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How could he have been so stupid? Sherlock thought to himself. He had sensed something was off, and yet he let his guard down. At John’s insistence, they were to have one day out in the city to themselves. No crimes to solve, no murderers to hunt down, no delicious clues to store away in his Mind Palace. Frankly, Sherlock knew better. The game was always on, that was the thrill of it. Statistically, it was pretty likely that someone could be getting murdered right now, and Sherlock wasn’t there to solve it. He scowled at the thought.
The pressure of John’s hand in his had pulled his mind back into reality, where he could enjoy a rare warm sunny day in London. It was infuriating that he couldn’t be both places at once. And yet, Sherlock instinctively knew that not all was as it seemed today. He had the feeling that they were being followed. It happened often, since they had become notorious minor celebrities after their frequent run-ins with Moriarty. John was better at ignoring them than Sherlock. Sherlock, ever the pessimist, often felt that their intentions were more sinister. So he kept his guard up, always on the lookout, scanning the crowd. Clueing for looks, as John jokingly liked to say, after a rather unfortunate evening of a few too many drinks.
“Would you relax, please, love?” John muttered. “We just wrapped a case yesterday, it’ll likely be a little while until we hear from Lestrade again. Try to see the good in the world around you.”
“Right, right,” Sherlock agreed, without really meaning it. At that moment, John’s hand slipped out of his, when a nearby food vendor caught his attention. Sherlock smiled at him, a slice of pizza did sound good after all. He turned away from John to lean against the railing beside the river. The peacefulness of the water was one of the few things that helped him shut the door to his Mind Palace when he needed to. In the bustle of London, it was often difficult for him to find that calm feeling.
He focused on putting the key in the door to the Mind Palace and turning the lock. He had promised John that he would stay in the moment with him today. As the lock was about to latch, Sherlock heard a scream. Not just any scream. John. The voice that was the center of his universe, the one he had let out of his sight only a minute prior. He silently cursed himself and turned on the spot.
“JOHN!” He looked around frantically. He heard a scuffle to his left. Two men were dragging John into an oversized van. He appeared to be unconscious, with one of the men holding a cloth over his mouth. Sherlock ran toward the van, but he knew he wouldn’t make it before they slammed the door shut.
Red hot anger flashed in his eyes. Who were these people that thought they could take his John from him? My John. Mine. Sherlock simply could have gone with John to get lunch instead of wandering away from him, and yet he turned his back instead. He had known something was wrong. He couldn’t shake that feeling all morning, and he ignored it. Foolish.
He remembered that he had been holding the key in the lock to the Mind Palace, so he quickly let the key fall, and forced the doors wide open. He needed every resource at his disposal. First, he reminded himself not to play the hero. Of course, he could solve this on his own, but he took no chances when he came to John. He pulled out his phone.
Sent to [Greg Lestrade]: Help now. John was kidnapped -SH
[GL]: On my way, send coordinates.
[SH]: 51.506308, -0.084258
The van had been a newer model, black, new tires. Ideal for offroading. John was likely being taken outside of the main city. The van was dirty, the reddish brown dirt was reminiscent of a type of clay. Frequently used on certain dirt roads. He made a left turn in his Palace, towards the room filled with maps. He sorted them by type of road. The van was heading east, at a high rate of speed. Not likely to make any sharp turns any time soon. He narrowed the list of roads further.
The where would become clearer once he figured out the who and the why. It was headed east. What was to the east. The Old Royal Naval College was that way. It could be someone from John’s military past. It could be Moriarty. Sherlock had recently thwarted a number of Moriarty’s attempts to get under his skin. When the game was on, Moriarty left clues that were almost too easy for Sherlock to find, as if he wanted to get caught. And as much Sherlock loved the chase, it was no game to him.
It had recently made front page headlines that Sherlock and John were together. They had managed to keep their relationship a secret for nearly a year. They had agreed to keep it strictly professional outside of 221B, and for a long time, they were successful. Nobody at the Yard suspected a thing. It was a thrill they both enjoyed, the duality of going from business partners and flatmates in public, to secret lovers behind closed doors. Sherlock had scoffed at the word ‘lovers’ in the paper, but it was difficult for him to define his relationship with John. The Great Sherlock Holmes never believed in true love, or soul mates, or any of that nonsense. It was not logical. But after living and working with John Watson for over half a decade, they could no longer deny the electricity between them. John was his, and he was John’s. It was as simple as that. Once the secret was out, they no longer had to hide, which Sherlock had to admit was nice. He liked holding John’s hand in public, he loved the stolen kisses and secret glances that only he understood. What were they doing denying themselves for all those years?
And now Moriarty knew the truth between them. He could mess with Sherlock’s mind and play games with him all he wanted, and Sherlock would always come out on top, but this had crossed a line. He reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He had gotten so much better about quitting smoking. John hated it, and he would do anything to make John happy. When things were going well, he rarely felt the cravings anymore, but when things were bad, his Mind Palace didn’t function properly without it. And now, things were very very bad. His phone buzzed.
[Blocked Number]: Miss me?
Now that there was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind about what was going on here, he just had to force all of the pieces together. Cigarette between his lips, he flicked the lighter. On queue, Lestrade’s police car pulled up beside Sherlock and he jumped in without a second thought.
“John was taken at 1:16pm from the east side of the pier, near the food vendors. The van is a 2012 black Ford Transit with all-season tires. They are heading west towards the countryside. They’ll be going to one of the villages with the clay dirt roads. Moriarty is behind this. He thinks he can destroy me by taking John away, I’ll show him I’m perfectly capable on my own. The kidnappers were tall, caucasian, light hair, athletic build. Possibly brothers.” He pulled a long drag. “Made no effort to conceal themselves in broad daylight. Obviously are confident that they’ll get away with it, or that Moriarty will protect them. Can we pull surveillance footage from the area? Never mind, I’ll get Mycroft to do it, he’s faster than you lot.”
He paused his monologue for seven seconds to text Mycroft what footage to pull, offering no context for the demand. He let Lestrade drive in silence for a few moments until they reached an intersection covered with tire treads.
“Stop the car,” Sherlock demanded, opening the door and putting his feet on the ground before the brakes fully engaged.
“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” Greg chided. “You’ll be useless if you fall out of a moving car.”
“No matter, I’m fine aren’t I? You see these tire tracks? They match the van. Made a sharp turn north. As if a sudden change of plans. Are they actually heading that way, or did they just want us to think that?”
One of the new colleagues from the yard began to respond to that question before Greg could stop him.
“I think it would be best to follow the tracks-”
“Shut up! Why are you talking? You think you can figure this out before me? Turn around. Stay 20 meters from me while I think. There aren’t any dirt roads to the north, these streets lead back into the main city, it’s obviously a ruse, they must have turned around somewhere. Clearly headed south. Moriarty used to have a hide out in one of the mansions in that village near Sutton. They could be heading there. But why? I SAID SHUT UP!” Sherlock turned back to the rookie, who was watching Sherlock in awe.
“I- I didn’t say anything, sir, I-”
He reached for another cigarette and rolled his eyes. “I can hear you breathing, it’s awful distracting, didn’t George here teach you anything about not disturbing a detective at a scene? Back in the car, head south. Now.”
Back in the car, Sherlock checked his phone again, and saw a news headline. BREAK IN AT HIGH END JEWELRY STORE. Under the headline, Moriarty’s trademark, spray painted on the broken window. Miss me? And that awful smiley face.
Sherlock’s hard drive kicked into overdrive. He could either stay on his trail to the south, where he was sure John was hidden, or he could head back into London and find out whatever was going on at that shop, and maybe prevent further damage. What did Moriarty want him to do? He would be sure to do the opposite. Sherlock refused to play by his rules. Moriarty probably thought he was still the old Sherlock, the one who would drop everything when the game was on. And usually, that was true. But not when his John was in trouble. This Sherlock would let the entire world burn if it meant he could be with John.
Sherlock was confident that they were on the right track to John, but the car was not moving fast enough. On this winding country road, with nobody around, Sherlock felt no urgency from Lestrade. “Relax, Sherlock.” He had said. “John’s a smart man, he’ll be just fine, he knows how to fend for himself.” It made Sherlock’s blood boil, it was as if the Yard didn’t understand how dangerous Moriarty is.
“Stop the car,” Sherlock said. His voice was quiet, but deadly. When the car rolled to a stop on the shoulder, Sherlock all but pulled Greg out of the drivers’ seat, and threw him in the back. He floored the gas pedal before Lestrade had shut the back door. He watched the odometer and tachometer needles soar to the right. He knew where he was going, although he had never been there before. He put his Mind Palace in the drivers’ seat so he could concentrate on the work.
Moriarty frequently poisoned his victims, which would explain why John had made no effort to contact him. He had a flair for the dramatic, which means John was still alive, but only for so long. How much longer did he have? The car started to whine, but he paid it no mind. He ran though common poison antidotes in his head. He charted out locations to the nearest hospital as the Moriarty mansion neared. There was no one in sight, clearly he had expected Sherlock to take the bait at the jewelry heist, and leave John for dead. Moron. Sherlock internally preened.
That likely meant that John didn’t have much longer unless he located him fast. Fast acting poisons and the heist were likely more connected than he realized. He couldn’t save everyone. That was always the point, but he had made his choice.
“Oy, Graham! Get a poison control squad over to that jewelry heist. At least five victims, possibly more. They likely don’t have more than an hour or so. And get an ambulance out here asap.”
Greg knew better to question Sherlock, or bother to correct his name in a time like this, and he did as he was told. Sherlock sprinted up the mansion.
He smashed down every door he encountered, frightfully aware that time was of the essence. “JOHN!” His voice echoed through the old corridors of the 1800s mansion. No sign of him. He checked again. As he passed through the bedroom hallway a second time, he noticed a different sound under his feet.
He stomped on one wood panel. Hollow. He jumped to the next one. Not hollow. There was a small notch on the side of the panel, just wide enough for him to fit his fingers, and it slid to the side. The opening below was small, and dark, but there was unmistakably someone there, unconscious. He shifted, and squinted into the darkness. Sherlock’s eyes focused on the unmistakable blond-gray hair and hideous jumper of John Watson.
The sound of an ambulance approaching wailed.
Sherlock jumped down into the cell below, but John did not open his eyes. His breathing was shallow, and his pulse was slow and weak, but he was not too late.
***
John was rushed from the scene and taken to the hospital. Greg got there first, as Sherlock hung back to investigate the scene, and review the footage from Mycroft.
At the hospital, Greg immediately went to question John, but the nurses were adamant that it must wait.
“Who is his next of kin?” The nurse asked him.
“Erm, I suppose that would be Sherlock Holmes. He should be here soon, I’m sorry he’s not here already, he’s a bit of a nutter.” He tried to explain.
“Ah, that would explain it.” She responded, just as John managed to make a noise that sounded vaguely like Shhhlock. “That’s the only thing he’s said since he’s been here.”
Greg cracked a smile. “Yeah, the two of them are something else, that’s for sure. He should be here any minute, but before he arrives, let me just warn you about Sherlock. Don’t take anything he says too seriously. He means no harm, but he’s been through a lot today, and he can be… eccentric.”
She smiled, “I’ve seen it all here, don’t you worry.”
There was a sound barreling down the hallway, someone sprinting down the corridor, dodging stretchers and doctors and patients without a second thought. “That’ll be him.”
The door banged open, and there he stood, curls bouncing every which way, and coattails flailing behind him. He had forgone the scarf for once, as it was unseasonably warm.
“John! Is he well?” He dashed to his bedside, and John’s eyelids began to flutter at the sound of his voice. He squeezed John’s gently and brushed his hair away from his face.
He turned away from John for a moment to scan the nurse up and down. He smirked knowingly, and Greg put his face in his hands and groaned.
“Stephanie, is it?” She nodded, surprised. “Your husband is going to figure out that you’re cheating on him soon. It would be better if you come clean to him before he finds out. It’s honestly impressive you’ve hidden it for this long.”
She blushed a deep scarlet. “How-?”
Greg tried to usher her out of the room. “Trust me, you’re better off not finishing that question. Give us a moment, would you?”
Once Stephanie was out in the hallway, Greg grabbed Sherlock by the collar. “I’ll leave you be for now, but I’ll be back in the morning to get the full story. And for God’s sake leave the nurses alone. Just focus on John, yeah?”
“That I can do.” And he started staring at John with such an intensity as he slowly came to. He barely registered Greg disappearing from the small room. He held John’s hand and whispered sweet nothings in his ear for as long as it took.
Some time later, Sherlock noticed the heart rate monitor pick up, but John did not stir.
“Open your eyes, you idiot, I know you’re faking it so I’ll keep saying nice things to you.” He snapped, back to sounding like his usual self.
One eye opened immediately to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s face. “I’m alive, love. Barely.”
“Nonsense, you’re fine. They’re just keeping you overnight for observation.” After all this time together, Sherlock still struggled with the romantic stuff with John. He never knew how to express his feelings for John with words, even though often enough it was evident in his actions.
“Do you want me to stay here with you?” He asked, seemingly aloof.
“Yes, please. You know how I hate being a patient in the hospital. This feels wrong to me.” John grimaced. He prided himself on being fairly self-sufficient in all medical needs.
“Hmm. Can do, I suppose.” With that, Sherlock took off his coat with a flourish, and toed off his shoes. He eyed the bed, it was a bit small, but no matter. He leaned down and shoved John to one side, and wriggled into the bed beside him.
“Sherlock, what the hell? We shouldn’t-” John pretended to complain and he wrapped his arms around him, foreheads pressed together.
“Mmm. Do you really think now is when I’m going to start caring about what I should or should not do?” He raised an eyebrow. Really, John should know better than that. He silenced him with a kiss.
“Darling,” John whispered with a hand on his chest. “You’ve been smoking again. You stink.”
“I was worried sick about you, I needed everything functioning at top speed. What did you expect? Come with me.” Not waiting for a response, Sherlock leapt out of the bed, and pulled John with him. When he first entered the room, he noticed a bathroom with a small shower stall. This ought to be fun. With John still putting most of his weight around Sherlock’s shoulders, he disconnected his heart rate monitor and other devices, and pulled him towards the bathroom.
“Oh no. We really shouldn’t.” John protested. Sherlock closed the bathroom door behind him and untied John’s hospital gown, letting it fall to the floor. Lovely. He turned the shower on, and gently shoved John under the hot water, while he rushed to undress himself.
“Of course we shouldn’t, that’s obvious, but we will. I saw fourteen million possibilities of how today could have ended, not all of them pleasant. I won’t take one more minute with you for granted.”
At that, John couldn’t help but smile. He stepped into the shower besides John, suddenly realizing just how small the stall was. This was really not going to be as pleasant as he planned. He turned to face John. Standing as far apart from each other as they could in the tiny shower, their chests were only inches apart. Sherlock licked his lips.
“Sweetheart, it’s too small in here, I don’t think we can.” John said sadly.
“I know. I was just calculating our usual angles for our preferred positions, and given the width and depth of this space, it’s physically not possible. We’ll have to save that for when we’re back home.” He said, a sultry glint in his eye.
Sherlock pressed up against John, squeezing him up against the tile wall, kissing him deeply, intertwining his fingers in his hair. Sherlock loved when John played with his curls. It was soft and sweet. Sherlock was gentle as he ran hands over John’s body.
This man was so different from the stoic, unfeeling detective that most of the world knew. This Sherlock was for John, and John alone. He could revel in that fact forever.
You are mine, mine, mine.
Some time later, the water began to run cold. John reluctantly untangled himself from Sherlock’s arms and shut off the water. Once they were cleaned and dressed, Sherlock grabbed his coat and began to head towards the door.
“Oy! You’re leaving me here?” John snapped. “After all that?”
Sherlock smirked. “Not a chance, doctor. I believe you were going to buy me a slice of pizza, and I’m going to hold you to that. Come on then. I’m hungry.”
John made a mad dash for his shoes and ran out behind Sherlock. He checked his watch. 1:18am. Where was he going to find pizza at this hour? Always another puzzle to solve. The game was on.