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orange_crushedThe dangerous book for boys. Sherlock (BBC), PG-13, still wildly AU. Sherlock/John. This is the end. Part four of four.
Part one.
Part two.
Part three.
They're still sitting like that when the cops surround them.
John sprints through the neighborhood, down beneath the overpasses, past the shopping center and the school, down past the train line that runs behind the estate. He goes until he's out of breath and his legs are burning; he's light-headed and floating, still only half-awake. He jogs along the side of the road, seeing the chain-link fences of the warehouse district in the distance. He's got the map folded up in his pocket, ripped out of his dad's road atlas. How Sherlock expects him to find the right warehouse in the dark is beyond him. He just runs and huffs and tries to keep his breathing steady.
He still feels like an asshole. More so, maybe.
He's on the back road, and there are no trucks moving anywhere that he can see. There's a gate and a fence with a printed sign, ACE TRUCKING. John sighs and keeps going. There's another one further down, with a higher fence, barbed wire, what looks like a security gate with a lighted guard's station. John crouches down and gets close enough to read the warning sign in front of the side parking lot: PARKING FOR CHEMPLEX EMPLOYEES ONLY. All others will be arrested, probably, or murdered in the middle of a school night. John kneels down and puts his hands on the ground, tries to get his heart rate back to normal. When he feels like he can stand up, he looks around the lot first. There's nobody. The guard in the box is facing the other direction, with a magazine in his hand. John jogs around the outside of the fence until the station is out of sight, and then notices something hanging overhead. It's a carpet. A Persian carpet, a really gorgeous one, that somebody's slung up to get over the barbed wire. It's probably worth a thousand pounds. "He's totally insane," John mutters to himself, and climbs.
It only takes a minute to run across the lot and duck behind the shipping containers. He makes his way between them, around the edge, listening for the sounds of feet or conversation. Hopefully not for the sound of Sherlock breaking his face on someone's fist again. There's a metal ladder up the wall of the warehouse, probably to the roof; John clambers up it and stops at the edge. Nothing. He hoists himself over and tries not to slide off- it's at an angle, with a strip of louvered windows towards the peak. He walks and then crawls up to the glass, hands catching on the metal panels. There's a faint light inside, safety strips glowing along the aisles, a couple of fluorescents still burning. There are rows and rows on end inside. Sherlock could be hiding in any one of the stacks. He could have already left, decided it wasn't worth a text to say so. And he could be sprawled out on the floor behind the barrels, bleeding out. There's a flash of movement in one of the side rows, and John's heart pounds. It's a man in a black jacket, with a knitted cap pulled low over his brows. There's a glint in his hand; he's keeping his arm steady as he walks, pressed to his side. He raises his hand to shoulder level, and the outline of the gun is suddenly clear.
John follows him along the roof, going as quietly as he can on the corrugated steel. The man's walking down a narrow aisle, moving swiftly towards the light at the other end. He turns a corner, and John can see a second man's head moving over the top of a row of barrels. He seems to be reading labels. Further down, there's a small blink of movement, like a reflection on the side of a car window. John peers closer, leans further over the glass, and inhales sharply. It's Sherlock. He's crouched within the barrels, taking photos with his phone. He must be out of sight on the ground, because neither of the men change course or yell or walk towards him. John stares down, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now. A couple of minutes must pass, because his legs start to cramp and his hands are going numb. He thinks about leaving the roof. He watches the first man motion at the second, casually, like he's saying to wrap up soon. The other man nods, and vanishes behind a row of barrels. John sighs and watches Sherlock, huddled down, fiddling with his phone. Texting the police and not him, hopefully.
Then John sees it- the second man, moving slowly through the row behind Sherlock. John can only see his face as it flits between the gaps for seconds at a time. But his eyes are trained on Sherlock's hiding spot. John's throat goes dry, and for a long second he's terrified. He doesn't know what to do. There are bright lights in his eyes, in his pulse. They're blinding.
And then John turns and slides down the side of the roof, runs along the flat edge to a stack of pipes and gutter segments that have been bundled up and left. He grabs a short, heavy segment and runs back up the roof, no longer trying for silence. He doesn't hesitate above the glass, just bashes the pipe against it with all the strength in his arms. The window splinters and shatters and the pipe drops through. It sounds like an explosion; everybody on the floor stares up.
"Hey!" John shouts. He doesn't have a plan. He barely has a thought in his head. "Hey, up here!" he hollers.
A gunshot rings out, whizzing by him, then another; he ducks and slides back down, sprints to the ladder and slings himself down it. He runs along the edge, staying below the windows, trying to find a spot to look in and find Sherlock. There's the sound of a door slamming open, not far away, and running feet. John hides behind a shipping container, presses his body flat against the side. The feet run past him and circle around the corner of the building, heading towards the road. John lifts up and goes slowly around the corner, and suddenly there's a hand on his arm. He whirls and blocks his arms up, almost punching Sherlock right in the face.
They stare at each other, breathing staggered and fast, and then Sherlock reaches out again to tug on his sleeve.
"Run," he says. "Can you-"
They do.
The man in the skullcap has gone around, towards the guard station, and there's only one way back to the carpet and the exit- back through the shipping containers. They weave through them silently, glancing around corners and motioning each other forward, sprinting quietly between boxes. They're almost in sight of the chain-link when the second man, the man checking barrels, pops up between a gap and stares at them. He looks as surprised as they do, but it doesn't keep him from calling out. Sherlock and John spin and run blindly in the other direction, thudding against the sides of containers, looking behind them. Sherlock takes a sudden left when John goes straight, and then he's running alone, twisting to look between the boxes. There's a shout behind him, and he turns around. He's looking over his shoulder when he slams against a body and tumbles backwards with the impact.
From the ground, on his back, John stares up at the man with the gun. He doesn't move. The man smiles and lifts a phone to his ear. There's a green glow on his cheek for a second, before the display fades.
"Yeah," he says, to whoever's listening. "Alright."
John can see Sherlock at the end of the row, panting and looking around the corners, trying to get a bearing. There's a very soft click behind John's skull, the floating cold touch of metal pressing his hair down. John can feel the man behind him and the gap between them, he can feel everything. He can hear his heart thudding in his ears.
"Call him," says the man. He nudges John with the barrel again. "Now."
John catches a breath in his throat.
"Sherlock," he calls out. Sherlock turns around with a surprised look on his face that immediately slides into annoyance. Of course. It's pretty bad form to yell out your mate's name at a crime scene. John would laugh, any other time. But Sherlock's about to take a step forward, a step closer. John looks at the flap of that ridiculous coat, the set of Sherlock's shoulders, the pale wrists and neck, peaks of light in the darkness. John opens his mouth for air. "Run," he shouts, suddenly, "RUN!" And there's a pounding crash on the back of his skull. He goes down onto his hands and knees, swaying; his head and his neck feel hot, burning, and there's a trickle of that heat running down under his jacket. He's been- hit with something? The gun. He blinks and his vision swims and he tries to get up. Yeah, definitely the gun. His head feels like it's splitting into a million bloody pieces. He sways back and sits on his heels, and when he looks up, Sherlock is looking down at him. "Oh, you stupid-" John says, and rubs his face with his hands, drunkenly. "You stupid fuck."
"Good evening, gents," says the man with the gun. There's a tinny, humming noise, like someone on the other end of a phone conversation. "He says hello." John looks up at Sherlock, who seems to be blurry around the edges. It hurts to keep his head up. "He hopes you liked your gift."
"Immensely," Sherlock says.
"He says he's glad to see you taking the initiative. But that you ought to be a little more careful, next time. Hold back. You don't want to get to the end just yet. No fast-forwards on this tape."
"Why doesn't he speak for himself?" Sherlock says. "Face me. Intermediaries only complicate things."
"He says you're not ready."
"Big talk for a phone," Sherlock returns. The man actually laughs, and the sound slingshots around John's brain.
"He says I ought to aim lower," the man tells them. John tries to twist around and see what's happening behind him, but there's a stab of cold on the back of his neck, the gun barrel pressing in again. He stills. "Says I ought to hit the spine. Let him live. Says he wants to watch you wheel him around town."
"Shut up," Sherlock hisses. It's so raw that John looks up in surprise, finds Sherlock staring down at him instead of keeping his eyes on the man with the gun. John really wishes he would keep tabs on the gun. There's a flicker of something that goes through Sherlock's eyes, a trembling shadow that John's never seen before. He must be hallucinating, because it's so plain. It goes across everybody's face, but not Sherlock's. Never Sherlock's. It's fear. In the distance, John can hear sirens faintly calling. He closes his eyes, briefly, and opens them to find his vision clearing a little.
"We're done for now," says the man. "We've got what we came for. Did you? He says he hopes he hasn't disappointed you. Discouraged your interest." Sherlock's face doesn't move; it's shuttered again, calm and cold and blank. Beautiful.
"Hardly," he says. He looks up. "Tell him I'll see him soon."
There's the sound of a phone clicking shut.
"He's looking forward to it."
John hears feet moving away, and when he turns around, there's nobody there. He groans and turns back to Sherlock, who is still standing up, watching the spot behind him. The sirens are getting closer. Louder. There's the scraping, mechanical sound of gates opening.
"Sherlock," he says. He sounds like a zombie. "Sherlock," he says, a little more clearly. Sherlock looks down and blinks, and then he's kneeling down, putting his hands on either side of John's head, leaning him forward to examine the back of his skull. His careful fingers press gently at the edges of the wound. John bites his lip.
"Heavy bleeding, but it's probably not fractured. Does that hurt?"
"Fuck- yes, yes, it hurts," John says, and tries to pull Sherlock's hands away. Sherlock doesn't let go, just cups his jaw between his hands and stares at him, his face less than a foot away. His thumbs rest on John's cheekbones.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry."
John doesn't know what to say.
"You're repeating yourself," he says, finally, and Sherlock's face spreads into a smile. They're still sitting like that when the cops surround them.
There really ought to be a lot more trouble than there is.
John is being herded onto the ambulance and Sherlock is getting cuffed when that posh black car pulls up. There's a brief argument at the gate and then Mycroft is striding up, glancing between John and Sherlock and talking rapidly on his phone. He shuts it and drops it into his pocket and goes to speak with the officer holding Sherlock by the arm. Sherlock is uncuffed and shrugged off. He follows Mycroft up to the ambulance with smugness and disgust warring on his features, rubbing his wrists. Clearly, he's conflicted.
"How's your head?"
"Heavy," John says, honestly. "It's leaking, you'd think it'd be lighter." The paramedic urges him backwards, trying to strap him in for the ride, and John looks at the both of them with something probably close to panic.
"We'll follow the ambulance," Mycroft assures him.
"I'll ride with John-"
"You'll ride with me," Mycroft interrupts, sharply. Sherlock, for once, doesn't look inclined to argue.
At the hospital John is cleaned up and x-rayed and whisked off to a private room. Apparently Sherlock was right: it's a concussion and some bruising, maybe the tiniest hairline fracture, but he'll live. His head feels like it's been wrapped in a roll of paper towels, and they've given him something for the pain. It's turning the world nicely fuzzy. Sherlock and Mycroft are out in the hall, he can hear the sound of their argument through the door. He lies back and waits for somebody to come in and tell him to go home, or that his head's fallen off and it's got to be sewn back on, or whatever. He is unbelievably tired. Sherlock comes in at last, looking pale and furious, until he sees John sitting cross-legged on the bed, smiling like a loon at him. The corner of Sherlock's mouth edges up, probably against his better judgment.
"Are you alright?" he asks. John shrugs.
"I can't feel my knees," he says. Sherlock's eyes narrow with concern, and then he seems to remember the drip going into John's arm. "It's an awfully big room," John adds, conversationally. "They could fit a pinball machine in here." He enjoys the way Sherlock's smile keeps tilting, like an axis. "I'm starving, you know that?"
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed beside him, facing him. He seems to look over John, all the surfaces and dips and angles, the silly cotton gown and the crazy bandages and the plastic tag around his wrist. John basks in it, soaks it in, lets himself be looked at. He doesn't care if it's strange. If this is strange, to everyone else. It feels familiar and safe, like Sherlock is making sure that everything's still in order. That God is in His Heaven and John Watson is right with the world.
"You misunderstood me," he says, at last. John doesn't even try to catch up. Sherlock clears his throat. "Under the bridge. You kept saying, we." John remembers, and he remembers the feeling that boiled in the pit of his stomach. It's simmering now.
"It doesn't matter-"
"It was fine." Sherlock's knee is touching his, through the thin weave of the blanket. "It was unexpected. That's all. I didn't make myself clear. I only meant to tell you, that it was fine."
"Oh," says John. "Good."
Sherlock stays until he falls asleep.
John spends the next two days trying to explain things to his dad and Harry. He tries to convince them that it was just a prank gone terribly wrong, a boy's dare, something stupid that he will never ever ever do again. It mostly works. It must be the bandages, they look much more severe than they really are. His dad keeps trying to yell at him, and then lowering his voice because he's afraid he'll give John a headache. Harry actually brings him breakfast in bed for two days, burnt toast and a glass of cranberry juice that she's already drunk from. It's sweet. He just lies in his room for most of the day, listening to music or listening to nothing at all, letting his mind wander. He sees Sherlock's face behind his eyelids when he closes them, that brush of fear passing like headlights over his face. He keeps texting Sherlock, leaving him messages on Google chat, but Sherlock isn't answering.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Recovery is boring. Come over. You can talk over the tv and point out inaccuracies, it'll be fun
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Hello, are you there
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
I have a head wound I can't come find you myself. My dad will kill me if I step foot outside right now.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Sherlock
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Where are you?
John misses a week of school, partly because of his head and partly because his dad is really not excited about letting him out of his sight. John doesn't mind, considering the circumstances. It hasn't sunk in yet, the reality of it all. Getting pistol-whipped in a warehouse in the middle of the night, having some lunatic leave gift-wrapped murder shoes in the locker room. He supposes normal has flown out the window. Never to return. It's a strange week, spending nights on the couch with his dad, after work, watching dumb reality television and sometimes talking. It's like a vacation, except that he also keeps going around the house at night, locking the doors and closing the curtains. It helps, if only in his head. Sometimes he sits in the kitchen while his dad makes dinner, frozen stuff at first and then on Friday night, a roast chicken with half a lemon shoved into it.
"I saw it on television," his dad says, looking embarrassed. "Restaurants do it." They eat together, the two of them and Harry, sitting around the table. Harry tells them about a girl in her class with a pet rabbit. She wiggles her nose theatrically and they all burst out laughing, and John watches his dad across the table for a long time.
When he gets back to school Lestrade meets him in the hall, claps him on the shoulder and tells him to stop slacking. But there's something weird in his voice, something tired and held-in. His eyes are kind.
"Go on," he says. "You're already late."
John pretty much dozes through bio, skips gym with a note, walks to lit with a spring in his step. He wonders what the hell Sherlock's been working on that's kept him offline for an entire week. Studying hermits? Exploring Siberia? Well, maybe he's been sitting in warehouses without backup. John doesn't put it past him. He walks into lit and the desk behind his is empty. John sits and waits until the bell rings, and there's nothing. No Sherlock sweeping in late, crashing through the door, stalking in silently with a problem furiously buzzing under his scalp. No Sherlock at all. John stares at the book in front of him for the next forty minutes, without turning the pages. He can't read the words.
He goes to Lestrade's office after class.
"Where is he?" he asks.
"Transferred," Lestrade says. "Westminster School. With his record, bit of a shock, but apparently somebody was holding a place open for him. He's decided to take it."
"What?" John feels warm, dizzy. "When?"
"Got the papers on Wednesday," he says. "I thought you knew, John. Sorry it's come as a surprise." He really does sound sorry. John's hand is shaking. He goes out of the office and walks down the hall, out the door, down the street to the deli. He tells Mr. Papaioannou that Sherlock is in trouble, that he's got to find him, and Mr. Papaioannou nods gravely and tells him he'll see what he can do. John walks the circle of the park and stares at everyone, searches their faces. He goes home, googles 'Mycroft Holmes' ten different ways and finds nothing. John calls the hospital and asks about who got him the private room; he calls the police and asks to speak to Mycroft, that man in the big black car, if they've got his number handy. And then he sits in his room and waits.
His phone rings fifteen minutes later.
"John," says Mycroft. "Not very subtle."
"Where is he?"
"I'm afraid Sherlock is-"
"Where the hell is he?" John demands. "Because if he's already at Westminster, I'll go there myself and throw rocks at the windows until I find the right one."
There is a pause.
"John," Mycroft says, in a perfectly measured tone, "Given what happened, Sherlock feels it best, and I agree, that you should not-"
"Rocks," says John. "Big ones." He's clenching his hand around the phone, he realizes. "He doesn't get to decide what happens to me. What's best. He's not my father." He relaxes his hand. "At least tell him something. Please," he says. He's trying not to sound utterly pathetic, but it's probably too late for that. Mycroft sighs, like he is too old and serious and important for this drama. Well, that's mostly true.
"What's that, John?"
"Tell him he's an idiot."
And Mycroft laughs.
"Ah," he says. He sounds surprised, really surprised, for the first time. "I most certainly will."
On Thursday Sherlock is waiting for him at his house after school. Standing outside in his coat and scarf, leaning against the building. John gets closer and Sherlock pushes off the wall. John walks past him, unlocks the front door and goes inside. Sherlock follows him, shuts the door after himself.
"No Harry today," he observes, like he hasn't just come back from a poorly-timed disappearance. Like the world didn't mostly fall apart a week and a half ago. John shakes his head and plays along. He shrugs his coat off.
"My dad's taking her to the library. Books about rabbits. She's mad for them. It's the noses."
"Of course." John takes the kettle to the sink and holds it gingerly over the side; the glued handle holds. He fills it up and puts it on the stove. Then he walks back out into the living room, where Sherlock is still standing like a lump in his coat, and pulls him forward by the lapels. He wants to say everything that he's thinking, like don't you dare, and what do we do now, and you must know that I- but he doesn't. He doesn't know how to start. Sherlock stares down at him. His mouth is twitching, like there's a laugh trapped in there, dying for some sunlight. "Rocks?" he says, finally. "Big ones?" John cracks up and then he cracks up, and they are both laughing like complete morons when John pulls him down by the neck and presses his mouth over Sherlock's. His lips open and his eyelashes brush John's cheek. Sherlock tastes like orange slices, toothpaste and himself. They break apart unsteadily and Sherlock has a hand on his arm, wrapped around him, and he doesn't let go.
"To be fair," John says, "I'm something of an idiot, myself."
"I've noticed," Sherlock retorts, but there's no bite in it. He's not pulling away. He just can't help resisting the vague insult to his powers of observation. John can feel the thaw in his voice, the strange vulnerability. It's very un-Sherlock. It makes John want to be gentle.
"You notice everything," says John.
Sherlock breathes out, and John breathes in.
Part one.
Part two.
Part three.
They're still sitting like that when the cops surround them.
John sprints through the neighborhood, down beneath the overpasses, past the shopping center and the school, down past the train line that runs behind the estate. He goes until he's out of breath and his legs are burning; he's light-headed and floating, still only half-awake. He jogs along the side of the road, seeing the chain-link fences of the warehouse district in the distance. He's got the map folded up in his pocket, ripped out of his dad's road atlas. How Sherlock expects him to find the right warehouse in the dark is beyond him. He just runs and huffs and tries to keep his breathing steady.
He still feels like an asshole. More so, maybe.
He's on the back road, and there are no trucks moving anywhere that he can see. There's a gate and a fence with a printed sign, ACE TRUCKING. John sighs and keeps going. There's another one further down, with a higher fence, barbed wire, what looks like a security gate with a lighted guard's station. John crouches down and gets close enough to read the warning sign in front of the side parking lot: PARKING FOR CHEMPLEX EMPLOYEES ONLY. All others will be arrested, probably, or murdered in the middle of a school night. John kneels down and puts his hands on the ground, tries to get his heart rate back to normal. When he feels like he can stand up, he looks around the lot first. There's nobody. The guard in the box is facing the other direction, with a magazine in his hand. John jogs around the outside of the fence until the station is out of sight, and then notices something hanging overhead. It's a carpet. A Persian carpet, a really gorgeous one, that somebody's slung up to get over the barbed wire. It's probably worth a thousand pounds. "He's totally insane," John mutters to himself, and climbs.
It only takes a minute to run across the lot and duck behind the shipping containers. He makes his way between them, around the edge, listening for the sounds of feet or conversation. Hopefully not for the sound of Sherlock breaking his face on someone's fist again. There's a metal ladder up the wall of the warehouse, probably to the roof; John clambers up it and stops at the edge. Nothing. He hoists himself over and tries not to slide off- it's at an angle, with a strip of louvered windows towards the peak. He walks and then crawls up to the glass, hands catching on the metal panels. There's a faint light inside, safety strips glowing along the aisles, a couple of fluorescents still burning. There are rows and rows on end inside. Sherlock could be hiding in any one of the stacks. He could have already left, decided it wasn't worth a text to say so. And he could be sprawled out on the floor behind the barrels, bleeding out. There's a flash of movement in one of the side rows, and John's heart pounds. It's a man in a black jacket, with a knitted cap pulled low over his brows. There's a glint in his hand; he's keeping his arm steady as he walks, pressed to his side. He raises his hand to shoulder level, and the outline of the gun is suddenly clear.
John follows him along the roof, going as quietly as he can on the corrugated steel. The man's walking down a narrow aisle, moving swiftly towards the light at the other end. He turns a corner, and John can see a second man's head moving over the top of a row of barrels. He seems to be reading labels. Further down, there's a small blink of movement, like a reflection on the side of a car window. John peers closer, leans further over the glass, and inhales sharply. It's Sherlock. He's crouched within the barrels, taking photos with his phone. He must be out of sight on the ground, because neither of the men change course or yell or walk towards him. John stares down, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now. A couple of minutes must pass, because his legs start to cramp and his hands are going numb. He thinks about leaving the roof. He watches the first man motion at the second, casually, like he's saying to wrap up soon. The other man nods, and vanishes behind a row of barrels. John sighs and watches Sherlock, huddled down, fiddling with his phone. Texting the police and not him, hopefully.
Then John sees it- the second man, moving slowly through the row behind Sherlock. John can only see his face as it flits between the gaps for seconds at a time. But his eyes are trained on Sherlock's hiding spot. John's throat goes dry, and for a long second he's terrified. He doesn't know what to do. There are bright lights in his eyes, in his pulse. They're blinding.
And then John turns and slides down the side of the roof, runs along the flat edge to a stack of pipes and gutter segments that have been bundled up and left. He grabs a short, heavy segment and runs back up the roof, no longer trying for silence. He doesn't hesitate above the glass, just bashes the pipe against it with all the strength in his arms. The window splinters and shatters and the pipe drops through. It sounds like an explosion; everybody on the floor stares up.
"Hey!" John shouts. He doesn't have a plan. He barely has a thought in his head. "Hey, up here!" he hollers.
A gunshot rings out, whizzing by him, then another; he ducks and slides back down, sprints to the ladder and slings himself down it. He runs along the edge, staying below the windows, trying to find a spot to look in and find Sherlock. There's the sound of a door slamming open, not far away, and running feet. John hides behind a shipping container, presses his body flat against the side. The feet run past him and circle around the corner of the building, heading towards the road. John lifts up and goes slowly around the corner, and suddenly there's a hand on his arm. He whirls and blocks his arms up, almost punching Sherlock right in the face.
They stare at each other, breathing staggered and fast, and then Sherlock reaches out again to tug on his sleeve.
"Run," he says. "Can you-"
They do.
The man in the skullcap has gone around, towards the guard station, and there's only one way back to the carpet and the exit- back through the shipping containers. They weave through them silently, glancing around corners and motioning each other forward, sprinting quietly between boxes. They're almost in sight of the chain-link when the second man, the man checking barrels, pops up between a gap and stares at them. He looks as surprised as they do, but it doesn't keep him from calling out. Sherlock and John spin and run blindly in the other direction, thudding against the sides of containers, looking behind them. Sherlock takes a sudden left when John goes straight, and then he's running alone, twisting to look between the boxes. There's a shout behind him, and he turns around. He's looking over his shoulder when he slams against a body and tumbles backwards with the impact.
From the ground, on his back, John stares up at the man with the gun. He doesn't move. The man smiles and lifts a phone to his ear. There's a green glow on his cheek for a second, before the display fades.
"Yeah," he says, to whoever's listening. "Alright."
John can see Sherlock at the end of the row, panting and looking around the corners, trying to get a bearing. There's a very soft click behind John's skull, the floating cold touch of metal pressing his hair down. John can feel the man behind him and the gap between them, he can feel everything. He can hear his heart thudding in his ears.
"Call him," says the man. He nudges John with the barrel again. "Now."
John catches a breath in his throat.
"Sherlock," he calls out. Sherlock turns around with a surprised look on his face that immediately slides into annoyance. Of course. It's pretty bad form to yell out your mate's name at a crime scene. John would laugh, any other time. But Sherlock's about to take a step forward, a step closer. John looks at the flap of that ridiculous coat, the set of Sherlock's shoulders, the pale wrists and neck, peaks of light in the darkness. John opens his mouth for air. "Run," he shouts, suddenly, "RUN!" And there's a pounding crash on the back of his skull. He goes down onto his hands and knees, swaying; his head and his neck feel hot, burning, and there's a trickle of that heat running down under his jacket. He's been- hit with something? The gun. He blinks and his vision swims and he tries to get up. Yeah, definitely the gun. His head feels like it's splitting into a million bloody pieces. He sways back and sits on his heels, and when he looks up, Sherlock is looking down at him. "Oh, you stupid-" John says, and rubs his face with his hands, drunkenly. "You stupid fuck."
"Good evening, gents," says the man with the gun. There's a tinny, humming noise, like someone on the other end of a phone conversation. "He says hello." John looks up at Sherlock, who seems to be blurry around the edges. It hurts to keep his head up. "He hopes you liked your gift."
"Immensely," Sherlock says.
"He says he's glad to see you taking the initiative. But that you ought to be a little more careful, next time. Hold back. You don't want to get to the end just yet. No fast-forwards on this tape."
"Why doesn't he speak for himself?" Sherlock says. "Face me. Intermediaries only complicate things."
"He says you're not ready."
"Big talk for a phone," Sherlock returns. The man actually laughs, and the sound slingshots around John's brain.
"He says I ought to aim lower," the man tells them. John tries to twist around and see what's happening behind him, but there's a stab of cold on the back of his neck, the gun barrel pressing in again. He stills. "Says I ought to hit the spine. Let him live. Says he wants to watch you wheel him around town."
"Shut up," Sherlock hisses. It's so raw that John looks up in surprise, finds Sherlock staring down at him instead of keeping his eyes on the man with the gun. John really wishes he would keep tabs on the gun. There's a flicker of something that goes through Sherlock's eyes, a trembling shadow that John's never seen before. He must be hallucinating, because it's so plain. It goes across everybody's face, but not Sherlock's. Never Sherlock's. It's fear. In the distance, John can hear sirens faintly calling. He closes his eyes, briefly, and opens them to find his vision clearing a little.
"We're done for now," says the man. "We've got what we came for. Did you? He says he hopes he hasn't disappointed you. Discouraged your interest." Sherlock's face doesn't move; it's shuttered again, calm and cold and blank. Beautiful.
"Hardly," he says. He looks up. "Tell him I'll see him soon."
There's the sound of a phone clicking shut.
"He's looking forward to it."
John hears feet moving away, and when he turns around, there's nobody there. He groans and turns back to Sherlock, who is still standing up, watching the spot behind him. The sirens are getting closer. Louder. There's the scraping, mechanical sound of gates opening.
"Sherlock," he says. He sounds like a zombie. "Sherlock," he says, a little more clearly. Sherlock looks down and blinks, and then he's kneeling down, putting his hands on either side of John's head, leaning him forward to examine the back of his skull. His careful fingers press gently at the edges of the wound. John bites his lip.
"Heavy bleeding, but it's probably not fractured. Does that hurt?"
"Fuck- yes, yes, it hurts," John says, and tries to pull Sherlock's hands away. Sherlock doesn't let go, just cups his jaw between his hands and stares at him, his face less than a foot away. His thumbs rest on John's cheekbones.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry."
John doesn't know what to say.
"You're repeating yourself," he says, finally, and Sherlock's face spreads into a smile. They're still sitting like that when the cops surround them.
There really ought to be a lot more trouble than there is.
John is being herded onto the ambulance and Sherlock is getting cuffed when that posh black car pulls up. There's a brief argument at the gate and then Mycroft is striding up, glancing between John and Sherlock and talking rapidly on his phone. He shuts it and drops it into his pocket and goes to speak with the officer holding Sherlock by the arm. Sherlock is uncuffed and shrugged off. He follows Mycroft up to the ambulance with smugness and disgust warring on his features, rubbing his wrists. Clearly, he's conflicted.
"How's your head?"
"Heavy," John says, honestly. "It's leaking, you'd think it'd be lighter." The paramedic urges him backwards, trying to strap him in for the ride, and John looks at the both of them with something probably close to panic.
"We'll follow the ambulance," Mycroft assures him.
"I'll ride with John-"
"You'll ride with me," Mycroft interrupts, sharply. Sherlock, for once, doesn't look inclined to argue.
At the hospital John is cleaned up and x-rayed and whisked off to a private room. Apparently Sherlock was right: it's a concussion and some bruising, maybe the tiniest hairline fracture, but he'll live. His head feels like it's been wrapped in a roll of paper towels, and they've given him something for the pain. It's turning the world nicely fuzzy. Sherlock and Mycroft are out in the hall, he can hear the sound of their argument through the door. He lies back and waits for somebody to come in and tell him to go home, or that his head's fallen off and it's got to be sewn back on, or whatever. He is unbelievably tired. Sherlock comes in at last, looking pale and furious, until he sees John sitting cross-legged on the bed, smiling like a loon at him. The corner of Sherlock's mouth edges up, probably against his better judgment.
"Are you alright?" he asks. John shrugs.
"I can't feel my knees," he says. Sherlock's eyes narrow with concern, and then he seems to remember the drip going into John's arm. "It's an awfully big room," John adds, conversationally. "They could fit a pinball machine in here." He enjoys the way Sherlock's smile keeps tilting, like an axis. "I'm starving, you know that?"
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed beside him, facing him. He seems to look over John, all the surfaces and dips and angles, the silly cotton gown and the crazy bandages and the plastic tag around his wrist. John basks in it, soaks it in, lets himself be looked at. He doesn't care if it's strange. If this is strange, to everyone else. It feels familiar and safe, like Sherlock is making sure that everything's still in order. That God is in His Heaven and John Watson is right with the world.
"You misunderstood me," he says, at last. John doesn't even try to catch up. Sherlock clears his throat. "Under the bridge. You kept saying, we." John remembers, and he remembers the feeling that boiled in the pit of his stomach. It's simmering now.
"It doesn't matter-"
"It was fine." Sherlock's knee is touching his, through the thin weave of the blanket. "It was unexpected. That's all. I didn't make myself clear. I only meant to tell you, that it was fine."
"Oh," says John. "Good."
Sherlock stays until he falls asleep.
John spends the next two days trying to explain things to his dad and Harry. He tries to convince them that it was just a prank gone terribly wrong, a boy's dare, something stupid that he will never ever ever do again. It mostly works. It must be the bandages, they look much more severe than they really are. His dad keeps trying to yell at him, and then lowering his voice because he's afraid he'll give John a headache. Harry actually brings him breakfast in bed for two days, burnt toast and a glass of cranberry juice that she's already drunk from. It's sweet. He just lies in his room for most of the day, listening to music or listening to nothing at all, letting his mind wander. He sees Sherlock's face behind his eyelids when he closes them, that brush of fear passing like headlights over his face. He keeps texting Sherlock, leaving him messages on Google chat, but Sherlock isn't answering.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Recovery is boring. Come over. You can talk over the tv and point out inaccuracies, it'll be fun
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Hello, are you there
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
I have a head wound I can't come find you myself. My dad will kill me if I step foot outside right now.
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Sherlock
From: watson93
To: do_not_ask
Where are you?
John misses a week of school, partly because of his head and partly because his dad is really not excited about letting him out of his sight. John doesn't mind, considering the circumstances. It hasn't sunk in yet, the reality of it all. Getting pistol-whipped in a warehouse in the middle of the night, having some lunatic leave gift-wrapped murder shoes in the locker room. He supposes normal has flown out the window. Never to return. It's a strange week, spending nights on the couch with his dad, after work, watching dumb reality television and sometimes talking. It's like a vacation, except that he also keeps going around the house at night, locking the doors and closing the curtains. It helps, if only in his head. Sometimes he sits in the kitchen while his dad makes dinner, frozen stuff at first and then on Friday night, a roast chicken with half a lemon shoved into it.
"I saw it on television," his dad says, looking embarrassed. "Restaurants do it." They eat together, the two of them and Harry, sitting around the table. Harry tells them about a girl in her class with a pet rabbit. She wiggles her nose theatrically and they all burst out laughing, and John watches his dad across the table for a long time.
When he gets back to school Lestrade meets him in the hall, claps him on the shoulder and tells him to stop slacking. But there's something weird in his voice, something tired and held-in. His eyes are kind.
"Go on," he says. "You're already late."
John pretty much dozes through bio, skips gym with a note, walks to lit with a spring in his step. He wonders what the hell Sherlock's been working on that's kept him offline for an entire week. Studying hermits? Exploring Siberia? Well, maybe he's been sitting in warehouses without backup. John doesn't put it past him. He walks into lit and the desk behind his is empty. John sits and waits until the bell rings, and there's nothing. No Sherlock sweeping in late, crashing through the door, stalking in silently with a problem furiously buzzing under his scalp. No Sherlock at all. John stares at the book in front of him for the next forty minutes, without turning the pages. He can't read the words.
He goes to Lestrade's office after class.
"Where is he?" he asks.
"Transferred," Lestrade says. "Westminster School. With his record, bit of a shock, but apparently somebody was holding a place open for him. He's decided to take it."
"What?" John feels warm, dizzy. "When?"
"Got the papers on Wednesday," he says. "I thought you knew, John. Sorry it's come as a surprise." He really does sound sorry. John's hand is shaking. He goes out of the office and walks down the hall, out the door, down the street to the deli. He tells Mr. Papaioannou that Sherlock is in trouble, that he's got to find him, and Mr. Papaioannou nods gravely and tells him he'll see what he can do. John walks the circle of the park and stares at everyone, searches their faces. He goes home, googles 'Mycroft Holmes' ten different ways and finds nothing. John calls the hospital and asks about who got him the private room; he calls the police and asks to speak to Mycroft, that man in the big black car, if they've got his number handy. And then he sits in his room and waits.
His phone rings fifteen minutes later.
"John," says Mycroft. "Not very subtle."
"Where is he?"
"I'm afraid Sherlock is-"
"Where the hell is he?" John demands. "Because if he's already at Westminster, I'll go there myself and throw rocks at the windows until I find the right one."
There is a pause.
"John," Mycroft says, in a perfectly measured tone, "Given what happened, Sherlock feels it best, and I agree, that you should not-"
"Rocks," says John. "Big ones." He's clenching his hand around the phone, he realizes. "He doesn't get to decide what happens to me. What's best. He's not my father." He relaxes his hand. "At least tell him something. Please," he says. He's trying not to sound utterly pathetic, but it's probably too late for that. Mycroft sighs, like he is too old and serious and important for this drama. Well, that's mostly true.
"What's that, John?"
"Tell him he's an idiot."
And Mycroft laughs.
"Ah," he says. He sounds surprised, really surprised, for the first time. "I most certainly will."
On Thursday Sherlock is waiting for him at his house after school. Standing outside in his coat and scarf, leaning against the building. John gets closer and Sherlock pushes off the wall. John walks past him, unlocks the front door and goes inside. Sherlock follows him, shuts the door after himself.
"No Harry today," he observes, like he hasn't just come back from a poorly-timed disappearance. Like the world didn't mostly fall apart a week and a half ago. John shakes his head and plays along. He shrugs his coat off.
"My dad's taking her to the library. Books about rabbits. She's mad for them. It's the noses."
"Of course." John takes the kettle to the sink and holds it gingerly over the side; the glued handle holds. He fills it up and puts it on the stove. Then he walks back out into the living room, where Sherlock is still standing like a lump in his coat, and pulls him forward by the lapels. He wants to say everything that he's thinking, like don't you dare, and what do we do now, and you must know that I- but he doesn't. He doesn't know how to start. Sherlock stares down at him. His mouth is twitching, like there's a laugh trapped in there, dying for some sunlight. "Rocks?" he says, finally. "Big ones?" John cracks up and then he cracks up, and they are both laughing like complete morons when John pulls him down by the neck and presses his mouth over Sherlock's. His lips open and his eyelashes brush John's cheek. Sherlock tastes like orange slices, toothpaste and himself. They break apart unsteadily and Sherlock has a hand on his arm, wrapped around him, and he doesn't let go.
"To be fair," John says, "I'm something of an idiot, myself."
"I've noticed," Sherlock retorts, but there's no bite in it. He's not pulling away. He just can't help resisting the vague insult to his powers of observation. John can feel the thaw in his voice, the strange vulnerability. It's very un-Sherlock. It makes John want to be gentle.
"You notice everything," says John.
Sherlock breathes out, and John breathes in.
