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John sleepily reached out for Sherlock, to find that he was not a splay of limbs on John’s side of the bed, as it usually were. He checked his phone. 2:16am. He rolled over to see Sherlock laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, fingers interlaced on his chest. He was clearly deep in the halls of his Mind Palace, and John knew better than to startle him out of his stupor.
For several moments, John just watched Sherlock think. He wished he could literally see the gears in his mind turn. They were deep in the middle of a grisly murder case, with Lestrade expecting them back at the Yard early the next morning. An import of stolen jewels had arrived in London a few days prior, with the intent of being sold on the black market. There were two men leading the operation. When one of them turned up dead, it initially seemed obvious that he had been killed by the other, so he could horde the profits. When the second man was found brutally murdered the following day, it was clear they were dealing with something much larger. With no communication into London from either smuggler, there were no immediate suspects as to who could have known such a shipment was arriving. Sherlock was eager to get back on the scene tomorrow to dig out the details, but John knew as well as anyone that he was useless without sleep.
Sherlock stirred for the first time, unlacing his fingers and turning to face John. “See something you like, doctor?” He stared at him intensely, then cocked his head slightly. “Why are you awake, it’s the middle of the night?”
John shrugged. “I could ask you the same question.” He yawned.
Sherlock sat up, clearly ready to dazzle the sleepy John with his brilliance. “I found it odd that the ship importing the artifacts had no navigation or communication equipment, no markings of any kind. It’s impossible to trace where the ship came from. Which means that whoever killed the smugglers was probably involved in loading the ship, and then caught a flight to London in time to meet the ship in the harbor.” He got out of bed and started pacing. “I need to brush up on my knowledge of various gemstone origins and common trading sites. From there I could cross reference recent incoming flights with known criminal records -” He turned back around. John was asleep. Sherlock sighed and disappeared into his lab in the basement.
John was restless, frequently waking to the sound of whatever Sherlock was up to below. Lab equipment was whirring, Sherlock cursed loudly whenever he got unexpected results from whatever he was testing. Once, John thought he heard breaking glass. He buried his face under the pillow and tried to block out the noise.
Several hours later, John’s alarm clock buzzed. 8:00am. He felt moderately well rested, surprisingly. For a moment, he relished in the calm morning before he had to get ready for the long day ahead of them.
Sherlock. He never came to bed last night. He was going to be insufferable at the crime scene today. John considered making a pot of coffee and then going to find Sherlock, but then he debated if caffeinated Sherlock was worse than tired Sherlock. It was a draw.
The lab beneath him was quiet. Too quiet. It was very unlike Sherlock to fall asleep down there. Had he left already? John dashed to the entryway, to find Sherlock’s coat still hanging by the door. John’s heart thudded, something was off. He turned toward the lab door to run down the stairs to find -
The lab was destroyed. Equipment was shattered, a window was broken, the usually neatly stacked papers were scattered on the floor. Clearly there had been a struggle. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
The room spun and threatened to flip over. John’s mind flashed back to when he was kidnapped by Moriarty, only a few months ago. And now this. John’s legs shook as he tried to investigate the lab around him. Why couldn’t they be a normal couple? he thought angrily.
He quickly stopped himself. Sherlock hated when he said things like that. Sherlock wouldn’t be his Sherlock without his brilliant mind, obsessive tendencies, attention to detail, and no thought for what might be considered societal norms. Those are the things that John loved about Sherlock, and he would never ask him to change.
But right now, his Sherlock was in trouble. John fought to clear his mind and analyze the scene the way Sherlock would.
John picked up the papers on the floor, and found that most of them were related to this case. Sherlock had been documenting various gemstone samples that had been found at the scene, and studying their chemical composition. He noticed one red stone still underneath the microscope lens. Next, he went over to the laptop and tapped on the mousepad until the screen came to life. An article about the origins of rubies was on the screen.
There was now no doubt in John’s mind this kidnapping was connected to the case. Clearly, Sherlock was approaching a breakthrough, and whoever was behind this, believed Sherlock knew too much.
If John could duplicate what Sherlock was trying to find out, he could find his kidnapper. First, he texted Lestrade.
[JW]: Whoever is behind those murders just kidnapped Sherlock. No idea where he is, but I have to look through his lab for clues. Please start a manhunt.
Lestrade, always the professional, responded instantly.
[GL]: On it. Send updates regularly.
But he couldn’t help but to tack on a snarky reply a minute later.
[GL]: You two can’t stay out of trouble for five minutes without needing a rescue mission.
In any other circumstance, John would have laughed. Instead, he focused on the article Sherlock had been reading. It described the chemical composition of various gemstones, and how that could be used to track where they were mined from. He reviewed the chemical formulas quickly, and then turned to the first ruby under the microscope. Once he identified the chain of molecules, he turned back to the screen, and matched it up. Japan.
He tested a few more stones to verify, and they all matched. That was a good sign. He quickly opened two new tabs. First, he ran a query for all flight records from Japan to London in the past few days, and then an Interpol log of all known Japanese citizens with an international criminal record. The query ran slowly, the timer on the screen ticked by. The computer did not seem to understand the urgency of the results. John’s mind began to wander.
He was back in the basement of Moriarty’s mansion, alone and disoriented. He could hear Sherlock calling out for him, but he was too weak to respond. “Help.” He tried to cry out, but it was barely a whisper. He wanted nothing more than to be in Sherlock’s arms, and for him to tell him everything would be alright. His soothing baritone washed over him, muttering words of affection that only John would ever hear. Hell would freeze over before Sherlock would let anyone else see his tender side.
The computer pinged loudly, breaking John out of his reverie. He was shaking from the memory, and the sudden absence of Sherlock’s touch. He tried to steady himself as the words swam across the screen. Maybe Sherlock had already gotten himself out of whatever situation he was in. He could be on his way back to Baker Street right now. He would be fine, John tried to reassure himself.
Tanaka Minato was the top result of the query. John clicked into his records. He was a known smuggler, based in Japan, but had done deals all over the world. He had shipments of cash, precious metals, jewels, and countless priceless artifacts under his belt. He had alluded law agencies around the world, always managing to just slip out of arm's reach. And he had flown from Tokyo to London just two days ago.
He relayed what he had found so far to Lestrade. He responded with a list of abandoned warehouses that could be used to hide stolen goods, and asked John to cross reference them against the suspect’s name. John did so, but initially found nothing. He then turned to airport security footage, and was able to locate him disembarking the plane. He pulled security footage from various cameras as he tracked his path through the airport all the way to the car rental agency. Gotcha. Although he used a fake name to rent the car, John was easily able to pull the make, model, and plates. He picked up his phone again, sending Lestrade the new information.
John felt confident that he had everything he could glean from the scene at the lab, so he hurried out the door to hail a cab to the first warehouse on his list. He shouted the address at the cabbie, and threw a wad of cash through the partition. “Hurry!”
“That’s way on the other side of town, sir-” He began.
John quickly flashed a stack of cash at him. “Floor it. We’ve got a few stops to make. Now!”
With that incentive in mind, the car took off. John stared unseeingly out the window. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Why did criminals insist on tearing them apart as a part of their schemes? Obviously, they worked best together, but even individually, there was no stopping them. His Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with, and was frequently underestimated by those that didn’t know what he was capable of. John’s mind supplied him with a list of fond memories of Sherlock, running mental circles around various adversaries, finding hidden secrets in clues that were otherwise overlooked, and even physically defeating opponents in hand to hand combat. Frankly, he was glorious. And he is mine.
His phone rang. Lestrade again. The moment he picked up, Greg was shouting.
“The warehouse in Montpelier! We found that car, he’s got to be here! Get here! Now!”
John yelled the address to the cab driver, who looked around at the street signs wildly.
“That’s the opposite direction!” He exclaimed.
“Turn right! Here! Turn RIGHT!” John pointed at the next intersection. They were in the far left lane, and the car skidded wildly as the driver cut across several lanes of busy traffic and ran through a red light. Horns blared and pedestrians lept out of the way.
John nodded approvingly. “Don’t slow down now.” The driver seemed to be enjoying this now, weaving in and out of lanes, with a wild look of glee on his face. The race was going well for a few short moments, until sirens blared behind them. He began to panic and instinctively started to slow down and pull over.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? KEEP GOING.” John stated authoritatively. “We’ll handle them when we get there!”
The driver looked hesitant, and John quickly handed him a few more large bills. “Go. Now.” He ordered in a tone that offered no room for argument.
“Yes, sir.”
The wail of the sirens and the demands from the cop car to stop the vehicle were difficult to ignore, but the pull of Sherlock in that warehouse was stronger.
He fought to steady his mind for the last few minutes of the drive, anxiously anticipating what might come next. He felt for his gun on his hip, and put his other hand on the door handle, ready to jump out the second they arrived. As the warehouse came into view, John threw a few hundred dollars more into the front seat. “For your troubles. You’ve been very helpful.”
As the car rolled to a stop, John flung the door open to face the police cars that had been chasing them. “I’m with the Yard!” He shouted. He pointed towards Lestrade’s team. “One of you, handle this.” He demanded. “Get out of my way.”
He double checked that his gun was loaded as he barrelled towards the doors.
Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. John’s heart pounded in time with Sherlock’s name ringing in his mind. He would make whoever took Sherlock from him pay. His military training kicked in. He was light on his feet, flitting behind storage units and boxes, making his way through a labyrinth of shipping containers looking for any sign of movement. The warehouse was bigger than he anticipated.
After a few minutes of sneaking around, he began to hear a muffled voice. He held his breath as he moved closer.
“You have two choices, Mr. Holmes,” a man’s voice said threateningly. “You can pledge your loyalty, and come work for me, because apparently you’re so clever. Or you can die.”
There was a long pause. “No. No thank you.” The words were weak, slurred, but they unmistakably belonged to Sherlock.
“Wrong choice,” the voice responded. John heard the safety of a gun flick off. It was now or never.
He jumped into the opening and made his presence known. Sherlock sat on the ground, arms shackled to the wall behind him. His eyes were unfocused, and he seemed too weak to keep himself sitting up straight. John shuddered at the thought of if he had been just a few minutes later to arrive. “Drop the gun or I’ll shoot,” he ordered.
The man turned to face him, but kept his gun pointed at Sherlock. “Why should I?” he sneered.
Sherlock seemed to register John for the first time, and his face broke into a sloppy grin. His eyes struggled to stay open. “Jooooohn.”
“Because you don’t want to mess with me. I strongly suggest you let him go.” John spoke in what Sherlock liked to call his Captain Voice. It was a dark, delicious tone that Sherlock could never say no to. Unfortunately, it did not seem to have the same effect on his captor. Time to take on another approach.
John would have really appreciated Sherlock’s help now. John knew he had no trouble getting himself out of handcuffs and other bindings when he was sober, but he had no clue what state of mind Sherlock was in. He’d have to handle this adversary on his own.
John feigned to his left to catch him with the right hook, causing him to stumble only for a moment, but it gave John a chance to get the upper hand. He knocked the man to the ground where they wrestled for several minutes until John managed to get both of his hands pinned behind his back.
He heard the sound of a small clink behind him, and he turned to face Sherlock. To John’s great surprise, Sherlock was holding a key between his teeth, and his plan suddenly became clear. With one signature Sherlock wink, John grabbed the key. In a flash, he had Sherlock free, and the kidnapper chained where Sherlock had been only a moment before.
John fought to catch his breath. “Good thinking, love.”
Sherlock’s moment of wisdom seemed to have passed. He grinned that sloppy smile as he grabbed onto John’s arms in a half-assed attempt to get to his feet. “Jooohhhn.”
John wrapped Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder and started to drag him towards the doors of the warehouse. “Yes, love.”
Sherlock’s eyes grew wide at that. “You love me?” he whispered.
“Yes, you idiot. A little help? I’m trying to get you out of here.” John pretended to be angry, but in reality his heart soared. Sherlock was okay. All of his fears were unfounded. He could definitely use a shower and a good night’s sleep, but by tomorrow everything would be back to normal.
He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “Mine,” he whispered. John held onto him tightly as the detective’s feet dragged behind them. He vowed to never let go.
Once they were back out into the sunlight. John laughed when he saw the cabbie from before was still waiting for him. He had all but forgotten what he had put that poor driver through.
“Had to see this through, didn’t I?” the driver called.
John smiled. “You’re too kind. My apologies again for earlier.”
He tried to shuffle Sherlock into the backseat before Lestrade jogged over to them.
“Uh-uh, not so fast. I need Sherlock’s official statement on what happened here,” Greg stated.
Sherlock, still leaning heavily on John, whispered to Greg with wide eyes. “John loves me.”
Lestrade stifled a laugh in an attempt to remain professional. “I know that, but I meant what happened regarding the case? Your kidnapper? You had information regarding the smuggling? What else happened in there?” he pressed further.
“John kissed me,” Sherlock said in wonder, his mind clearly miles away.
John took this opportunity to open the cab door and shove Sherlock unceremoniously inside, to give himself a moment to hide his face, which had surely turned a deep shade of red.
He cleared his throat as he turned back to Lestrade. “The kidnapper is chained up inside. His name is Tanaka Minato, international dealer. Sherlock and I will come by the Yard in the morning to fill you in on the details. Good day.”
The ride back to Baker Street was uneventful. John let Sherlock lay across his lap in the back seat while the driver yammered on about the events of the day. John tried to be understanding that things like this rarely happen to ordinary people, but he was in no mood to relive it. He gave terse one word responses to the driver’s comments, focusing most of his attention on carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair soothingly.
When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock seemed slightly steadier on his feet, although he still needed a bit of John’s help getting up the stairs. John ushered him into the bathroom and started to fill up the tub with warm water. Sherlock lazily started undressing, and John followed suit. As Sherlock fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, he started giggling.
John raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”
“When I saved you from Moriarty-” he began, barely holding back the giggles. This was so unlike Sherlock. What had Minato given him? “We showered in that tiny hospital shower. And then we-” Sherlock was blushing. Sherlock, zero inhibitions, zero regard for normalcy, was blushing at the thought of kissing and touching each other in the shower? John’s expression was incredulous.
“Get in the tub, you nutter,” he said good naturedly. “There will be time for that later once you’re cleaned up and sober.”
John got into the tub first, and Sherlock leaned back against his chest so that John could shampoo his unruly curls. Sherlock hummed softly in affirmation.
As they washed each other, John’s heart swelled with affection for Sherlock. Every time he thought about the seemingly cold detective who also loved bubble baths and nose kisses and words of affirmation, he wanted to burst with joy. Nobody else seemed to understand what they had between them, and that was okay. They didn’t need to understand. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest tightly, and Sherlock sighed and leaned into his touch.
You are mine, mine, mine.
They sat in the water holding each other until their fingers pruned. John was fairly certain Sherlock had fallen asleep, but he didn’t mind. He was floating in a world where time and space didn’t matter as long as they had each other. He let the feeling of peace wash over him.
“I’m hungry,” Sherlock suddenly stated, his voice louder and stronger than it had been all day. John grimaced that the spell was broken, but grateful that Sherlock was seeming like himself again.
“I’ll order a pizza for us,” John replied.
Sherlock smiled at the memory. “I think we just started a new post-kidnapping tradition.”