Chapter Text
John went into Sherlock’s room two days after the fall. He had been in there before, but this time seemed different, since Sherlock would never step foot in it again. John sat on the bed and looked around. Simple, neat, efficient. Very Sherlock. One of his dressing gowns was hanging on the doorknob and John tugged it off without thinking. He lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply. It smelled like Sherlock, and for a fraction of a fraction of a second, he could almost imagine he was hugging him. But he wasn’t, because Sherlock was dead, and John felt like he was dying inside, with no passion or motivation to summon to do anything. Oh, and the nightmares were back, and now Sherlock featured in them. Everyone was dying, and John had to watch them all.
Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock. Was. Dead.
John repeated it over and over to himself. He couldn’t believe it. Sherlock was dead. John had watched him. That was almost worse: John had stood there, watching. Sherlock had called him there just to watch Sherlock plummet. If Sherlock were alive, John wanted to hit him, and hug him, and just stare at him blankly in equal measures.
But he couldn’t. Because Sherlock was dead.
Not to be one-sided, Sherlock felt equally terrible. He could have said it on that call. But he didn’t, because it wouldn’t have been right. On the off chance John returned the sentiment, it would be all the more painful for him. Yes, of course Sherlock realized how it would hurt John. He lived with John. John stayed with him through more than a year, mostly happily. That kind of—friendship?—friendship does not end without a little bit of mourning. Sherlock knew that.
But since he hadn’t said it on the call, now he might, very likely might, die without saying it. He entrusted Mycroft with the information to supply to John if he died, and Mycroft was oddly solemn and quiet about it. All the urgings that sentiment would destroy him, and there were none this time. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was happy about it.
John texted Sherlock’s phone often. He would text, “Good morning,” and “I hope you’re eating something in Heaven,” and “God, now I’m the bored one.” He texted “Don’t be dead, Sherlock,” and then just “Please.” Each went through, so John knew somewhere, a phone was buzzing with the texts.
The buzzing happened to be in Sherlock’s pocket. He had told Mycroft the phone was destroyed in the fall, but it obviously hadn’t. He had taken it, just in case John texted him.
And John did.
Sherlock wanted desperately to reply to each.
He held out until John sent a text that said only, “Please,” at one in the morning. He had just landed in Czechoslovakia, and Mycroft was off doing something. Sherlock sighed, bit his lip, and tapped a reply.
-
“Not dead.” [send]
Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and looked over at Mycroft.
John grabbed at his phone. If it was another sympathy text, he’d throw it. But a glimmer of hope sparkled inside him: seconds after he had texted Sherlock’s phone, he had a reply. It would be a hell of a coincidence if it was someone else.
“Not dead.”
John stared at his phone, mouth dry. His heart rate increased and he bent over the phone.
“Where are you?”
Sherlock felt his phone buzz. Mycroft was still on a call and didn’t hear it. He flipped it out and looked at the screen. John knew; Sherlock had saved him from the mourning, for the most part. If he told John, John would come after him, surely. And he couldn’t put John’s life in danger like that.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Yes, you bloody well can.”
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. Nothing. “It’s dangerous.”
John scoffed at his phone. “Trying to recruit me again?”
“I can’t lose you for real.”
“That’s why if we die, we should die together.”
Sherlock stared at his phone, then looked over at Mycroft. Mycroft had noticed and was looking at him closely.
“Shall I make preparations for two, Sherlock?”
Sherlock bit his lip.
“Czechoslovakia.”
“I think that will be in order, Mycroft.”
Mycroft nodded and put his phone back to his ear.
John stared at his phone until it beeped. Czechoslovakia, of course.
“I’m coming.”
He grabbed his wallet, phone, and jacket and raced down the steps to the flat. He almost told Mrs. Hudson where he was going, but decided against it—it needed to be like he disappeared, like Sherlock.
“I can’t make it by train in the same day.”
“Mycroft will send a jet. Wait outside Angelo’s.”
“How long can we wait?” Sherlock asked Mycroft.
“Three hours, but that’s risky. Are you sure, Sherlock?”
Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know.”
“I suggest you decide.”
John waited outside Angelo’s for all of two minutes before one of Mycroft’s sleek black cars picked him up. He shook his leg anxiously against the leather interior, and watched out the window as the city sped by. They reached the airport much too slowly for John’s taste and drove straight onto the runway. A plane was waiting there as promised, and John couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.
“Getting on the plane.”
Sherlock and Mycroft were seated in a small café by the airport.
“How long?”
“Two and a half hours left.”
Sherlock stared into his coffee and hoped it was enough.
John watched out the window as the plane taxied. Why couldn’t they go faster? Who decided to pursue this instead of teleportation? Jesus, Sherlock was alive. That, or it was another one of Moriarty’s tricks—not him, of course, but one of his web. He still couldn’t believe Sherlock had let him believe he was dead, but there had to be a reason. And besides, Sherlock was alive, and John was going to him and it would be magnificent.
Sherlock checked his phone for the fiftieth time. One hour left.
“Stretching it, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “They’ll figure it out.”
Sherlock glared at him. “We’re waiting.”
“Decided, have you?”
Sherlock sneered and checked his phone again.
John was dying. This was taking too long. Whatever Sherlock was doing, he wouldn’t be able to wait long. He barely glanced at the miniscule countryside under him as they flew. He paced the cabin. What on earth was Sherlock doing? Was he hurt? God, that would be worse than if he was dead.
“John, I need you to sit down.” Mycroft’s female of choice pointed to the seatbelt light. John grinned and buckled himself in as quickly as he could.
“Fifteen minutes,” Mycroft said.
“Where is your plane?” Sherlock snarled.
Mycroft shrugged.
“I swear to God, if you sabotaged this—”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply. He might’ve yelled it, but the idea was to be invisible. “I am not to interfere with this unless you are about to die, remember? As far as I see it, Doctor Watson may actually keep you alive.”
Sherlock sat back, tapped his empty coffee cup on the table, and checked his phone. Thirteen minutes.
The plane bumped on the ground and Mycroft’s worker glanced at him, as if she expected him to hop out of the emergency exit. John unbuckled his seatbelt the second the sign turned off and practically bolted out the door and down the steps.
“I’m here. Where are you?”
Sherlock’s phone beeped and he jumped. He grabbed Mycroft’s coat. “He’s here,” he whispered.
Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, it’s twenty minutes past the time we should’ve left.”
“But he’s here.”
Mycroft inhaled and exhaled. “Fine. Quickly.”
“Coming. Stay there.”
They hurried back to the airport, Sherlock towing Mycroft reluctantly behind him.
John stared around the runway.
“John, come on.” Mycroft’s worker motioned with her head to the car beside the plane. John reluctantly got inside.
“Where are we going?”
“Where do you think?”
Mycroft insisted they stop at the arrivals gate, and Sherlock stamped his foot.
“This is taking too long,” he whined.
“Not my problem,” Mycroft said, and checked his watch.
The car drove around the airport and stopped at arrivals. John got out immediately and looked around. Even trying to blend in among the crowds of Czech people loading cars, Sherlock and Mycroft stood out blatantly. Mycroft, in his suit and leaning on his umbrella; and Sherlock, in one of his suits, sans Belstaff in the heat, fidgeting and looking around.
“Sherlock!” John yelled, without even thinking about using Sherlock’s name.
Sherlock spun around and locked eyes with him immediately. John jogged over, mumbling apologies to families he dodged around. He reached him in seconds, grinning. Sherlock answered him with a small smile, and before John knew what he was doing, he had his hands in Sherlock’s collar and was crushing their mouths together. Sherlock stiffened, then his hands found John’s hips and he stepped forward so they were chest-to-chest.
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Very touching, but we are trying not to make a scene, and we are in fact on a schedule, if you remember, Sherlock.”
Sherlock broke for long enough to snap, “Two minutes, Mycroft,” and then leaned his forehead on John’s.
“Are you okay?” John whispered. “Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock whispered back. “No big missions yet. I’ll tell you about it in the car. No luggage?”
“Thought better of it.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“Nope.”
Sherlock kissed him again.