Chapter Text
John had loved Sherlock Holmes. Silently. He had tried to hide it with his girlfriends, whom he could not tell apart. With his travels to other cities, his brotherly loyalty, or with his acceptance of Sherlock’s affection for "The Women" Irene Adler. John knew Sherlock could see through it if he wanted to. If he tried. But he never mentioned it. So the tension between them stayed as the elephant in the room. And John was fine with it. He was fine with being just Sherlock’s flatmate and as long as Sherlock wanted him to stay he would.
But then Sherlock fell to his death. Fell from the rooftop in front of John’s eyes.
Leaving everything behind. Leaving John behind.
And that’s how John himself fell.
Not from a roof, but into a dark hole. It took him some time to return to Baker Street. Months before he felt able to set foot into his old apartment. Their old apartment. And when he did, it seemed like time had stood still.
There it was. Sherlock’s violin sitting on the counter of the sofa waiting for its master's return. The unfinished experiments were scattered all over the kitchen table. The Microscope surrounded by that many different glass slides with either dust, blood, fabric, or pollen. The Petri dishes lay in multiple stacks on the table dirtying the blue flowered tablecloth. Something surely was molding. At least it smelled like something was.
Nothing had changed. And John felt like Sherlock would waltz through the door any minute either complaining or mumbling about something. He heard it in his imagination. He saw the man barging through the door his greatcoat billowing behind him, caught in the momentum of his steps.
But there was no Sherlock and no Sherlock would come. He was alone.
"I thought of cleaning up and renting it to someone else but I didn’t know where to start. And anyway who would take a flat with bullet holes in the walls" Mrs. Hudson said on the stairway waiting for John to enter his old home. "Are you taking your things?"
"I should, shouldn’t I" John‘s gaze wandered through the living room remembering the clients they had in here or the arguments he and Sherlock exchanged in here. There wouldn’t be another—neither argument nor client. It made something clench in his ribcage. The thought hurt and a lump formed in John's throat. Mrs. Hudson entered behind John complaining: "He never led me dust. And now look at this place."
With a quick arm movement, the heavy red curtain was pulled open by the tiny woman. Sunlight flooded the room. It highlighted the messiness. The yellow spray-painted smiley on the wall. The old sofa beneath it. And the old floral tea cups, still standing on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
“You won’t be coming back living here, will ya John?" It broke John’s heart to hear Mrs. Hudson so sad. She tried to smile but her eyes stayed dim. She was mourning him just as he was. And it seemed that grief had aged her by ten years. Her face looked hollow, her eyes were missing their former glint of mischief Sherlock had fueled.
"No. I am not.“ It would be unbearable. And it felt wrong. So he looked down at his hands before he continued, unable to look his former landlord in the eyes when he spoke his next words. "Actually I took a new job"
I eh… I will return to the military. As a doctor. They will send me to Serbia next week"
✧ ―――――――― ✧
Sherlock Holmes sat in a small cafe in France. The cafe might have looked fancy from the outside with its pink and white awning and the clean Lettering over the door.
But the withering flowers on the tables and the bitter aftertaste of the coffee beans suggested near bankruptcy. As well as him being the only person in here and a single employee working behind the counter. But that could also have been an arrangement by Mycroft Holmes who was entering through the front door.
A soft ringing sound announced his entrance through a small golden bell on the door. His hair was neat as always, the suit flawless. He hadn’t had breakfast yet Sherlock noticed but kept it to himself. Mycroft sat down beside him, wordlessly. He saw his brother's skeptical look at the coffee cup deepening his bankruptcy theory.
His eyes scrutinized the dark brown liquid with so much disdain as if some venom was hidden in there. But on the other hand, his brother was always more of a tea person than a coffee one.
He took a yellow envelope out of the inside of his suit jacket and let a file slide across the round table. It was slim harboring little but still important information. "Moriarty’s Cell has some people left in Serbia. If it suits you the flight will take off in an hour." He didn’t look at Sherlock while speaking. A habit of his. To keep the authority and mysterious aura.
Meanwhile, Sherlock opened the file. His eyes flew over the letters, taking in the words and information. Most of them weren't foreign to him. But the more information the better. He kept Mycroft in the corner of his eyesight observing the older waiting for a slip-up.
"Don’t you have questions about John Watson?"
"Do you have anything to say about him?" His tone was suggestive and Sherlock tested whether he was being thrown a bait or if his brother was earnest. Something Mycroft was rather seldom.
"Well, I thought you were interested. After all, you were flatmates for years."
"I suppose he is breathing, living, eating. Probably handling his patients with his usual care. So why should I worry about him?" But he did worry. At least there was this restrictive feeling lurking behind a semi-closed door in his mind.
Because John Watson had been more than a mere flatmate. More than a mere companion. Something more Sherlock never dared to label.
"John Watson is an adult man. He should be able to take care of himself don't you think, Mycroft?"
A disapproving scowl appeared between Mycroft's eyebrows for the split second. A normal person wouldn't have so much as even noticed. But when had Sherlock ever been normal?
"Brother dear, the man you are. Well, your contact will pick you up when you land. Any further questions?"
"Only if you plan to keep wearing those ridiculous socks. Seriously Mycroft lilac is not your colour."
✧ ―――――――― ✧
A long cry of pain echoed through the medical tent. The young man–almost still a boy–was bleeding profusely from his left calf. It was a graze shot luckily resulting in nothing more than a flesh wound. But John Watson had seen enough injuries in war to know not to handle it lightly. An infection could lead to an amputation.
That's why he mercilessly put the disinfectant on the wound. With his left hand holding the cloth that was soaked with the soldier's blood, with the right holding the ankle and the leg still. "Doctor you are an evil man." Corporal Briant hissed. Pearls of sweat made his blond hair stick to his forehead, his blue eyes looked so terribly tired.
"An evil man who saved your leg, Briant. Mary will come and bandage you up. And don't ever go on your own again boy. Could get you killed and I don't want to hold this conversation with your mother." John threw the instruments with a clattering sound into a metal bowl on the bedside table before he removed his gloves and smiled at the boy lying in the cot. He would keep his leg. If he kept himself out of trouble. "You will be fine in a few weeks with nothing but a scar. So don't make a fuss."
"Thank you, Doctor."
The next man lay on a stretcher, his hand destroyed by a grenade. He wouldn't be so lucky as to keep all five fingers. Unconscious he lay there in that terrible state.
They would need to operate. But that wasn't John's responsibility. Examining and giving an opinion was all they had asked him to do on this patient. It wasn't his anyway. Dr. Sloan was in charge of this soldier and John wouldn't interfere with a younger doctor gathering experiences.
After finishing his examination and having given his opinion John left and with an acknowledging nod, Mary took to his side. "There is someone outside wanting to speak with you. His name is Homer or something like that" she said before leaving with a tray full of dressing materials for Briant. With a smile and soft-spoken words, she tended to his wound, bandaging it.
John liked Mary for that. Her lively character felt like a warm blanket over one's shoulders. Healing Trauma.
John gave them a last look before he walked across the tent towards the entry and his visitor. The thought of Mycroft had popped up in his head when Mary had said that similar name. But there was no way that arrogant twat would put himself in danger and visit John for whatever reason in a war zone. And with Sherlock's death, the connection between them was severed. Mycroft hadn't reached out to him in the past year and neither had he. They would become a funny little anecdote in each other's past. Something to tell their grandchildren.
When John left the shelter of the tent, the sandy wind and the sweltering Serbian heat hit him like a wall. He took a step into the open, blinking against the sweltering sun blinding him. It took him a moment to see his visitor. A man towered before him, nearly two meters tall, wearing a military uniform and an olive green shemagh on his head. Sunglasses covered half his face just like scars covered his arms.
"John Watson. Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?" His outstretched arm was ignored and the hune handed over a smartphone. A newer iPhone, hard to get by in this region. A British number was punched in for him to call. "Whose number is this?"
Past experiences had taught John to be wary of strange phone numbers. Or strangers. In fact, he rather hated mobile phones. After Sherlock’s death, he rarely picked his own up.
"The big boss’s." With a low timbered voice, the hune spoke these three words. It caused goosebumps underneath the fabric of John’s shirt. So without any intention of hiding his skepticism, he asked: "What would your big boss want from me?"
"Call them."
And with his curiosity taking the steering wheel John took the phone. He wore a pained expression as if he knew what he did right now was wrong in every way and not at all consistent with his job description.
And while his ears listened to the sounds the phone made as it built the call, his brain was scrambling through the things Sherlock had taught him about humans and how to observe them.
But before he could open that drawer in the far back of his mind a so oddly familiar voice reached his ear through the phone. "John Watson, I suppose?"
For a moment the world stopped spinning. John's mind went blank. His breath hitched, hearing these silk-clothed words and he felt like being punched in the gut. The heat of the sun suddenly felt rather freezing and he was shaken by a shiver.
He had rather expected Mycroft's voice rather than the smoky female sound.
That woman. Wasn’t she supposed to be dead? He had seen pictures. Mycroft had told him. Sherlock had mourned her. He himself had loathed her. Why was she talking to him on the phone?
Mycroft had said she died with such a certainty that he doubted that the older Holmes brother knew about her being very much alive. So why the hell was he talking to her on the phone?
✧ ―――――――― ✧
Being restrained in a dark windowless room was one of the things Sherlock Holmes could now say was not as much fun as he had imagined. His hair had gotten too long he probably looked like a rogue. Not to mention his beard, which was in utter need of a shave. One could braid with it if they tried. Not that he had tried. With his hands being chained above his head it was simply impossible.
After three days, it had become uncomfortable to stay in this position. Arms chained to the ceiling with metal handcuffs and chains, which cut burning into the skin on his wrists. They had taken his shirt; his torso was wearing nothing but bare skin and open wounds from whiplashes he had endured.
Endured.
Because this mission was important for his return to 221 B Baker Street.
He probably would have found a way to escape, if he wanted to. But he hadn’t found all the information he needed and there was one more of Moriarty‘s men in this Group that needed to be eliminated. One more person before he was finished.
So he stayed in the cellar, making himself comfortable with the aching pain in his wrist, his bare feet in a puddle, and the multiple different insects living in the cold wet climate of this underground bunker. They were crawling by his feet, being his only companions in the dark.
Insects and the man sitting on the stool in the corner his face staying in the shadow the candle threw. But that hid nothing from Sherlock, who could see the age written in his mannerisms. The military years and hard Russian winters had invisibly scarred the man. The way he held himself, the spotless uniform despite the obvious lack of personal hygiene especially in the mouth area. Brushing his teeth doesn’t seem to be mandatory for the Russian. His last meal was borscht, according to the remnants on the corner of his mouth.
He could at least have used a napkin, Sherlock thought as he observed his shabby guard.
"You British people think you are really fancy, don't ya?"
The way he spoke had a southern accent, and a lisp. A nasty one where spit flew while speaking.
"But how royal do you feel now, you silly prat?" He stood up and walked over to Sherlock. While walking a limp exposed itself in his left leg. A gunshot wound to the knee. Probably. Could also be a grenade but less likely.
"Did you swallow your tongue, brit?" A filthy fist grabbed Sherlock's hair and with a painful tug, he made them look into each other's faces.
The man was in his fifties, divorced, and had no contact with his children. The faint mark on his ring finger indicates the first, the picture in his breast pocket the second.
A perfect person with no direct target and nothing to lose.
But he was Sherlock Holmes. There were always some secrets dying in every person's cellar.
So he spat on the ground before he said in Russian: "Gifting your children plush toys won't make them kids again."
Stunned, the man let go of his hair, Sherlock's head falling back with his view being back on his feet standing in the mud of that awful dirty room.
He smiled towards the ground, his long hair hiding every bit of his face.