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It was on a rare sunny Tuesday in November, when John decided to look for whatever caused a mysterious noise. To be more exact, it happened when he bit into his toast for the second time that morning. It is strange what small details people sometimes remember afterwards.
He had been living at Mary’s house for three weeks now, and the noise kept him up at night. Sometimes, it disappeared for three days entirely, and then again John could hear it the whole night. After he first heard it, he asked Mary about it at breakfast, but she only laughed. She explained to him that he was probably listening to the old pipes in the house. Mary had inherited the small house in a nice corner of the suburbs in London from an old aunt, who had been a bit peculiar with her house. This explanation satisfied John at first, since he did wonder at some of the design choices, particular in their bedroom (an orange carpet, really?). Mary then sweetly inquired about redecorating, and John happily talked with her through the whole IKEA catalogue.
In his humble opinion, the whole house lacked both colour and clutter. It all looked barely lived in. Mary prefers to keep her belongings in tight order, and she prefers white and beige over red and gold. She likes her sofa cushions unused and her table without any sword marks. Once upon a time, this view would have fit John, but not anymore.
He had met Mary at a pub he visited with a couple of his colleagues. Secretly, John never liked these work outings, but his new colleagues urged him to come. Later, Mary confessed to him that she asked a mutual acquaintance of theirs to set them up. John didn’t feel like dating at first, but Mary did not take no for an answer. Soon after, they went for a cup of coffee and scones, and thus began their relationship.
Surprisingly, Mary had been good for John. She helped him see a liveable future again, and find some joy in his life as well. They worked a lot and visited Mary’s friends on the weekends. Mary went to her book club once a week and John stayed home and solved crossword riddles, which were probably the only riddles he would solve for the rest of his life. It was all terribly dull, and strangely comforting all the same.
However, through all of these pleasantries, John had not forgotten the noise. It sounded like knocking, and it drove him insane. His work at the E.R at a busy London hospital was stressful, and he needed his peaceful sleep.
Especially after everything that happened, nearly two years ago. The nightmares had kept him awake for months, and only Mary’s presence in bed has helped him. She reacted surprised when John asked if he could move from his tiny flat into her house, but she happily agreed when he explained how much more time they would be able to spend together. Mary was a nurse in a clinic, and they often kept long-working hours. Now, she was growing a bit tired of his grumpiness in the morning, and even tried to recommend him sleeping pills. John never heard of these pills, and when he googled it, he found out that it was made by a factory in Romania, which did not deliver into Great Britain. He asked Mary about, curious, but she only laughed and said that she must have read about it somewhere.
John sighed and scratched his head. It would have all been splendid, Mary and him, an exciting job, a lovely house. All certainly much better than John had ever expected, after everything that happened.
If only he could sleep through the night again!
He was on holiday for a week, but unfortunately Mary still had to work, so John spent the last two days with a lot of reading and catching up on various Netflix shows. Today though, he didn’t want to be lazy, and as soon as Mary had closed the door behind her, he dressed himself and thought about his plan.
The noise was probably coming from the pipes, and although Mary had reassured him that it was probably nothing, he still wanted to check, just to be sure. It wouldn’t be good to wake up someday with burst pipes and a flooded house.
Now, he didn’t know much about Mary’s house yet, and he was also terrible at everything that needs repairing (something a certain person had always laughed at), but John decided to walk down to the basement and search there. The basement was the only room he had not entered yet. He didn’t need it to store anything, since he barely possesses stuff. Mary told him that she is mostly keeping Christmas decorations and some old, giant puppets there from her aunt, which had turned John off the basement. Until today, of course.
He opened the old door with a not very reassuring sound and squinted into the dark. His left hand searched for a light switch, but there wasn’t one. John seriously considered just giving up here and there (he still had to watch the new season of Doctor Who), but then decided that he was a soldier after all and could deal with a dark basement. He returned with his phone, turned on the flashlight and carefully walked down the groaning staircase.
The basement was already crowned. John spotted with his flashlight several packed moving boxes - those were probably the Christmas lights - and he let out a scream when he discovered a large clown puppet hanging from the ceiling.
“Jesus.” He swore under his breath. Crazy aunt indeed.
After a lot of moving, more swearing and accidentally dropping a box on his toes, John still had not found anything that could have caused the noise. He sighed, frustrated, and let his flashlight again wander through the room. John noticed a corner he hadn’t searched yet, because there was a huge table placed in front of it. He fought his way through the chaos and experimentally tugged at the table. To his surprise, it wasn’t as heavy as he feared, and he moved it aside. It was not as dusty as the rest of the stuff, so maybe Mary had placed it here recently.
Behind it, he found more moving boxes. He groaned, but decided to work on nonetheless. John threw away one box after the next, not really caring at this point, and he was already down to the last box when he noticed what had been hidden behind it.
A freaking door.
John blinked in surprise. Why was there a secret door in Mary’s basement, and why had she never told him about it?
Staring at the mysterious door a little longer, he came to his senses. This was probably just a very small room, with maybe the power box and the pipes in it. There was no door lock either, just a latch. John opened the door and stepped into the room, which was as expected tiny so tiny that a grown man could not stretch his legs, and also smelled horrible.
Well, John did find the pipes. And he found out what caused the noise that kept him up at night. Most importantly however, he found something that would change his entire life, again.
Or better, John found someone.
The former soldier stumbled at the pitiful sight in front of him. He just barely caught himself. The terrible air and the smell urged him to flee and then throw up.
John opened his mouth and closed it three times, his wide eyes staring at the figure that was huddled on the ground, only wearing dirty, stained clothes and a half-shaved head.
“Sherlock.” John finally whispered, both in prayer and in wonder, and his vision went dark.
John first realized his dog tags were missing when he unpacked his boxes in his new, mouldy small flat in a dingy corner in London. He always kept the tags in a former shoe box with some other military memorial stuff, including pictures. He didn’t notice it when he packed them in 221b. John had been so feverish to get away and finally move out that he just threw all of his things into boxes without any care.
Now the tags were missing. John even forced himself to call Mrs. Hudson and ask her to look if it somehow slipped under the bed or behind the desk, but she didn’t find them either.
John rarely opened the shoe box and looked at the items collected in it. He enjoyed his time in the military, it gave him a purpose, kept him busy and even offered him some sort of companionship. If he wouldn’t have been shot, he would have grown old with it.
In fact, he only opened the box once while he was living in Baker Street, and that was when Sherlock asked him about it. Sherlock was always secretly interested in John’s past and especially his time as a soldier, although the detective pretended not to be. John happily indulged him nevertheless, and Sherlock soaked up his stories like a sponge.
After looking everywhere again and again, John had to concede. His dog tags were simply missing, and there was no way to get them back.
In retrospect, he really should have known what really happened to them. There was only one person in John’s life, who would have been bold enough to take his dog tags. And John just found that person.
John woke up with an aching head. He blindly reached with his hand to his head. He must have hit his head when he went down, but he couldn’t feel any bleeding. Thank god. He tried to open his eyes next, and had to blink a few times to clear his vision again.
The crumpled figure on the ground right next to John had not moved in the time that John was unconscious. John checked his watch. Only about 70 minutes had passed since he went down the basement, so he couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few minutes. Another good sign.
With a loud groan, he heaved himself up and leaned against the wall. His eyes never left the detective on the ground.
Yes, detective, because this is him. How could John Watson ever not recognize him?
Sherlock Holmes.
His best friend, who committed suicide in front of him by jumping from a roof nearly two years ago. Tied up and hurt and unconscious in his girlfriend’s basement.
While he was sitting there, John made up a plan. It couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, but everything moved so much more slowly at the moment.
(1) Take a deep breath, remember your training, and get to work
(2) Get Sherlock out of this terrible basement
(3) Wash him and check for injuries, treat them if necessary
(4) Find new clothes for him and get them both to safety
(4.1) Drive them both to Lestrade’s flat
(4.2) Come up with a lie to tell Mary, and then call Mycroft to hunt her lying ass down
(5) Nurse Sherlock back to health, demand an explanation for this whole mess and then snog him senseless rekindle their friendship.
Right, this shouldn’t be this hard.
John crawled to Sherlock (noticing again how terrible small and cold the room is - what was Mary thinking?) and reached for Sherlock’s hands with shaking fingers. Sherlock’s hand was clammy, frozen, but John could detect a pulse. John heaved a loud sigh of relief.
Sherlock had been tied with ropes around his wrists and ankles in a disturbingly professional manner. The detective had often proven in the past how quickly he could slip out of many restraints, but there was no escaping this without help. John needed ten minutes to untangle the ropes around his wrists alone. They had left deep gashes behind, probably from former restraints as well, and rope burn. John had to clench his teeth to keep himself from cursing. He could have walked to their kitchen and bring back scissors or a knife, but he didn’t want to leave Sherlock out of his sight for even one second. Not now that he finally had him back. The doctor also forced himself to not look at his friends bald head, his sunken and grey faces, the bruises on his face and his arms, his emaciated body, and the terrible state of his clothes. Apparently, Mary had even neglected the detective to at least wash and relieve himself in a dignified manner.
Finally, done with the restraint, John decided to not wake up the detective and instead just bring him into a nicer environment. He slipped one arm under Sherlock’s bony knees and another around his back. John expected much more difficulty, but the detective felt as light as a feather. John congratulated himself on keeping up with his jogging and arm training, and then carried the detective out of his prison.
Stepping back into Mary’s light living room felt surreal. How could so much happen in less than two hours? John’s muscles shivered a bit as they warmed up, and he felt Sherlock stir in his arms. He walked them both into the bathroom and set Sherlock carefully down and propped his upper body against the bathtub. In the light, he could finally look at Sherlock properly, and this time nothing prevented him from cursing out.
Not much was left of Sherlock’s pale but striking and almost aristocratic face. Instead, he resembled a tortured prisoner of war. His face was gaunt, and whoever shaved his head had done a crude job, leaving cuts everywhere. His lip was split and there was dried blood. With sinking dread John realized that this must be a recent injury and that Mary must have punched him, probably while John was treating other people’s injuries at the E.R.
John finally found the courage to cut open Sherlock formerly white and now completely grey shirt. His clothes would wander into the bin immediately. Sherlock’s ribs were way too visibly, and again, dark bruises were everywhere. John took a look at Sherlock’s back and gasped in horror. Sherlock’s back was filled with whip lashes, none of them treated, and several looked infected. John laid a hand on Sherlock’s forehead, the detective was burning up.
John quickly let water run into the bathtub and collected pain medication, his phone and charger, clothes for him and Sherlock (Mary had luckily bought him a pair of two large pants and trousers and an oversized jumper as a welcome gift), his laptop and his wallet into a bag. He hoped that Mycroft (damn that man) and his minions would take care of the rest of his meagre belongings.
With that done he fired off a short text to Lestrade, asking him if he was home and if John could come. John didn’t feel like facing Mycroft right away, that pompous ass hat probably knew everything, and Lestrade was a police man after all and more than capable of creating a safe space for them.
John returned to the bathroom. Sherlock was stirring now quite a bit and mumbling to himself. The doctor undressed him (and he forced himself not to let his eyes wander too much). The ghastly socks made a weird sound when he dropped them to the floor, and something fell out. Something familiar.
His dog tags. Sherlock must have taken them with him, wherever he went, and somehow, he managed to hang onto them.
That romantic bastard. John couldn’t help but grin.
He carefully and slowly lowered a shaking Sherlock into the bathtub. The detective let out a small gasp when his body met the water. John reached for shampoo and a spoon and slowly rinsed him down.
He was massaging Sherlock’s face when the detective’s eyes suddenly opened. For a long, long-expected moment, the two reunited friends could only look at each other. Sherlock’s lips moved, and John had to come closer to understand what he was whispering.
“John. John. John.”
Sherlock said his name like a prayer, and John was reminded of a similar but reversed situation down in the basement just minutes ago. He scooped all of his courage up from the floor and cupped Sherlock’s face with his hands.
“I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here, and you will be fine.” He said. Sherlock closed his eyes, a soft smile on his lips. John pressed his lips on Sherlock’s forehead.
“I’m here.” He said again, a promise that he always will be.
Drying Sherlock off and putting clothes on him was a bit easier now that Sherlock was awake. John quickly cleaned the gashes on his back and put bandages on him. Thankfully he always kept a fully stocked emergency bag under the sink. Sherlock even managed to swallow a pill. John did not dare to give him more before Sherlock had not eaten something, but this would at least take the edge off. He was also not shivering any more and started to gain some colour, so the bath must have helped a bit.
The detective didn’t even protest when John put the cream-coloured jumper on him. Next, he grabbed his packed bag and hoisted Sherlock’s trembling arm over his good shoulder.
“Where are we going?” Sherlock mumbled into John’s shoulder as they made their way to that damned car of theirs. John hated driving in the city and finding a parking spot was a fucking nightmare, but Mary had insisted she needed one. John didn’t feel an ounce of regret when he packed them both into her vehicle. Mary deserved to have her car kidnapped.
“We are driving to Lestrade.” John explained and turned the key. The car came to life with a splutter. “From there, I will call your brother.” He noticed Sherlock’s disgruntled expression at that and snorted. “He can get you better treatment. You should really be in hospital, but we can’t exactly turn up there, with you being dead and disgraced and all that.” John didn’t try to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Let Sherlock get a taste of what he had done. Sherlock didn’t react to that and John saw that he had fallen asleep again. Well, sleeping would help with the fever, so John didn’t protest and instead focused on driving.
Of course, it wasn’t long until they ended up in a bloody traffic jam. Probably caused by some bloody Brexiters. Unfortunately, this left John enough time to think again. He shoved the whole feeling of betrayal and bitterness and also sorrow towards Sherlock aside for a moment. They could deal with this later. For now, he had to focus on more immediate problems.
(1) During their whole relationship, Mary had lied to him
(2) Was their relationship even real, or had Mary planned for the beginning to do what, exactly. Blackmail John with her prisoner? Kill them both in dramatic fashion?
(3) Had she worked for/with Moriarty, had she acted alone or was she part of a bigger criminal network?
(4) How long had she planned to imprison Sherlock, and what exactly did she plan to do with him?
John remembered how they had to shift their moving plans for a couple of days, because Mary had to visit a friend in the country who struggled with her divorce. John even accompanied her to the train station. The soldier now wondered if Mary had used that lie as an alibi to kidnap Sherlock from wherever she found him and hide him in her basement. Which would mean that Sherlock had spent at least three weeks down there, without medical treatment or even sunlight. John’s hands tightened around the car wheel in anger. Maybe Mary was even the cause for Sherlock’s lashes on his back.
John promised himself that he would ask Mycroft to talk with Mary himself as soon as she was in custody of the British crown. He demanded answers. After that, Mycroft could leave her in his darkest cell and throw away the key for all John cared.
This was something that many people did not expect from John. He may look like an unassuming, gentle doctor in cream-coloured jumpers, but damn it, if someone threatened his friends and loved ones, there would be hell to pay and John would act without mercy. And there was no one he ever loved more than the snoring man next to him.
Yes, that is another lesson John had learned in the lonely months after Sherlock’s fall. He was, in fact, bisexual, and he must have repressed these feelings for years. Most probably a result of his fathers homophobia and the attitude in the army. And he loved Sherlock, would love him gladly for the rest of his life.
Of course John knows that Sherlock simply wasn’t feeling things like that, but that never stopped John. Now, at last, there was hope again. If Sherlock wanted him back, John would be back. If Sherlock wanted to move to Antarctica and study the northern lights, John would go with him. This may be unhealthy for other people, but it was how John felt.
Finally, the traffic started moving again, and twenty minutes and several traffic lights and turns later, they managed to find a parking space only two minutes from Lestrade’s flat. As soon as things had calmed down, John would bring this car personally to a seller and never look back.
He was reluctant to wake Sherlock up from his slumber, but he couldn’t carry both Sherlock and his bag in one go. The detective grumbled a bit as John helped him step out of the car, but then suddenly paused. John panicked for a second, anticipating Sherlock to faint, but the man was still standing. Sherlock let his eyes wander over the houses, the few trees, the overflowing bins, the skyline of the financial district that was visible at the horizon.
“Everything okay?” John asked nervously. Did Sherlock detect someone suspicious?
“Yes, I’m just… taking it all in.” Sherlock said, took a deep breath, and then they walked slowly up to Lestrade’s door.
John pondered the question of Sherlock’s strange behaviour right now, when he suddenly realized it: Sherlock must not have seen London in who-knows how many months, and Sherlock loved his city.
John wondered if Sherlock had missed him too.
Thankfully, Lestrade buzzed them right in. The detective inspector was waiting for them at his door, and his eyes widened when he noticed them approach.
“John, what the hell. I’m glad you texted, but, who is that?” He asked and pointed at Sherlock.
“Greg. I’m sorry for the sudden intrusion, but we didn’t know where else to go.” John said, apologetic.
“Who is we?” Lestrade inquired again, and Sherlock lifted his head. They had now reached the door. Lestrade stared at Sherlock’s beaten face for what felt like hours, and his intrigued face had turned into a shocked face.
“Oh, you bastard.” Lestrade shouted suddenly, and lunged at Sherlock. John tried to step back, but his baggage slowed him down. Luckily, Lestrade only hugged Sherlock while laughing happily. Sherlock looked absolutely horrified, which made John laugh as well.
“Lestrade please, we have to get in.” John pleaded. Although Sherlock didn’t show it, his wounds on his back must pain him immensely, and John still hadn’t had the chance to talk with Mycroft, which meant Mary was still walking around freely.
“Of course, but you have to explain everything to me.” Lestrade exclaimed cheerily, and then led them both into his flat.
As far as John remembered, Lestrade had only moved into this flat a few months after Sherlock’s fall. The whole investigation only just saved Lestrade from being fired, and the divorce did the rest. His flat looked more spacious than John’s small flat, but not terribly nice either. Not even with a high-ranking job at Scotland Yard could someone afford a nice home in London.
John let Sherlock rest on Greg’s sofa, while Lestrade made them tea and asked a dozen questions. John tried to answer them all, while Sherlock nibbled on a few crackers and forced a glass of water down his throat.
“What the fuck was your girlfriend thinking, hiding Sherlock in your basement? Honestly, this all sounds fucking crazy.” Lestrade said.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” John shrugged and blew on his hot tea. “Maybe she wanted money for him.”
“Wrong again.” Sherlock whispered suddenly, and John’s and Lestrade’s head whipped around. The detective was finished with his small meal and brushed crumbles of his jeans.
“What do you mean?” John asked. Would they now finally learn what happened?
“The last two years, I was travelling around Europe to destroy Moriarty’s criminal network.” Sherlock started, interrupted by Lestrade’s “Bloody Anderson, he figured it out!” cry.
“Obviously, the criminals didn’t like that, and they soon started to figure out who I was. On my last stop in Serbia, they captured me.” The detective shuddered. John reacted instinctively and scooted closer to Sherlock. Their shoulders brushed together, and Sherlock threw John a look of gratitude.
“They tied me up, prevented me from sleeping, and interrogated me. The men were old-fashioned, they preferred the more medieval methods over the subtle torture methods our government likes to employ.” Sherlock said quietly and pointed at his back. These men had lashed his back with a whip until he bled.
“Holy shit…” Lestrade whispered, his face white as chalk.
“Are they dead?” John said. His hand wandered to Sherlock’s knee and gripped it tightly. Sherlock put his hand over John’s and squeezed it tightly.
“Yes, they are.”
“Good.” John answered, satisfied.
“Your girlfriend killed them.”
“What?” John said, his stomach churning with dread.
“She is… dangerous, John. She must have been the link between Moriarty and the group in Serbia that I was missing. They contacted her, I’m not sure when. She arrived and recognized me immediately. The men wanted to keep me as a bargaining chip against my brother. She didn’t like that, and poisoned their drinks at the next opportunity. I saw their corpses. She told me that she would bring me back to England, and that something terrible would happen if I didn’t comply. Not that I had much of a choice, she kept me drugged and tied up in the boot of her car. Next thing I knew, I was in the room in your basement. And …” Sherlock closed his eyes tightly for a second. “I heard your voice, John.”
“How?”
“The pipes, John. I tried knocking against it, using Morse code. Mary did not like that, obviously. That is how I got this.” He pointed at his split lip. “And you never seemed to hear me.”
“I heard you.” John answered, and a look of deep understanding passed between them. Morse code, damn it. Why did John not notice it?
“What will happen now to Mary?” Lestrade asked.
“I will kill her.” John announced and tries to get up, but Sherlock drags him back down.
“John, please don’t.” He pleaded. “She is a highly-trained professional killer with contacts all over Europe. She has hidden weapons all over your house.”
“I can trick her. She won’t know I know until it is too late for her.” John said, his veins burning with the need for revenge.
“John, I don’t know why she even started a relationship with you, although I have a guess. Please, just call Mycroft.” Sherlock asked him while holding on to John’s arm like a lifeline.
John resigned: “Fine.” He said, a bit disappointed. He fished out his phone and dialled Mycroft’s number.
The older Holmes brother reacted surprised when John called him (finally, John managed to surprise a Holmes), then reacted even more surprised when he heard that Sherlock had been hidden in London for weeks (John was really on a winning streak), and then acted outright shocked when John told him about Mary (three in a row). Mycroft promised him to handle Mary and to also send medication and more bandages to Lestrade’s flat. They both agreed that it would be safest to stay at the D.I’s flat until Mary had been arrested.
“No, but really Sherlock. Please tell me that Anderson secretly knew, because if he was really the only one of us to figure it all out, I’m going to eat my police badge.”
“Bon Appétit.” Sherlock said, grinning. John laughed. God, he missed this.
“God damn it.” Lestrade cursed, and wanted to take his badge out, but did not find it. “Where is my badge anyway?”
John shrugged, but Sherlock dragged the stolen badge right out of his pocket. “I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch.” He said.
Lestrade grumbled something about ungrateful brats and wandered off to the kitchen. This left Sherlock and John suddenly on their own, and things got awkward. Sherlock fiddled with the blanket that Lestrade had thrown over him, and John stared at his shoes. Did he even pack his toothbrush?
“You have questions.” Sherlock remarked suddenly, and John’s head moved so quickly to Sherlock that his neck ached.
“Yeah, one or two. Pretty much.” John said and rubbed his head nervously. Lestrade glanced at them and closed the kitchen door for some privacy.
“I guess you want to know how I did it.” Sherlock said, sitting up. At last, he seemed eager to show off his brilliance.
John laughed, but it was not happy laughter: “No, Sherlock. For now, I don’t give a fuck about how you did it. I want to know why.”
Sherlock closed his eyes. This only infuriated John more.
“I want to know why, Sherlock. Why did you not just tell me? Why did you leave me alone in London, grieving for my best friend? Why did you go off to Europe without ever sparing a thought for me?”
“I thought about you every day, every hour, every minute.” Sherlock whispered. “That is why I took the dog tags, so I could remember you.”
“I could have been with you, at your side. Like we always were. Together. You wouldn’t have had to fight this alone.” John said, whispering now too.
“It was too dangerous.”
“And leaving me depressed in London wasn’t dangerous enough? Sherlock, I was fucking depressed. And some rogue criminal decided to date me too.”
“They would have killed you!” Sherlock suddenly shouted. The blanket fell to the ground as he suddenly stood up.
John jumped up as well: “So what? They nearly tortured and killed you too!” He screamed into Sherlock’s grey face.
“Moriarty had snipers on the roof. They would have shot you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I could never risk that, so it all had to look convincing. Molly helped me, I knew Moriarty would underestimate her. After that, months of utter hell passed, and I was so alone and the whole time I thought.” Sherlock’s voice suddenly breaks, and he sinks to his knees. John is there for him immediately, his head reeling with what Sherlock just told him.
“I thought, at least John is safe in London. Safe and happy, and he has finally the chance to build the normal life he always wanted.” Sherlock gasped in pain and clutched his stomach, as if he was trying to hold himself together.
John pressed his aching forehead against Sherlock’s head. A tear was running down his face and joined Sherlock’s falling tears.
You idiot.” John whispered and finally pressed Sherlock to his chest. The detective whimpered, which only prompted John to hug him tighter. “How could I ever be happy without you?”
They stayed like that for a long while, just enjoying each other's presence and trying to calm themselves down.
Lestrade knocked carefully on the door and peaked into the room: “Can I go back in? I think Mycroft’s men are here.”
The next three hours were such a flurry of activity that John hardly bothered to keep up. He and Sherlock moved back to Lestrade’s sofa and Sherlock received an IV for hydration and finally some proper painkillers. Mycroft walked around, giving orders, observing public cameras from his laptop and somehow, that bastard still managed to gloat at them. John watched the sun go down slowly. It had been a long day.
Sherlock was back to sleeping when Mycroft finally got the call they had all been waiting for.
“Your wife has been arrested when she tried to enter your house.” Mycroft told John. “They also found multiple weapons, explosives, and a large amount of bullets, all hidden somewhere in the house.”
“Christ.” John mumbles.
“Of course, my men confiscated everything. They are looking through her electronic devices as we speak.”
“That is good.” John answered, very relieved. He was so ready to be done with this day and especially her.
“John, Mrs. Watson claimed she only wants to talk to you. In fact, she shouted it multiple times at my officers.”
John rubbed his hand over his aching face and groaned. Any wish he may have harboured about their relationship died when he found Sherlock chained up in her basement. However, this would also hopefully give them answers.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” He said, and Mycroft nodded.
“I suggest we drive there right now.”
John sighed: “Really, now?”
“No time like the present.” Mycroft said and got up. “Does Sherlock want to talk to your girlfriend as well?”
“First, she is no longer my girlfriend. Second, I don’t want Sherlock anywhere near Mary. Is that understood?” John demanded, remembering Sherlock’s terrified face. The detective should not go through more emotional turmoil.
“Fine.” Mycroft agreed. John coaxed Sherlock out of his well-deserved slumber, and the three men made their way to the waiting car. Lestrade waves them goodbye, and John promises to call him as soon as they settled back in 221b Baker Street.
Baker Street.
“Your former flat is still waiting for you. I continued to pay for the rent, and asked Mrs. Hudson to not let other tenants live there for at least three years.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock said begrudgingly. Mycroft puts a pair of thick headphones on and busies himself with his laptop again. John wonders how they could possibly prevent Mrs. Hudson from suffering a heart attack.
“John.” Sherlock whispered, his hand reaching for John’s arm. “Do you… would you… I know you will probably be angry for a long time, and it will come out here and then. But. Do you want to move back to Baker Street with me?” Sherlock asks, and tries to hide the pleading in his eyes that John knows far too well to be fooled.
“If you want me back.” John said gently. His heart throbs with excitement.
Sherlock smiled: “Of course.” John’s gaze wanders to Sherlock’s lips, and his whole resolve grumbles. Mycroft is still staring determined at his laptop, so John pressed a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek.
“I wanted to do that for a long time.” He confessed.
“You call that a kiss?” Sherlock grumbled against his chest.
“No, but I don’t want to snog you while your brother sits right in front of us.” John said.
“Wise choice. Although I demand retribution as soon as we have some privacy.” Sherlock said.
The two smiled at each other. They hold hand until the car stops at a large, unassuming building in the east of London.
Mycroft unplugged his headphones: “We are here.”
Mary was waiting for John, cuffed to the table in the interrogation room. John had to take the elevator down to meet her, and it all reminded him of James Bond films.
He hoped the cuffs hurt her wrists.
“Try not to attack her, John. Sadly, we still need her in one piece.” Mycroft warned him, and John stepped in.
A glass wand separated the interrogator from the prisoner, and John is glad for that. Mary’s head jumped up immediately when she saw him, and a big smile broke out on her face.
John sat down. Mary reached out and pressed one of her hands against the glass.
“John, I’m so glad you are finally here.” She said.
John sighed: “Mary, listen.”
Mary quickly interrupted him: “You have to tell Holmes that this is all a big misunderstanding. You see, I saved Sherlock from Serbia, but it was still too dangerous for him. So I kept him safe.”
John wondered how fast she came up with that stupid explanation: “I would like to know your definition of safe, because I don’t think keeping someone safe entails chaining them, already wounded, and then deny them food and water.”
Mary buried her head in her cuffed hands: “John, you don’t understand. You never do.”
“Then tell me.” John demanded, already fed-up with this. He wanted to go back to Sherlock and finally get some sleep, god-damn it.
“I love you.” Mary confessed, and now John really had enough.
“No, Mary. That is not love, keeping secrets from me and hurting the people I care about.”
“He lied to you for nearly two months, but it’s always different with him, isn’t it? For you, the great Sherlock Holmes can do no wrong.” Mary exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “Why don’t you just snog him if you want him so badly?”
“Maybe I will.” John growled. How dare she speak of them like that.
“You needed him to blackmail Mycroft, correct?” John demanded. “I bet you have lots of troubles thanks to your criminal activities. What I want to know is why you started that whole relationship with me!” John’s fist hit the table with a loud *crack*.
Mary sank back into the chair. She looked defeated: “Moriarty told me to keep an eye on you, in case Sherlock tried to do something stupid. Like faking his death, for example. I studied you, and after I while, I decided to get closer, in case you knew something.”
“And how did that interest turn into kissing me?”
Mary shrugged: “I started to like you.”
John wondered if this was the first time Mary had been honest with him.
“Will you tell Mycroft to put in a good word for me?” Mary said hopefully.
“Nope.” John answered, and finally left.
Mycroft is waiting for him outside.
“What is going to happen to her?”
“We have contacted both the Americans and the Serbians. Your former girlfriend is highly wanted. I can assure you that they will treat her as she deserves to be treated.”
“So she will leave the U.K. and never bother us again?”
“Yes, I promise you that.”
John steps into the elevator.
“John, I hope in the future you will not date more assassins who are wanted by 28 countries.” Mycroft said.
“Don’t worry. From now on, I will date consulting detectives only.” John laughed, and the elevator closed to hide Mycroft’s horrified face.