I'll Wait For You (Like You Waited For Me)
Title: I'll Wait For You (Like You Waited For Me)
Warnings: none, except that this hasn't been beta'd (feel free to point out any mistakes)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft, John (VERY loosely read-between-the-lines-because-you-want-it implied Mystrade)
Summary: Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme. "Sometime after the hiatus. During a crime where John is missing, presumed dead, Sherlock refuses to leave without him."
John.
It was the only thing Sherlock’s mind could focus on right now. Just a silent, terrified mantra of John John John John John John.
How had John got there first? They (John, Sherlock and Lestrade) had been running after the killer through the streets of London, Lestrade on his phone for backup, while Sherlock and John raced ahead as always. And then, without warning, John was in front, gaining on the killer, grabbing him from behind.
John.
Sherlock was distantly aware that Lestrade had arrested the killer as police cars pulled up. He was distantly aware of red and blue flashing lights and shouting and a crowd gathering and someone possibly saying his name. But none of that mattered - he had frozen the minute John’s body sank below the surface of the water, his mind trying to catch up to what had happened, but all he could think was John John John John John mixed with wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
Then suddenly everything seemed blessedly silent, as though the world was holding their breath, waiting for John to resurface - only he didn’t. Sherlock couldn’t be sure of how much time had passed, but he knew it had been far too long. John should have resurfaced almost instantly.
John.
Before anyone could react, Sherlock dumped his coat and scarf and dived into the water after him, his eyes burning with the effort of keeping them open to see through the murky water. His hands groped around for anything that could be John, but met nothing. Eventually, as his lungs burnt for air and his vision swam, he felt strong hands grope around him, dragging him back to the water’s surface.
“What are you DOING?” he shouted breathlessly, attempting, albeit weakly, to struggle out of the firm, surprisingly warm grip. “John is down there and I need to find him!”
Idiots, his mind supplied as he was dragged out of the water, a shock blanket immediately placed around his shoulders.
The warm somebody kept behind him, his arms still wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s middle. Lestrade, he distantly registered, then returned to John John John.
He kept his eyes glued to the water, silently begging John to perform some kind of miracle and resurface. It felt like hours passed before Lestrade unwound his arms from his middle and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“We have to go, Sherlock,” he said quietly, his voice a little more rough than usual.
Sherlock’s gaze didn’t flicker once, though his body flinched slightly and he realised he was shivering despite the thick blanket around his shoulders.
“No.”
He felt Lestrade’s grip on his shoulder tighten, but refused to acknowledge what it meant, because that just wouldn’t be fair. Not after they had only just found each other again. Not after three years without John.
“I’m going to wait for the doctor. Just like he always waits for me,” he heard his voice waver and inwardly cursed himself, tensing his jaw as he felt his eyes burn.
“I’m sorry Sherlock,” Lestrade started, and Sherlock felt his lip tremble, a desperate, aching, defiant moan threatening to burst from his throat. “John’s dead.”
Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong.
He shut his eyes tight, trying to force away the hot, angry tears that were already on his cheeks, before turning to face Lestrade, his expression fierce and defiant.
“You don’t know him! Because he’s not! I’m telling you he’s not! And if he was, how could I leave him, all on his own, all the way down there?” he knew he sounded pathetic, and he knew he probably looked it too, but he couldn’t care beyond how wrong all of this was.
John couldn’t be dead. John had only just begun to forgive him. John had only just moved back into Baker Street with him after weeks of actual begging on his behalf. John had only just started coming on cases and forcing Sherlock to watch rubbish TV again. John had only just slid himself back into Sherlock’s life comfortably, and there was no way he could be dead. Not now. Not ever. Because he was John; good John, strong John, loyal John, his John. He could sense Lestrade preparing to talk again, and cut him off.
“No. I’m staying.”
The two stared at each other for a small while, waiting for the other to give in, and eventually Lestrade sighed, his body slumping against Sherlock’s in defeat. He gave a small nod of his head and wrapped his arms back around Sherlock’s middle, bringing back a warmth Sherlock wouldn’t admit to having needed.
“Alright. Alright, Sherlock. It’s okay. It’s alright.”
Sherlock allowed himself to relax a little, burying his head in his arms as his body shuddered with the effort it took not to cry, taking comfort in Lestrade’s hushed but constant words, despite how meaningless they were.
---
Sherlock had been sitting in Lestrade’s arms, body heaving occasionally with sobs he refused to let escape, for hours (or was it minutes? Did he even care? Time was irrelevant and it was so hard to keep track) when he felt an extra set of hands reach under his arms to lift him off the ground. Something inside him snapped and he pushed himself away from both Lestrade and the other set of arms that could only belong to Mycroft.
“Leave. Me. ALONE!” He shouted, tugging his coat back on with trembling hands.
“Sherlock -“ Mycroft started, but Sherlock had already taken off, coat blowing behind him, scarf tied haphazardly around his neck.
He knew John was alive. John had to be alive. John wouldn’t just die on him; not without saying goodbye at least. He knew John, and John wouldn’t do that.
“Sherlock, you’re being irrational.”
“Mycroft leave it be,” Lestrade hissed, and Sherlock felt a mild surge of pride which was quickly banished once Lestrade’s hands gripped his shoulders once more. “Sherlock, where are you going?”
“To find John,” he replied, unable to keep the irritation out of his tone. Really, people should use their brains more often.
The pitying look Lestrade was giving him mixed with the condescending one from Mycroft made him want to scream. Instead, his hands just shook more. But he felt alive now, and utterly stupid for having let emotion cloud his judgement.
“Sherlock. Detective Inspector Lestrade texted me to let me know what happened. I brought up the CCTV footage.” Mycroft’s voice faltered, sending a brief surge of panic through Sherlock. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but he’s gone.”
Lestrade’s grip tightened and Sherlock shook him free, a defiant growl escaping from his chest, his eyes narrowing on Mycroft.
“No. No! I expected better from you, Mycroft,” he spat the name as though it were a bad taste in his mouth. “Don’t you see? Look! Look at the current! John had to have been injured! Why else would he not have resurfaced immediately? How could he fight that current while injured? No. No he’s clever, and he knows I’m clever. He went with the current. He knows how to handle a tough situation and he knows how to stop himself from panicking.”
Sherlock stared at them both, willing them to see what he was explaining, but they still wore the same expressions, now somewhat softened around the edges. He rolled his eyes and snapped his body away from Lestrade’s outstretched hands, stalking forward with his usual confidence.
“It will be quicker if you drive, but I’ll walk if I have to. If my calculations are correct - and they almost always are - then John should be near Waterloo Bridge.”
“Sherlock, listen-“
“No, you listen, Inspector. John’s not dead. He wouldn’t… he couldn’t… He’s not dead!” Sherlock could hear his voice cracking again, but he refused to let himself believe that his emotions were winning over logic.
He drew a shuddering breath, fighting for composure once more. He glanced at Mycroft who was having a hushed conversation on the phone, before allowing himself to be directed towards Lestrade’s car.
“Look. I’m taking you home, Sherlock, alright?”
“NO!” Sherlock was beginning to panic now.
Emotions, he chastised himself, pointless, stupid, irrelevant and definitely not helpful. Push it aside. Only he couldn’t. Not now. Not while John’s life was on the line and everyone including Mycroft were being so dense.
“Sherlock. SHERLOCK!” Lestrade’s voice was fighting through his panic, hands on his shoulders, trying to calm him down.
“No! I will damn well walk there myself if I have to but I am NOT going home until I find John.”
“Please, Sherlock just-“
“Stop," Mycroft cut in calmly. "Inspector, Sherlock just might be on to something.”
Lestrade and Mycroft seemed to share a silent conversation that, for once, Sherlock couldn’t deduce, before Lestrade nodded and got into his car, motioning for Sherlock to join him.
“We’ll head down to Waterloo then. But after that, I’m taking you home regardless of what we find.”
Sherlock gave a terse nod and slid into the passenger seat, resolutely not looking at Lestrade.
---
Sherlock ran towards John’s limp, lifeless figure, falling to his knees as he gripped John’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. Despite its sluggishness, it was there, and Sherlock couldn’t help but let out a relieved whimper, dragging John’s body into his arms.
“Sh’lock?” John croaked before spluttering, heaving nothing but salt water from his lungs and stomach.
Sherlock held him with trembling arms, rubbing his hand in small circles which he hoped were soothing, as the wail of an ambulance grew closer.
“You’re alright John. You’re alright. You’re going to be alright.”
Despite being wet and cold and smelling absolutely terrible, Sherlock couldn’t help but press his face into John’s shoulder, taking comfort from the weak, coughing, shivering form in his arms.
“I knew you couldn’t be dead.”