Broken Future: Time Loop, a sherlock fanfic

I own neither the show nor any of the characters.

This short story forms a time loop inside Rae666's excellent work Broken Future, in which a version of Sherlock from an alternate timeline travels back to our Sherlock's time and goes on a killing spree, leaving the message 19:08 at each crime scene. I recommend you go and read that story first, however it is not completely necessary.

Most of the first and last scenes of this are taken from Broken Future by Rae666; the rest is all mine.

Enjoy! Do let me know if you liked it, I thrive on reviews :)

Within half an hour John was on the streets of London, making his way toward the surgery. His phone continued to beep at him, angrily informing him that it required charging. He slipped it into his pocket and made a mental note to ask Sarah if there was a charger in the surgery somewhere.

He also made a note to call Sherlock once he had gotten there and find out what the man had been thinking, leaving without him. It would hardly be the first time he'd woken up and stumbled into a taxi while still half-asleep, and John would feel a lot better about Sherlock being out on the streets with a serial killer on the loose if John - and John's gun - were out there with him. Not to mention that if he was out with Sherlock, whether at Scotland Yard or stalking the streets or teasing a lead out of Mycroft, he would have a ready-made excuse to not go in to the surgery today.

At that thought he felt a pang of guilt. Yes, he'd rather be out on a case with Sherlock than stuck tending to seasonal colds and sprained wrists; but the surgery waited for him with a frantic Sarah in need of assistance. He'd applied for the job, no matter that he was overqualified, and so it was his responsibility to turn up for work. Okay, emergency call-ins weren't part of his scheduled week, but he'd get paid time-and-a-half for the overtime, and Sarah had sounded desperate in her message.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the work - on the contrary, it was a welcome respite from the hair-raising stunts Sherlock had a habit of pulling - but on the too-often occasions when work at the clinic interfered with a case, the outcome was never good. Sherlock would drop snarky comments along the lines of "Work… ugh… boring," or, worse, descend into a three-day-long sulk because John had other commitments and couldn't be on hand twenty-four seven to make him mugs of tea and force him to ingest half a slice of toast.

A sudden rush of people going the other way along the footpath had John slowing almost to a halt, slipping through gaps where he could see them until the crowd eased and he could speed up once more. A dark-haired couple were arguing up ahead, forcing the now-sparse flow of foot traffic to divert around them: the woman was struggling with her bags as the man moved around to the driver's door of a dark blue Renault parked a few feet in front of John.

The woman managed to get her shopping into the back seat and slammed the door, anger obvious in the movement and in the expression on her face. She was hopping into the passenger seat just as John drew abreast of the car on the far side of the footpath, and the man slotted the key into the ignition and turned it -

The explosion ripped through the air, turning everything red and white-hot, and John was vaguely aware of his body screaming in protest as he was blown backward by the force of the explosion… and then the world faded to black, and he knew no more.

After

"Mrs Hudson – where is John?"

She frowned and paused in her unpacking. "Oh! Hm, I don't know. I never heard him leave."

Sherlock growled, frustrated, and turned toward the door. What she said next, though, had him pausing.

"Terrible business," she sighed. "Just terrible."

"What is?" Sherlock asked, voice tight, mind too distracted to pay full attention.

"Why, the explosion, dear. They reckon it was a terrorist attack."

His breath caught in his throat, eyes wide; and then he was out the door and striding down the street almost before his mind had caught up with the news. His mobile was in his hand, searching out local news sites for the location of the bombing as he went. Three blocks south and one east. He'd get there quicker walking than flagging a taxi.

Sherlock hit speed dial, speeding up almost to a jog as he wound his way through the flow of pedestrians. Come on… Please pick up, John… but there was no answering beep or familiar "Hello?", just the steady rhythmic beep of his own mobile calling for John's, calling and getting no reply.

There was a sinking weight in his stomach. It wasn't one of John's scheduled days to be at the clinic, but it wasn't unheard of for him to receive a last-minute text from Sarah if it was especially busy, and his usual route happened to go right past the site of the explosion… Sherlock snarled wordlessly under his breath, disconnected the call, and hit speed dial again. Still no reply.

It added up, the data added up… 19:08, the 19th of August, the day that something had happened to turn his alternate self into a menacing psychopath… and he was terrified that this was it, that this bombing had caught John, that John would be dead dead dead dead dead and he'd be alone once more, abandoned to the fancies of his darker nature, unbalanced by the death of his conductor of light, and it was sickening that the answer had been staring him in the face and he hadn't seen it in time.

Logically, there was no way that he could have foreseen this, not a car bomb, an act of local terrorism; but still he felt unbearably stupid. He should have woken John up and chivvied him out the door, kept John within his line of sight at all times, because then at least he could have protected his bloggerflatmatebestfriend.

But now… now he was very much afraid that he was too late.

And then he was turning the corner onto the street of the bombing, and the smell of explosives and burnt metal and rubber and charred flesh caught his senses, filling his nostrils until he could barely breathe; the sight was horrific, the car a misshapen lump of blackened metal - impossible to tell what make or colour - in the centre of a crater of ash and blood spreading ten feet in every direction. Emergency services were swarming the area, lights and sirens blaring, a couple of junior officers rolling out the barrier tape as he approached.

It had been a relatively small bomb, not like Moriarty's show of blowing up a whole block of flats; still quite enough to do rather a lot of damage, though. Sherlock's eyes were frantically scanning the scene, hoping for the sight of a compact blond-haired doctor bent over one of the casualties or standing calmly to the side filling in a SOCO on the details: no such luck. No sign of his doctorbloggerbestfriend. Or at least…

He inhaled sharply. No. No no no no nonono.

There was a familiar form lying motionless near the wreck of the car, clothes and hair covered in a fine film of ash, burns covering his entire right-hand side, blistered and distorted and horrible and wrongwrongwrong. Sherlock strode forward, ignoring the officer who tried to stop him, and sank down beside the - the -

The body.

His eyelids fluttered, momentarily unable to absorb what it was he was seeing, refusing the data in front of him, and a shuddering gasp ripped from his throat involuntarily.

John.

It was John. No doubt about it - hair (close cropped, blond, the odd strand of grey), skin (echoes of the old tan, mostly faded by now under relentless London skies), clothes (socksshoesjeansshirtjumperjacket), hands (soldier's hands, doctor's hands, calloused and caring), eyes (blueblueblue eyes staring at the greygreygrey sky, staring and never blinking, staring sightless, staring lifeless)…

It was John. The body was John. John was - was - was dead.

A strangled whimper tore from his throat.

He couldn't comprehend it. He'd been talking to John less than twelve hours ago, had covered him with a blanket when he fell asleep on the couch, had sat and watched him, watched the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. The soft snuffling sounds of his breathing had been a welcome accompaniment to Sherlock's racing thoughts.

And now, a bare ten hours later, he was… dead. It was unthinkable. Unacceptable.

Sherlock wanted to rail against the unfairness of it all. Life was unfair, he knew that: but why should he lose his bestonlyfriend when other people had dozens to spare? Why should John be the one to die when it could have been anyone else, anyone at all, walking past the car at that time? John shouldn't have died, he was too good, too warm, you've never been the most luminous of people but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable, why did it have to be John?

There was a lump blocking his throat, stopping him from doing anything more than inhaling gulps of air. Crouching beside the body (John. John. John.), he reached out, gloved hand splayed to touch John's unmoving chest.

His hand halted a millimetre above the mess of burnt cloth and blistered skin, quivering. Touching it would make it real. Touching it would mean John was dead dead dead but he knew John was dead, he could seeobservededuce it, John was most definitely dead and didn't most people cry in these situations? Why wasn't he crying? He could do nothing but kneel there in the ash and debris, hand splayed a millimetre above John's lifeless body, gaze swimming out of focus at he stared at the mortal remains of his bestonlyfriend.

Decades later (fourteen minutes twenty six seconds), there was a hand on his shoulder accompanied by the familiar scent of paperworkcoffeecomfort.

Lestrade.

Sherlock blinked, bringing his gaze back into focus, and tore his gaze away from John, the body, the body of John, John's body. Everything felt as though it was moving in slow motion, or perhaps he was the one moving in slow motion for once; his movements were unbearably sluggish as he lifted his head to look at Lestrade.

The older man was staring down at John's body, mouth drawn tight, a crease between his eyebrows - in anger? Sadness? Grief? Sherlock couldn't say. His shoulders were slumped in defeat, but his hand was rock-steady where it rested in Sherlock's shoulder. Lestrade's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, he swallowed, and then his eyes were open and fixed on Sherlock.

"Come on, genius." His voice was soft and hoarse. "There's nothing more you can do here."

"I - " The words died in Sherlock's throat. He gestured helplessly toward the body.

Lestrade shook his head and took Sherlock's elbow to heave him to his feet, holding him steady while the feeling returned to his legs, "I'm sorry."

The Detective Inspector turned him gently away from the scene, directing him toward the man's unmarked BMW, "They rang me almost as soon as you turned up. Said you'd been prowling around the place and then you'd just - frozen. O'Donnell recognised you from one of our joint cases a few years back and called me."

Dimly, Sherlock realised he was trembling. He said nothing, aware of Lestrade's concerned gaze, the warm hand at his back as he dropped into the passenger seat. Lestrade moved around to the driver's seat, the only signs of his own distress a slight flaring of his nostrils as his breathing deepened, and the shaking of his hands as he pulled out his keys.

"I'll take you to the Yard," he said quietly as they pulled out in traffic, "finish my shift, sign the both of us up for a week's leave of absence. D'you want me to call Mycroft?"

Sherlock wanted to snap and snarl - you think a paltry week will make this better? My best friend is dead! - but he couldn't summon a response. He felt inordinately cold; he curled further into the seat, wrapping his coat more firmly around himself, and fiddled with the controls on the dash until both his seat and the car system were radiating heat. Head turned toward Lestrade, he stared bleakly past the older man's profile and out the window, letting his vision blur, not daring to close his eyes. He knew what he'd see.

John. John. John.

The name thrummed in his veins, pounding in time with his heartbeat. He felt sick.

Lestrade appeared to take his non-answer for an affirmation; he hit speed dial on the hands-free kit.

"Greg," Mycroft's greeting was almost instantaneous, and was as smooth and polished as the man himself. "I assume this has something to do with my little brother?"

Sherlock could read Lestrade's thoughts in the lines on his face - He doesn't know. Someone will have to tell him. Oh help, I'll have to tell him. "Ah, yeah - "

Those two words, hoarse and disbelieving as they were, would have given Mycroft a wealth of information about the situation. There was an inhale of breath from the other end of the line, and then the quiet tapping of keys on a computer, "Is he safe?"

"Yeah, he's - he's with me."

Sherlock could just see his brother reading the words etched into the echoing silence of what Lestrade didn't say, "And Doctor Watson?"

A shuddering breath from Lestrade, nostrils flaring, eyes blinking rapidly. A shake of the head, and a single word tore from his throat, "No."

No he's not with me. No he's not safe, if by 'safe' you mean 'alive'. No Sherlock's not alright - no we're not alright. No this can't be happening. No no no no no please no.

Silence from Mycroft as he absorbed this.

Lestrade continued, "Mycroft - I can't - look, not now, alright? I'm driving, we're heading to the Yard right now. I need to finish my shift, and then I can fill you in."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Mycroft's voice contained the merest hint of strain, "Continuing to work under these circumstances?"

He would have read between the lines. The fact that they were going to the Yard, not the Hospital. Greg finishing his shift, not promising to work around the clock to find the persons responsible. The signs heard through the phone - uneven breathing, pauses in speech, rasping voice - signs that spoke more of deep emotional distress than of anger or revenge. All told, it was hardly a positive picture.

"It's only another two hours," Lestrade was saying, "I need the - the distraction. Postpone the inevitable, you know?"

A pause from Mycroft, and then, deep and calm, any posturing utterly dissipated under the force of the sobering news: "I'll be there in fifty minutes. Do keep Sherlock from doing anything drastic until then, won't you?"

And he rang off. Lestrade growled as he took a left through the next set of lights, distress emerging as anger. If he hadn't been so numbcoldempty, Sherlock would have grinned - it was such an utterly Mycroft thing to do.

They arrived at the Yard and made their way up to the break room on Lestrade's floor, where Sherlock found himself pushed gently into an armchair. He watched wordlessly as Lestrade set the coffee pot humming and took two mugs from the cupboard.

Black, he wanted to say, two sugars. But the words stuck in his throat.

He was shaking still; classic physiological sign of distress, he knew that. And it was so cold - even with his coat wrapped around him, chin burrowed into his scarf, he felt cold. Soon a mug of coffee was forced into his hands, and he curled his gloved fingers reflexively around it, absorbing the welcome heat, inhaling the welcome scent. It was a bit less than full - Lestrade had obviously taken his shaking hands into account - and the first scalding sip proved it to be black, two sugars indeed. But then of course Lestrade would know that: he'd taken or overheard enough orders for coffees while they were on cases together.

Black, two sugars for Sherlock, White, no sugar thanks for John. White, one sugar for Lestrade. White, no sugar for Donovan, Black, no sugar for Anderson, Black, one sugar for James, Black, one sugar for Bowman, White, one sugar for Li -

Lestrade's voice broke into his thoughts, and he raised his head wearily to see the older man standing half a step away, looking down at him with a worried frown.

"I have to go back to the office - I'm on the clock for another hour and three quarters, and there's a pile of paperwork I should get finished up. You can come and keep me company if you want - I hate leaving you alone after what's just - well - "

He broke off and ran a hand through his hair, agitated.

Sherlock summoned the last reserves of his energy and shook his head slowly. His voice emerged husky and soft, "No. I shall… I shall be fine here."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." And as an afterthought, "Thank you."

Leave me alone. Please, just - go.

Lestrade nodded, "Alright." It was more a sigh than a word. He watched Sherlock anxiously for another moment, gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, and left.

Finally. Sherlock set his barely touched mug on the low table, drew his legs up onto the seat, and wrapped his arms around them. The onslaught of emotion was unbearable.

He lowered his head and let the tears fall.

John. John. John.

The door to the break room opened and shut, and footsteps approached him.

Without looking up, Sherlock turned his head and growled, "I strongly advise you to leave. Now."

There was a dark chuckle. Sherlock lifted his head to find his alternate self grinning down at him sardonically. He was coatless, hands in his trouser pockets, black shirt and suit clean pressed as ever.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The time traveller asked rhetorically.

Sherlock stared at him, speechless. He shouldn't be here - why was he here? If anyone came in and saw the two of them together…

"You shouldn't be here," he said finally.

"Oh, but I had to come. Don't worry, I made sure to look appropriately distressed on the way in," the smile disappeared for a second into a mock grief-stricken look.

"Come to gloat?" Sherlock asked roughly, setting his feet on the floor and reaching for his mug of lukewarm coffee. The wild grief was still raging within him, but he had a rein on it now. His hands were steadier, the coffee combating the everlasting chill, warming him from the inside. He ran a hand through his hair, taming the worst of the errant curls, and wiped the last traces of tears from his cheeks.

"Come to sympathise," his alternate self corrected, "well, somewhat. After all, I know exactly what you're going through."

Sherlock could see John's lifeless body in his mind's eye; the image would be branded there for eternity, the scent of burnt flesh forever in his sinuses, the almost-feel of John's unmoving chest beneath his gloved fingertips…

"Yes, you do know, don't you," he agreed distantly, and his breathing hitched, eyes rough, dry, irritated: but there were no tears left to shed. He stood, unwilling to remain at a vertical disadvantage, and asked, suddenly curious, "Was it like that for you?"

"Oh yes," was the calm reply, "Exactly the same: except, of course, I hadn't had the forewarning that something would happen today. I crouched where you crouched, at his side; I sat in Lestrade's Beamer and turned the heating up because it was so unutterably cold; I curled into that armchair right there and wept for my dead best friend."

They stared at each other, one set of eyes pale with shock, one set dark with remembered grief.

"It destroyed me," Sherlock's other self said; the grief in his eyes turned to triumph, and a slow smile curled his lips, "And now I get to watch as it destroys you."

"It won't - " The retort was automatic, but he couldn't finish the sentence. It was obvious just by looking at his counterpart that it would devastate him, consume him, take him down a path from which there would be no return.

"Yes it will," came the easy answer, slow and smug. The man reminded Sherlock of Moriarty, somehow: the arrogance, the casual enjoyment of Sherlock's despair, the tilt of his head and the hard look in his eyes. "You'll work yourself to the bone finding the bomber, and when you find him you'll have a brief lapse of judgement and kill him yourself rather than handing him over to the police. After that, you'll go nearly catatonic for three weeks, give or take, and then one day you'll wake up and really realise that John is dead and he's not coming back, and that this world has destroyed the one good thing in your life so there's really nothing left for you to do but destroy the world in return. You'll want the world to burn, and you'll make sure that it does."

What? Sherlock's head spun. His own views on homicide had been constructed from the dominant views around him, rather than being inherent, and were appropriately flexible, given his occupation and personality; but they weren't that flexible, nor so far removed from the social norm as to allow him to commit and even enjoy mass murder. His mind rebelled at the very thought.

It would be one thing to take revenge on the man who caused John's death - even now he could feel the attraction, the seductive whisper that said it was only right and fair and good to avenge John's death - but it was another thing entirely to embark on a spate of meaningless senseless murders. There would be no point to it, and even if there were a point, his remaining friends would be enough to bring him back from the brink, surely? He wouldn't be able to stand the look in their eyes: he was enough of a freak already, thankyouverymuch, no need to add to the impression.

"Lestrade - "

"Lestrade's a good man, but he's not John, is he? He can't make you cups of tea at four in the morning, he can't stitch you up after you've gotten into another rooftop fight, he can't nag you about buying milk and leave you be about the toes in the fridge."

"Mycroft - "

"Isn't John either," the other man continued, smooth, low, infuriating, hateful. "In fact, they'll both try to stop you, six weeks after your awakening. You won't be able to see reason. You'll kill them."

Sherlock stared, frozen. He wouldn't… would he? Surely not. His alternate self had to be lying. He wouldn't kill the last two anchors to sanity he had. He'd trust them with his life; surely that trust wouldn't - couldn't possibly - turn to hate? Not in so short a space of time…

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Thirty six."

Two years. The world tilted. Two years, and this was what he would become. Two years, an unimaginable amount of blood on his hands, the death of his three bestclosestonly friends, two of them dead by his own hand. Two years.

How had it come to this? Was he really so dependent on his conductor of light that when the light was gone, when the conductor was dead, the world turned dark and cold and meaningless? He'd had meaning before John, surely he would find meaning after? There were still cases to solve, there was still the Work, still criminals to catch and Mycroft to annoy… He wouldn't become the man in front of him, would he?

The merciless eyes of the man in front of him - himself, in two years - said Yes. You will. This is what you will become.

"I - " but his words, like his mind, were stalled. He couldn't think, he couldn't speak, he couldn't even move.

Sherlock could only watch as his alternate self moved forward, gliding to a halt less than a foot in front of him. The man leaned in close, eyes gleaming: his mouth opened and he whispered mockingly, "Do accept my condolences on your loss."

That was the catalyst he needed to stir himself from the numbing grief: a storm of fury rose from his heart and his lungs and his very bones, clawing its way up his throat, choking him so that he couldn't speak; the blood seemed to sing in his veins, and when the red haze dissipated from his vision Sherlock had the other man against the wall, one arm pressed across his throat, threatening to close off his airway.

"Say that again," he snarled.

The traveller stared at him, eyes wide and dark, mouth quirked in a mocking smile (and it reminded Sherlock for one timeless moment of the rooftop confrontation, Moriarty hanging boneless in his grip over the edge of the roof, eyes mad, unblinking, "You're insane!", "You're just getting that now?"), and repeated, enunciating each word, "Do accept my - "

He was cut off by Sherlock's arm tightening against his windpipe, cutting off oxygen for a brief four seconds before easing.

"You dare - "

"Of course I dare," was the calm if slightly hoarse answer, "You really don't get it, do you?"

Sherlock frowned, but before he could answer there was a clatter at the door, and Mycroft and Lestrade walked in.

There was a moment of perfect stillness - Sherlock and his alternate self looking at the intruders from where they were standing against the wall, Mycroft swiftly assessing the situation, Lestrade staring incredulously - and then Mycroft was propelling Lestrade further into the room and stepping fully inside himself. The door closed and, with a deft flick of the wrist, was locked against anyone else entering.

"What - " If Lestrade's jaw had been any lower it would have hit the floor, "Sh - Sherlock… there're two of you…"

"Not for much longer," was Sherlock's calm reply, gaze swinging back to fix on his older self with deadly intent.

The man smirked, "You're going to kill me?"

"Yes," Sherlock's answer was crisp, matter-of-fact. "You killed John - "

"I didn't actually - "

"You could have saved him," his voice was rising, "and you didn't. You as good as killed him, and for that - " he pressed closer, eyes narrowing, feeling an upsurge of raw rage and grief - "for that, you will die."

In the corner of his eye, he could see Mycroft ushering a shaky-looking Lestrade onto the couch. They'd obviously decided to postpone the discussion of purported impossibilities until after Sherlock's evil twin had vacated the premises - one way or another. Sherlock would prefer he did so via the window, but he suspected Mycroft might step in before things got to that stage.

"Oh, well," the time traveller shrugged unconcernedly, "You may as well give them some warning of what they'll be contending with."

Puzzled, Sherlock blinked.

"When you kill them, I mean. At least they'll have some prior knowledge of just how violent you can be."

At the fresh reminder of what his older self had done - he wouldn't… would he? - Sherlock eased back half a step and swallowed, eyes sliding involuntarily to the couch, to his last two remaining lifelines. Mycroft met his eyes coolly, no doubt filling in the gaps without too much difficulty. Lestrade was still gaping, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"I won't kill them," he said suddenly. His brain was finally starting to work, however sluggishly - apparently Mycroft and Lestrade could work as substitutes, albeit poor ones, for his conductor of light.

"I've already told you," there was a layer of impatience in his older self's voice, "that - "

"I know what you said," Sherlock cut in, voice cold and soft, "and I'm telling you you're wrong. You've changed it. Coming back in the first place was a mistake, and now you're here - here with me, here with us - you've changed everything. Because now they know - " he was crowding the man up against the wall with his sheer presence, "and they can stop me."

"They tried that - "

"And this time I will let them."

Silence.

"You - You'd let them put you down? Kill you? Murder you?"

"Yes." He glanced at Mycroft and read the affirmation in his brother's eyes. "You really think I haven't considered this already? Hundred of times? You know I have, you know you have. I know what I am, I know what I have the capacity to become… and I have measures in place to prevent that from ever happening."

"Hm," his alternate self made a thoughtful noise before nodding and stepping toward the door, "Well, you keep telling yourself that. I'm sorry to just take off, but I have a rather important appointment…"

"What's to stop me killing you here and now?" demanded Sherlock. Oh, he wouldn't, not yet, anyway: but it was worth scoping out the reaction.

And now he was wondering if Moriarty had somehow gotten ahold of a) some of his DNA, and b) an extremely progressive artificial insemination laboratory, because his own face should not be looking like a Moriarty copycat, and his mouth should not be twisting in that moue of amused disappointment -

"In front of them? No-o-o, I don't think so."

And with that the traveller unlocked the door and was gone.

There was a full beat of silence, and then Lestrade was exhaling a shaky breath, "That - he was - uh…?"

"My brother from an alternate timeline, yes," Mycroft said smoothly.

Lestrade opened his mouth, gaped, and closed it again, "Right."

"Do keep up, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, and no no no this was not the time for a fresh bout of grief, he was not going to start crying again, not in front of Mycroft; he'd already emptied his tear ducts, surely, why was grief so infuriatingly irrational, "Mycroft. Get me a machine."

His brother's eyes slid over his form, but he was far too tactful to say anything about the tear tracks, rumpled suit, dirty knees, or tousled curls; he said instead, "You understand there are numerous inherent risks. They are rather less than safe."

"I'm sure. Get me one."

"Even the most developed models have less than a half-hour time span before they revert to here and now - both the here and the now being relative, of course."

"That will be long enough. I only need a minute - two at most."

"You may not come back at all." Which was as close as his brother would get to I don't want to lose you.

"Find me a copy of the manual," ignoring it was the surest way of acknowledging it, "and get me a machine."

Mycroft's voice was measured, "What if I say no?"

No no no, he could feel the tears threatening to spill over; Sherlock turned his back and affected a huff of frustration, dropping his head into his hands and surreptitiously scrubbing at his eyes, "Mycroft."

Just the one word, but it would be enough: his voice was horrifyingly close to pleading.

A hand settled on his shoulder, ghost-like, and was gone. "Very well, Sherlock. The car is waiting below; we'll go to the laboratory for the full briefing, pick up the machine, and be back at - hm. The site of the bombing? Yes - within three hours."

Good. He couched his thank you in a sufficiently curt, "Acceptable," and made for the door.

John. John. John.

Before

He also made a note to call Sherlock once he had gotten there to find out what the man had been thinking, leaving without him.

Almost at the same time as the thought crossed his mind, his eyes caught sight of a familiar long coat and his feet came to a standstill.

In one direction, the surgery waited for him with a frantic Sarah in need of assistance. In that same direction the traffic roared at the very end of the street, people milled about, shoppers shopped, a mother struggled with her pushchair and toddler, and a dark-haired couple argued, the woman struggling with her bags as the man moved around a dark blue Renault parked a good thirty feet ahead of John.

But John was oblivious to all that because in the opposite direction, a Sherlock look-a-like disappeared around a corner and John watched him.

He was oblivious to the man at the blue Renault opening the door and clambering in. Oblivious to the angered shouts of the girlfriend wedging her shopping into the backseat and slamming the door. Oblivious as the woman hopped into the front passenger seat and the man turned the ignition over.

He was far from oblivious, however, to the ensuing explosion that ripped through the air.

By the time Sherlock arrived at the scene of the explosion, the emergency services were already there. The area was cordoned off, police gathering statements, settling the chaos, as paramedics attended to the wounded and firemen to the wreck. It wasn't until Sherlock saw the ambulance and the person on the stretcher that he also saw John, in the thick of it all.

He was aiding the paramedics, shooting off instructions into the ambulance even as he backed away, ready to help another person injured by the blast. Sherlock got to him first. He gripped John's upper arms, looking him up and down, scanning desperately for any injuries; the physical contact wasn't enough, his system was racing with adrenaline, with oh-so-human fear, and he lifted a hand to trace the slight cuts and first few signs of bruising along the man's jaw line.

John. John. John.

"John."