Chapter Text
You don’t know how beautiful you are
when you sleep.
My god.
You have no idea.
It is my accidental privilege:
a secret ceremony that I witness
coincidence? perhaps, but like I’ve told you;
the universe is rarely so lazy.
falling asleep in our living room
the couch—your second bed quite
often now.
You don’t know how beautiful you are
when you sleep.
The delicate skin of your eyelids
I could never tell you how I wonder
about their softness
or what your laugh lines taste like.
That stubble, is it as rough as it looks?
I know
you sleep here when you don’t
want to be alone. I know.
You don’t know how fragile you are
when you dream.
The nightmares become tangible
right here in our living room
the bullet holes from my frustration
on the wall are gaping,
gasping for air
along with you.
how beautiful
the tips of your hair are, a silver
flash in the darkness
when you toss your head.
My god.
You don’t know how beautiful
your face turns with the melody of
music. My violin which draws
out the poison of your nightmares
like hot water drawing out
a bee’s stinger from skin.
It has always been my privilege
to keep you safe.
***
It was early Friday morning. The sun was streaming through the windows of 221B Baker Street, and John Watson was having a difficult time waking up. His back was sore from another night on the couch, passing out yet again in front of the telly.
The last thing he could remember was an old rerun of Graham Norton, his face blurred with orange pixels in a frozen laugh stuck in limbo on the screen. John got up, stretching his arms loose, and realised that Sherlock must have draped a blanket over him sometime in the night.
He padded lightly into the kitchen, filled the kettle half-full of water from the tap, and hit the switch down with a snap. Then, turning to lean against the counter, he stared into space as he listened to the comforting sound of water sloshing against the sides of the metal, getting ready to boil.
John looked up to see a head with a mass of unruly curls swept up from sleep appear suddenly in the doorway, momentarily blocking out the light, for which John was grateful; but he set to frowning again as soon as the shadow passed and came to stand next to him. Sherlock studied John briefly before reaching slightly above him to grab two porcelain mugs and a box of PG tips. With a thud he placed the mugs on the counter with a teabag in each.
“You didn’t sleep well.”
“How’d you guess?” John asked dryly.
“Well, I hardly slept either.” He paused, looking back at John. “You’ve been having nightmares again.”
It was a statement, not a question. John eyed him warily. After two double shifts at the surgery, John was beginning to feel worn down. The type of exhaustion that seeped into his bones and couldn’t be shaken off with just one night’s sleep.
It was going to take a while before he felt better. He couldn’t quite place what was wrong. Was it perhaps too much suffering, too much hysteria, and too much death? He hadn’t worked three double shifts in a long time like he had in the past week, but John used to be a solider. He didn’t know why these things were suddenly affecting him in the way that they were.
John sighed as he noticed that Sherlock was still staring at him.
“I’m just a bit knackered, that’s all.”
The kettle finished boiling and Sherlock filled both of their mugs with the water and dumped five cubes of sugar into his own before handing one to John, ignoring the raised eyebrows.
“Tea. It’ll make you feel better,” Sherlock said, as if it had been his idea all along.
“Thanks.” John took the mug and cherished the warmth spreading into his fingers. The tea tasted pleasantly bitter and he began to feel more restored.
“I might have a case today,” Sherlock said. “I’m expecting a text from Lestrade any minute.”
The unspoken question hung in the air between them. John watched the steam curl up from his mug, the tendrils working in dramatic patterns through the current in the room. He met Sherlock’s eyes without saying anything.
“I reckon it might be useful, for you to come out. I could use your help. It’s been over a week since you’ve come along with me.”
John was secretly thrilled. He hadn’t planned for much that day, maybe a bit of light reading, a walk to Tesco for some groceries, an evening of crap telly while Sherlock worked on his laptop. But now, the prospect of the domesticity for that evening became too much. It had seemed like ages since he had been on a proper case with Sherlock. Crap telly and groceries could wait.They’d get takeaway on the way home.
“Yeah, alright.” John realised he was still in his dressing gown while Sherlock was dressed as elegantly as ever in a navy button down and charcoal trousers. He suddenly felt exposed and graceless. “Let me get changed, yeah?”
After splashing his face with cool water, running a comb through his hair, and putting on his comfiest cream-coloured jumper and soft worn jeans, John felt nearly human again. The puffiness in his eyes was beginning to fade and the thought of going out on a case made his heart pump with a feeling that wasn’t unpleasant.
He leapt down the stairs from his bedroom, and with a small ping, he heard Sherlock’s mobile chime.
Sherlock looked up from the screen as John entered the living room.
“Honestly John, must you wear that endearing sweater on a case?” As if realising he just spoke his words aloud, Sherlock looked just as embarrassed about saying them as John felt about hearing them.
John felt a blush creeping up his neck at the word endearing. He’d never heard Sherlock use that word to refer to him, or anyone really. It made him feel—warm. He shrugged. “It’s comfortable and I like it.”
Sherlock hesitated for a moment, looking at him as though he wanted to say something else—then thinking better of it—he turned back to the mobile in his hand. He held it out and put the screen in front of John. “Here’s our case. London’s newest and greatest drug lord.”
John studied the screen that Sherlock held in front of his eyes.
Sherlock swiped through several photos of a man walking through London. He was as inconspicuous as they could come: a standard stylish haircut, auburn hair, medium build, and almond-shaped eyes. His clothing was in the same vein: he wore indigo washed jeans, an olive tee shirt with a small unremarkable design in the upper right corner, and Nike trainers with the logos scuffed and fading away. In short, he could have been anyone.
“His name is Alfred Franson. He’s been operating a drugs syndicate right here in the heart of London for years in an old warehouse near Chelsea Harbour, close to the Thames. The thing about these types of criminals is that eventually they want to be caught. They’re too proud. I’ve got my homeless network to thank for the information. We caught him boasting about a drug he’s been developing—”
John interrupted. “Hang on, a new drug? What kind are we talking about here, Sherlock?”
Sherlock didn’t hesitate. “Franson seems to have developed something new— we think it’s a type of hallucinogen they’re calling Scale. That’s all we really know yet, but he’s been selling mass amounts both here in London and throughout Eastern Europe and America.”
“Do you really think the two of us can handle him on our own? A drug lord with a load of people working for him, against a genius with a gun and his loyal sidekick?” John didn’t know where the bitterness in his voice was coming from.
“John please; you are so much more than just a sidekick to me. I’d flounder without you and we both know it. Besides, we’ve taken on criminals like these before. What makes you think this is going to be so different?”
“Hang on, what did you just say? You’d flounder without me?” John suddenly imagined a fish flopping around, hopeless. He wondered why Sherlock had begun to use words such as endearing and floundering this morning. Perhaps he should start to worry.
“This past week with you at the surgery has proven to be very frustrating. More so than I’ve anticipated.”
“Your flattery and overconfidence is stifling.”
“It’s usually the other way around. I suppose I need to return the favour sometimes, to let you know that I…erm… feel indebted to you,” he finished delicately.
“Have you been talking to Molly or something? Or are you just taking the piss?”
“Neither, John.” Sherlock snapped.
John’s stomach was suddenly in knots. “Ah, I bet Mrs Hudson then. On second thought, maybe I’ll just start working at the surgery frequently so that I can hear those words from your mouth more often.” He gave Sherlock a grin.
He decided to change the subject to more neutral territory to allow the flush from his cheeks to die out.
They were talking about the case. Right, focus. John brought his gaze back to Sherlock’s. “Alright then. When are we going?”
“Now. I want to take the tube.”
“And why not a taxi?”
“Because we need to be as unassuming as possible. A cab would draw attention.” Odd, John thought. It was against Sherlock's nature to not want to seem flashy.
“Where’s Lestrade? I thought you said he would text.”
“He did. Him and Donovan will be there this afternoon, but I thought it would be better if you and I went to investigate beforehand.”
“That might be a bit not good, Sherlock. I don’t think Lestrade would appreciate it.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. It gives us a clear advantage to know exactly what’s going on before he and those idiots Anderson and Dovovan come running through like mad bulldogs, ruining every piece of evidence we’ve got.”
They took the tube to Pimlico and walked south along the Thames for quite a while until they came upon a quieter part of town with less friendly trees and architecture and more grey concrete and stone. It was chilly with the wind picking up around them, ruffling John’s hair slightly. The sky matched the buildings and John suddenly felt sombre, and a twinge of something else at the back of his neck. Tension—or fear—he didn’t know.
He was silently cursing inwards at himself—for Christ’s sake, get a grip—when he spotted the warehouse immediately as it came into view along the bank. It was a big looming thing that seemed to lean slightly over the Thames like it was threatening the water by its sheer size and massive concrete walls. It reminded John of a version of the Tate, except greyer and less crowded with tourists.
“How can they possibly get away with this? It’s a bit easy to find, don’t you think?”
Sherlock was studying the building with a guarded expression. “It’s the best way to hide, in plain sight like this.”
They sat on a bench near by the warehouse—John walked over and bought a paper cone filled with roasted honey and cinnamon almonds from a vendor near the bridge—and they watched the people around them. Sherlock casually flung his arm out behind John and rested it against the wooden backing of the bench.
John held out the paper cone. “Almond? It’s honey, your favourite.”
Sherlock eyed the almonds with distaste and shook his head. “I can’t slow down now.”
“Sherlock, when’s the last time that you’ve had anything to eat?”
Sherlock ignored him at first, but when John didn’t move the cone he slowly reached over and grabbed one. Soon, the two of them were munching noisily.
John savoured the moment. On cases, it was always like this. There was always a moment of calm before the storm, before the game was on, before the chase. Silently, he wondered to himself if he would need to use his gun this time. The mere though gave him a bit of a thrill.
Sherlock leaned into John, his mouth coming close to his ear. John could smell the honey and cinnamon on his breath, mixed with something else—something herbal and slightly soapy—Sherlock’s shampoo. “That’s him John. Franson. Do you see him?”
John was momentarily distracted by Sherlock’s sudden closeness but he looked up to follow the male figure in a black twill jacket walking purposefully into the warehouse. John nodded. “I see him.”
After Franson disappeared into the building, Sherlock shot up off the bench like an overeager schoolchild that couldn’t sit still.
“Let’s go. There’s an entrance through the side.”
John threw away the rest of his almonds and followed Sherlock around the side of the building. It was even more intimidating up close. John didn’t know if it was just his imagination or not, but it seemed as if the warehouse itself was humming like a separate living entity with its own heartbeat.
It could have been the rawness of the past few days: the lack of sleep, the nightmares, spending less time on cases than usual; but John didn’t feel right. There was something working beneath the surface of this warehouse like a string pulled taut, the tension ready to snap and spill at any moment. He thought that Sherlock could sense it too; he moved closer to John his hand coming to rest on his wrist very delicately, barely a touch.
“Wait John.” Sherlock reached out to the bolted side door. It had been whitewashed over many times with hasty brush marks layered atop each another, but there were still scrapes through the paint, as though someone had taken a needle and drug it across the surface.
A small faded metal sign hung above the doorway: Melbourne’s Drain and Pipe Works. “It’s just a façade. It covers up the drug operation effectively as long as they keep producing an adequate amount of materials to distribute on the side so the authorities won’t question it—clever, really. It’s worked until now.” Sherlock slowly reached out to try the small silver handle nob; it didn’t give.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a set of picks to try the lock. He let go of John’s wrist and leaned against the door calmly, trying to break the jamb. John stood behind him, glancing around as casually as he could.
“What about CCTV?” John murmured under his breath.
“I’ve already checked for that. We’re fine.”
But yet, John was still uneasy. He still felt as though they were being watched.
“Sherlock, hurry up, will you? There’s something not about his place.”
Sherlock sighed. “Obviously there’s something not right here John; we’re about to break into a top secret drug manufacturing business.”
The door finally gave and Sherlock slipped into the warehouse followed by John. John’s eyes couldn’t adjust to the sudden change in light.
All he could see was pitch-blackness. He became more alert as he realised their great disadvantage. They had just come through a bright door into a dark foreign space like a beacon. They were a clear target for anyone in the vicinity.
At first, nothing happened and he blinked furiously as he willed his eyes to adjust but they did not. The darkness was all consuming. Sherlock stood close enough to him that he could feel the fabric from his coat brush against his shoulder.
John let out a slow breath and reached out to place his hand upon Sherlock’s sleeve just to feel something solid. It was as though it wouldn’t take much for John to be whisked away into the room, to float through the dark. Wherever they were, he couldn’t hear anyone nearby. Perhaps they were in a storage room or a quieter part of the factory.
“Stay close to the wall,” Sherlock whispered.
It came to John’s attention of how wrong he actually was when Sherlock’s words failed to echo.
Something moved and the room was suffocating. Something was closing in on them. It felt like an accumulation of all the unease that John had been feeling that morning was finally coming to a head.
The sound of footsteps off to John’s right told him that they were in fact not alone and there was a person a lot closer to him than he originally thought. John could hear his heartbeat in his head. Someone grabbed his arm and for a split second he thought it was Sherlock, but it was on the wrong side of him and the hands were not as gentle as his.
They were tugging with a sense of urgency; it turned to chaos very quickly.
He was thrown against the wall with a smack and a sharp pain erupted into his stomach. John let out a grunt.
“Sherlock! Where are you!?” He was in full soldier mode now, reaching for the gun tucked in his belt. But it was no use firing into a dark room where he couldn’t see his target.
“Don’t even try, Dr Watson,” a gruff voice in his right ear said. There were more hands on him pulling, pushing him down. Sherlock wasn’t near to him anymore. His gun was taken from him and his fingertips slipped as the cool metal was pilfered away. Where the hell was Sherlock?
A blunt object hit John on his temple as he struggled. There must have been three or four people restraining him, holding him down, he estimated slowly.
The sound of the struggle became muted as a ringing filled his ears instead. Another blow, this time lower on his cheek than the first. John saw nothing but stars. Right before he fainted, he thought he heard Sherlock calling out for him.
***
As John regained consciousness he still knew he was in danger. The blurred edges of his surroundings slowly came into focus. As the room before had contained a smothering darkness, this new setting in contrast was too bright to make out anything at first.
He knew he was outside but it reminded him of the time he had been kidnapped by Moriarty and taken to the pool. He had wakened to a much similar environment, with his wrists tied behind his back and his feet immobilised in the same fashion.
There was a cool air that ruffled around him and the sound of something moving far below him. Water, the thought suddenly popped into his head. The scent of the Thames was strong, moving up to his nose through the wind like a perfect transport. It smelled like wet wood, earth, and petrol.
John began to diagnose himself. Slight concussion, a few scrapes, maybe some bruising on the ribs. A bruised cheek. Could be worse. The ringing sound had disappeared and although his vision was blurred, the edges were becoming sharper. He had a killer headache.
Sherlock was still out there, perhaps in even more danger than him and this made John’s mind jolt into action. He needed to get up now.
Pounding footsteps were coming toward him as he struggled to stand up.
“John!” He heard Sherlock shout.
Thank god he’s okay for now, he thought.
“Sherl—”He tried, but John found that speech was proving to be rather difficult at the moment. Perhaps he was more concussed than he first thought.
Sherlock bent down in front of John and began untying the knots that were at his ankles and wrists. The sight of his friend was almost more than he could bear and he tried to reach out to him, but his body felt so heavy. It took a lot of effort to even move.
“Shh, John. We need to get out now. We only have a few moments.”
John tried to stand.
“Not so fast, boys.”
Sherlock whipped around in the direction of the voice. He had been so focused on John that he had failed to notice several men coming up to them. John could make out a man in a twill black jacket striding casually with three other large blokes in step behind him. They were headed toward them at the end what he now knew was a dock.
John stood up fully—with a lot of effort—next to Sherlock and looked at Franson. Up close, he still wasn’t spectacular. His clothes hung off his frame inelegantly and he faintly smelled of old tobacco.
Franson’s eyes moved between the two of them. He gave a sly smile. “Well, y’all are very sweet, I’ll give you that.”
His accent was surprising. It was nothing like the London accent that John naturally assumed he would have. In fact, he couldn’t place where it was from at first.
“I think it would be pretty exciting to hurt John here, maybe even kill him. Just to see you squirm, Sherlock.”
American Southern accent. John frowned at the realisation. Why did he choose to have business in London, of all places?
“With me around, killing John would be tremendously ambitious of you,” Sherlock replied evenly.
Franson gave a slight inclination of his head toward John and the three men standing behind him leapt into action. John concussed was at a huge disadvantage, but he put up a good fight. He lashed out his arms, forming tight fists.
It happened in a flash. Suddenly John was being held down, his wrists retied. Sherlock drew his gun, and aimed it at Franson.
“You let him go, or I’ll blow your head off.” Sherlock’s voice did not waver and John recognised it as his most dangerous tone. The one that meant Sherlock was deeply pissed off.
Franson laughed. He had the type of laugh that took up a lot of space. It was loud, overbearing, and entirely out of place. His perfectly straight white teeth glinted.
“You know, I think you mean it too.” From his belt he slowly drew a knife that was stout but very sharp. It picked up the sunlight that was reflected off of the Thames below and refracted the light into tiny spots all around them like small pirouetting stars. He drew the knife and pressed it to John’s throat. He laughed again as John tried to struggle against the ties and the three men.
“I don’t think you’ll be blowing anyone’s head off, unless it’s his.” He reached out with one hand and traced John’s cheekbone with his fingertips. “He is quite handsome, Sherlock. I doubt you’d want to do that,” he teased. “Drop your gun into the Thames, or I will drag this blade across his skin.” John stared at Sherlock, trying to silently communicate.
A muscle twitched in Sherlock’s left temple, but he dropped the gun. It landed with a thick splash in the water below. “You will be destroyed, Franson; you and this whole operation. Soon, there will be nothing left.”
“Oh, operation? You make it sound so fancy. You mean the drugs?”He smiled at Sherlock, the blade not moving away from John even an inch. “It’s funny that you mention the drugs because I’ve had a little hang-up recently. Kind of a problem, you see. I think you and John here could help me though.” He gave that annoying grin again.
John’s mind was working in overtime. He was calculating every scenario he could think of to get out of his restraints and he saw Sherlock doing the same. The man to his left had a bad right knee. The man holding his wrists behind in an entirely too tight grip seemed to move a little slower than the rest. He couldn’t figure out Franson though. He was still a puzzle.
“I’m not playing this game,” Sherlock said. “Either you will cooperate, or I will use force.”
Franson chose to ignore Sherlock’s warning. Sherlock knew he sounded ridiculous threatening three armed men and a man with a knife with no weapon on himself to back him up. He was more than a little nervous, but he would never let that show.
“See, here’s the thing. We’ve been doing really well with this new drug, Scale.” He waved his free hand while he talked. “The high is great. It’s sort of a combination of cocaine because you can really get the speed and energy from it. But it has an LSD element of hallucinations that the customers just love. From here at home in London to Europe and even in America people are obsessing over this stuff. But people are becoming bored with it. Surely you know all about that, don’t you Sherlock? In fact, you’d be a great customer—you of all people—of course.” He grinned, looking up at Sherlock beneath his lashes.
He moved his free hand to John’s shoulder, his knuckles whitening under the grip.
John was struggling to stay awake—his head drooping—and Sherlock was starting to worry about the seriousness of the concussion. He hadn’t seen the blow in the dark; but he had heard it.
“So here’s what I’ve done, Sherlock. I really like this idea, and I hope you’ll think it’s pretty good too. I created a new version of Scale. A liquid dose that can be applied on the skin. Something that gives the user a bigger bang, faster.” Franson’s eyes flashed in excitement. “But the problem is, I haven’t been able to test it on anyone, so I have no idea what it does. Maybe nothing, perhaps, but I think it’s pretty powerful. I’ve thrown in a few new ingredients too, just to try them out. See what their effects are.”
“You’re a lunatic,” Sherlock spat.
“Oh, I think the best people are. Now look here, at your dear John. He’s helping me out so much just by being here. The blade of a knife is a rather perfect surface you see, because the liquid drug adheres to the metal beautifully, but it can be transferred to the skin just as easily. He’s already had a pretty hefty dose just by the contact from the past few minutes, but what would happen if I broke the surface of the skin? How would it react with his blood? You’re a man of science, Sherlock, surely you understand my experiment?”
John was fully unconscious, his head rolling on Franson’s shoulder. Sherlock, overtaken by rage, lunged.
Franson swept the knife away from John’s throat and instead drew a line of blood down from his ear to the back of his neck. Sherlock was so full of fury he couldn’t completely register what he was witnessing until Franson threw John into the Thames. His mind switched into overdrive.
Snarling, Sherlock grabbed at Franson’s jacket lapels, throwing fists wildly while the three men who had just dumped John into the Thames grabbed him away from Franson.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps down the dock, running toward them and Sherlock looked up to see Lestrade and Donovan with their guns drawn.
Finally, thought Sherlock.
The colour drained from Franson’s face completely.
“Stop right there!” Lestrade yelled.
Without a second thought, Sherlock jumped off the dock and plunged into the River Thames below, after John.