Chapter Text
Harry was a little concerned. No, she was very concerned. John hadn’t called her at all this month and he always called, because for some reason they interacted much better over the phone than in person. Maybe because it was reminiscent of the calls she used to receive while he was still deployed, when she couldn’t in good conscience deny her little brother a civil chat with family when he braved death every single day. Because she may be a horrible sister but she loved her brother and it wasn’t so hard to accept his nagging and concern when it wasn’t paired with those overly compassionate and worried eyes.
So, when John broke the streak that had been ongoing since he returned from Afghanistan, Harry was distressed. There were no calls, no texts, nothing, just radio silence. John had always been responsible. He wouldn’t, he never-, not even when she-, he wouldn’t do this to her! He always cared about how she was doing and now he wasn’t calling and oh god, she was panicking.
Okay, okay, think Harry. John last called her early last month. He was a little subdued but that was to be expected. It was only six months after Sherlock after all, John was still mourning. God knows she spent over a year mourning the end of her relationship with Clara and Clara is alive and well. Still, John had seemed a little more like himself when he last called her. He was telling her about finally clearing Sherlock’s fraud charges and Harry told him about her sobriety (she was three months sober at the time; didn’t want to tell him sooner in fear of disappointing him again). After congratulating her, John told her about his new job at a clinic in Edinburgh. Johnny had joked about going back to their roots but Harry knew the real reason was because he couldn’t bear to live in London anymore. London was Sherlock’s home and a London without Sherlock Holmes was a London without John Watson.
The call ended on a good note and as usual, John told her that he would be calling her next month after everything had settled. A whole month had passed and not a word from John. Harry even texted him but he never replied and John always replied.
“C’mon, pick up Johnny.” Harry chewed her lower lip but she was once more directed straight to the voicemail. “Johnny, call me back once you hear this or I’ll go visit you at the clinic. I know you hate it when I do that so better call me back soon. If you don’t, I swear I will baby you in front of the whole clinic and embarrass you in front of all your new colleagues.”
Harry set her phone down and anxiously waited in front of the telly for a returned call. After a night of restless sleep and awakening to no missed calls, she decided to make real on her threat. A short hour later, the older Watson was packed and ready to leave. She called John one last time and left a voicemail. “John Hamish Watson, I’m warning you in advance. This is your last chance. I’m leaving now and I will be telling them embarrassing stories from our childhood.”
But she didn’t end up doing that because John never made it to the clinic.
Okay, don’t panic, Harry. Maybe John decided that he didn’t want to leave London after all and somewhere along the way, he lost his phone and didn’t remember Harry’s number and couldn’t call her. But that last time that happened and John made sure to ask Harry for her number in person before the month mark was over. It could be that John just didn’t want to talk to her anymore. That didn’t sound like John but then again, John hadn’t been John for half a year now.
Alright. New plan. Baker street. That must be where John was.
Harry knocked on the black door that opened up to 221. Rather than the tired face of her wayward brother she was hoping to see, a sweet old lady opened the door. Flustered, Harry stammered out an introduction. “My name is Harry Watson. Is my brother in?”
“Oh, I’ve not seen him since he left for Edinburgh last month. He promised he would call me but I’ve not heard a word from him. He’s not in trouble, is he?”
… Maybe it was time to panic. Mm. Yeah. This was definitely cause for panic. Her Johnny wasn’t the type of person to make others worry like this and when Johnny made a promise, Johnny kept it. “He hasn’t been to his new job in Edinburgh and he’s not answering his phone. I’m not sure what to think of it.”
To say Mrs Hudson was alarmed would be an understatement. “He’s been in such a state since the funeral. Awfully quiet until he started to work with Mycroft to clear Sherlock’s name. He had been getting better, though, when he started to talk about that clinic in Edinburgh.”
Harry chewed her lower lip. “I think I’ll go ask that detective friend of his. Greg Lestrade?” She remembered John mentioning Greg a few times. He told her that Sherlock refused to call him by his first name and used other names starting with G to take the piss outta him. Greg would complain about it all the time when they went out for drinks, he told her, the exact kind of behaviour Sherlock was aiming for.
“Oh, yes. The detective inspector is a competent man no matter what Sherlock liked to say. I’m sure he’ll find John.” Mrs Hudson seemed cautiously hopeful but Harry allowed that hope to wash over her.
She nodded and went to the New Scotland Yard. John had been working with them for the past two years, and even despite the fiasco with Sherlock, Harry was sure that the force would be eager to help her find John. After all, her little brother was an annoyingly likeable man. It was practically impossible to hate him.
“Hello, could I meet Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade?” Harry hesitantly added, “I’m John Watson’s sister and I’m trying to find my brother.”
The officer looked alarmed at her words and quickly passed on the message. No sooner than she could brew a cup of tea, she was ushered into the office of a dishevelled and overworked detective.
“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," he introduced himself.
“Harry Watson," she greeted in return, taking a seat in the offered chair.
“Did something happen to John?” Greg asked, concerned. The doctor had been quite upset with Greg because of his role in what happened with Sherlock but they were still friends. John himself told him that when they met up for drinks after they cleared the fraud charges. I’ll need some more time, he said, but we’re still mates, Greg. I just need to clear my head a little.
“I’m not sure. He hadn’t called me all month and I know that we aren’t close but Johnny always calls. Every month. Early last month, he told me that he was starting a new job at a clinic in Edinburgh and he said that he’ll call me when things were settled but I went down there and they told me he hadn’t shown up for his first day. I’ve been trying to call him for days now and it always goes straight to voicemail. I even went to the flat at Baker street and the landlady said she hasn’t seen him since he went to Edinburgh last month. She was quite upset that he hadn’t called her either. He promised her that he would. When Johnny makes a promise, he keeps it.”
The DI frowned. “That doesn’t sound like John at all.”
“I’m worried about him. Ever since Sherlock died, he’s been so sad, sadder than he’d been after Afghanistan. I thought he was getting better, but I thought that when he left my flat for that awful bedsit too. He’s good at hiding how he’s feeling, Johnny, always has been.”
Greg’s lips thinned into a line. “We’ll file an official police report for now and I’ll ask… I have an acquaintance that is very good at tracking people down. Once we have any news, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Thank you, Detective Inspector.”
Greg recorded the statement and Harry left with a belly full of worry. Ah christ, he hoped that Mycroft kept his agents on John because this, this sounded not good at all. Staring at his phone in dismay, the silver haired detective quickly dialled the familiar number and after three dial tones, a silky posh voice answered the phone.
“Detective Inspector. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Mycroft, do you still keep tabs on John?” Greg cut to the chase. This was no time for pleasantries.
“Not since before he left for Edinburgh, no. John wanted some privacy and considering it had been months since the good doctor had been anywhere near danger, I decided to respect his request and obliged.” There had also been several matters abroad that required all the manpower he could spare, he didn’t add. “Did something happen to John?”
Greg cursed. “John’s sister just swung by. She says he hasn’t called her all month and isn’t answering his phone. She went to his new workplace too but he never showed up. She has no idea where he is.”
There was a pause. “Very well, I will put my best men on this.”
“Thank you. Please update me on the situation whenever possible. Goodbye, Mycroft.”
“Goodbye, Detective Inspector.”
The tracker in John’s phone led them to the lost and found at a train station. The cleaners had found it on the floor under a train seat and no one had come looking for it the entire month. Following the lead, Mycroft’s team examined the train station’s CCTV footage but aside from showing John entering the station, they didn’t find anything. The only thing they knew for sure was that he never made it to Edinburgh.
Mycroft stared at the report. He shouldn’t have agreed with John’s request. He had been carefully surveilling any movement around the doctor since Sherlock’s fall and nothing suspicious was happening, hence why he agreed to leave John alone. They had taken preemptive measures to ensure his safety too! By all means, he should have been safe. He should be safe! But, now Dr. Watson was unaccounted for and he didn’t know how to tell his brother or even if he should.
There were no hints as to his current whereabouts and his men had found no signs of foul play. The clinic that offered John a job was perfectly innocent too. Nothing aside from the man being missing indicated that someone had taken him. But the most likely suspects were either already in custody or had no means of kidnapping John.
It’s possible that John didn’t believe Mycroft when he told him he'd give him some space. He may have made himself disappear while he sorted things out. Yes. The good doctor had the skills to do so. Mycroft ignored the voice inside whispering that John wasn’t the type of person to do a disappearing act but he ignored it. Grief made people do many things and John Watson was grieving Sherlock Holmes.
An unwelcome thought crawled into his mind before he desperately dismissed it. For his sake, for all their sakes, and most of all, for his brother’s sake, John Watson had to be safe. They’ll find him, alive, in a clinic in the middle of nowhere or when Sherlock comes back, he’ll return to punch him. Yes. John Watson disappeared to live his own life. He was safe. He had to be safe.
But months went by and no more clues were discovered. There were plenty of trails that led to nowhere, a doppelganger in Dublin, a lookalike in Brighton and even a doctor in Afghanistan with the same description. Still, the John Watson they were looking for was nowhere to be found and they had all but given up.
It was then that a package arrived at the NSY addressed to DI Lestrade. Inside the package were photos. A series of photos taken in the same location, each getting more and more horrifying. A strung up John Watson, beaten black and blue, bleeding from numerous cuts. A screaming John Watson with cigarette marks littered over his torso, adding to the canvas of scars already present. A fainted John Watson, curled up in a small ball, looking malnourished and dehydrated. A mangled body, head beaten in and face collapsed. Blonde hair stained with so much blood it was hard to identify the original colour. The body was so swollen and sliced up and damaged that it was impossible to identify. But one thing was for sure. It had John Watson’s stature and hair colour.
‘Let’s not waste precious police resources on fruitless endeavours shall we?’ The attached note mocked.
Greg’s face paled and twisted as revulsion, anger, sorrow, grief and hatred battled for territory on his face. He never wished to see his mate in such a state and yet, here he was staring at the proof of his suffering and at his desecrated corpse. He was going to be sick.
Sally snatched the photos out of Greg’s hands and instantly regretted it. When they started the search for Dr. Watson, she had assumed that he’d done a disappearing act. After all, the NSY hadn’t been kind to him during the issue with the fre- Sherlock Holmes and while John was a saint, she understood that he would want to leave it all behind and start anew. This though, this was not what she was picturing his new life to be. Someone sick, a psychopath (that’s what she used to call Sherlock but that wasn’t who he was, was it?) had taken John and while they were treating him like a runaway, had been torturing him to death.
“We’ll find who did this, Greg. And we’ll make them pay," she shakily declared.
Greg swallowed but his mouth was dry and the world was collapsing in on itself. Trembling, he grabbed his phone and called the one person still alive who would be best for these sorts of tasks. “Mycroft… we have a bastard to find.”