth Amondi, daughter of controversial Kenyan politician Samuel Omondi, was found two nights ago in her West London flat. Government officials are now concerned about the implications her death may have on foreign politics. Recently, Samuel Omondi was appointed as Kenyan Minister of Defense after many years of serving as a member of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and, most recently, as an ambassador to the UN. While his disputed politics remain popular amongst the country’s youth, Omondi has not garnered much support with the long-standing elite and neighboring territories. A Scotland Yard representative reported earlier today that due to the violent nature of Ruth Amondi’s death and the significance of her political stature, police are considering the possibility of foreign influence. Ms. Amondi moved to Britain in –
John looked up at Sherlock who appeared to off in his own little world as if he had forgotten that he held the paper up in the first place.
“Yeah, it looks like it.” John felt a shiver of anticipation make its way up his spine. Was Sherlock looking at barging his way into the investigation? It seemed too early in his recovery to go sneaking off to crime scenes and chasing murderers through alleyways.
Sherlock frowned and ran his finger over the headline where the paper lay on the table, “Did they announce how she died?”
John thought back to the news story that had been on the television earlier that week. He reached for the paper against and skimmed the rest of his article, “No, doesn’t look like it. They just say that it was violent. And, by the sounds of it, looks like a professional hit.”
The detective hummed, putting his hands in the all-too-well-known prayerful position under his nose, “Call Lestrade.”
Sherlock, I don’t think it’s a good ide—”
“I’m not going to take the case. I just want to know how she died.” Sherlock waved off John’s concern with a flip of his hand.
“Fine.” John sighed and part of him felt his heart swell with the idea of Sherlock prancing around a crime scene, spouting off deductions, and driving everyone mad. He couldn’t deny that he was excited at the prospect of seeing Sherlock less sullen.
By the time Lestrade arrived at 221B, Sherlock had nearly paved a hole through the living room floor. Currently, he was looking out the window down at the street below. He would have seen the detective inspector arrived, but he made no move to turn away from the window as Greg’s footsteps approached.
“Well, what’s all this about then, Sherlock?”
“How did the girl die?” Sherlock’s voice sounded distant. As if his mind were elsewhere, no doubt, pouring through piles of facts. John stood off to the side of the room, shrugging his shoulders when Greg gave him a slightly confused look.
“Violently. Really, really violently.” Lestrade spoke quietly, reverently, in a way that was common amongst people who were used to dealing with the sensitive situations that came with untimely deaths, “She was definitely tortured. Probably for several hours. The cause of death, however, was decapitation. We’re relatively certain that the murder weapon was a –”
“Machete.” Sherlock’s voice was bold and sure.
Lestrade shook his head, “Wha—how the hell did you know that?”
“Were her eyes gouged out?”
“Jesus Christ—” Lestrade ran a hand over his face, “Yes. How--? Literally, there’s no way…we haven’t released any information regarding her death.”
“The man you’re looking for is Antoine Mensah. He’s a well-known interrogator and mercenary working with the Congolese insurgency M-23 militia. He’s on a number of Most Wanted lists and most definitely has a file in the Interpol top-watched database. Contact Mycroft.”
John felt the color he once had in his cheeks out of excitement fade away. He was left pale and goose pimpled. His hands felt numb as he reached for his phone to send a quick text message to the elder Holmes: ‘SOS. Baker St. -JW’
Before he had even hit send, there was the familiar sound of an umbrella tapping on the stairs up to their flat. The creepiness of the swift appearance of Mycroft Holmes didn’t even have time to settle in before the front door was thrown open and the man himself strode in with all due pomp and circumstance.
“Brother mine, I—” Mycroft began but Sherlock’s deeper tones interrupted him suddenly and strangely.
“C’est lui Il est ici. Quel est le lien entre lui et l’homme politique Kenyan? Vous etes tous en danger. Ne comprenez-vous pas?” [It’s him. He’s here. How does he relate to the Kenyan politician? You’re all in danger. Do you not understand?] Sherlock’s voice came out in an almost yell. It was acid and ice mixed together and made all the more terrifying by the fact that he had yet to turn away from the window. That, and the fact that both John and Lestrade couldn’t understand a thing coming out of the younger man’s mouth.
Mycroft gave the other two men a look that immediately cut off either of them questioning the change in language, “Oui, petit frere,” [Yes, little brother] he said quietly, “N’avez pas peur. Vous n'êtes pas seul. J’ai tous mes hommes disponibles pour le chercher.” [Don’t be afraid. You’re not alone. I have all my available men looking for him]
The older Holmes took a deep breath, switching back to English seamlessly, “Dignitary Omondi helped me to locate you. He paid the price for the information he shared with me. I regret the loss of his daughter, but I needed his help to find you. The only thing I can do for him now is find Mensah.”
All was quiet for several minutes in the flat and John could practically feel the electricity coming off the two brothers, “A daughter for a brother then.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but he finally turned away from the window and John was concerned to see that he was shaking, “This is related to Moran, Mycroft, I know it.”
“We’re attempting to track him down now.”
“Ce n’est pas assez bon,” [It’s not good enough] Sherlock wandered away from the window and began pacing again; bringing shaking hands to tug at his curls. John wanted to reach forward and pull those long-tapered fingers away from his hair, but it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. It was almost as if Sherlock had forgotten anyone else was in the room. He began to mumble to himself, switching between French, English, and other languages that John couldn’t recognize.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft set his umbrella down against the wall and strode toward to where his brother was nervously clawing at his face and head, “Cher frère. S'il vous plaît. Asseyez-vous,”[Brother dear. Please. Sit down] Mycroft reached forward and encircled Sherlock’s thin wrists in his hands, delicately pulling them away from their ministrations, ““Tout va bien se passer. Je vous le promets. Mais vous devez vous asseoir et vous détendre. J'ai besoin de toi à penser clairement.” [Everything will be fine. I promise you. But you have to sit down and relax. I need you to think clearly]
Mycroft led Sherlock over to the couch and sat him down gently. The younger Holmes put his head between his knees and mumbled, “I’m trying. I’m trying.” Shaky hands ran through curly hair and Mycroft rubbed Sherlock’s back in a surprisingly human gesture.
“Dr. Watson, perhaps you can make us some tea? And Detective Inspector Lestrade, perhaps you could pop down to Speedy’s and pick up some raspberry scones. We could all use some sustenance.” Mycroft appeared as controlled as ever but John saw beneath the façade. Seeing the British government sitting on the couch, rumpled, and bent over to whisper into his brother’s ear, was nothing John would have ever expected. The always stately and self-controlled movements took on a more human touch and John excused himself from the private moment to make tea just as Lestrade made his way down the stairs of the flat.
From the kitchen, John could make out the mumbling between the two brothers and then he heard Mycroft get up from the couch and make his way into Sherlock’s bedroom. He returned minutes later, detouring through the kitchen, Sherlock’s housecoat in his hands. Mycroft Holmes leaned against the kitchen counter and nodded at John as he busied himself with teacups, “Thank you, John.”
“Of course,” John shrugged and then blurted out what was on his mind, “What the hell is happening?”
“My brother has been previously acquainted with Antoine Mensah…during his time away…” Mycroft let this hang in the air for a moment; Sherlock’s words from earlier sitting in John’s belly like lead, ‘He’s a well-known interrogator and mercenary working with the Congolese insurgency M-23 militia.’ Interrogator. Interrogator. Interrogator. The word went through his head on repeat. Over and over and over again, a sickness, rolling through him like waves. Anyone with a military background knew what this meant. It meant torturer. It meant sadist.
Mycroft cleared his throat and John returned his attention back to him, “The intelligence that Mensah is in London was confirmed beyond a doubt when he left his calling card at Ruth Amondi’s murder scene.”
“Calling card?”
“Eyes, Dr. Watson. Mensah takes his victims’ eyes as trophies.” Mycroft’s voice was calm but the meaning behind them left John feeling anything but calm.
John swallowed and attempted to reign himself in, “What does this mean then?”
"It means we need to move you and Sherlock to a safehouse as soon as possible. It’s likely Mensah was sent here on Sebastian Moran’s orders.”
“There’s that name again. Moriarty’s righthand man, right?”
Mycroft nodded in agreement, “The very same. Sherlock fears that we are in danger. I would have to agree with him. Mensah has proven himself a dangerous adversary who will stop at nothing to finish the mission he started in Riyadh.”
“He’s the one who took Sherlock?” John could barely focus on making tea at this point. His hands were trembling.
Mycroft gave a noncommittal hum, “I take three sugars in mine. And I believe Lestrade likes his black.”
With that, the elder Holmes left the room, housecoat and sugared-tea in hand.
Getting Sherlock to agree to be secreted away to a safehouse was easier than John would have previously thought. He quickly consented once Mycroft confirmed that John would need to be in tow, stating, “You’re his number one confidant and therefore an equally critical target.”
John said very little during the preparations. Mycroft’s car would pick them up tomorrow morning at 4:30. They were to be packed and ready to go. In the meantime, Mycroft had a fully armed team on surveillance and security. Lestrade would also have security detail but because of his very public position he would need to stay in London. Sherlock also requested Mycroft have someone watch after Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper though he had had limited contact with them since his illness. After several hours, Sherlock was fading, loose limbed and sleepy eyed on the couch and John quickly shooed Mycroft and Lestrade out the front door as snow began to gently fall from the dark winter sky.
When he returned to the flat, Sherlock wasn’t sprawled out on the couch and, for a split moment, John panicked, his mind playing unwarranted scenarios of hostile interrogations. And then he heard the sink in the bathroom turn on and he let out the breath he had been holding. He went into Sherlock’s bedroom and turned down the bedding while he waited.
“You don’t need to do that, John.” Sherlock’s voice was tired as he exited the bathroom.
“I know, but I just wanted to say goodnight before I turned in and thought I’d make myself useful in the meantime.” John patted the comforter and then fluffed up one of the pillows.
There was a long pause and then Sherlock sighed, “I’m sorry.”
John turned around and stared at the willowy man standing before him, moving to the side so his friend could lay down, “What?”
Sherlock made his way over to the bed and sat down on the edge, leaning forward to put his elbows on his thighs, resting his head in his hands, “I’m just so sorry, John. I wish you would have never been dragged into this.”
“Dragged into this?” John let out a half laugh, “I haven’t been dragged into anything.”
Sherlock raised his head and stared at John with listless eyes, “Don’t you get it, John? I’ve put you in danger. Again. You were in danger a year and a half ago and you’re in danger now. I’ve only ever brought you trouble.” Sherlock’s hands were shaking as he rubbed his brow.
“Sherlock,” John used his Captain Watson voice, attempting to put a quick stop to this train of thought, “Who’s to say I wouldn’t be in danger anyway--?”
“This is a different type of danger!” Sherlock jumped up on unsteady feet and marched to his dresser where he fiddled with the knobs loudly.
“Enough!” John unconsciously spread his feet and grasped his hands behind his back in an at-east posture, “Sherlock, it’s you who doesn’t get it. Whatever danger I was in a year and a half ago and whatever danger I’m in now, we can handle it together. I would gladly deal with Moriarty or Mensah or whoever if that meant you were here. Jesus—” John felt energy coursing through his body, and he impatiently ran a hand through his hair as he stared at his friend’s back, “I was one bad day away from putting a gun in my mouth when we first met. And these last eighteen months—thinking I missed the signs, that I hadn’t helped you when I could have…” John trailed off, somewhat shocked at his own honesty and unsure how to go on.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder, his eyes red and watery, his hair a manic mess, “You weren’t supposed to see the signs, John. I couldn’t—I couldn’t tell you; I couldn’t protect you then. And I can’t protect you know. I’m unsafe, I—” Sherlock sounded as frantic as he looked.
“Stop, I can protect myself. I spent years in an active war zone, Sherlock. I’ve been shot, stabbed, beat up. I’ve been strapped to a bloody Semtex vest, for Christ’s sake!” John’s voice rose and he shifted uneasily on his feet, unsure if he should make his way over to where Sherlock had turned back to twisting the knobs on his dresser, “I’ve never cracked. Not once. And I won’t crack during this either. I don’t care if this Mensah is some prodigious Congolese warmonger, I won’t ever break—”
“Don’t you see!” Sherlock spun around, his housecoat flapping around his knees, tears quickly charting a path down his cheekbones, “I will! I will break, John!”
And then Sherlock promptly collapsed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There were two cellar windows in the room they kept Sherlock. The glass had long been broken out of all of them. The room must have been some sort of storage area at some point but now, it was empty. Well, not completely empty. Sherlock was there, of course. And there was a rusted gurney in the corner. And the windows. The issue was the rainy season had begun and the fact that the broken windows were level with the ground made the basement room a holding tank for all the mud and rain. Sherlock had been watching mud slide down the cement walls for the last several hours (days, weeks?). He, himself was standing in several inches of sludge, not that he complained. Sometimes the cold wet mud felt rather good on his bare feet when contrasted to the burning in his muscles.
He closed his eyes and ran through what he knew. Somewhere in his mind palace was interrogation techniques. United Kingdom policing models have changed extensively with the enactment of PEACE policies and focus more immediately on information gathering. All interviews must be held in accordance with the Human Rights Act of 1998 and prohibit any use of—
Sherlock shook his head, nope. That wasn’t it. God, where had that come from? He must have memorized that under duress from Lestrade or something. No, this wasn’t just interrogation. What did they call it? His brain was so foggy. He didn’t know how long he stared at the mud wall before it came to him: enhanced interrogation methods or deep interrogation. He closed his eyes again: Methods include stress positioning, hooding, subjection to noise, sleep deprivation and food/drink deprivation. Psychologist and activist Erik Jorgensen notes, ‘Today’s torture methods do not necessarily leave a physical mark which is what makes them so effective. The damage is psychological and because we live in a society that requires proof of mistreatment, the victim often feels—'
Irrelevant. Stress positioning. This was what he needed to know more about. He had gone through sleep, food, drink deprivation before but never had he been stuck in such an uncomfortable, worthless posture. While he was standing, he was stooped over, his hands shackled to his ankles with not much length between the two. He could move his head up and down, but he hadn’t straightened his back in what felt like days.
Stress positioning, or sometimes referred to as submission positioning, is the practice where an interrogator intentionally limits a detainee’s ability to move and forces them to place their weight on only a few muscles or joints. Not only is this practice efficient in causing discomfort and, ultimately, pain, but it is also highly effective in causing situational anxiety and fear associated with future threats of limited movement. In a study done in—
‘Come now, Jorgensen, give me something practical,’ he thought as he shuffled a little in the mud. He shook his head and closed his eyes once again: Those in support of such techniques argue that enhanced methods break down the mind of the detainee which will lead to a quicker admission of guilt and disclosure of vital information. However, statistics and past events have shown that victims are often subjected to continual abuse despite confessions. This is likely related to the power addition so notably studied in the controversial 1971 Stanford Prison Experiment. Ultimately, use of physical or psychological torture does have a biological effect on the victim.
All techniques aim to break down an individual’s homeostasis and without the time or resources to return to balance, victims will vigorously seek to return to psychological, physical, and emotional harmony. This may include ingratiating themselves with their abuser for reward, (‘not going to happen,’ Sherlock thought sneeringly) feeding false information for respite, or complete mental dissociation. There are countless other methods a victim may employ to return to homeostasis but the last of which I have mentioned is the most troubling since it often contributes to long-term psychological damage seen in coun—
‘Feeding false information may work.’ Sherlock shuffled back and allowed his backside to rest against the wall opposite of the windows. He bent his knees and tried to sit down in the mud; maybe his back would feel better. Sitting in the slop was certainly not ideal but his back did feel minutely better. While his range of motion was still limited, he could now stare at the two windows bleeding mud straight on. He tried to shoo flies and mosquitos away from himself as he sat and attempted to lean further back against the wall. It didn’t work, the shackles pulled at his ankles and he either had to lift his legs to lean back or remain hunched over.
If worse came to worse, he could always retreat to the mind palace. That was sounding rather nice right now. It would be cold in London and John would be making twice the normal number of cups of tea because of it. He smiled faintly, ignoring the sweat dripping down his forehead and line of his back. Somewhere in the distance he could almost hear his friend’s voice calling to him. If he wasn’t careful, he wouldn’t be alert when Mensah came back. He opened his eyes, and two windows were replaced with concerned orbs looking back at him. Blue orbs. Sherlock scrunched up his nose in confusion.
“You have got to stop doing that to me.” John said, only partially joking as he helped lift Sherlock off the floor and maneuver him over to the bed.
“I apologize.”
“Stop that.” John gently placed Sherlock’s legs under the comforter while the younger man fluffed up his pillow and leaned back, looking out the window silently.
John gazed at his friend, the somber sallow face, the unhealthy yellow tint only just barely noticeable now. In the past, he would have let Sherlock have his outburst, gone to bed, and everything would be normal in the morning. But not tonight. Not after learning how sure Sherlock was he would crumble if given the opportunity. He cleared his throat nervously and then pushed Sherlock’s legs over so he could sit on the edge of the bed, “Why do you think you’ll break?”
For a moment, John didn’t think Sherlock would answer. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, never turning away from where he was watching the snow fall outside of his window, “I never thought I’d miss the snow.” He finally said quietly.
John hummed, thinking back to his sand-filled days in Afghanistan and nodded in understanding.
Finally, Sherlock turned and stared at John intently, “I don’t think, John. I know that I’ll break.”
“But you have me here now. And Mycroft. And Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly. All of us. You don’t have to go through anything alone anymore.”
Sherlock sighed and shook his head, “That’s part of the problem. Before—when I was alone, it meant that I would be the one hurt.”
“You’re worried about us?”
“Of course, you idiot.”
John chuckled at the typical Sherlockian answer.
But then Sherlock looked down and fiddled with the edge of his Afghan blanket, “That’s what started this whole mess in the first place. Moriarty was nothing if not effective at finding peoples’ weaknesses.”
John sighed, sat still for a long moment, and finally grabbed Sherlock’s hand where it twirled a loose strand of yarn around his long and delicate pointer finger, “I don’t think affection is a weakness. It’s human. It’s what separates you from him.”
Sherlock laughed bitterly. He did not grasp his friend’s hand in return, “I thought you said I was barely human. I thought you said I was a robot.”
“Well, I was an git.”
The younger man smirked but did not look at the doctor; instead, he leaned his head back against his headboard, closed his eyes and sighed, tentatively rubbing his thumb over John’s fingers where they gripped his hand, “I want this to be done.”
John said nothing. What could he say? ‘Me too?’ That was probably the most obvious statement ever to be uttered between the two of them in the history of their friendship. John wanted some sort of normalcy back. Not that crime and murder was normal, but it was impersonal. It didn’t reach out dark tendrils to snatch his friends or family personally. It was something faceless, something obscure and distant. Something that he could visit when he was bored or depressed but could leave behind, shut the door, and not be bothered with if he so chose. This—this mess with Moriarty and Moran, and Mensah, and whoever else, it was intimate. It was up close, so close it sometimes felt like it had a hold of his neck, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe.
Sherlock had been experiencing that visceral connection for the last year and a half. He had been living with those dark tendrils clamping down on his whole person. And he looked the part. His friend, though mercurial in nature, had always been brimming with life. Even when he was in his dark spells, John could feel the energy surrounding him practically vibrating with restrained force. Even when he was doing nothing, he was still doing something, he was always thinking. But now—now Sherlock appeared a shell of himself. He just seemed tired. The kind of tired of a man who has been to war for far too long without respite.
So, John didn’t say anything, he pushed on Sherlock’s legs and shooed him over to the other side of the bed, “I’ll stay here tonight.”
Sherlock snapped his head up from the headboard so quickly John was sure he had given himself whiplash, “What?”
John shrugged and began removing his shoes and socks, “I might as well, we’re leaving early in the morning and—well, personally, I’d feel better if we were together.”
A baffled Sherlock sat still and confused, watching as John got up and began unbuttoning his shirt. Quite suddenly and clumsily Sherlock turned to face the wall, giving John some semblance of privacy. Awkwardly, he began scooting over to the other side of the bed, dragging the Afghan blanket along with him.
John shook his head and smiled at Sherlock’s obvious embarrassment but then paused. Was this embarrassment or was this legitimate discomfort and anxiety? Good God, how could he be so thoughtless with someone he knew had gone through hell and back? He felt bile rise in his throat but then Sherlock’s deep voice broke through his internal criticisms, “Don’t be stupid, John. I’m perfectly fine sharing a bed with you. I’m only surprised, is all, that you would be comfortable sharing a bed with me.”
John turned his head around, looking over his should at his best friend, “How do you do that?” He should feel exposed, standing there, barefooted, and bare chested.
Sherlock scoffed, “Please, you’re as easy to ready as a book.”
John shook his head, continued to pull his white undershirt over his head and then decided he’d keep his jeans on, just in case. He crawled under the cool crisp sheets next to Sherlock and replied, “At least it’s an interesting book.”
John was surprised to hear a genuine bark of laughter from the man lying next to him. When he looked over at Sherlock, he found him smiling back. It was a good moment, a reminder that there was more than Moriarty and all the problems surrounding them in this world.
Slowly, Sherlock’s smile faded, and he looked back down at the Afghan lying on top of his knees, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
Sherlock let out a sigh, “For—I don’t know.”
The two of them stayed quiet for a long while, staring down at their respective swatches of the blanket laying across their legs. Despite all that they had been through, despite the fear and the anger and the darkness that John had felt over the last 18 months and despite the fear and the anger and the darkness that John felt was surrounding them now, he couldn’t help but feel exceptionally grateful that Sherlock was sitting there next to him. He reached out, grabbed Sherlock’s hand again and exhaled shakily, “Whatever happens. Whatever happens tomorrow, or the next day, or the next week, or the next year—I’ll be here.” His friend, pale faced and drawn, stared at him as if stunned into silence and so John wiggled down further under the blankets and reached over to turn out the light, “We should get a little rest.”
The room was dark, quiet, and just a little bit cold. It was slightly uncomfortable laying there with Sherlock stock still next to him, but John practiced the deep breathing his therapist was always going on about and slowly felt himself relaxing into the mattress.
“John, I have to talk to you.”
John reached back over to switch on the light and gazed over at Sherlock, who had not moved an inch. He was still sitting up straight against the headboard, staring at his hands in his lap.
“Okay.”
“You have a right to know what you’re getting into.”
“Getting into?”
“I know Mycroft must have given you the files regarding my time in…in the Congo.”
“No…I mean, he offered but—well, it seemed—not right. An invasion of privacy.”
Sherlock stayed quiet for a very long moment and John wondered if that was all he was going to say but then the man in question spoke quickly and softly, “There are numerous ways interrogators gather information from subjects including, but not limited to, physical beating, stress positioning, hooding, sleep, food, and sensory deprivation, waterboarding, walling, sexual humiliation, and isolation. In the past, most interrogators utilized physical violence but there is an overwhelming amount of modern research that suggests mental and emotional abuse is far more compelling in obtaining useful intelligence.”
John stared in silence, knowing that quoting from some sort of manual on torture was just a coping method. No matter how badly John wanted to ask, ‘But what happened to you? What happened to you, specifically?’ He remained quiet. No matter how badly he wanted to shake Sherlock, he stayed still.
“Antoine Mensah is well-versed in all methods of interrogation. But what makes him truly effective is his ability to ascertain the precise method to employ to secure mental defense obliteration and, ultimately, to garner information.” Sherlock finally turned his head to look resolutely at his friend, “You see, John, he personalizes every session with his victims. For me,” at this, Sherlock looked away again and took a deep breathe, “isolation was a guaranteed process for weakening my resolve to remain silent. Leaving me alone with my own mind, it’s…I’m…I become unstable. Mensah saw that. Took advantage of it. But...but—there were others too.”
John sat up and shifted to stare at his friend but didn’t utter a word.
“There was a woman. Held in the room next to mine. I never saw her but…I heard her.” John could hear the cars below whirring past their building and he wondered how people could live normally when something so…dark could be going on a world away, “There were others too. Men. I don’t know if they were kept in the same room, but they knew each other. Spoke to each other. They knew the woman too.”
“Her name was Margarette Levasseur. She—she was no one. Well…she was someone to the men held in the other rooms. But she was no one to the DRC or to M-23 or to Mensah. He tortured her for days because that was the other men’s ‘precise method of torture.’ He tortured her because it tortured them. She was a tool.” He paused here for a very long time and John thought that might be the end of it but then he said, quietly, “He cut her eyes out while she was still alive. Mensah killed her the next day. He must’ve gotten the information he was looking for. I didn’t hear the men in the other rooms after that.”
Sherlock’s words hung heavy in the air and John breathed in a deep and steadying breathe, ready to comfort the man next to him in some way before the deep voice spoke up again, “The point is, John, I would rather sit in that muddy, smelly, humid room in all the stress positions imaginable, alone, and insane for all of eternity than have to listen to you get your eyes cut out by a monster like Mensah.”
John stared and stared and stared at the man sitting next to him. At his hands, twirling and untwirling the loose threads of the Afghan. At his chin quivering in an effort to not say anything else or let the sob that was, undoubtedly, caught in his throat out. And at his eyes, closed as if afraid to look at John. And John was overcome with such love and affection for the man that he didn’t feel he could sit quietly. So, he reached forward, grasped Sherlock’s chin in his hand and forced him to look him in the eyes; Sherlock did, but begrudgingly, and it made John smile, lean forward, and kiss his friend squarely on the mouth.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Sherlock sat stock still. The kiss wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t the type of kiss that made someone rush to get out of their pants and under the sheets. It was slow and loving and certainly not meant to lead to anything else. They both pulled away from each other, seemingly in surprise, as if the act had caught them both by surprise and not just Sherlock.
“But…” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible, his ever-changing eyes dark and searching.
And all of the sudden, John was more sure of this than he was of anything else in his life ever, “But nothing, Sherlock. I love you. I’ve loved you…probably from the minute I met you,” John huffed as if stunned that the words had come from his mouth, “Not many people get second chances. And I’ve been given like…” John paused and squinted off into the distance, “four?”
“Three.” Sherlock said automatically.
John chuckled, reached out and cupped his best friend’s cheek, “I’d risk it all to get you out of that muddy, humid room…even if it’s the one in your head,” He paused, running a thumb against Sherlock’s prominent zygomatic bone, “If you’ll have me.”
Sherlock stared at him disbelievingly, “Have you?” He blinked rapidly and John felt his heart drop, he pulled his hand away before the younger man shook his head minutely, “Don’t you get it yet, John?”
“Get it?” John licked his lips hesitantly.
“This whole thing, all of it, was for you.” Sherlock reached forward cautiously, thought better of it, and fisted his hand in his lap.
John stared at that hand, that beautiful musician’s hand, and put his own over it, feeling emotion rise in his chest all the way to his throat as Sherlock’s words sunk in. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this to be true, had always known it to be true, but he had never had the balls to say it aloud. He especially didn’t have the confidence that Sherlock would ever say it aloud. Before he knew what was happening a large salty tear plopped on the top of John’s hand where it covered Sherlock’s.
Sherlock dipped his head and tried to look into the doctor’s misty eyes, wary to break John’s train of thought. But John merely shook his head, his mouth unconsciously breaking out into an unbelieving smile, “Thank God,” he finally whispered under his breath.
Slowly, almost nervously, Sherlock turned his hand over, allowing their palms to meet, “John…” He spoke so lowly that John could almost hear it vibrating through the mattress, “I don’t understand though…Mar—”
And John knew where this was going, ‘what about Mary? What about not being gay? What about the years we wasted?’ But John had spent the last year and a half pondering some of these questions and the ones he hadn’t thought over didn’t matter in the long run anyway. Sherlock was alive. He was alive and getting well. He was alive, getting well, and willing to be in some sort of romantic/domestic partnership with John of all people.
“I don’t care about any of that.” John said this forcefully but not heatedly, “I’m not about to waste my third shot by worrying about the details.” He looked up at Sherlock and smiled, a few errant tears running down his cheeks before he could wipe them away.
And that magnificent man smiled back before John leaned forward and pecked him lightly on his grinning lips, “Then you should probably take these off,” Sherlock said against his partner’s lips, reaching down to thumb at the band of John’s jeans.
John froze, feeling a rush of desire course through him but the doctor knew this couldn’t happen right now, not with Sherlock still recovering, a madman out there waiting for them, and the very minimal discussion they had just had, not including Mary, and moving.
Sherlock, seeming to understand where John’s mind must’ve gone froze as well, staring down at where his hand rested on John’s hip, “Uh…” Sherlock hastily pulled away, “I didn’t mean that…well…yet…just that you sleep in your pants normally and you may as well be comfortable…” John almost laughed at how uncomfortable Sherlock became but steadied his friend’s (boyfriend’s/partner’s?) hand on his hip.
“It’s okay, love, there will be plenty of time for that, but you need to get better, and we need to deal with whatever is going on with Mensah.”
Sherlock stilled and nodded, a faint blush darkening his yellowed cheeks, he squeezed John’s hip and then pulled away, allowing John to get back up to remove his jeans.
“That’s a new belt.” Sherlock said it with such certainty that John almost didn’t even look down and merely agreed with him.
But he did look down at where he had been unfastening the buckle, “Uh, yeah, I guess so.”
“I don’t recognize it.”
John chuckled slightly, beginning to pull the leather through the loops of his jeans, “Well, Sherlock, hate to break it to you but you have been gone for nearly two years, I might’ve updated my wardrobe.”
“No,” Sherlock shook his head and frowned, “I mean I don’t recognize it from the time you’ve been here since I’ve been back. And from the hospital.”
“You remember what I wore at the hospital?”
“I remember everything you wear.” Sherlock said this as if speaking of the weather. Coming from anyone else it may have appeared creepy, especially after discussing the possible romantic future, but John knew that Sherlock couldn’t help but remember everyone’s outfits, hair, makeup, shoe imprints, and a bucketload of other useless facts, so he merely shook his head and chuckled again, throwing the belt on the bed so Sherlock could look at it.
As expected, the younger man reached forward instantly and gripped the belt, looking it over with a fascination John couldn’t possibly understand, “I guess I must’ve picked it up when I was at the house the last time.” ‘At the house,’ code word for ‘Mary’s’ since John didn’t want to bring her into the conversation tonight.
Sherlock stayed silent, running his fingers along the buckle itself and then the seams of the stitched leather. It really was a relatively ordinary belt, it was leather with a gold buckle, likely bought on sale at Dunne’s, knowing himself. He shrugged at Sherlock’s interest as he began unbuttoning and removing his jeans.
Suddenly, and quite urgently, Sherlock looked up at John and said quickly, “We need to call Mycroft.”
John who had just awkwardly pulled his trousers off his left foot while sitting on the bed looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, “Sherlock, we’re seeing him tomorrow, remember? In less than…” here John paused to glance at the clock on the bedside table, “three hours.”
The doctor in him vaguely worried that his friend was having another dissociative episode. Afterall, emotions were running high tonight and starting tomorrow the two of them were headed on a dangerous journey.
“No, John. We need him right now.” Sherlock held the belt up in his hands and stared at John as he turned around to face him.
“Wha—”
“Listen, do you trust me?”
There was no need to think about the answer, no need to get answers, “Of course.”
“Then call Mycroft. Right now.”
“Was there ever even a Sebastian Moran?” Sherlock had somehow gathered the strength to sit back on the couch in the sitting room, arms crossed and sullen frown marring his sunken face.
“We are not that incompetent, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped back. He was flustered and seeing the sight was unnerving to John, who stood, arms crossed protectively over his chest. Sherlock had refused to allow him to get dressed again so here he was standing in the door jamb in just his pants.
“Then explain it to me, dear brother.” Sherlock snarled and nodded at what Mycroft held in his hand – John’s cheap belt.
The elder Holmes leaned back in his chair, setting the belt down in his lap, “we have vastly miscalculated.” Sherlock scoffed and Mycroft frowned at him, “There was strong evidence of Sebastian Moran, Sherlock. All the way until the end of 2011. And then he went dark. We figured he had returned underground with his closest associates. The network was still fully functioning, even thriving in some places. There was no indication Moriarty’s legacy had fallen or that it was without leadership.”
“But you didn’t think to look into a coup?” Sherlock seemed resigned, his anger bleeding out of him.
Mycroft shook his head, “Like I said, a vast miscalculation. We would have recognized Moran, his closest associates, etcetera. And it very well could still be him but…” Mycroft paused heavily.
“To trust someone with an assignment this big would be akin to self-destruction in an organization like Moriarty’s criminal network.” Sherlock sighed quietly, “No, this is an unknown commander. Well…maybe not completely unknown.”
“Can someone explain to me what the hell is going on? Yet again? I feel like this is a theme whenever I’m with you two.” John rubbed his forehead wearily.
Sherlock motioned for John to come sit with him on the couch and then reached out to take the belt from Mycroft, “Look at this, John.”
John sat down on the edge of the couch, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as he felt the cool leather against his thighs, reminding him he was sitting there with the British government in nothing but his boxer shorts.
Both Holmes brothers seemed completely oblivious to his discomfort though and Sherlock scooted close, holding up the simple leather belt and pulling back the seam near the buckle. Almost matching the black thread exactly was a tiny wire. Sherlock ran a finger along the wire and followed it back to the buckle and then pinched it above the loop. Then he reached out and grabbed John’s hand, guiding him where he was just palpating and left John to explore the area himself. And there, right above the loop where Sherlock had pinched with such certainty, was an almost imperceptible lump.
“Israeli design though this has been modified and the wiring looks Syrian.” Sherlock leaned back while he spoke.
“It would make sense. One of Moriarty’s main arms syndicates calls Syria home.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair as he said this, though the tension in his shoulders were visible even from where John sat on the couch.
“This is not the work of an AWOL Canadian lieutenant-colonel.”
“Then who?” John found himself asking the question he almost dreaded knowing the answer to.
“An unknown commander. Someone who overthrew Moran or, possibly, Moran never even factored in. Someone who has been running the empire all along, but we never knew.” Sherlock said quietly and then paused, looking uncomfortable and apprehensive
“Someone that has maybe been playing the game close to the vest all along.” Mycroft added ominously.
John walked back to the cottage they had secreted himself and Sherlock to with a belly full of anticipation. It moved around in his gut like snakes, slithering their way up to his chest and back down. They had needed milk and bread though.
They had been there for nearly three days without incident, even spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in a tense, adrenalin-fueled state of anticipation, hardly daring to relax for a moment. Sherlock felt adamant that their “situation” as they had been calling it, would be resolved any day now. They hadn’t even bothered to unpack. Anxious didn’t even begin to describe John’s current state. The cool metal of his gun against his lower back did nothing to erase his turbulent mind either. To make matters worse, any improvement to Sherlock’s condition was quickly evaporating. The man had burned holes into the rug by the fireplace with all his pacing. It didn’t matter how much John conveyed his displeasure with Sherlock’s lack of sleep, sparse eating habits, and continued fidgeting, the other man merely rolled his eyes and continued pacing.
As he reached the front door of the cottage, John felt his stomach drop past his knees in fearful expectation. Then it dropped even further when he witnessed what was on the other side. On the opposite side of the room, next to the stone fireplace, was Sherlock, his long dark curls gripped tight in Antoine Mensah’s left hand, used as leverage to pull his head back against his shoulder. And in his right hand, a machete glinting against the setting sunlight coming in from the western facing windows, held firmly against his best friend’s pale white throat.
John’s Sig Sauer was pulled out, slide pulled back, and sights set on the large burly man holding his friend before the paper bag he had previously been holding hit the ground. His hands were steady, and he opened his mouth to demand the man let him go when he heard another voice. A familiar voice. He had been expecting it, but he still felt bile rise up in his throat at the sound of it.
“Nuh, nuh, nuh, I don’t think so, John, love.” Mary tsked him as she nonchalantly walked out of the kitchen to the right.
John didn’t move from where he was aiming his gun but did turn his head to stare at the woman he had once wanted to marry. Mary held her own handgun, aimed steadily back at him, “Mar—”
“It’s Talia, actually,” Her words were cold and clipped, “I’d drop the gun, John.”
John paused for a long moment, licking his lips in thought but Mary (or Talia) merely pulled back the slide on her handgun and motioned at the floor with the tip of it, eyebrows raised.
John took a deep breath, pressed the magazine release on the side of the grip and gave the handgun a sharp shake, causing the magazine itself to drop to the floor at his feet. John kicked it toward where Mensah held Sherlock. Then he pulled back on the slide to eject the remaining cartridge before dropping the handgun and kicking it in the opposite direction of the magazine. He wasn’t about to hand her another loaded weapon.
Talia, formerly Mary, smiled, understanding his motives and nodded her head in approval, “Always such a good soldier.”
John’s jaw clenched uncomfortably, he desperately wanted to glance at Sherlock to make sure he was okay but knew taking his eyes off the woman in front of him would be a terrible idea. So, instead, he clenched and unclenched his fists and stood ramrod straight.
Talia moved into the main room, forming a long triangle between herself, John, and where Mensah held Sherlock. And then she smiled, wide and vicious, “And here we all are, one big happy family.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“I bet Mycroft was so sure you’d be safe from the big bad wolf out here in the middle of nowhere. How foolish.” She said offhandedly, “The British government isn’t so hard to figure out.”
“So, you’re Moriarty’s lieutenant,” Sherlock’s voice was strained but he spoke anyway and because Mary had moved into the main room, John could actually get a decent look at his friend out of the corner of his eye. He looked sickly but otherwise unharmed.
Mary/Talia smirked, “Well, master sergeant specialist in my former life.” Then her grin faded, and her face became cold and detached, “But I’m no one’s subordina now.”
“The IDF?” Sherlock’s voice didn’t sound like he had a machete held to his neck, he sounded almost conversational.
“Good, very good.” She condescended but didn’t seem overly surprised at Sherlock’s deduction, “For a time, I was a member of the Israeli Defense Force, true, but no longer. My allegiance is to myself and mine, alone.”
“So, what are you supposed to be then, the new Moriarty? Moriarty 2.0?” John had to glance over at Sherlock at that. There’s no way he still had a machete held to his throat with talk like that. Yet, there he was, yellow-faced and saucy and very clearly being held at blade-point.
Talia’s smirk disappeared and she bared her teeth, “I am what Moriarty should’ve been. He wasted time playing mind games with you when he should’ve been running an empire.”
“An empress then?”
The smirk returned and Talia moved casually toward Sherlock, confident and deadly. She stopped right in front of the man in question, reaching out and running a pink-painted pointer finger from the tip of his chin down the length of his throat, stopping where the machete was pressed to the skin below his Adam’s apple, “Something like that; and you’ve been making some trouble for my empire, dear Sherlock. Naughty, naughty.” She pushed lightly at the back of the machete’s blade, forcing it firmer against Sherlock’s neck. The detective flinched slightly but seemed to regain control of himself and stilled.
Talia remained stationary, staring at the detective with a malicious sort of curiosity before abruptly twisting around and gazing long and hard at John, “But if Jim taught me anything, it was to have contingency plans.” She raised her gun again, flicked off the safety, and aimed at the man she had claimed to love no more than a few weeks earlier.
“That’s the plan?” Sherlock exclaimed derisively, barely holding back a mocking chuckle.
She turned back to look at where Sherlock was attempting to roll his eyes at her, the effect somewhat lost as his head had been pulled so brutally backward, “Plan?”
“I take down dozens of your criminal cells and your plan is to shoot John? How philistine. At least Moriarty had panache, some style.”
John wanted to rush to the idiot he loved and shut him up; if this woman had worked her way up through the Israeli Defense Force, then Moriarty’s crime ring, then had the guts to, quite literally, sleep with the enemy, John was absolutely sure she would kill the both of them quickly and efficiently without batting an eye. Ever since that fateful discussion in the living room of 221B when they had discovered the tracking device in John’s belt and come to the chilling realization that Mary was somehow involved in all of this, John had felt a gut-certainty that this woman would stop at nothing to achieve her goal.
She did not react with anger though to Sherlock’s derision, she did not growl or yell or threaten, she smiled instead, and that made it all the more frightening. “The plan – Mr. Holmes, is to torture you until you’re insane with grief.” She moved her finger off the trigger and lowered it to her side, “I’d say I’m doing it for dear Jim but that would be a lie. Jim’s dead. He certainly no longer has a personal interest. I’m doing it because you took down 15 of my cells including the Otong, the Tijuana cartel, and the Mirzoyan branch of the Armenian mafia. Not to mention the 29 others you severely weakened. I’m doing it because you’re a threat. The largest threat to my empire since I took over. And you need to be eliminated.”
John moved forward just a little but Talia’s instincts as a soldier did not fail her and her gun was out, cocked, and pointed directly at his head before he could blink, “I don’t think so, John.” She wasn’t even looking at him, instead her eyes were focused entirely on Sherlock’s long white throat, “It’d be so easy to just have Mensah kill you, it’d all be over, and I could rebuild what you ruined. But,” Talia let out a long sigh, “that’d be far too quick for you. And, call me vengeful, but I want to draw it out.
“You see, Sherlock, I’ve worked far too hard to have you ruin this,” She stroked the barrel of her gun with her long trigger finger and glanced up at the man who held the machete to Sherlock’s neck. Until now, Antoine Mensah had been silent, “Besides, I promised Antoine he could have some fun.”
At this Mensah gnashed his teeth and buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair, almost overcome with the brutality of it all, “Oui, this petit encule is mine.” Then Mensah dug the blade into Sherlock’s neck so that it drew blood.
Sherlock did not seem overly alarmed by this, but he did flinch and let out an odd cut-off gasp. Other than that, his reaction was rather indifferent, he stayed still, kept his hands in the air and merely glanced over at his capture with disdain.
“Yes, yes, Antoine, you will be able to properly punish the detective, but the real magic will happen when we punish the doctor.” Talia prowled closer to where John stood, his hands half raised, and then stashed her gun in her waistband while she stared hungrily at him.
When she finally reached him, there was no hesitancy in her reaching up and running her hands through his hair. It was almost like nothing had changed and when John looked down at her he could almost see a sliver of the kind, mild mannered primary school teacher he had fallen in love with all those months ago. But then she raised an eyebrow and licked her lips like a predator eyeing its prey and John felt his stomach roll uncomfortably.
“I remember the first time I saw you.” She circled around him, letting her hand trail along his shoulders and the back of his neck. John felt the hair there stand on end but remained silent. He wouldn’t reminisce with this madwoman.
Talia rounded all the way around him, placing her hand on his chest, almost fondly, “All strapped up to Semtex, that hideous green parka.” Then she looked up into John’s eyes and he had never felt more sure that there was evil in this world, “It was the beginning of the end for us, hm? So many chances to shoot you. Here.” She tapped lightly on his chest, “Or here.” Running her hand up his neck and jaw before rubbing a thumb along his forehead. “Hm, so many times I could’ve just smothered you in the night.” Her hand ran back down to his throat, resting at the base there, almost in thought.
John didn’t say anything. The realization that she was the sniper at the pool hitting his already overwhelmed mind like a bee sting on an already swollen hand. He stared at her, half in disbelief and half in anger and merely shook his head.
“I will admit I was tempted.” She stepped back slightly, the conspiratorial tone gone suddenly, “You signed your death warrant the minute you tried to jump Jim that day. Well, I guess I should say, he signed your death warrant when he chose you that day,” she nodded toward Sherlock, his neck now dark with drying blood. Mensah loosened his grip enough so Sherlock could watch the scene unfold and he felt his blood run cold at the implications. Sherlock’s feelings for him, while not necessarily apparent to John or even to Sherlock himself, were apparently very evident to their enemies.
Talia groaned, reached forward to run her finger over John’s lips and then backed away toward the center of the room, “Which is why I have to shoot you,” She reached behind her to grip the Jericho semi-automatic tucked in the waistband of her dark jeans.
John tensed, clenching and unclenching his hands where they were raised in forced submission, but he didn’t have a chance to beg for his life. He didn’t have a chance to even tell Sherlock he loved him since he had saved him all those years ago. Sherlock barely had a chance to start struggling against Mensah’s hold on him before her gun was out and the shot was fired, loud and echoing in the cottage.
At first, John didn’t feel any pain. Mostly he just felt dizzy. But then, quite suddenly, he felt his breath gush out of him and blinding pain jolt from his chest through his back and into the back of his head. And that was when he realized he was lying on his back, staring at the whitewashed ceiling.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There was movement and sound around him, the feeling of something wet pooling around his hands. John breathed in and blinked his eyes and even though it hurt to breathe, the oxygen filling his lungs was slowly but surely making its way to his brain. Still, everything felt cloudy and dim. Somewhere he heard Talia continuing her speech, he felt the thuds of her boots against the hardwood near his head. And he also heard Sherlock, the pleas and cries almost inhuman and certainly unlike anything he had heard come from his best friend while he was awake and sane and yet, he could not make out the words his friend was sobbing.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of being in some sort of odd floating half consciousness, John’s senses came rushing back to him. He heard Sherlock mumbling words, but he was speaking too low and too quickly to make out what they were.
And he heard Talia’s boots making their way around his body in one giant oval, her words sharp and cold like the blade undoubtedly still held to Sherlock’s neck, “You see, this is what happens. This is what happens when you have the nerve to attack the biggest criminal network ever seen.” He imagined her walking up to the hysterical detective now to make a point with her next words, “Everyone you love, everything you hold dear...I will take from you.”
“Please.” Sherlock’s voice was so unlike anything John had ever heard, even when he was on the rooftop. Even when he was lying in a hospital bed.
“Please what?” Talia laughed and John stared angrily at a crack in the ceiling wishing it were her face, “Please make it stop? No. I don’t think so.”
And then there was some sort of rustle of movement, a thud, and Sherlock choking back a cry, “Try again, petite merde.” Mensah’s voice was dangerously giddy.
“He’ll do more damage than that if you reach for me again, my dear.” Talia’s voice was worse than her counterpart’s and she sighed dramatically, “If you had only just died on the rooftop. John wouldn’t be bleeding out on the floor.”
Sherlock went back to mumbling something as if it were a mantra, but Talia ignored him and, by the sounds of it, took a seat by the fire to settle herself, “Gut wounds. I hear they’re the most painful. Certainly they’re the most fun to watch someone bleed out from. And here you are, getting a front row seat. Of course, you knew that about gut wounds already, some of my agents in Uzbekistan died from them. Well, Uzbekistan, Peru, Myanmar. But I suppose it is the easiest target. Shoot for the largest mass, am I right? That’s what they teach you. In reality though, head shots are far more humane. Quick and easy. No moaning and groaning on the floor like dear old John. It’s why I became a sniper. It was humane.”
The room went quiet for a long moment, the only sounds were John’s struggled breathing and Sherlock’s growing mumblings. Finally, the detective spoke loudly and slowly enough for everyone to hear, “I don’t understand.” And he just kept repeating it, as if he were a record scratching or a machine malfunctioning and John had to squeeze his eyes shut at the sound of the helplessness in his tone.
“Well let me help you there. I want you to be very aware that all of this is your fault.” John could hear the sound of the chair shifting as if she were moving it so she could stare down her prey.
“You gave yourself away in Delhi, my dear. Before that, the mishaps that I now know to be your doing I chalked up to the regime change. You know how it is,” she said conversationally, “new management takes over and all those loyal to the old administration feel the need to back out. But then you got sloppy. You were seen.”
John could practically hear Sherlock breaking, “No, no, no. I—I don’t understand.”
“I thought, well, hoped, that my agents would take you down given time and resources. And we did come close a few times, didn’t we, Sherlock? LA was the closest we got but I’m sure you already had some inkling that you were being followed. Is that why you went off the grid? Oh, no, I forgot, the sauce was why you went off the grid. Didn’t want big bad Mycroft to know you’d fallen back into old habits, hm?”
John’s eyes were already shut but now tears were rolling freely from the corners of his cheeks, pooling in his ears. He suspected this may be the case. He suspected many things about Sherlock’s time away. It didn’t make it any easier to have it confirmed.
“And then I thought we had you in Sicily; the Cosa Nostra does have a way of weeding out moles but, yet again, you eluded us. Word must have reached you somehow, I think around the time you were in Albania if my instincts serve me well, of my contingency plan. Because remember, Jim taught me to always have a contingency plan.”
“John.” Sherlock’s voice was absolutely devastated. Thick and wavering with fear and grief and remorse.
“Oh yes, your dear doctor. If it all came to nothing while you were in the field, well, I would just have to take care of you myself.” She sounded excited at the prospect, “But I almost thought it wouldn’t come to that. You had become so reckless. I thought you may have just as likely a chance of doing yourself in rather than one of my men. That’s how I knew you heard of John’s new attachment. He had gotten over you. Moved on.”
“The drugs, the injuries, the exhaustion. It would kill you without me ever having to raise a hand. I kept with the back-up plan anyway and watched your movements closely. I was just waiting for the moment when someone would bring me word that you had impaled yourself, or died of an overdose, or infection, or maybe you were actually taken out by one of my many agents on the job, or a mercenary. And then Riyadh.”
John wanted to get up so badly, he was itching with it. The pool around him was slick against his hands and soaking into his jeans to make them heavy and uncomfortable. He had reopened his eyes to glare at the crack in the ceiling again when she mentioned himself as her contingency plan, but he was more concerned with Sherlock. He breathed in shakily and let out a low moan, irritated more than anything that he was stuck lying here. His strength and awareness were returning. He just had to wait, like they had talked about.
“Antoine wasn’t one of mine, but I had heard of him. He waited nearly a week before reaching out to me regarding the hit I had taken out on you. A mistake he won’t be making again, right Antoine?” The venom in Talia’s voice was palpable.
“Oui, madame.”
“I tried to get to Goma as quickly as I could to collect my prize and when I arrived imagine my...displeasure at seeing the whole place cleared out.” She spoke the word ‘displeasure’ with so much malice that John’s back tingled at the thought of what she actually meant.
“No reason to keep all the useless mercenaries there alive. I only kept Mensah here out of professional curtesy.” And there it was. She had committed mass murder and merely shrugged at it.
“I came back to London thoroughly disappointed, but my spirits quickly improved after John shared his interesting news. My contingency plan was now plan A. Your illness brought an intriguing twist to it all. I was almost glad it didn’t take you. I would hate not to be here to witness it. And then I thought I could end it in your little flat, get invited to meet the great detective, get past all the insipid security detail your idiot brother set up, and just do the job myself but John, of course, fell back in love with you and I didn’t even get the chance for a meet and greet.” She sighed dramatically again.
“But it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? Antoine is a nice improvement from the original plan; the master torturer here to complete the job. But it’s exactly how I imagined it, John with a fatal wound and you: an absolute hysterical mess for it.” Then she let out a moan, almost sexual in nature, and got up from the chair, “I just can’t wait,” she sighed but sounded closer to where Mensah and Sherlock were standing now, “to kill you too.”
The room was quiet again and John’s breath began to pick up, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Talia walked over to where he laid, her heavy boots making the wood around his legs vibrate with her footsteps, “Ah, you’re awake, my love.” Her face came into John’s field of vision, now shielding his view of the crack in the ceiling. Talia’s eyes were cold, and John felt barely any recognition at all.
Good, that would make whatever he had to do easier.
“As I said, Sherlock,” Talia moved back slightly and John turned his head to watch her, “this is what happens. You will be punished for your hubris.” She lifted her foot and brought the heavy boot down on John’s abdomen, “Let’s make this a little more inter--”
But John had heard enough by now. He had listened to this madwoman acknowledge unspeakable crimes not only against himself and his best friend but against others and without so much as a second thought. And now, he was done.
John reached up and gripped her ankle viciously with both hands, rolling onto his side so he could kick her remaining foot off the floor. Talia yelped as she fell, her right foot still clutched in John’s hands. It didn’t take long for her to recover, and John had to release his death grip on her as she savagely brought the heel of her left boot down on his face. John felt his nose crunch and tasted blood on his lips as he rolled to the side in an effort to protect himself.
He heard Talia scramble in the opposite direction and knew, without a doubt, she’d be reaching for the gun tucked into her waistband. So, he pounced, ignoring the blood dripping down his chin to grab at Talia’s jean clad legs. John yanked, causing her to thrash wildly as he clambered over and straddled her thighs, reaching for her arms to keep her from pulling back the safety of the gun gripped in her right hand.
With a ruthlessness he didn’t know he had in him, John slammed Talia’s right hand onto the hard wood floor over and over again until she was forced to release her hold on the gun. And then, just to be sure, he pulled back her fingers with the precision of a doctor and the strength of a soldier until he heard a loud crack. He ignored the way Talia screeched, arching her back. She clearly had not expected him to be of much use to anyone after sustaining a gunshot wound. She had underestimated them on that front. But she had also likely not expected John to become merciless in his management of her. She had underestimated him on that front.
In the distance, John could hear commotion by the fireplace and knew Sherlock was getting into his own brawl. He didn’t dare look up to see if his friend was capable of managing the threat of an angry mercenary. Instead, he grunted at Talia’s attempts to unseat him. She jammed her knees into his sides, likely expecting to feel the fragile bones there crack under the onslaught. Mary’s flexibility in the bedroom had always been a hit with John, who knew it would play such a role as they scrambled to subdue each other. In its place she was liable to do herself more damage, the sounds of Kevlar cracking loudly against her kneecap. She screamed more out of frustration than pain as she attempted to push back against his hold on her wrists, even with her clearly broken right hand.
John took no chances, hearing the clatter of metal hitting the wooden floor near the fireplace and knowing Sherlock had been successful in unarming Mensah but also knowing that didn’t make the giant of a man any less dangerous. Rather, he focused on the task at hand and brought his knees up to rest painfully on the joints where Talia’s shoulders met her arms. He pulled deftly on her right arm, immobilizing her trigger hand before moving onto the left, freeing her arms from their sockets.
Talia did not lay there passively. She shouted and screamed. She arched her back and bucked her hips. She kicked out her legs in every imaginable direction, almost reaching high enough several times to knock John in the back of the head. When her arms were hanging loosely at her sides, joints popped out obscenely and her right hand lying in a useless heap of disjointed bones, she stilled and glared at John with the vehemence of a mass murderer.
But John didn’t have time to consider her transformation, while she had screamed and swore, bucked and kicked, he had only been focusing on listening to the sounds of the scuffle happening feet away from where he was sitting. At last, he looked up, seeing Sherlock keeping Mensah at bay with the fireplace poker. Mensah’s machete kicked far enough away that it was no longer a threat. But Mensah knew his prey was weak.
As the mercenary marched forward, his hand outstretched toward the pointer Sherlock was losing his grip on, John reacted without thinking. Just as he had done all those years ago during the pink lady case. He bent forward, ignoring the cries of Talia as his knees dug agonizingly into her shoulder joints, and reached for her Jericho lying on the floor above her head. The feel of the grip was different but the mechanisms strikingly familiar as he flicked off the safety, took aim down the sight and fired.
His hands had never been steadier.
It was a short distance, and despite Talia thrashing beneath him he easily made contact with Mensah’s left leg. He missed the second shot but steadied himself to ensure contact with his other kneecap. Just as Mensah began stumbling back, clearly ready to fall flat on his ass, John decided one more shot somewhere painful was in order. Breathing deeply, John set up the gun again and took aim at his left shoulder. Right where John knew, from personal experience, the tendons, musculature and nerve endings made rehabilitation a painful bitch.
He was tempted, briefly, to shoot him right between the eyes and end it all but found himself releasing the magazine before he had much time to think about it. Whatever just desserts Mensah had coming for him John hoped it would be a lot more painful than a quick and easy death.
John let out a sigh, tossing the now empty gun to the side, far away from the magazine and returned to his place atop his ex-lover. She was seething underneath him, glaring and gnashing her teeth, almost wild with anger. John felt a sudden and spiteful rage overtake his own mind and, in an almost out-of-body experience, reached forward, gripped her hair, pulled her forward and then slammed her head back down onto the floor. Perhaps it was the pain from the two dislocated shoulders, her broken hand, and the myriad of other injuries, but Talia’s eyes promptly rolled into the back of her head and her body went limp.
Resting on his hunches, John looked up to where Sherlock was propped up against the fireplace mantle, poker hanging loosely from his right hand. His friend (lover? Is that what they were now? God, he hated that word – it sounded so immature compared to what they were. They weren’t just lovers, they were everything. Partner? Yes, his partner) looked exhausted. Yellow, sallow-faced and very obviously shaky. His neck and the front of his shirt were stained dark with dried blood, but it appeared there were no additional lacerations to the one marring his long neck; though, maybe some fresh bruises waiting to bloom over his prominent cheekbones and chin.
John raised his eyebrows at him in a silent question, are you okay?
Sherlock appeared to snort, rolled his eyes and then begrudgingly nodded once before raising his own eyebrow, glancing down at John’s mouth and chin, coated in blood. I should ask you the same thing.
John reached up to see if his nose was still bleeding but it came back dry and cakey. He looked back up at his partner and grinned.
Sherlock shook his head again, holding on to the fireplace mantle for support as he set his makeshift weapon back where it belonged. And then the cottage burst with sound and movement. MI-6 agents swarmed the building, shouting at each other and quickly retiring John from his position monitoring the mastermind lying knocked-out-cold on the floor.
John didn’t want to appear like he was rushing to Sherlock’s side (because, surely, Sherlock would kill him if he even appeared remotely invalided) but he did maneuver his way quickly to his partner’s side where he was waving away the offered assistance of a nondescriptly clad medic.
“I don’t need your assis--” he could hear Sherlock saying irately and John quickly dragged the ottoman over to where the medical professional was attempting to propel Sherlock into the high-backed chair Talia had once occupied.
“Sit down, Sherlock.” John demanded, using his Captain voice then turned to smile graciously at the EMS worker before waving her away. She meekly joined her comrade in arms where he was tending Mensah’s many bullet wounds. Sherlock, surprisingly, sat down. Perhaps that was an indication as to how he was feeling.
“Well done.” John said quietly as he reached forward to gently take Sherlock’s hands in his. It was obvious there had been some sort of scuffle at some point; Sherlock’s hands, more so his dominant, was scrapped, bruised, and quickly inflating in size. Sherlock shrugged but his mouth quirked upward in an obvious hint of smugness. John couldn’t help but smile with him. There was much work to be done. But they had overcome the worse of it.
John sat there silently cleaning Sherlock’s hands with saline and gauze, moving onto his neck, using butterfly bandages to ensure it would be fine for the ride home. Then he moved onto the difficult task of assessing Sherlock’s actual condition minus the injuries from today. No fever. Obviously exhausted, underweight, and overly stressed. Possibly a gamble of jaundice but overall, much better than John had been expecting. He looked up at Sherlock and nodded, satisfied.
He went to get up off the ottoman, ready to leave this God—forsaken cottage before Sherlock reached forward and gripped his arm, “It’s your turn.”
And then, with a gentleness John had only seen Sherlock demonstrate in his chemistry experiments, he cleaned and dressed John’s wounds. The ones marring his knuckles and then the blood crusted on his face from Talia’s kick to the nose. Before he could continue with his eager retreat to London, Sherlock reached forward to run his hand over John’s Kevlar sheathed torso, “And this?”
John smiled, “It hurts but it probably looks worse than it actually is.”
“I can relate.” Sherlock sighed, removed his hand from the vest and leaned back in the wooden chair he was sitting in, waiting.
John scoffed and rolled his eyes, then leaned forward to undo the buttons on his shirt so he could remove the Kevlar vest, “Says the man who was in the hospital only a few weeks ago.”
Sherlock shrugged carelessly, “I didn’t say it wasn’t bad. I just said it wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
John rolled his eyes again and gingerly began removing his button-down, the fake blood packets soaking it and making it difficult to peel from the vest, “Sure, sure. Because there’s such a big difference.” He was sore. Unbelievably sore. And he knew it was only going to get worse as the adrenaline wore off.
Once the shirt was off, John began to work on the Velcro straps holding the vest in place and then peeled that off as well. He pulled up his now red-stained undershirt to take a look at where the bullet had hit and impacted against his torso, right over his left sixth and seventh ribs. Already an angry dark blue and red bruise was blooming, the area surrounding it swelling up. John reached down and palpated his ribs, cracked maybe, but not broken.
He smiled down at where Sherlock was watching his examination with intense focus, “No broken bones.”
Sherlock nodded but did not look as relieved as John thought he should.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” John asked softly.
Sherlock shifted awkwardly on the high-back chair before settling back and gripping his hands together. “I never thought I’d be so grateful that one of my enemies is a sadist.” He frowned deeply, shaking his head as if to keep himself from dwelling on it and then tentatively reached forward to run a gentle finger over the worst of the bruise on John’s torso.
Sherlock didn’t have to say what he really meant. John knew how close they were to Talia just shooting them both in the head and ending it all.
The doctor let out a low sigh, “Well, we’ll have to thank her next time we see her.” He said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.
But Sherlock did not chuckle, he did not even smile, he just stroked at John’s bruise, his forehead crinkling uneasily. If he didn’t act quick, John worried Sherlock might be getting lost in that mind palace of his. And so, he lowered his undershirt and moved forward, forcing Sherlock to move his hand or risk getting it stuck between his face and John’s torso.
The great detective rested his forehead against the doctor’s stomach, on the right side, trying to avoid the bruising. His curls shielded his face from view and John understood. The consulting detective was trying to get himself under control. Carding his fingers through Sherlock’s unruly mop seemed to be helping because soon, John felt long spindly fingers reaching up to grip his hips, as if reassuring himself John was here.
John felt unbelievably lucky. Unbelievably lucky and unbelievably relieved. He bent forward and placed a soft kiss to those curls, reaching down to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck. Slowly, he felt the tension leave his friend’s body, just as it left his own. With every breath he felt a little lighter. There was still much to be done. The bustling all around them just proved it, but Mensah and Mary were being wheeled away in ambulances with a myriad of injuries and under the watchful eye of armored MI6 agents. And John and Sherlock were alive and with one another.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
“Her name is Talia Shemesh.” Mycroft sat across from John and Sherlock in the long town car that was quickly conveying them away from the safehouse. He handed a manila folder to John since Sherlock appeared uninterested. Instead, he gazed out of the tinted window, watching the snowy landscape sweep past them, “Not much is known about her childhood. But she’s listed as an orphan in census data from the 90s. She was, as expected, conscripted at 18 into the Israeli Defense Forces where she flourished, particularly in marksmanship.”John opened the folder and let out a long sigh as Mary’s face stared right back up at him. Well, it was Mary’s face but not Mary’s face. Really, it wasn’t Mary at all, but John couldn’t get that name out of his head. Afterall, he laid beside her for months, said he loved her, had thought about marrying her when “her” had been named Mary.Talia was brunette whereas the Mary John had met all those months ago was a blonde. The woman in the photograph was a little more round-cheeked and her eyes were cold and hard. She was in battledress, a beret tilted over her left eye, a sniper rifle slung over her shoulder.“During the Second Intifada uprising, the Israeli government sent numerous sweeping incursions throughout the West Bank, including Shemesh’s unit. Her performance there advanced her to sergeant, and she became a sharpshooter specialist two years later during the war with Lebanon. She furthered her rank to Master Sergeant during the Gaza War where she became a member of an elite special forces’ unit.” Mycroft spoke as if from a book, but John knew it was from memory. “So how did a highly trained Israeli master sergeant go from Gaza strip raids to Moriarty’s next-in-line?” John asked, not even bothering to look past the first page of the folder. What was the point? Mycroft would tell them. And it wasn’t like he wanted to look at her face.“According to my contacts, she ‘went rogue.’ She began to annihilate enemies and allies indiscriminately. Violence for the sake of violence, perhaps. Or, as some believe, maybe she was acting as a hitwoman. Certainly more lucrative. Evidently, she was suspected of brutally murdering one of her own lieutenants and somehow escaped military police custody in transit. She was presumed dead after they found charred remains that matched her description in a stolen military vehicle on the Israel-Jordon border. She was posthumously dishonorably discharged. But it’s likely she had powerful friends who aided in her feigned death and escape from Israel.” Mycroft crossed his legs, settling his hands in his lap.“Moriarty?” John asked, glancing over at where Sherlock was still staring out the window. He scooted over a little, letting his thigh touch his partner’s and was relieved when Sherlock reached over to place his hand on John’s knee. He wasn’t in his mind palace, just listening.If Mycroft noticed the interaction, he didn’t comment on it, merely hummed, “Possibly. Or someone who’s talent he acquired later. Either way, she ended up very prominent in his network. High-level enough to eliminate Moran and assume his place as commander after Moriarty’s death.”“And Mary? Who was Mary?” Her name left a bitter taste in John’s mouth, but he had to know."She did exist.” Mycroft frowned at John, “Up until a little over a year ago, Mary Morstan was a 32-year-old shut-in suffering from agoraphobia outside of Sheffield. She made a reappearance, apparently ‘cured’ of her agoraphobia four months before meeting you.” Mycroft paused here and shifted uncomfortably, “Shemesh was efficient in her elimination of her namesake. Morstan had no living family members and no friends due to her mental condition but there is no one living in her original residence. No indication that there ever was anyone living there. I have my men still looking for a body; however, I doubt we’ll find one with someone as experienced as Shemesh.”John felt his heart sink. The poor woman. Just living her life. Granted, not much of a life but still her life. And then to be sacrificed like a lamb to the slaughter in order for Talia to protect her criminal network. A pawn in a greater game.“During our sweep of the safehouse we found the men her and Mensah took out but no signs of any other enemy operatives. Six in total. It was efficient, but I suppose we should have expected it from a sharpshooter and a mercenary. We’re not sure how far this goes. How deep. If there was a second in command, ready to take over now that Shemesh has failed.”“I somehow doubt that.” It was the first time Sherlock spoke since sitting in the town car. “She didn’t seem like one to bring others into her confidence.”“No, she didn’t.” John agreed, resting his hand on top of where Sherlock’s rested on his knee."We’re not taking any chances.” Mycroft’s voice was strong and sure, “I’m not taking any chances. We’re transporting you to another safehouse with increased protection for a few days until we can confirm the threat has passed.”Surprisingly, Sherlock didn’t argue. John thought about arguing. He wanted to be back at Baker Street, huddled under the duvet in Sherlock’s (their?) bed. But, instead, with the adrenalin wearing off and fatigue setting in, he agreed.“Ça va?” [Are you alright?] Mycroft turned to Sherlock to ask this question and John felt his eyebrow twitch in irritation at the language change. He knew this was Mycroft’s way of offering privacy to his brother but if their relationship status wasn’t obvious to the older Holmes by now, John was seriously concerned for his deductive abilities.“Oui, bien sûr,” [Yes, of course.] Sherlock nodded, “John’s here.” As if that was all the explanation needed and turned his hand over to thread his fingers through John’s, touching their palms together.John himself had no idea what was being said but smiled at the way the answer had been given and gripped the hand in his all the tighter for it. The new safehouse was similar to the old one in only that it was a remote cottage. Otherwise, it appeared to be swarming with darkly clothed MI6 agents. It hardly felt remote with all the people wandering around.“Really. Mycroft?” Sherlock groaned loudly as he stared out the window, not releasing John’s fingers from his clutches even as he tapped on the glass with his other hand.Mycroft didn’t bother looking out of the window himself, probably already knowing what to expect, and merely raised his shoulders unapologetically.“How are we supposed to sleep with all of these idiots roaming around?”“I’m sure you’ll manage.”Personally, John felt fit to keel over as it was. His body ached and the lack of sleep over the last several days was wearing down any irritation he may have felt at having a dozen or more strangers keeping watch over them. Sherlock, on the other hand, was making his opinions on the matter heard by all, even as he was exiting the town car.John would be embarrassed at his friend’s behavior, if he didn’t agree with some of his sentiments. “I feel like I may as well be in prison!”“Sherlock, this is for your and John’s own protection.” Mycroft said patiently as he too exited the car, John following closely behind the two Holmes brothers.“John and I can perfectly well protect ourselves, as seen by today’s proceedings.” Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and glared petulantly at his brother.“Sherlock, I’m not sleeping in Kevlar again.” John said warily as he retrieved their bags from the boot.There was a moment of tense silence before Sherlock let out a low groan, his breath coming out in a cloud of steam in the cold weather and conceded, “Fine. But at least move some of them farther away from the house.”Mycroft nodded and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips before he acquiesced, “Certainly.”“And rush any of this nonsense you insist on investigating, John and I won’t stand for being cooped up here any longer than a few days.” Before the elder Holmes could answer Sherlock turned and swept up the front walk, his coat swishing at his ankles.John smiled and began to follow but was stopped by Mycroft’s voice, “We’re moving your things from the flat you shared with Shemesh as well. And I’ve placed some mild painkillers and sleeping pills in your bag there.” He said, nodding to the bag in John’s right hand, “I doubt he’ll take any, the stubborn ass he is, but maybe with some prodding. And, of course, you’re more than welcome to partake. I’m sure you’re sore.”John stared a little uncertainly at Mycroft for a moment and then nodded, grateful for his concern even if it was awkwardly expressed, “Thank you, Mycroft.”“No, Dr. Watson, thank you. I’m grateful my brother has you.” And with that Mycroft climbed back in the town car, closed the sleek black door and rolled down the tinted window to add, “I’ll be in contact. Likely by tomorrow evening.” Predictably, Sherlock did not take the pain or sleeping pills offered to him. But John did. He wasn’t about to turn down something that could help him heat up dinner without pain or discomfort. And that was just what he was doing. He was focused on reheating the Indian food left for them by one of Mycroft’s various agents patrolling the perimeter. Meanwhile, Sherlock was anxiously meandering from the sitting room into the kitchen, restlessly moving aside the curtains to peek outside at the forces sent to protect them.There were fewer agents at the last safehouse to lure Shemesh out. The hope was that the elite unit would be able to subdue the attackers before they even reached John and Sherlock indoors but all those involved in the initial planning phase knew there was a very real possibility that the detective and his doctor would need to restrain them themselves. Now that the major threat was in custody and unlikely to escape as she had done before, Mycroft was taking no chances of another two-on-two situation. And John was grateful if he were being honest with himself. He didn’t think his body or Sherlock’s could handle another sleepless, anxiety-ridden night. Especially in Sherlock’s condition.“Would you please just sit down and have a bite to eat?” John hastily dished some chicken tikka masala onto a plate with rice and a side of naan. “It’s going to be dark soon anyway and you won’t even see them.”Sherlock hummed moodily but made his way over to the kitchen table where John had placed his food. He ate a few bites but mostly just moved his food from one side of the plate to the other.“Come on, Sherlock. Please? You need food. And rest. I don’t want to be at your bedside again because you refused to take care of yourself.”The detective scowled but dutifully ate a few more bites but then quite suddenly pushed the plate back and stared at John with those mercurial eyes."That better not be all.” John said as he pointed at the plate with his own fork, “You better be eating a lot more than that or else I’ll throw a fit.”Sherlock rolled his eyes, a very small tilt to his lips, “I’ll eat more. I just—” here he broke off awkwardly, tapping his fingers against the kitchen table agitatedly. “Are you okay, John?”John raised an eyebrow, his folk halfway to his mouth, “Of course. I told you, it probably looks worse than it is. It hurts, sure, but those pain pills your brother gave us have certainly helped. They’d probably help you too if you weren’t such a stubborn ass. Not that I’m pushing drugs on a recovering addict, just, you really need some rest.”“No. That’s not what I meant.” Sherlock twisted uncomfortably in his chair, “I meant…it must have been hard. To see Mary. Or Talia. Are you…I heard that talking about it can be helpful if you’re so inclined…” He trailed off awkwardly, looking down at the grains weaving throughout the tabletop.John felt his heart swell at Sherlock’s uncommon show of concern and smiled appreciatively at his partner, “Thank you, Sherlock. That’s…thoughtful of you to ask.”Sherlock shrugged, picked up his fork and resumed pushing his curry around on his plate.John licked his lips, “It was surreal, honestly.” He said quietly while he pushed around his own food, watching the red curry stain the white rice on his plate. John could feel Sherlock watching him and so he looked up and shrugged, “I mean, we had talked about Mary being a part of this when we were back at Baker Street. I knew there was a very real possibility. I expected it even. But then, to see her there, gun in hand…I don’t know, it was still a shock.”“The human mind doesn’t always do well speculating. It’s why we like to see things firsthand before we believe them.” Sherlock replied.“Yeah, I guess so.” John shrugged again and then took a small bite of naan, “I mean, I’ve been feeling for a while that things weren’t going to work out between the two of us. That something was off about her.” John paused here and thought of the times Mary’s behavior had made him uncomfortable. How some of her jokes were too cold. How she sexualized things when she felt him pulling away. How she pushed and pushed and pushed to be a part of John’s life with Sherlock and how he felt at his very core that he needed to keep that aspect of his life secret and private. “Maybe I should have realized she played a part in all of this a lot sooner.”Sherlock made a displeased noise in the back of his throat, “No.” When John looked up, he was surprised by how clear and hard Sherlock’s eyes were. The detective shook his head, “No. She was a mastermind in her own right. It was my fault she was even ever in your orbit.”“Now don’t go playing that game again, Sherlock.” John said steadily but not unkindly.“I just mean, I should have seen something like this coming.”“You may be the smartest man I know but you can’t see the future, Sherlock. Or read minds. Or have any other supernatural abilities that would have allowed you to see this coming.” John paused thoughtfully, “Unless you’re holding out on me.”Sherlock looked down and smirked, “No. I would never hold out on you.” He said it quietly and shyly and John grinned.“Neither one of us saw this thing coming but we’re partners. We’re here for each other and we won’t let it happen again, right?”Sherlock nodded, “Yes. Partners.” He smiled again, very shyly up at John and the doctor couldn’t help himself but lean forward and peck those beautiful lips.“I should be asking you the same thing. It must have been difficult seeing Mensah again. Are you okay?” John said as he settled back into his chair.Sherlock still looked a little dazed from the unexpected kiss he had just received but then looked down at the tabletop again and nodded slowly, “It certainly wasn’t easy. But…well, I was more concerned with what was happening to you to think about him being near me again.”“I know exactly how you feel.” John said sagely. The first sting of betrayal of seeing Mary standing there with a loaded gun had barely registered before he had turned all of his attention on the machete at Sherlock’s throat and the giant of a man who held it there.The room went comfortably quiet for awhile and Sherlock, to John’s relief, began to properly tuck into dinner. As he grabbed the empty plates to bring back to the kitchen sink, Sherlock spoke again, his voice low and sad, “I’m sorry I ever betrayed you, John. I’m sorry about Bart’s and…my time away.”John turned around to look at his best friend, far too skinny and pale sitting at the kitchen table, awkwardly ringing his hands together, “But I don’t regret it.” Sherlock continued, “I don’t regret trying to keep you safe.”“You’ve given me far more reasons to trust you than distrust you.” John replied, “But, in the future, I don’t care if you’re trying to keep me safe or trying to save the world or whatever else nonsense you’ve got going on in that brain of yours, we’re partners now. We watch each other’s backs. I want to know everything. I want to help you carry the weight.”Sherlock looked shattered. Maybe it was the exhaustion beginning to creep in, but the detective blinked furiously as if trying to hide the fact that he was fit to begin crying. John saved him the trouble of trying to hide it by setting the plates down in the sink and coming back over to envelop him in a warm embrace. Sherlock, head once again resting on John’s middle, wrapped his long arms around the doctor’s torso and snuggled in. John hadn’t really ever slept with Sherlock before. Sure, they had shared a bed. That night before all the safehouses at Baker Street should have been the first but they had left its safety minutes after discovering the tracker in John’s belt. At the first safehouse, neither of them felt comfortable enough to sleep and spent most of the nights there keeping a watchful eye on the entrance and taking shifts to catch a restless 30 minute snooze.So, here, at last, John could fully appreciate his new relationship with his best friend. Sherlock, despite not taking any of the pain killers or sleep aids was fast asleep, wrapped around John like a winter scarf. Not that John minded in the least. He was comfortably warm, and the pain pills were keeping his aches to a minimum as he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of activity. Most of it terrifying if John were to be honest with himself. He knew that the grief of losing Mary, because no matter how much he tried to fool himself, he did, at one point, truly care for the woman he knew as Mary, would hit him hard. And when it did, he knew he would have Sherlock there to help weather the storm. He also knew that Sherlock had his own grief to sift through. And his own fears. And John would be there for that as well. Their transition into this new “them” would take time. All of it would take time. But time, as it were, was something they now had.John now realized he had only ever wanted more time. And now that he had it and he certainly wasn’t going to waste it.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
In the end, it took Mycroft two full days to feel comfortable enough to allow John and Sherlock to return to Baker Street. Coincidentally, he also fired 17 MI5 and MI6 agents during these two days, citing their oversight in investigating a possible coup d’état in Moriarty’s empire and their incompetence in researching the real Mary Morstan. John didn’t care to think about what letting go someone working for such intelligence agencies looked like, especially since Mycroft had made it clear there would be severe repercussions for such sloppiness.Perhaps as a means to save themselves or make amends, it appeared the remaining agents in Mycroft’s line of fire were working tirelessly to make things right. Within hours of being moved to the second safehouse Mycroft had reports on all major players in criminal networks across the world, a detailed dossier of remaining Shemesh supporters and their locations, and a chocolate éclair from his favorite London bakery.Additionally, 221B had never looked tidier and when John and Sherlock were allowed to return, it almost appeared as if John had never left. Or as if the past 18 months had occurred at all; even the smiley face marring the wallpapered wall looked repainted, but that might have been John’s overactive imagination. The only exception to this being all the good doctor’s belongings had been neatly put away in Sherlock’s room rather than the upstairs bedroom.The more John thought about it the more he believed that the move to the second safehouse was to keep Sherlock out of the city for the New Year’s festivities. Not only to look for a potential lieutenant commander waiting to rise in rank after word of Shemesh’s capture. Afterall, public celebrations were treasure troves of potential triggers, John knew firsthand. He vaguely remembered his first Guy Fawkes Day back from Afghanistan was spent curled up under his writing desk, gun clutched tightly in his hand. The excited screams and sounds of kiddie fireworks had nearly sent him over. He owed Mycroft for the foresight.With very little fanfare, John and Sherlock were dropped off in front of 221B the afternoon of the second day of the new year. The groveling agents must have also dealt with the paparazzi, John thought idly. Mrs. Hudson met them at the door with a flutter of nervous hands and motherly devotion. Mycroft must have had a talk with her since she merely dropped off her sandwiches and freshly brewed pot of tea in the living room before excusing herself back downstairs to call Mrs. Turner. Sherlock looked as relieved as John felt. Another point to the elder Holmes for his foresight. It was Sherlock’s idea, shockingly, to have a party. Well, party was maybe upselling it a little. But they did invite people over. Mrs. Hudson, of course, Lestrade, Molly and even Mycroft made a brief appearance before excusing himself to “discuss trade deals with Colombia.”It was several weeks after they had returned home from their Shemesh-Mensah affair and Sherlock was looking far less yellow and pale. He had even put on some weight. There was a modicum of doctorly pride that went with seeing his patient doing so much better. Physically at least. Sherlock still woke in a sweat from bad nightmares on most nights. He had, so far, foregone any other dissociative events but the nightmares were more like night terrors in John’s experience, and it often took several hours for the younger man to calm down enough to return to bed.John, ever the doctor, took immediately to sleep studies and medical journals, delving into the science behind night terrors and found some relatively useful information. He had even cajoled Sherlock into reading some of them, much to the detective’s derision. Despite the initial disdain, the doctor saw his partner sneakily employing some of the therapeutic suggestions recommended by the leading sleep specialists. John suspected reading about night terrors just made his partner apprehensive but if they could make some real progress John would tolerate any form of mockery Sherlock threw at him and his research papers. John’s condition had also improved. His nose and bruised face were almost completely back to normal, only a slight twinge when he sneezed very hard reminded him of Talia’s booted heel. The bruise left by the Kevlar-absorbed-bullet had also improved significantly and was now a disgusting shade of yellow and brown. There was a time not too long ago when Sherlock saw the hideous blacks and blues at its worst stage of healing he had to leave the room. It took several hours of discussing the uselessness of “what-if” scenarios before John got him back to bed and out of his own head.The party wasn’t a big to-do but there were little finger sandwiches (thanks to Mrs. Hudson) and wine (thanks to everyone else). Mostly there were friends. At first John was slightly uneasy with having people over since Sherlock was still recovering, both physically and mentally, but, in typical Sherlock fashion, the detective poo-pooed any concerns and stated it would be better for him to “just get it over with.” John guessed “it” meant social interaction with anyone other than John.And that was how John ended up shoved in between Molly and Mrs. Hudson on the couch in the sitting room while they tearfully discussed how close they had been to losing Sherlock, yet again. Lestrade and Sherlock, meanwhile, were reviewing some gory casefiles in the kitchen. John envied them."And John! I just don’t know how you manage with all the scares he’s given us.” Mrs. Hudson said as she patted the doctor in question on the knee.“He can be trying.” John said with a smile.“But worth every minute of it, yeah?” Molly said with a shy but knowing smile.They hadn’t announced their relationship outright, but he was sure their interactions had given them away. Not that they had been overly touchy-feely (that just wasn’t their style, after all) but they definitely stood closer together, their hands brushed more frequently and purposefully. And maybe, if he were being brutally honest with himself, John would have to admit that he often caught himself staring at Sherlock with such adoration that his heart felt fit to burst. He had also caught Sherlock staring at him as well, but he still felt so shocked at it he never ruminated on it for long. He briefly felt a little guilty for flaunting it and turned to face Molly as she cupped her wine glass to her mouth, “I…um…”“I’m so happy for you two.” Molly lowered her glass and smiled. A real and true smile that John knew in his gut was genuine, “Besides, I think…I think that, while I have do have a type, I may have been looking at the wrong detective all along.” Her eyes were mischievous as she tilted her head into the kitchen.John broke out in his own smile and raised his wine glass, “To revelations.” He couldn’t be more giddy with both relief and excitement at the prospect that two of Sherlock and his closest friends (though the detective would pale at the word if he heard it) may begin their own journey on the road to happiness. Molly laughed ad clinked her glass to his, “Cheers.”Mrs. Hudson, meanwhile, had paused in dabbing at her eyes and stared bewilderingly between the two younger people sitting on the couch with her, “I’m not sure I have the foggiest idea of what is going on.”John laughed again, “You can tell Mrs. Turner you have a pair of your own now. Not married ones per se…but we’ll see.”There was a brief moment of quiet before Mrs. Hudson squealed, raised her hands in an aborted clap before deciding to throw them around John’s neck instead. John, whilst being lovingly choked by his landlady, looked up and saw Sherlock staring at him with an eyebrow raised. Are you okay? The doctor grinned, glanced down at Mrs. Hudson’s graying head and then back up at his partner, You’re next. Sherlock grimaced and ducked back into the kitchen as if to escape from the onslaught that was his landlady when overjoyed.Ultimately, Sherlock endured a lot of hugging that night. Both from Mrs. Hudson and from Molly. Even Lestrade threw in an awkward side hug toward the end of the night. Mycroft merely patted his younger brother lightly on the shoulder before leaving early to attend to business. And even though John feared Sherlock was in “personal-space-infiltrated” overload he was pleasantly surprised when the younger man kissed him as soon as the door to the flat was closed.“I’m glad that’s over with.” He sighed against John’s cheek as he pulled away. Slowly, over the last several weeks, Sherlock had become more comfortable with initiating touch and John was delighted with the progress.John reached out for his partner’s hands and held them in his own, “You appreciate them in your own way.”Sherlock scoffed, rubbing his thumb along John’s, “Of course I do. I just don’t want them spending hours in my flat talking incessantly.”John chuckled, stared down at where their hands were connected and felt a wave of gratitude hit him, “I’m glad you’re here.”Sherlock raised an eyebrow when John glanced back up at him but then nodded his head somberly, “Me too. And I’m unbelievably grateful you’re here.” That night Sherlock and John laid in bed and discussed the future. So often they had discussed the past. What had happened to Sherlock while he was away, what had happened to John in Afghanistan. Talia, Mensah, Moriarty.But now, they talked about their plans. They talked about their love for each other. They talked about lovemaking, which would come in time. And marriage maybe. They talked about Sherlock’s return to work and John’s return with him. Their return to the battlefield, to doing what they loved, solving cases together. They were both war-torn soldiers: prognosis of returning to normal was poor. But they had never really been normal before and so that prognosis sat rather well with them.