fossilised | For John Watson

For John Watson

[Sherlock is still finding pieces of the melted laptop in the carpet.

It had actually been quite an ingenious booby trap to be devised by a fourteen year old boy with only household chemicals to work with but, as Sherlock surmised, rather overkill to keep his mother from finding his extensive porn collection. Not one of their more illustrious cases, but it had been quite entertaining to watch both the boy and mother's faces as he revealed that he did know the how and why. He lost interest after the mother started shouting and John started shouting and the whole thing turned tedious.

He rather thinks John won't actually be doing a full write-up of this one on his blog.

It's been two days since their last case and he's beginning to get more than a little antsy. Lestrade has sent him nothing, just a boring hit and run that he refused to even leave the flat for, and nobody interesting has appeared through the blog. Said blog he is currently scrolling through on John's laptop, having borrowed it again.

He did ask, it's not his fault John hadn't been in the room at the time.]

Bored, John.

[He doesn't even know if his flatmate is even in, but that's hardly a necessity for him to actually speak to John. Frustrated, he throws the laptop across the room to hit the wall, where it summarily breaks. Which is where he can be found whenever John appears, sulking amidst pieces of laptop, both from the melted one of their last case and John's poor broken one.]

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[He'd answer, but apparently, it doesn't matter.]

We should try to find Molly and the others. Check the car they were in. Maybe they went down another tunnel.

[Or should they go after Moriarty? John doesn't particularly want to split up to do both, even though that might be sensible.]

No, I’m going to a hotel and sleeping.

[He doesn’t realise how callous that sounds when there are people missing and in danger. It makes the most sense to him. If his transport is being so incapable of focus, then he won’t be able to help anyone effectively until he’s slept. Therefore sleep is the most productive thing he can be doing now.]

What? [John stares at the man, incredulous.]

Sherlock, Molly's missing along with more than a dozen people. Moriarty's on the loose with some... some bloke with a gun.

[He cuts himself and his outrage off. No. Maybe this is good. Maybe this is okay. Sherlock can be put out of harm's way. Maybe.]

We need to call Lestrade and have him get you an escort. Someone to make sure you're protected. I'll do the hand-off for you to him, then I can- [John turns a little too quickly to look down the tunnel and pain sears hot across his shoulders once more. The doctor gasps, thinking maybe he should get this dressing his has on changed before making any more moves.

But Molly. He can't physically help her right now and that's becoming more and more clear.]

Let's, mm... lets get up to the surface. We'll send Lestrade's men down to find the missing people. And check for any real bombs. That's the safest, right?

[Sherlock snorts and simply sets off up the tunnel towards the engineering access ladder that allowed him to get down to the tunnel, fully expecting John to follow. Molly wasn’t to be seen when he came in, and there’s very little for her that he can do without having his mind at full capacity.]

You’re hardly in a position to be conducting a hand-off, John, you’re approximately eighteen minutes from collapse. You ought to return with me to a hotel and rest, there’s little of use you can accomplish otherwise.

[Plus he doesn’t want to face Lestrade at the moment, the man is sure to be incredibly tedious about things like procedure and risk and public security.]

I'm not about to collapse!

[He is. God is he ever. He does follow dutifully after Sherlock, but then another thought occurs to him.]

The boy! [The boy whose name John keeps forgetting.] Sherlock, we can't just go to a hotel. Who's taking care of Caroline's son? We need to... Oh, god... Someone has to tell him his mum's dead. Not you. Someone else.

[Preferably someone who is not John, either.]

I contacted Mrs. Hudson to go and see to him, I'm sure the grisly news of his mother's demise can wait for a few more hours while we sleep. She'll be no less dead by then, and he'll likely appreciate the extra hours of ignorant bliss being fussed over and fed cake.

[He's got his plan, stop putting roadblocks in the way of it, it's irritating.]

Usually you can't wait to pack me off to bed, must you be so contrary now that I'm acquiescing?

[John's frowns at the other man's back.]

Usually we aren't in the middle of a case with multiple dead bodies and a missing friend who's already been almost murdered once.

If Molly has been taken, which I highly doubt, then a few hours sleep will make no difference. If the intent was to kill her, then she's already dead, and sleeping won't allow you to save her. If the intent was to hold her, then she's in no more danger now than when she was taken, a few more hours is a small price for effective rescuers.

[It's difficult to fault that logic. John doesn't particularly like it, but he can't fault it. And he needs to change his bandages. And get some more medication, probably.]

Are you actually going to take Mycroft up on the rooms he wanted to rent for you, or are we checking into some other hotel?

Urgh, you must be tired. Of course we're not going to take Mycroft up on his offer, do you have any idea how much he'd gloat?

[Thanks, but no thanks, he'd rather sleep on a street corner somewhere.]

There's a Holiday Inn half a mile away, we'll go there.

[Privately, John wonders how far Sherlock's lines of credit and bank account actually run.

But he supposes there isn't going to be a rent due this month. Or any utilities. That's something. John is quiet, contemplating--trying not to feel too feverishly fainting--as they make their way back up to the street. There's a heavy presence of police and they duck away quickly. When they're on their way properly, he speaks up again.]

What do you think Moriarty's going to do next? He hasn't got Caroline anymore. But... I mean, there's still that investigation by the Army. Lestrade's gonna skin me alive.

[But he has to hope the man will cover for him given the circumstances. God knows it seems like Sherlock has tested him to the breaking point over the years.]

I don't know.

[There aren't many people he admits that to as candidly, but John is different somehow. Perhaps it's because John doesn't look at him as less of a genius on the rare occasions he doesn't have the answer.]

He's incredibly clever, perhaps even as clever as me, and I'll need to really think on it to determine his next course of action.

[There's also Molly still in the wind. John hopes that if she finds a place with some decent reception, she'll call him. Or Lestrade. Or Sherlock. Probably Lestrade would be the best out of those options. John knows he should call the man at some point. Maybe Mrs. Hudson, too, just to let her know they're all-

Just to let her know they're alive.]

Right.

[The walk to the hotel seems to stretch on for miles to John's feverish and weary body. The hotel clerk eyes the pair of them with more than a little concern as he checks them into a room. His gaze falls particularly on John, and he knows he must look a wreck.][John jumps in:] Whatever's cheapest.

[Cheapest turns out to be two smaller beds in a room that smells faintly of cigarettes. The doctor shucks his jacket as soon as they're in the room and moves to pull off his shirt, as well.]

Use the loo now, if you need it. I'm gonna need the shower to wash off.

[Sherlock can tell how tired he is by how sluggish his evaluation of the clerk at the hotel is. Wife, but currently not a harmonious matrimony given the faint lines on his face suggesting his current bed is the sofa. One cat. Or perhaps two? He's far too tired to tell, and definitely too tired to care.

He merely follows John into the bedroom and sinks onto the nearest bed, laying fully clothed on top of the mattress without even bothering to take off his coat and shoes.]

I came here to sleep, John, nothing else. Use the shower if you wish, but be quick about it, you will require more rest than me and so it's imperative that you get into bed as soon as possible.

If I didn't know you better, I might take that as concern. [He huffs, then winces as he slowly peels off his shirt and drops it on the bed, and kicks off his shoes. The bandages on his back last applied by the nurse at the hospital are looking the worse for wear with as much as John has been running around and exerting himself.]

When you're up, I'm gonna need you to run to the drug store, pick up some ointment and bandages. Think you can manage that, Sherlock?

[He'll probably need to remind the other man, but leaves it there for now. John will disrobe the rest of the way once he's in the bathroom and only peel the bandages off in the shower when the rushing water can at least partially muffle the pained grunts he makes as he twists to remove them. The washcloth he uses comes away bloody when he'd done, as does the towel, but John tries to ignore it. He pulls his underwear and jeans back on before going to collapse face-first onto his own bed.

How many years has it been since he slept? It certainly feels at least half a dozen. He leaves the bloodied towel covering his shoulders, just in case. Best not to let that get all over the bed. Sleep comes quickly, even with thoughts of madmen, psychotic women, and bombs swirling in his head.]

[Sherlock doesn't bother to reply. He hears the request, but his eyes are already closed and he's made it clear that his primary objective right now is sleep. Conversation isn't exactly going to help that.

Despite how obviously tired his body is, it takes a while for his mind to shut down enough to drop off, too busy running over and over what Moriarty might do next. It's both frustrating and invigorating to not be able to plan it properly, to not know. Moriarty is just as clever as he is, and this will be an epic game between them. He just needs to get ahead once, just once, and...

Zzz.

Unusually for them in recent days, nothing comes to disturb them throughout the whole time they sleep. Not that Sherlock sleeps long, four or five hours at most, before he snaps awake and to full alertness in seconds. And for a wonder, he remembers to go and nip to the chemist down to the road and buy some supplies for John.

When John does eventually wake, he'll find Sherlock stood on the dingy looking hotel room chair, scribbling on the wall with a red biro he found.]

[John awakens with a low groan. He would prefer not to move right now. Or ever, really. He keeps lying where he is, debating the merits of trying to remain mostly horizontal for the next several days. His arms and back are straining particularly from the effort to lift that passenger from the tracks without touching the damn tracks. Is the man still alive?

Christ he shouldn't have just left.

It is what it is, though, and a good eight or nine hours of solid sleep have made it abundantly clear that he needed this.

The soft scratching of the biro draws his attention after a long few minutes, and he tries to look around without-]

Sherlock!

[He shoves himself up and immediately regrets it.]

Mm... Sherlock. What the... what the hell are you doing? Are you five? That's not even our wall.

[Not that Sherlock should be drawing on their walls, but at least Mrs. Hudson is more understanding.]

You shouldn't sit up so quickly, you'll undo any repairs to your ribs, and your muscles can't handle such strenuous activity yet.

[It's an absent sort of admonishment, his eyes still fixed on the flow chart that he's been mapping out in tiny neat handwriting.]

We've been coming at this all wrong, John. Moriarty himself isn't the weak link, but his tendency to use others to do his dirty work is. That's our next move.

[John sighs heavily. The damage is already done on the wall, and John doesn't have the will to argue with the other man about it. He shifts himself gingerly. He's still not feeling great, but it's an improvement over how he was before.]

He killed Caroline, so she's out. The only other person I know who's got my number already is the bloke investigating me for war crimes. Did you have someone else in mind? When you're done with that, I'm gonna need your help for my back, by the way.

Mm, in a minute.

[He's not a medic himself, but he can follow orders when instructed to and he does have the advantage of not being at all squeamish when it comes to the sight of injuries.]

That soldier is certainly one avenue to explore, a good place to start, but I also think my brother might know more than he's letting on.

And you think Mycroft is going to help us? [Well, more help John. He expects Mycroft would love to help Sherlock, by himself.] Did you have something you could hold over his head to get him on board?

[Because John isn't seeing many other ways to get his assistance.]

[His pen does pause for a moment in his scribbling, a minor frown at his forehead. He doesn't particularly want to get Mycroft more involved, but he has a hunch that his brother knows more about Moriarty than he's been letting on.]

There are a few things I can try.

[And something that would definitely work, but he'd rather not stoop to that.]

I suppose I could always tattle to Mummy.

[Is that a joke? Is it not? Hard to tell.]

[John just assumes it's a joke. Although, based on that exchange between the brothers after the incident with Hart...]

If you need me to rough him up for you as an option... I'm really gonna need you to take care of my back, mate. Might be a minor infection. [Very minor. He doesn't need to check himself into hospital again. He'll be fine. Probably.]

Have you heard anything from Lestrade about what they found in the Underground?

No.

[It's a short and almost terse answer. Hearing nothing isn't a good thing, as far as he's concerned, not in a situation like this. It more than likely means that Lestrade has found something he doesn't want them to know about.

He gestures to the bathroom, inviting John to follow him so that he can fetch the tiny amount of medical supplies they have and get cleaned up.]

Most likely he's just sulking about us continuing to disobey his tedious orders.

[Or not, but there's no need to worry John overly much.]

[John follows along and will sit himself down on the toilet and direct Sherlock on getting him patched up as best they can. It's likely obvious for the other man from the way the wounds are shaded to pink and red that it's certainly infected.]

He doesn't seem like the sort to sulk, Sherlock. I'll give him a call.

[He puts it on speaker phone before dialing. This is probably going to involve some being ranted at, but if it's in service of finding out what's happened to Molly, so be it.]

Maybe let me do the talking, Sherlock? You can talk to Mycroft.

[Because John's had just about enough of the insufferable arse to last a lifetime. Nothing like the elder brother to make him appreciate Sherlock all the more.]

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