Chapter 4 (Part 5/13)

It takes Sherlock five years to come back to him. John looks everywhere he can think of. He looks for Sherlock. He waits. But for five years there is no sign of him. And then…

Sherlock comes to him barely twenty minutes before he is to be married. John is pacing somewhere in the back room, imagining what Mary looks like in her wedding gown and Sherlock just walks in, wearing a slim black tuxedo. His shirt and bowtie are crisp white. John stares at him for a full minute, frozen in shock and disbelief. He never imagined their reunion to look like this.

He looks at Sherlock again. His lips twitch as if he's fighting the urge to smile, his brows are tightly knit. He is simultaneously anxious and happy to see him. John watches as he searches for words, for something to say. Clearly he has expected John to show some form of reaction.

John refuses to move or make this easy in any way.

"I heard you were getting married," Sherlock finally says.

"Yes," John whispers, staring at him as if he might disappear. He looks exactly the same. Elegant curls. Mouth twisted into an expression of superiority. Eyes scanning through everything.

"I came to say—"Sherlock starts with a pleasant smile, but then the smile drops off his face. "No. I can't. I can't congratulate you. Don't do this John."

"It's been five years," John breathes. His face is wet. Why is his face wet? When did he start to cry?

"I know."

Suddenly Sherlock is in front of him, pulling him into a hug, "I know. I know. But don't do this. Be mine."

"Jesus," John breathes into his lapels, his voice shaking, "we lived together for a year. You disappeared for five years and now you want me to throw everything away for you?"

He can't see Sherlock's face but he feels the hesitation in Sherlock's body. Sherlock's arm tighten around him, unwilling to let him end the hug. "Yes," Sherlock says defiantly after a pause, "I do."

"Well, fuck you," John says, pushing him away with all his might.

Sherlock looks at his feet, hands tucked in his pocket. He looks devastatingly handsome in his disappointment. "I threw everything away for you. I disappeared so you could live."

"And then you stayed away for five years. Never thought about what it would do to me," John says this softly, leaning back against the wall, straightening his tie nervously.

Sherlock whispers something that he doesn't hear. He looks like he is an oil painting, standing there, shrouded in the evening light, his whole body slumped down. But where sadness and disappointment make others look ugly, Sherlock's tall frame looks tragically beautiful in its brokenness.

"What did you say?" John snaps.

"I said," Sherlock raises his voice from a mumble to a whisper, "I said I thought about you every day. It kept me alive."

John has no defense against the way those words make his heart ache. He is sliding down the wall.

"My god Sherlock. It's been five years. That's a lot of time. So much has changed," John repeats, no other defenses left, "I don't even know you anymore."

More than anything this seems to break Sherlock. He looks up at John wide eyed, hurt etched all over his face, hurt etched across every muscle that tenses. He cowers back from John as if John is going to burn him. He doesn't stumbled back with the force of someone who has been burnt or shot. He shrinks back like someone who has been threatened with torture, he shrinks back as if John plans on cutting off every limb from his body as he watches.

"You," he starts, his voice smaller than John has ever heard it, "you're the only person who knows me."

"I knew you five years ago. I have no idea who you are now," John says before he can help himself. He is hurting himself just as much as he is hurting Sherlock. Punishing them both. Why won't anyone stop him? Mary, Mary, Mary. He is doing this for Mary. The person who never abandoned him.

Sherlock is in front of him again, both hands on the wall, palms flat down. One of Sherlock's hands on each side of him, caging him in. The usually dominant position looks desperate in light of the expression on Sherlock's face—he is begging.

"It's me. You must see it John," he pleads, looking into John's face, trying to convince him that nothing has changed, "it's still me."

John's heart gives a little tug. Sherlock must see this because he draws in and takes John's lips between his own, presses his tongue against John's teeth, opens John's mouth with his own. It's sloppy and desperate and John melts under it. And then Sherlock seems to take control of himself and it's soft. He brushes his lips against John's gently, cups his face and deepens the kiss. He presses himself against John, pinning John against the wall. He grinds against John and John chuckles into the kiss because he knows Sherlock is trying to prove a point. He is saying: "Look how much we both want each other John. The evidence is right here between us. Surely even you can't be ignorant of hard evidence."

And Sherlock is brushing his lips against John's jaw, behind his ear, against his neck. His lips are there, barely touching, driving him mad. He grips Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself as Sherlock rips his tie apart, starts to undo his shirt. Those feather lips are against the hollow of his neck now. This must be a form of torture because it's driving him mad. He wants the pressure of Sherlock's lips but the evil evil man goes on brushing those perfect lips against his skin, just barely. Sherlock's fingers are steady of his hips.

Sherlock's lips brush over one nipple on their way to John's abs, as if by accident.

"Fuck," John cries, hands snapping up clasp over his own mouth, trying to stifle the noise.. His whole body contorts under the promise of full contact. Sherlock smiles against his skin.

Sherlock is on his knees before him and John knows nothing will ever equal this sight. Sherlock is on his knees, looking devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, hands on John's belt, eyes lidded with desire. He is panting. He is trembling with want. John is too. Sherlock's lips are swollen. And then Sherlock looks up at him with adoration, hands trembling on John's belt and, with his eyes, he asks for permission.

And John almost laughs with the absurdity of that. As if Sherlock has ever needed his permission to do anything. As if it's John who is doing Sherlock the favor of being pleasured by him before his own wedding—

Shit. The wedding.

There is a knock on the door.

"John. They're ready for you in a minute. You can come out now," says the voice behind the door.

Sherlock's eyes never leave his and he sees John's decision on his face a few seconds before John realizes it himself. In fact, John reads his own decision on Sherlock's face. John reads his decision in the way Sherlock's lips turn into a heartbreakingly sad smile.

He is marrying her today. Mary, Mary. Mary with the emerald eyes. Mary who is smart and funny and saved John when he was more hurt than he could have ever been. Mary. His savior.

Sherlock slumps, rests his cheek against John's knee. Then he takes John's hand and places a feather kiss on the knuckle. He looks up at John and his face is both sad and filled with love.

He rises from his knees gracefully. No sign of abandon or passion on his face. Nothing to indicate that he was kissing John except the slightly swollen lips. He is miraculously put together. John is boneless and panting against the wall but Sherlock is putting him together, buttoning his shirt, tying his tie, combing his hair with his fingers.

"There you go John," he says smoothly, "all evidence removed."

John nods weakly.

"For god's sake man," Sherlock says affectionately, taking John's face in his hands and giving him a little shake, "think of Anderson! Really think of him."

"What?" John stammers, and follows Sherlock's gaze to his own trousers—oh!

He laughs wholeheartedly. "How can I think of Anderson when I've got you right here?" he says softly, trying to show Sherlock with the look on his face that he is breaking his own heart in the process as well.

"Well, try," Sherlock says with a theatric roll of his eyes, putting on a great show of being unmoved by the whole thing, "it would be bad form to get married with…that."

John laughs again and takes a moment to compose himself. Then he heads for the door, refusing to look at Sherlock.

"John, I…" he hears Sherlock's muffled voice. Is he…crying? He looks over his shoulder. Sherlock has his back to him, he is looking out of the window.

"I wish you all the happiness in the world." His voice breaks quite obviously on the word happiness but other than that he sounds cheerful, calm, genuine. "My best to Mary."

He closes the door behind him and just as it clicks shut he swears he hears Sherlock sob: "I love you."

OoOoOoOoO

He wakes up from this dream with a gasp and chuckles to himself.

Be mine? Sherlock would never say that. His dreams are starting be less and less realistic depictions of Sherlock.

OoOoOoOoO

John blames Mary for the new theme of his recent dreams. When he is awake he thinks of nothing but Sherlock's safety and well-being. Has he eaten? Is he in danger? The certainty that Sherlock is alive never arrives in one definitive burst. The idea is planted when he receives the Irene Adler pictures and gains traction when he realizes that the violin-player could only have been hired by Sherlock. It then becomes more and more probable when the headlines are filled with the arrest of assassins and crime syndicates that have eluded capture for decades. It can only be the work of Sherlock.

And John for his part only thinks of how Sherlock is doing and has multiple angry outbursts a day, throwing things at the wall and cursing at Sherlock under his breath because Sherlock has left him behind, because Sherlock doesn't want his company on this most dangerous mission.

But ever since that night, months ago, when Mary had asked him the simple question (do you want to be more than friends with Sherlock?) his dreams had taken a most embarrassingly romantic turn.

Realistically, it had been possible for a post-case adrenaline rush to turn into something more. John could imagine that in the absolute joy of solving a case or in the rush of outrunning a criminal, they could end up kissing in the hallway of 221 B. Or perhaps, after sitting glued to the telly with Chinese takeaway on their laps, they would turn to face each other, the eye-contact would go on for too long and then one of them (they wouldn't remember who made the first move) would finally lean forward and close the distance between them. The cartons of greasy food would fly onto the carpet and John would pin Sherlock down on the sofa and kiss him in the awful jumpy lighting provided by the telly. They would be sweaty and smell of Chow Mein and it would all be worth it.

But John doesn't dream of these plausible scenarios. His subconscious will only allow him to kiss Sherlock if the situation is dire.

In one dream they corner an art thief in his London apartment. Sherlock explains to him exactly how he has solved the case.

"You were almost clever enough but unfortunately, Mr. Murray, your socks are made of cashmere," Sherlock explains calmly. "You could have worn normal socks and walked away with everything but your affinity for fancy wool gave you away. Kindly step aside so John and I can retrieve the Rothco from its hiding place in your sock drawer."

And as Sherlock takes a confident stride towards the wardrobe, everything slows down for John. Because John has served in the army and he has seen men get shot and he knows that the movement of Murray's hand into his pocket means that he's pulling out a gun. Every muscle in his body goes taut and a jolt of electricity runs through his body as Murray reaches into his pocket. Sherlock is mid-stride, he is looking at the wardrobe, he won't see the gesture in time to respond.

"Sherlock," he warns, throwing his entire body forward as Murray raises the gun and fires.

John hears the bullet as his body meets Sherlock's but in split-second they are both on the ground and Sherlock's body is hard and warm beneath his. Definitely not dead.

The door bursts open. Lestrade and his team have arrived just in time to restrain Murray but John doesn't care. He doesn't care that Lestrade is trying to make sure they're okay. He's petrified. He runs his hand over Sherlock's face, his eyes, his throat.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he is whispering over and over, like a chant, his hands and eyes searching for any sign of harm. "Oh God, Sherlock, please—

"I'm quite fine John," Sherlock reassures him affectionately, "stop fussing."

And John runs a hand to where his torso meets Sherlock's. Color drains from John's face. He feels the wetness on Sherlock's shirt.

"Sherlock, you were hit—"

"No John," Sherlock sighs, "I'm fine."

John feels sick. Sherlock is delirious, Sherlock has been shot. The world starts to spin impossibly. John raises his hand and sure enough there is blood on it. John and Sherlock both look at the blood-soaked hand for a moment.

And then John has been flipped onto his back and Sherlock is there, white and trembling above him.

"John, you've been shot," he says urgently, still shaking, "now I need you to keep your hands right here and press okay? Keep the pressure on."

"Were you aware that I'm a doctor?" John jokes weakly. Sherlock gives a shaky laugh but still looks like he's about to faint as he pulls off his scarf and presses it hard to John's wound.

"Lestrade, call an ambulance," Sherlock barks.

John raises his neck weakly to look at his own bullet wound. The prognosis is clear.

"Sherlock," he says tenderly. He raises his hand. He knows there is blood on it but he can't help himself, he cups Sherlock's face softly, thump stroking his cheek. "I'm not going to make it to the ambulance."

"Stop it you idiot," Sherlock snaps.

"I'm sorry. I'm losing too much blood. I'm not going to—"

"You're delirious."

"I'm right," John reasons softly. Sherlock looks maddeningly attractive when his pale skin is streaked with crimson. What is that pretty red paint on Sherlock's cheek? Ah, it's John's blood. Yes. Blood. John is dying for Sherlock. This is good.

Sherlock is looking at him like he's either going to cry or kill him. But then he does neither and he is kissing John. Sherlock has one hand in John's hair, taking a fistful of John's hair in a way that should hurt but doesn't-considering the gun wound. Sherlock other hand is still pressing against the blood, trying to keep the wound from bleeding out. Sherlock is kissing John into the floor, reckless, unforgiving, fierce. He is also begging against John's lips. "Please," he says. And "don't leave me." And "I'll do anything." And then a hundred more times "please" and "John". But Sherlock's lips never leave his even as he whispers and that side of John that has a sordid sense of humor, jokes in his head: "what a sweet way to die."

But apparently he has said this out loud because there are tears on Sherlock's face now and he is sobbing into the kiss. "You are not dying. Please. Please."

"Sherlock, you know I would never deny you anything but…" he doesn't have the strength to go on. Everything feels cold. So so cold. Sherlock's lips take his own once more. The way John is bleeding out, it almost feels like he is melting into Sherlock. He smells so much iron, the air is saturated with iron and Sherlock.

"I'm cold, Sherlock. Could you, please…tell me you love me?" John mumbles before he can stop himself.

"W-what?"

"Tell me that you love me. I need to hear it before—"

"I can't," Sherlock whispers, face tight in anguish, "John. Don't."

"Lie to me. Just tell me. Please."

Sherlock opens his mouth, tries to form the words. John is vaguely aware that he is bleeding all over Sherlock's crisp white button down shirt. The dry cleaners can't get it out. John is slipping away. He feels something like sleep pulling at him. He is very sorry to ruin Sherlock's best shirt.

"I can't," Sherlock says again, trembling with the pain.

"I'm dying for you," John says, numb, "and you won't even give me this. You don't have to mean it…just…the words Sherlock. I need to…I'm scared…"

Sherlock sobs against his throat, anguished, shaking.

He takes a fistful of Sherlock's shirt and pulls him into another kiss. "Okay. Don't say it. It's okay," John concedes kindly, but the hurt is intense. Sherlock has broken his heart, "I don't…wanna…fight with you anymore. I do though."

"Do what?" Sherlock says against his lips, crying.

"Love you. I'm sorry. I just do."

When John wakes up he barely remembers the details of the dream but remembers blood and sweat and kissing and Sherlock.

OoOoOoOoO

John is fighting to free his hands of the rope. He screams through the gag as he watches Moriarty approach Sherlock.

His gun is in his coat pocket, if only he can get one hand free….Moriarty only has two henchmen with him. John is quick with his gun. He needs to get his hand free.

Sherlock's jacket is gone. It's somewhere in the corner. Sherlock is wearing a pink button down. They don't bother removing it before digging the sharpened knife into Sherlock's back. Sherlock twists in pain but he is silent so John screams for him. Screams through the gag as he watches them trace deep wounds into Sherlock back with the knife.

"Johnny boy," Moriarty drawls, pacing in front of Sherlock. Sherlock is on his knees. One of the two men is holding him up by a fistful of hair. The other is mutilating his back, drawing on it with the knife.

"Are you watching?" Moriarty sings. "I want him to watch you watching him getting all cut up for you. Burn."

John needs to free his hand.

"In a few minutes he's going to watch you die for him. He's pretty quiet now but I think that should make him beg out loud," Moriarty tells John pleasantly. "Now boys. I think we should disinfect those wounds, don't you? We don't want them to get all nasty and oozy."

The shirt is ripped off of Sherlock. A bottle of disinfectant is brought out. Sherlock is drenched in sweat and blood. He's pale and limp. As the larger man lets go of his hair, he slumps forward, about to fall flat on his face before Moriarty catches him by the arms and rests Sherlock's face against his own chest.

"Shhh. There there now," he coos to Sherlock, "daddy's got you."

And then disinfectant is poured on Sherlock's mangled back. John knows that it must burn but he can't even imagine how it must feel. Sherlock jerks and twist like an animal. Moriarty holds him steady in an embrace and coos in his ears.

John knows this knot. He knows how they've tied his hands. He just needs to slip a little bit more to the left. And then he can reach for his gun—

Then he sees Moriarty kissing Sherlock's drenched curls mockingly and he snaps. He sees red. That's it.

In one pull he's free. He acts so quickly that they can't see it coming. He has to act this quickly. He shoots the man with the disinfectant first, the man with the knife second. Moriarty is quick, reaching for his own gun but John is faster. He's already shot Moriarty straight through the heart, expertly avoiding any harm to Sherlock.

Moriarty falls on his back and Sherlock falls with him, unable to support his own weight. It's an awful moment, watching the two bodies fall together, their blood mixing together. But John is very quick and in the next second, he drags Moriarty's body away and raises Sherlock to his knees. Hands on his face. Hands on his chest. Hands in his drenched curls. Begging him over and over to be all right. Apologizing over and over.

"I did this," he says, cupping Sherlock's face, their foreheads resting against each other, "you would've fought back if I hand't been bait. I did this."

Sherlock is breathing hard, he is in excruciating pain and John is so torn between getting Sherlock help and staying put. He knows every movement will be agony for Sherlock, but they can't stay like this forever.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Sherlock manages to say through grunts of pain. "I would have died for you. A couple of stabs to the back is nothing compared to what I would do for you."

"No, no," John whispers, terrified. He is sounding more delirious than Sherlock.

"You saved me. I'm fine. I'll be fine," Sherlock comforts him. Sherlock is comforting him. How did this happen? Sherlock is the one who needs to be taken care of. But then Sherlock is slumped against him completely, buried against his chest and John is sickened to realize that from the outside, they are in the exact same position that he and Moriarty were in moments earlier and this shakes him even more.

But then Sherlock, weak and trembling against him, hooks one arms around him in a half hug and kisses his neck softly, as if to reassure him that he is folding into his arms willingly. Sherlock is kissing whatever parts of John that he can reach, which happens to be his neck and shoulder. And John (careful not to touch Sherlock's back) cradles his head and kisses his curls, his forehead, his eyelids. And then kisses him straight on the lips.

It's not a romantic kiss. They have ages to get to that. They have all the time in the world. It's a comforting kiss. I love you. I'll take care of you. You'll be okay. I'll make sure you're okay. You're not alone. Come here. Give me your lips, give me your pain. I'll take it. All of it. All of you.

Sherlock grabs a fistful of John's jumper. He clings to it, he needs John, he wants John to know he's needed. He buries his face in John's neck, ragged breathing.

"I don't want to move," Sherlock hums.

"We'll do it slowly. If you rest all your weight on me, there won't be a strain on your back. It'll barely hurt. I promise," John reassures him lovingly, lips still buried in Sherlock's hair.

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock smiles against John's neck.

He sounds amused. And happy.

OoOoOoOo

That's it. He is done with dreaming. He is done with dreaming forever. It is time for action.

OoOoOoO

Molly doesn't believe him. He tries Lestrade next and he just looks at him as if he's gone crazy.

"Look mate, don't think that I don't realize how smart he was," he reasons, "but I saw the body. I saw the autopsy report. I'm sorry."

He doesn't try Mrs. Hudson. She'll have a faint at the thought of Sherlock being alive.

He doesn't call Mycroft. He'll just give him another lecture.

He's desperate now. He's survived a few months, reading international newspapers patiently, looking for leads, looking for clues as to where he might find Sherlock. He's waited. He's called Lestrade and Molly, twice each. He goes to visit Mrs. Hudson but can't bring himself to raise the topic. He dials Mycroft and hangs up.

He even day dreams about enlisting Irene to help him but he can't imagine how he would get in touch with her and more than that (because he could track her down in Manhattan if he tried hard enough) he doesn't want to imagine the scene of that reunion. John chuckles to himself as he imagines a comic scenario in which he finds Sherlock with Irene's help and has to stand by moodily while they have a snog on the desk.

There is only one person left to ask. One person who will never say no to him, never call him crazy, never turn him away: Mary.

He turns up at her flat unannounced on a Saturday. He knocks. He knows she looks at him through the peephole. She is beaming and playful when she opens the door.

"What a pleasant surprise," she says, wrapped in her nightgown. "What brings—"

She stops. The smile melts off her face. She reads it in his face. He's not okay. Suddenly, she is all concern. Her playful stance is replaced by her nurse stature. She pulls him in, pulls him onto the sofa. She is fussing over him. All concern. What's wrong? What's happened? You can tell me John. You can tell me anything. We'll fix it. Whatever it is, we can fix it.

"I think he's alive," John stammers, sinking into the sofa.

Mary is clearly confused but she bites it back and nods. "Okay. Work with me. Start from the beginning."

The beginning? John laughs. What was the beginning? Getting shot? Running into Mike Stamford? Maybe it was the day he moved in and followed danger out the front door. Maybe it was when he wiped sauce off of Sherlock's face with his thumb. Does it start with the looks, the laughs, the pauses, the longing? Or maybe that was all in John's mind. Maybe it just starts when Moriarty plants code in their apartment.

"Oh bloody hell. The code. The code," John whispers. "Maybe it's still relevant. I've got to find the code."

"John," Mary says calmly. "I want to help you."

So John tells her everything. He starts with their first meeting. He tells her about the cases. He tells her all about Sherlock. He describes Sherlock to her with every word that he possesses. And when he tells her about the fall he doesn't tear up because he is too focused on giving Mary the facts.

The facts are all that matter, John.

Yes. He's learnt this now and he's viciously level-headed as he recounts the whole thing. He needs Mary to believe him. He needs her to.

She nods. That is the only reaction she gives him. She nods over and over. And he tells her everything that has happened. And when he's done, she pulls him into a hug.

"Oh darling," she sighs, looking at him sadly, "you'll find him. I'll help you find him. We'll get him back for you."

AN: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! Please continue to drop a quick word. It really does motivate and I appreciate anything from a quick hello to constructive criticism.

Next chapter we'll get to John chasing after Sherlock. Finally!