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John woke up with a start and a strange feeling of guilt he could not place for at least two seconds.
He wasn’t supposed to be sleeping. Was he? Yes. Yes, he’d meant to stay awake. He’d meant to stay awake to wait for Sherlock.
Shit.
He turned around, expecting to see the other hotel bed occupied, and his friend sleeping peacefully in it.
But the bed was empty. Worse than empty, it looked like it hadn’t even been used.
Shit.
He scrambled to find his phone, looked at the hour - 09:31, he’d slept for almost ten hours, shit, shit - and called Sherlock.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
John’s chest filled with dread with each passing second.
“Pick up, Sherlock. Please,” he whispered.
The call ended. He tried him again.
It’s fine, he thought. It’s fine. He sometimes doesn’t pick up. And the bed… He is rather neat with his own bed…
He looked at the professionally tucked bedsheets.
He closed his eyes.
“Come on, Sherls. Pick up.”
***
They’d been called away from London, on a kidnapping case. One Tommy Winthrop, 28, begging them to come help find his fiancée, Evie Slater, 26, last seen 54 hours earlier, when she left to visit a friend and never came back. The only clue? One wilted red rose, stuffed in their mailbox. No security footage. But for the flower, it was as if she’d simply vanished into thin air.
Sherlock had immediately been interested in the mystery and, with the ticking clock of a missing persons case, they quickly packed their bags and took the first available train. Just the two of them, as Mariana was both busy and feeling slightly under the weather.
‘Calling this one The Adventure of the Wilted Rose,’ John had announced on the train. ‘Unless something more interesting comes up. But. I mean. A wilted rose, left behind like a… a… calling card? Yeah, that’s perfect for a title. Do you think it was a calling card? Hm? Any theories forming in that big brain of yours?’
Sherlock looked out the train window.
‘Not enough information.’
‘Yeah, yeah, sure, but. What do you think? About the rose. Mm? Was it.. A calling card? A warning? A… reason?’
‘A reason?’ Sherlock asked.
‘Well, yeah, cause… Well, red rose, that’s for, like, romantic love usually, right?’
‘So I’ve heard…’
‘Yeah. And. I’m thinking… A jilted lover. Tommy said they just got engaged two weeks ago, right? Well, maybe some guy - or, or girl, you know - from Evie’s past heard about the engagement and… They felt like… She… belonged with them, not with Tommy.’
Sherlock stared at him with interest and shining eyes, leaning a bit over the train’s table, towards him.
‘So, uh,’ John continued. ‘Red rose for romantic feelings, wilted because the love…’ He realised something. ‘Is…’ This did not sound good for Evie. ‘Dead.’
‘Brilliant, Watson,’ Sherlock exclaimed, loud enough to earn them some curious looks. ‘Truly, excellent.’
‘You think so?’ John asked, feeling his face flush.
‘Absolutely. It’s a very good theory. Of course, just a theory, as we do not yet possess enough facts. But you provided us with a place to start.’
John wondered if Sherlock truly had not thought about that possibility. He didn’t ask. He was pretty sure he must have thought about it too, and if Sherlock confirmed it, he would feel less proud of himself.
So he just shot his friend a smile before adding,
‘Yeah… But.. Actually, I’ve just realised. The fact that it’s wilted.’
‘Yes?’
‘Not a good sign. For Evie.’
‘No, indeed.’ Sherlock tapped his fingers to the table. ‘We must hurry, once we get there. If she is still alive, I suspect whoever took her will not keep her that way for long.’
They didn’t know how right he was. They were still in the train when they got the news: Evie Slater had been found dead in a bin, close to her home. Her throat had been slit.
Their kidnapping case had just turned into a murder case.
As for the wilted rose…
‘Dehydrated?’
‘Severely dehydrated’, John said. ‘Whoever took her must’ve not given her water at all. No food either, but…’
‘Lack of water kills faster.’
‘Yeah… Especially in the summer. Her kidneys had already failed. If the kidnapper had waited a bit longer…’
The mysterious wilted rose had turned out to be less a symbol of dead romance and more a reminder that living beings died without access to water.
They still investigated the jilted lover avenue. No luck. They tried to find out if Evie had pissed off some hardcore environmentalist group. Nothing. No enemies at all.
The second day was coming to an end. They were back in their hotel room. It was late. John was already in his pyjamas, lying on his bed, when Sherlock sat up as if he’d just made an amazing discovery, and announced he needed to go check something.
‘Right now?’ John asked. ‘Can’t it wait till morning?’
‘The sooner the better!’ Sherlock said, and hurried to put his shoes on.
‘Yeah… I’ll just…’ He started slowly pushing himself off the bed.
Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of pity and concern.
‘It’s alright, Watson,’ he said after a few seconds. ‘I’ll go on my own. I only need to check one thing.”
‘Are you sure?’ John asked.
‘Yes. I shall take Mini Mike with me. You rest.’
John let himself fall back on the mattress.
‘Alright. Be back soon.’
‘Mm, no promises,’ Sherlock said, and closed the door behind him.
20 seconds of blissful silence later, John started feeling guilty for letting Sherlock go off on his own, at night, investigating something connected to a murder case.
He took his phone and typed out a text:
Be careful, alright?
He looked at it. For some reason, it felt too sincere.
Maybe he just didn't want Sherlock to know he was feeling guilty. Or maybe he didn't want him to think he was actually worried. He wasn't, after all. Nothing more than a slight unease.
He added another sentence, to make the text into something less serious. A joke.
Be careful, alright? I'm not coming after you if you get kidnapped too :))
He sent it, and after a few seconds Sherlock replied with a thumbs up.
He felt better, after that. Still, he decided to either wait up for him, or check in if he wasn’t back in an hour.
He set an alarm, just in case he fell asleep.
He did fall asleep.
He did not hear the alarm.
***
The call ended.
John tried not to panic.
It’s alright. It’s alright, he’ll just go to the reception desk and ask if anyone saw his friend.
He put his shoes on, took the mic and opened the door.
His blood froze. The feeling of dread in his chest rose, choking him.
Right outside, on the doormat, someone had left a single wilted rose.
He tried to breathe in, but felt he wasn’t getting enough air.
His hands shook as he grabbed his phone. He called Lestrade.
She did pick up, after only two rings. There was a lot of noise on the other end. People talking to each other. A crowd.
“What is it?” she asked.
He opened his mouth to talk.
He couldn’t. He felt like he was going to burst into tears if he did.
“Alright. Watson?”
For a moment, he felt slightly flattered that she had saved his number.
He nodded, not realising that it didn’t help.
“Did something happen to Sherlock?”
He took a big breath, squeezed his eyes, willed himself to calm down.
“Yeah,” he managed to say. “He- He’s been kidnapped.”
She immediately made her way out of the noisy room and asked for more details. He told her everything he knew, and she told him she’s getting in her car and she’ll be there as soon as possible.
After they hung up, John stayed in the same spot, still shaking from the adrenaline.
Lestrade was coming. That was good.
But he had to do something, too. He had to try to investigate, gather clues at least. He couldn’t just sit around, waiting for Lestrade to arrive.
Every minute mattered.
***
*216 minutes later*
He didn’t know if it was luck, or a stroke of pure genius on his part, or adrenaline and the fear of losing his best friend working miracles. But his little investigation had been fruitful, and the clues he’d uncovered - though, mostly circumstantial - led him to believe that Evie must have been held in an abandoned theatre. And if Evie was, then Sherlock must be there, too.
He called Lestrade to tell her his suspicion. She didn’t seem too convinced, but admitted it was a possibility.
“But don’t do anything until I get there. Alright?”
John didn’t answer.
“Watson. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Every minute counts.”
“I know,” she answered, at first placating, then, after having a moment to think about it, irritated. “I know! Who do you think I am?”
“Sorry…”
She sighed, seemingly deciding he wasn't in his right mind.
“I know you’re worried. I’m worried too.”
A pause.
“I’m getting off the phone with you and calling the local police to let them know about your suspicion. Alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright.” She paused, again. “We’re still in the first 24 hours. The first victim was killed on the third day. Wasn’t she?”
“Yeah. Very early on the third day, but… Yeah.”
“You see why I'm reminding you this.”
As if he could forget.
But he did know what she meant.
“He’s probably still alive.”
“And will be for a while,” Lestrade added. “Just… Don’t do anything stupid, Watson.”
“Alright…” he half-heartedly agreed.
They ended the call.
One hour. Or however long the local police took, if they decided his suspicion was worth their time.
One hour.
She was right. He’d been gone for 13 hours. If the killer just wanted to get rid of him, he’d likely have done it already. If he was sticking to the same m.o. as in Evie’s case, then they had time.
Nothing guaranteed, of course. The killer could simply... Change his mind. Kill him earlier.
And even if he didn’t… He withheld water from his first victim.
Past 24 hours of not drinking water… Heatstroke. Organ failure. Seizures.
He couldn’t let Sherlock go through that.
13 hours since he last saw him. 14 hours if he waited for Lestrade.
But what if it took longer? What if they had to wait for a warrant?
What if he was wrong, and he wasn’t being held there?
He couldn’t lose precious time waiting around.
John looked up at the old, imposing building.
He was already there, after all.
He had the gun Sherlock brought along. The one John always refused to use. He had water, and his first aid kit.
He’ll just… See if there’s a way in.
***
“I’m in!” he whispered for the listeners before he realised, if there was a deranged kidnapper slash killer around, he should probably be very, very quiet.
He’ll just do some voice-over narration, if he decided to publish this case.
That is, if he - or anyone - managed to save Sherlock.
He shuddered.
Oh god.
Don't think about it.
He’ll be fine. He’ll be alright. He's Sherlock.
He can’t die like this.
He walked along the dusty, ruined corridors, gun out. He checked every little room he came across. If he were to hide in such a big building, for any reason, he’d choose a very small room.
He came to the stairs and climbed up, thinking he might find something in one of the changing rooms.
Nothing.
Just eerie silence.
Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he wasn’t here.
He tried to drive the thought away.
It was a huge building. And given the clues he’d uncovered, it would make sense for the kidnapper to bring his victims here. And being held hostage wasn’t a particularly loud activity, especially after 13 hours, after you’d grown tired of screaming for help and even if you did still want to scream, your throat wouldn’t let you.
He felt a lump in his own throat.
Poor Sherlock. He must be so scared.
He must know people are looking for him, at least.
But neither he nor John knew if those people would manage to find him. And if they did find him, to get him to safety.
What if they couldn’t?
What if Sherlock was alive right now, and they were both thinking about the same thing, and yet… And yet, from Sherlock’s perspective, nothing will happen. He’ll wait, and he’ll wait, and he’ll hope someone’s coming, better late than never, and he’ll keep hoping until he passed out from dehydration and then… Nothing.
John felt tears forming in his eyes.
No. No, no, no. No, that couldn’t happen.
He blinked them away.
He checked the last of the changing rooms, then made his way to a longer corridor. Something about it gave John the impression that he’d reached the part of the building the general public was meant to see.
He opened a door, and it became apparent he had found one of the balconies. Definitely not a good place to hide a kidnapping victim, but he entered, just to look around at the seats, the ornate walls, the beautiful but decrepit stage…
He gasped.
Right there, on the stage… On the fucking stage, tied to one of the two poles, near the very back…
“Sherlock?” he asked before thinking better of it.
He listened, to see if his unwise question resulted in either the killer making a move, or the poor bastard tied up to the pole looking up at him.
Neither happened.
He hurried closer to the edge of the balcony, and… Yeah. His mouth was tied, obscuring part of his face, and his head was hanging, as if he was unconscious. But it was definitely Sherlock.
He froze for a second, shocked that he actually found him, and paralysed by the realisation that to get to him, he must take his eyes off him again.
It was still quiet. The killer might not be there. Or he could be in the stalls, below the balcony, or in the wings. Such a big, open space. Plenty of room to hide.
He needed to move.
He didn’t want to take his eyes off Sherlock. He felt as if he was abandoning him.
For a moment, he was grateful the detective didn’t notice him.
If John felt like he was abandoning him, what would a dizzy, scared Sherlock think?
Alright, he thought, not willing to make noise again. I’m coming to you. Hold on, Sherls.
He hurried out, back to the corridor, and found the nearest set of stairs that would take him down. His heart pounded. What if he was only gone for a few seconds, but when he got to the stage, Sherlock will have somehow disappeared?
He entered through the stalls, looked at the mass of chairs for any sign of the killer, then turned to the stage, to Sherlock.
To Sherlock, now awake, and a 40-something-year-old man pulling his friend’s head back by the hair and pressing a knife to his throat.
“Yeaah, I was there,” he said. “Good thing you decided to announce your presence. Gave me time to move.”
John straightened his arms to better aim at him, kicking himself for not being quieter.
“Let him go. Now.”
“No, I don’t think so,” the man said. “You’re interrupting. Put the gun down.”
John didn’t.
He tried to think of something clever, to persuade the man to let his friend go, or at least lower the knife.
Shit. Maybe he should have waited for Lestrade.
The man moved to hide more of his body behind Sherlock. The knife moved too, scraping Sherlock’s neck.
“No, please-” John begged, and instinctively moved to take a step forward.
“One more step!” the man roared.
John willed himself to freeze.
“Alright.”
“One more step and I slit his throat.”
“Alright, I’m not moving. Sorry.”
“And put that gun down.”
John considered his options.
He couldn’t really shoot the man. Besides the moral aspect of it - which wasn’t bothering him too much at the moment - he very likely physically couldn't do it. The only part of the man he could clearly see was his face, and his face was only a few centimetres from Sherlock’s. If he tried to shoot and missed - which was a real possibility due to the distance and his not having shot a gun in years - he might either shoot his best friend in the face, killing him instantly, or lead the man to actually slit Sherlock’s throat. Killing him instantly.
Put down the gun? Couldn’t do that either. This was his only bargaining chip, the only way he could keep himself at least slightly in control of the situation. What if he put it down and the man just killed Sherlock, right then and there? Right in front of him. How could he live with himself if that happened?
Only one option, then.
“Can’t do that, sorry. Why don’t we just... Talk. A bit.”
The man sighed, clearly annoyed.
“I-I don’t. Wanna talk.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I want... You... To go away. So I don’t have to dispose of your friend earlier than I have to.”
“Alright…” John said. “You’re right, you know? He is my friend. He’s my best friend, actually. His name is Sherlock. But I call him Sherls sometimes. And I’m John.”
“I know.”
John blinked.
He did not expect that.
“H-how do you know?”
“I’ve done my research, didn’t I? After I caught this one. You have a podcast. I listened.”
Shit. Ok. He not only knew their names, but had heard a few episodes too. And he still seemed willing to kill Sherlock.
John didn’t know how to continue.
“Um. Alright… What’s your name?”
The man sighed, or rather groaned in frustration. But he did answer.
“Peter.”
“Ok. Ok. Listen, Peter. I’d really like to-” A lump in his throat cut off his voice. He breathed in, and continued. “-go home. With him. Alive and well. So… I’d really appreciate if you would... Just… Let him go. Please?”
That wasn’t gonna work, was it.
“That’s not gonna work,” Peter said.
Yeah, it would’ve been too good, wouldn’t it?
John decided to change tactics.
“Alright, well what do you wanna do? Cause I’m not leaving. I’m not putting my gun down. You’re not gonna get to… Peacefully complete your… Ritual, or whatever it was.”
“It’s research.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not getting that back. So, we could stay here and talk. Which. I- I don’t think you’d like. Or you-” he hesitated saying the next part aloud “-could kill him now, and then I immediately kill you. And nobody wins. Or. You could just.. Let him go.”
“Yeah, I already said that’s not happening.”
“You could run away,” John said. “I won’t follow.”
Peter seemed surprised by John’s words. He seemed to consider that plan.
“I’m serious,” John said, and hated that he had no secret plan to actually capture Peter if he made a run for it. He could probably try to catch him, but he wasn’t very confident in his running abilities. And what if Peter still had the knife, and saw that John was going back on his word, and circled back to stab Sherlock, who would still be immobilised? He knew who the killer was now. He could just tell the police. And they would catch him. “I’ll stay with Sherlock. To untie him. You could escape.”
Of course, the best case scenario was the local police, who should have heard from Lestrade by now, waiting for Peter outside the building. But they weren’t that quick, and they wouldn’t know to look out for Peter anyway.
“What do you say?” John asked.
For a few seconds, it seemed like it was gonna work.
Then Peter said,
“Yeah, but you’ll tell the police who I am…”
“I won’t,” John lied.
“You’re lying. I mean, I’m not judging you, it’s… Your civic duty and whatnot. But… Yeah, no. If I’m going to jail I might as well finish what I started.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Peter, do you have anyone you love? Parents, sib-”
“Yeah, yeah. I- I’m not gonna… Change my mind just cause you love him. Yeah? The girl… Had… Family too. I know... That stuff…”
Alright. That won’t work, then. Another approach.
“Peter,” John said, aiming his gun better. “Listen to me. If you kill him. I will kill you. I’m not joking.”
“Yeahh...” Peter said. “But… I told you, I’ve done some research. And I… Just… I don’t think you’re gonna shoot me. Doctor Watson.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t think you understand what I would do for Sherlock. Fi-”
Peter laughed. It echoed in the empty theatre.
John’s brows furrowed in confusion. He didn’t seem to be pretending. He was actually laughing.
“Final warning,” he shouted, trying to cover the sound of laughter. “Let him go. Now.”
He prayed it would work. He really didn’t wanna risk shooting at them from that distance.
The man let out a final wheeze, then stopped laughing.
“You know what? You’ve convinced me, actually.”
John felt a tiny bit of tension melt from his shoulders. Still, he kept his gun trained on the killer.
“I don’t need to see him… Fade away, too. Yeah. Saw the girl, already.”
John breathed a bit easier.
“I mean,” the man said and glanced at Sherlock’s terrified face before looking back at John. “This might actually be more interesting.”
What?
John saw the knife turn just a little - a better angle for cutting a throat. The beginning of a movement, from the left to the right.
“No!!” he screamed, and pulled the trigger.
He closed his eyes, fearing, in the moment after pulling the trigger, that he might not have hit the intended target.
He heard a muffled yelp, followed by the knife clattering to the floor, then a body falling down.
He opened his eyes.
Peter was on the floor. Sherlock was clearly alive, panting, with his head still tilted back and his kidnapper’s blood on his face.
And at the very left of his neck…
“Shit,”John said, and hurried towards the stage, praying the man didn’t have time to cut too deep. “Let me see. Let me see.” He got to the stage just as Sherlock opened his eyes and made an attempt to straighten his head. “No, stay like that! Don’t move.”
Two more steps, and…
“Let me see,” he whispered, and inspected the small cut on Sherlock’s neck. It was bleeding, but not profusely. John dropped to his knees and rummaged in his backpack for the first aid kit. He picked some gauze and pressed it to Sherlock’s injury for a few seconds. He grabbed his phone, turned on the flashlight, and looked again.
It wasn’t deep. Just a small cut that was only bleeding like it was because of the location. Now, with the flashlight, John could see another, very superficial scrape along the middle of the neck. Most likely received when the kidnapper adjusted his position. That one wasn’t even bleeding. Just a bit red.
He’d been extremely lucky.
“You’re ok,” he told Sherlock, and finally looked at his face.
He’d been crying. He still was.
“Sherlock…”
He raised his hand to touch his face, but Sherlock flinched away.
Alright. Fair enough. He’d just been through something horrible, maybe he should have warned him.
He quickly covered the injury on his neck with another piece of gauze, then turned his attention back to Sherlock’s face.
“I’m untying you,” he said, and quickly removed the bandana covering his mouth. His face fell when Sherlock opened his mouth to reveal he’d also been gagged with some sort of rag.
“Jesus Christ…” he whispered. He pulled it out, carefully, then threw it on the floor.
Sherlock immediately turned his head to look at Peter’s body, lying on the stage floor in a puddle of blood. The kidnapper’s face was… Well. It was barely recognisable.
“Look at me, Sherls.”
Sherlock did. His eyes were wide, and still terrified. They looked at John like they couldn’t believe what they just saw. Like they didn’t even recognise John. Like John was… A danger.
He couldn’t… He couldn’t be scared of John, could he? Yes, he did just kill someone. And the bullet came dangerously close to Sherlock. And he could have very well killed Sherlock himself. But… Surely, his friend understood that he had to, right? Peter was moving the knife. He was about to kill Sherlock. So he had to shoot him. Surely, Sherlock understood.
And him flinching away from John was just a coincidence.
“Can you talk?
Sherlock opened his mouth. He couldn’t get any words out, so he closed it and tried to swallow.
John expected this. After hours without water, and having to hold that rag in his mouth… His mouth and throat were probably too dry to speak.
“Hold on,” John said, and pulled a bottle of water out of the backpack. He brought it to Sherlock’s lips. “Just a sip, yeah? We don’t wanna… Overwhelm your body.”
Sherlock did take one sip. Then, he immediately tried to speak again.
“Ba-” He swallowed again. Coughed. “Bath...”
“Bathroom?” John guessed.
“Mhm.”
“Right. Yeah. Shit. Ok, hold on.”
He moved to the back of the pole and started untying the rope holding Sherlock's body pressed to it. The bindings seemed rather tight. Once they were loose, blood would return to the parts that were now more or less numb and… Well.
Ouch.
Wait.
John checked Sherlock’s hands, to make sure the rope around his wrists had not acted as a tourniquet and cut off the entire blood supply. If it had, the limb would be long dead now, and untying it would mean allowing the dead blood to flow to the rest of Sherlock’s body, which would NOT be a good idea at all.
But fortunately, Sherlock’s hands looked fine. He touched one of his fingers.
“Can you feel this?”
“Yeah.”
“What am I touching?”
“Finger.”
“Alright.”
He inspected the ropes around his wrists closer. Yes, they were tight, and his poor friend’s hands were red where they had rubbed together, but the bindings weren’t tight enough to cut off all blood flow. Thank god.
“Alright, I’m untying you now. Just had to check something.”
He untied Sherlock’s wrists, then checked his legs too.
They were fine, too, so he untied them.
Sherlock was already groaning and grinding his teeth as the feeling returned to his body.
John got up, to see if he could help. He wasn’t sure how long Sherlock could remain upright, given the combination of feeling returning to his body, having sat upright for hours and possible muscle spasms from both that and dehydration. So he touched his shoulder, to try to steady him.
Sherlock flinched.
He didn’t pull away or anything, but it was enough.
One time was a coincidence. Two times, paired with the way he had looked at him…
Yeah. John had managed to make his best friend afraid of him. Hadn’t he.
Well, in that case, this was going to suck for Sherlock, because he clearly couldn’t walk on his own and there was nobody but John around to help.
“Can you move?” he asked, more as a courtesy. He knew the answer already.
Sherlock tried to take a step and almost came crashing to the ground.
John caught him.
“Right. Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you. Let’s find a bathroom, yeah?”
They moved too slow together, so John left him on one of the chairs while he ran out of the room, to locate the nearest toilet. It was, fortunately, just outside the stalls, so John returned to Sherlock quickly enough.
When he got to him, Sherlock had his eyes fixed on Peter’s body.
“You killed him…” he said, and sounded like he still couldn’t quite believe it.
John felt his shoulders sag in defeat. That settled it, then. It wasn’t his imagination. He wasn’t making this up. Sherlock really was upset with him.
“Yeah,” John admitted. “Well. I had to, didn’t I?”
Sherlock looked away, as if rejecting John’s argument.
He supposed he was right to. It didn’t have to be like that. If only he’d waited for backup. If only he’d been smart enough to know how to persuade Peter to let Sherlock go… But he wasn’t. He had to kill someone, and endanger his best friend.
He was right to be mad at him, of course. But it still stung.
“Come on,” John said. “I found a bathroom.”
He helped him hobble to the bathroom and left him there to do his business. He hurried back to the stage to retrieve his backpack and the water.
“Sherlock!” he shouted when he got back. “I’m leaving you the water bottle next to the door, yeah? You can… Take it and drink some water, alright? Just… Slowly. Ok?”
No answer for a few seconds.
“Did you hear me?” John asked, already fearing that Sherlock had passed out or something, and who knows if he locked the door or not-
“Yes! Thank you!”
Alright. John calmed down. Good. He was ok. Everything would be ok.
He’ll… Try to explain himself to Sherlock, later. When the waters calmed down. He’ll tell him he tried to reason with Peter, and… And perhaps, if the roles were reversed this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps Sherlock would have been able to save John without killing anyone. But John couldn’t. He messed up by not waiting for Lestrade. He messed up by announcing his presence. He messed up trying to negotiate with Peter and could have very well messed up his shot and become the cause of Sherlock's death.
That’s what he was, wasn’t he? A mess-up. Sherlock should have expected this by now.
At least he’d managed to rescue his friend. That was the most important thing.
John pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“I’m gonna call Lestrade and tell her you’re ok, yeah?”
“Lestrade?”
“Yeah! She was coming to help!” John replied, then winced as he realised that he gave Sherlock the perfect reason to be even more disappointed in him. He hadn’t known he was supposed to wait for Lestrade, but decided to investigate the theatre on his own.
He certainly could deduce it now.
“I see…” Sherlock’s voice came, quieter than before.
Yeah, John thought. Of course you see.
He called Lestrade.
“Half an hour, Watson,” she answered.
“Yeah, so, I didn’t wait.”
He heard her sigh, and could almost see her closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.
“He’s ok. I- I mean-”
“You found him?”
She sounded impressed. John’s mouth curled into a small smile, if only for a second.
“Yeah. He’s a bit injured, and.. Dehydrated and stiff and he should really eat something. But. He’s safe now.” Something occurred to John. “Unless the kidnapper had an accomplice or something, but I don’t think-”
“Was the kidnapper with him?”
“Yeah. He’s uh… He’s. Dead. Now.”
“How?”
“I… Had to… Shoot him.”
A long silence.
“He was gonna kill Sherlock,” John added.
“Yeah… You know you’re gonna have to give a statement. At the station.”
“I know.”
“Alright.” Another long silence, followed by a relieved exhale. “How injured did you mean?”
John explained it in more detail. She went quiet for a while, possibly with the realisation that Sherlock really had been that close to dying. John wondered if she blamed him too, for being the reason Peter even considered killing Sherlock that early. He didn’t ask, of course. He was sure that would result in her telling him outright just how stupid he was. And he really didn’t want that.
She instructed him to call 999 and tell them what happened, and assured him that, if Sherlock had to go to the hospital while John was questioned, she would go with Sherlock, so he wouldn’t be alone.
“That’s great,” John said, thinking that Sherlock would probably prefer that too. “Thank you.”
They hung up. John called 999 and told them what had happened.
Sherlock got out while John was still on the phone. He had washed the blood off his face, and was now sitting down next to the bathroom door, holding the water bottle and taking small sips every ten seconds or so.
John hung up the phone. He looked at Sherlock. He had made himself so small. Knees drawn up to his chest. Holding on to the water bottle like a child would hold on to a toy. His hair was a mess, even though he had clearly tried to smooth it out in the bathroom. He was even shaking a little bit. Breathing very controlled.
All of the sudden, all the fear and stress John had been feeling since he found the wilted rose, and the immense relief of seeing Sherlock alive and safe hit him with such intensity that he immediately teared up. His body screamed at him, begged him to run to Sherlock and hug him, hold him close and pet his hair and tell him, ‘I’m so glad you’re alright, Sherlock, you don’t know how scared I was, how relieved I am, how much I love you, how absolutely broken I would have been if you died’.
John bit his lip, and told himself he can’t, he can’t invade Sherlock’s space, Sherlock didn’t feel comfortable, didn’t feel safe with him at the moment, he couldn’t make Sherlock uncomfortable just so he could feel better.
He tried to refrain from bursting into tears, but he couldn’t keep them at bay for long. The fear, the relief, the shame of messing up and the way his heart clenched because he couldn’t even hug his friend… He gasped, once, and covered his mouth as his tears fell. He turned around, so that Sherlock wouldn’t see him, or maybe so he wouldn’t see Sherlock. Probably the latter. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him anyway. He hadn’t looked at him once since he’d left the bathroom.
He forced himself to calm down in record time, wiped his tears away, and sat down on the floor, opposite Sherlock. He looked at the detective for a while, telling himself that if Sherlock looked back at him he would attempt to at least apologise, if not talk about it.
But Sherlock seemed to avoid his gaze even more than before. So John looked away too.
They sat alone, in tense silence, for around ten minutes, until the police and ambulance arrived.
***
It was early evening when John returned to their hotel room. He unlocked the door with his key card, knowing that Sherlock must already be inside. Lestrade had texted him as soon as Sherlock was given the ok from the hospital. He knew he must’ve arrived at the hotel almost two hours before John.
He opened the door and saw the light was on. Sherlock was on his bed. He was texting someone, or maybe just writing something down, but he stopped as soon as John entered the room. He greeted him with a stiff “Hello.”
“Hi,” John said, and sat on his own bed. Sherlock was still avoiding looking at him, of course. “How you feelin’?”
“Alright,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”
Tense, awkward silence again. John eyed the remote, thinking that it would be easier to just turn on the telly and try to pretend everything was fine. But it wasn’t. And he couldn’t stand his best friend not wanting to even look at him. They needed to have a talk. He just… Didn’t know how to start.
“Um…”
A small silence, as John was trying to gather his words. Then…
“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said as if someone forcibly pushed the words out of him.
For a moment, John wasn’t sure what Sherlock could possibly be apologising about. Then he realised.
“No,” he answered, “No, it’s ok. I-I mean I get it. You… Need your space. I understand.”
Sherlock raised his head, and looked at him for the first time in hours.
“What?”
They stared at each other, with mirrored expressions of confusion on their faces.
“What- What do you mean ‘what’?”
“I am expressing confusion at your response.”
“Yeah, I know- Why- W- You- Wait, why were you apologising?”
Sherlock looked down again, avoiding John’s eyes. He clasped his hands together, as he usually did when trying to calm his nerves.
“Because I made you kill someone.”
For a few seconds, they were both silent. Sherlock was still looking down. John was trying to understand what the hell was going on. Two floors above them, some kids were arguing with their parents. John and Sherlock’s room was so quiet, they could hear them pretty well.
“You didn’t make me kill him,” John finally said. “What do you even mean?”
“You… Told me to be back soon, and take care. And- I did try to take care, but I underestimated the danger I would be in. I put you in the exact situation you warned me not to put you in. You even said you would not come after me if I-”
“Oh my god. Sherlock. Don’t… Don't you dare finish that sentence. You have to know I was joking.”
Sherlock smiled the tiniest smile.
“I know. But… I still inconvenienced you.”
“Sherlock…”
“And you had to come after me. And you had to kill someone. To save me. So… I’m sorry. Please, John, forgive me. I- I know it doesn’t work that fast but I-” John numbly noticed that Sherlock was tearing up. “I can’t have you be mad at me, or, you can be mad but please don’t be distant. Not now. John. Please.”
John just stared at him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the pieces were clicking together, and he was slowly realising what had actually been going on.
“I’m not mad…” was the only thing that he managed to say.
“Then why-” Sherlock was breathing very controlled again. Trying his best to stay calm. Not to cry. “I- I thought… No. After it became clear that I couldn't get myself out of there… I… I trusted you to find me. Even if you said you wouldn’t come for me, I knew it was a joke, and you would... Try to find me. If not on your own, then with Gwen’s help. But… The hours passed. And I was afraid.”
John’s heart clenched.
“Sherlock…”
“I was afraid. And. In pain. And I… seriously considered the possibility that I might die there. And… And then you found me! And you tried to negotiate, and when that didn’t work, you… You killed someone. To save me. And- I don’t want to insult your skills, Watson, but you were quite far away, and I didn’t think you could hit him from that distance. And- And you did. And- After all that. As you were untying me, I thought… Everything will be alright now. Because John is here. And-” Sherlock blinked, and two tears rolled down his cheeks. “And I thought you would hug me, I thought, you would be happy to see me and you would tell me, ‘I’m so glad you’re alright, Sherlock’. But you didn’t.”
“Sherlock, of course I’m glad you’re alright-”
“You just… You helped me, yes. But you kept your distance.”
John stared as Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Had he really misunderstood so badly?
“I… I thought you were scared of me.”
“Why would I be scared of you?”
“Well. I mean. I killed someone.”
“To save my life.”
“Yeah, but… I thought…” He considered explaining that he failed to bring backup, that he announced his presence, that he failed to convince Peter to give up, but those had more to do with disappointing Sherlock than scaring him. “Well. Why did you flinch, then?”
For a moment, Sherlock did actually look disappointed.
“Watson. You are a doctor. And you have PTSD. Do you honestly think that was in reaction to you?”
“Well… Not at first, but…” But two times? And it wasn’t just that. “And. You were looking… I mean, you looked at... Peter’s body. And then at me. And you looked like. Like you didn’t even know who I was anymore.”
“Of course I knew who you were!”
“Yeah, no, I don’t mean- I mean like you didn’t… Like you couldn’t believe what I'd just done.”
“Yes!” Sherlock said. “I was amazed that you managed to do it! Both because you were far away, and he was very close to me, and… Because… You have often refused to use our gun, even on known murderers.”
“Mate, it was either that or he slit your-” John stopped abruptly, not wanting to finish the sentence.
They were both silent for a moment.
The last puzzle pieces finally clicked in John's head, and he had the complete picture.
“You… You didn't want me to.. Give you space.”
Sherlock looked down and shook his head vigorously.
“You... avoided looking at me because… You thought… You thought I was mad at you.”
Sherlock nodded, then looked back up.
“Are you really not?”
“Sherls…” John reached out a hand, and his friend took it. “I'm. Not even a little bit mad at you. I'm just… So damn relieved that you're alright. And…”
And now that he understood what had happened. That Sherlock hadn't been scared of him. Or disappointed. Just… In understandable distress after being kidnapped and almost dying.
He'd needed John to be there for him, to comfort him. And John had done his best to keep his distance.
“God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry.”
He opened his arms to invite a hug and Sherlock more or less pounced on him, wrapping his long arms around him and burying his face in his shoulder. John returned the gesture, holding his friend as close as he'd wanted to in the theatre.
“Does that mean you forgive me?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Oh. That's good.”
Neither broke the hug, and after a few seconds, John realised his friend was trying to control his breathing, again. Which probably meant that he was trying to keep himself from crying.
Hm.
He didn't know what happened in the few hours they were apart, after the local police and an ambulance had arrived at the old, abandoned theatre. But John supposed his friend didn't have time to have a proper cry about what happened, and especially about what could have happened.
It might do him good. To let it all out, as they said.
But he couldn't exactly tell him that. Could he?
It was Sherlock. He probably could.
Still. He decided on a more subtle approach.
He stroked Sherlock’s back, trying to get him to relax. He told him,
“It's ok… It's alright, mate.”
His hand moved up, to stroke Sherlock’s hair, too. His head was warm under his palm. He was warm.
John squeezed his eyes, trying not to think of how easily he could have lost him.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, for both their sakes.
Sherlock let out a quiet sob. Then another. John let his palm rest on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and his friend adjusted his arms to hold on better.
He was crying in earnest now.
John let him.
He whispered “It's ok,” every now and then.
After a while, he started itching to call him something, some pet name that would condense his affection for him into one single word.
Something like sweetheart. Or darling. Or love.
But he couldn't. He didn't want to be too much, and anyway, the first two didn't really feel like his words. Maybe he'd used sweetheart many years ago, with an ex. But so much time had passed. And darling. That was too Carol Watson.
And love… He did sometimes call people love. It wasn't as weird. He could get away with calling him that, just this once. Special occasion and all.
Still. He probably shouldn't.
His friend kept crying.
“It’s alright, Sherlock,” he whispered.
Oh, but he couldn't keep it in. Buddy and mate and his name just weren't cutting it anymore.
“It's alright, my love.”
Ok. Yeah. Didn’t really plan for that ‘my’ to get in there.
Sherlock definitely noticed, and was so taken aback that he immediately went from crying his eyes out to little more than sniffling.
“It’s ok,” John added, trying to pretend he didn’t even notice what he’d said.
Sherlock didn’t say anything. He took another half a minute to completely stop crying, then slowly extracted himself out of John’s arms.
He sniffed.
“I think… I might have needed that. Thank you, John.”
“Of course,” he answered. “Anytime. Just-” He chuckled, to try to ease the atmosphere, “-maybe next time without the kidnapping and almost getting murdered?”
“Yes!” Sherlock laughed once, and pointed at him, like he usually did when he got a joke he didn’t expect to get. “Indeed!”
They smiled at each other.