Work Text:
John waited for Sherlock.
They had been running around Europe for what seemed like forever, ever since Moriarty chased them out as Lestrade’s team swooped on half of criminal London at once. A quick whip through the channel tunnel and a change of train as soon as they hit Calais, and Sherlock had insisted on getting off-road as soon as possible. John had laughed at the thought of Sherlock roughing it with a sleeping bag, a tent, and trangia-made tea, until it became clear that that was exactly what he was planning. They travelled by hitch-hiking, catching cross-county trains and rough coach journeys. France. Belgium. Germany. France again.
Now, he had lost track of time, location, and even Sherlock. He had awoken to find a note scratched on the wall of the small cave they had found, in the code Sherlock had insisted he learn consisting of odd little stick figures, explaining that his friend had woken early and gone to scout the area. That had been sixteen hours ago. John had tried to track him, to no avail, had walked the area looking for signs, of which there were none, and finally had tried Sherlock’s temporary mobile, bought two days ago and due to be discarded as soon as possible. There was no signal.
John waited, the light of the phone the only beacon in the growing gloom, and willed the phone to ring.
Nothing.
There was a footstep outside the cave just as he was beginning to doze. His head jerked up.
“Sherlock?” he asked, a split second before his tired brain told him how foolish it was to call in their current circumstances. He braced himself for a torrent of swiftly jabbered abuse, but instead a voice laughed.
A soft voice.
A wrong voice.
“No, Doctor Watson.”