Chapter Text
He grabbed a cap from a stand in the busy streets of Mumbai, India, ducking behind a truck and stealing a few cucumbers from the open boxes. He took a left to disappear in an alleyway, walked till the end and emerged on the main road. He kept his hood on and ate the vegetables as he made his way to the edge of the city.
He was almost there, a mere fifteen minutes till he arrived at his scheduled transport, when the sky cracked loudly, and the drops fell on his covered head. He lasted a whole forty five seconds before he couldn’t control his thoughts, which went directly to John’s calloused hands around the umbrella, sharing it between the two of them with takeaway swinging with every step.
Sherlock always tried to stir away from the emotion. But in his thin, weary form, full beard and buzzed hair, torn shoes, no cash left in his wallet, and soaking wet from the rain, he missed John dearly.
This was the reason he couldn’t go back. Not if he wants to ensure John’s safety. He’ll endure as many hails as he has to until Moriarty's web is taken down.
~~~~~~~~~
Broken fourth rib, a bloody nose, and shredded knees from the tumbling fall from the train. He was without a map in the middle of a snow blizzard, with nothing but his thin clothes. They took his backpack on the train, he hadn’t had a chance to grab it before he ran.
During the night, he huddled under dead trees, seeking shelter from the wind. He took out his boot, lifted the padding and found the photograph. Small enough to be hidden in the soles of his shoes. He stared at it for what felt like hours.
John holding a bloody umbrella above himself and Sherlock, in deep thought over the note a serial killer had left for them. The yellow tape could be scene at the edge of the image where the crime scene was at. According to Mycroft, Lestrade had taken it when he saw them huddled together for warmth during a cold December evening.
He continued looking at it, until he could feel John’s warmth seep into him, and sleeping tugging him into John’s embrace.
Hours later he’d awaken in an old couple’s home, still clutching the photograph.
~~~~~~~~~
Eight months after nearly freezing to death, Sherlock found himself under the few rays of sunshine peaking through the sky on a hot summer day in London.
It was a difficult start, but the two of them worked through it.
Sherlock explained everything, and John listened. Afterwards, the detective waited for John. For a text. For a call.
None came. And Sherlock was at a loss. Summer turned into fall which morphed into Winter.
After solving a small case for Lestrade, Sherlock made his way back home, hoping Mrs Hudson was awake to open the door. He must have dropped his keys during the fight with the suspect. Opting to walk in the cold rain, he refused himself the luxury of an umbrella once again. He drove Mycroft’s care away, and he did it again with John. He deserves the cold numbness.
It was unexpected, really, the onslaught of memories and emotions as he touched the freezing cold doorknob. He dropped it and it banged against the door, shooting pain across his head.
Memories of being whipped, stripped naked in the Serbian wilderness during blizzards. Of broken ribs and torn photographs. Of aching shoulders and number fingers. Of blades across his skin and snow in his eyes.
He felt one of their hands on him and flinched back before throwing a right hook. Whoever they were, they didn’t come near him again. Good. He knocked them out.
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, maybe even years, he couldn’t feel time. Not during the endless loops of pain and the bone chilling cold.
A warm voice cut through the snow in his mind. Saying his name. Once. Twice. Sherlock’s eyes flutter open.
“Hey, it’s John, I’m not them.” That is John’s voice vibrating through him.
But how was it so deep inside his chest? Oh – he was being carried. Sherlock face rested against the doctors chest. Upstairs. Seventeen steps. Warmth. Fire.
Sherlock burrowed his face even deeper and breathed John in.
“Good, yes, in, and out. You’re doing good.”
Oh, he was hyperventilating. Not good.
“It’s okay, you’re okay, you’re in baker street.”
It was a few minutes later that Sherlock fully came to his senses. He stilled.
“It’s fine, don’t worry. We need to find you new clothes first, okay?”
Sherlock nodded and extracted himself from John. They were in Sherlock’s bedroom, a dim light came from the bedside drawer.
Silently, Sherlock took to change his wet clothes in the bathroom. Upon emerging, he saw John waiting for him.
And so they talked. Sherlock told him everything, the parts of torture he omitted from their last conversation, and John divulged more about his depression during the years Sherlock was away.
They talked for the rest of the night. Sherlock told him how he preferred walking without an umbrella as a way to punish himself, and John told him how he couldn’t even stand to look at one when Sherlock fell.
For the years to come, both men swore to tell the truth. When they grew to become partners in every aspect of the word, they carried on the tradition of sharing an umbrella, each taking a turn.