FIC: The Trick is to Keep Breathing, BBC's Sherlock, R?, Sarah/John/Sherlock.
Title: The Trick is to Keep Breathing
Author: saathi1013
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: varying permutations of Sarah/John/Sherlock (established)
Spoilers: just watch the series, it's only 3 episodes.
Rating: R? but just barely.
Contents/Warnings: Angst, h/c. Mention of bloodplay/needleplay.
Series: This is the fifth in the Lorem Ipsum Series. Also, there's a reference to another of my fics snuck in there, out of pure self-indulgence, though I haven't gone to check if the respective fanons are compliant (they probably aren't).
Summary: Wherein things get Difficult, and the Metaplot creeps in.
Word Count: ~4500
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: I AM SO SORRY. Also, caoilin_noir once again stepped up in between saving lives to save my fic from typos and Americanisms, and as always, I am profusely grateful.
***
"I don't know if I can do this," Sarah says. She's sitting in the bathroom, on the closed seat of the toilet, staring blindly at a paper bag in her hands. It's filled with Sherlock's medications.
They'd been debating the relative merits of a lock-box with a alphanumeric combination and one with a key when Sarah had fallen silent. At the sudden change of topic, John pauses in his task of unpacking Sherlock's suitcase in the bedroom.
"I'm sorry, what?" John can feel his face creasing into a bewildered smile, and he schools it to something more like serious concern. Bewildered smiles are useful with erratic sisters and eccentric patients and the right kind of commanding officer, but not with girlfriends. Fiancée, he corrects himself. "If we stick to a six-digit code, we ought to remember it all right..."
"Not that," she says with a sigh, dragging one hand over her face. The bag drops to the ground from nerveless fingers. "I just. We keep getting hurt, John. I don't know if I can... stand it anymore."
John's ribs seize and constrict. "I don't. I don't understand. What." Beside him, Sherlock snores softly, drugged into oblivion.
"Do I even need to list it all?" she asks, her voice very small and very tired. John braces both of his hands against the dresser and lets his head drop, just trying to breathe while her words tumble out all in a rush. "From the very beginning at the circus, it's all been dodging bullets and running after dangerous criminals, and that's fine, it's fine, really. But the bullets have been connecting lately - literally, in Sherlock's case - and it's like the criminals are chasing us instead, and we're just running for our lives. And I don't. I don't know if I can do this."
John forces himself to take a deep breath. "What," he tries again, failing.
"I love you, John," Sarah says. "I love Sherlock, too, as much as anyone can ever be permitted to love someone like him." She sounds a little wondering at this last bit, like she hasn't admitted it to herself until now. "But I need. I can't." Her voice breaks, and John looks at her just in time to see her expression crumple like damp newspaper.
He takes a few unsteady steps towards her, but she turns away, one palm held out to halt him and the other scrubbing tears from her cheeks. He stops; he always stops when she tells him to, but he doesn't know how to stop this, whatever this is. Is she asking him to not work with Sherlock - does she want Sherlock to stop working? Sherlock doesn't stop, not ever, and in all other circumstances, they both enjoy that, but... "What am I supposed to do?" John says, feeling lost.
Sarah makes a few awful, hurting sounds that twist his guts up in knots. "I don't know, John," she says. "I just. I need to step back, find some space to think without... all of this staring me in the face." She stands unsteadily and closes the distance between them. She kisses John once, chaste and salty, and backs away when his hands come up to hold her. "I'm sorry, I. I don't. I'm sorry."
And she's gone as John's still trying to process what she's said.
***
Sherlock wakes up once that afternoon, consciousness hitting him in the face like a freight train. Everything hurts.
"Drugs," he calls out hoarsely. John's at his side in an instant.
Something's wrong with John's face, Sherlock thinks to himself as the pill is pushed past his lips and cool water follows. Why does he look broken?
The drugs take hold before he has the chance to ask.
***
Sarah goes to her own flat, but there are too many reminders there. Sherlock's laptop and an untidy pile of books lurk in the corner of her living room; one of John's jumpers is tossed haphazardly on her sofa.
Her bed still smells like them.
She packs a suitcase and goes to her mother's. She still has the rest of the weekend, then her partners expect her back at the practice.
***
Where are you? Sherlock texts Saturday evening. John's asleep; isn't this your shift?
Shortly followed by, I need drugs.
You can't be at work, or doing the shopping, he sends ten minutes later. Where are you?
Then, Are you all right?
John wakes up and takes the phone away from him after this last. There are no responses.
***
"How are your boys?" Sarah's mother asks over breakfast. "You said Sherlock was in hospital, is he doing all right?"
Sarah rolls her eyes, automatically responding, "They're not 'my boys,' Mum." Her mother keeps making the joke, and the effort of denying it had gotten old some time ago. Now it's grating. "John's taking care of him. I just needed a couple of days off, you know? Between taking care of Sherlock at home and taking care of strangers at work..." She shrugs. "I just needed some time."
"Is that why you're not wearing your ring?" her mother says, and Sarah draws in a quick breath.
"How did you-" Sarah starts. "We haven't told anyone yet..."
Her mother looks smug. "You think I haven't kept an eye on that hand since you introduced John? Your finger's got an indent now; it wasn't there the last time I saw you."
Sarah exhales slowly. Sherlock hasn't anything on a mother's observational skills. "I. Yes, we've been engaged for a while. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. We were thinking of throwing a party, but... Well, things have been rather hectic." She smiles ruefully at her own understatement.
Her mother gets up to refill their mugs, and pats her on the shoulder as she passes. "It'll work out, whatever this is. John's a good man, don't forget."
Sarah sighs again. "I know. I know, mum." She doesn't add, and that's why this is so difficult.
***
Sherlock figures it out on Sunday, and sulks for the few hours of consciousness the drugs permit him. He's not sure if he's more irritated that John's refusing to talk about it, or that it took so long to figure it out.
"Just focus on getting better," John says when Sherlock attempts to sit up in bed.
For once, Sherlock agrees. He could solve this problem if he were well, he knows he could. The once-welcome haze of drugs in his system is appallingly counterproductive, and he can't budge an inch without his chest burning like there's acid in his veins.
And he has the awful suspicion that the problem goes deeper than just Sarah's absence. Which means that it does; his 'suspicions' are more reliable than most people's 'facts'.
***
John can feel himself shutting down. He's not proud of it, but it's all he can do with Sherlock unwell and Sarah gone.
He tries not to remember the last time he was like this, and fails. When the nightmares come, as they inevitably do, Sherlock is in uniform beside him, crumpling to the ground. When he wakes, he creeps into Sherlock's room and curls up carefully on the bed beside him.
***
Sarah goes to work as usual, a pleasant, false smile masking her near constant desire to just start screaming and never stop.
The waiting room is filled with strangers and a few regulars, ordinary dull people with common ailments, and they keep her busy all day, but. In the back of her mind, she sees Sherlock, thinner than he ought to be with dressings over a still-healing wound that cuts right down through his lungs and nearly to his heart.
She doesn't see John, which is a mercy. She remembers what he'd been like the first time they'd met, brittle and uncertain but doggedly determined to regain normalcy, and doesn't want to ever see it again. Back when they had been making arrangements to help Sherlock recover, they'd scheduled separate shifts so that Sherlock wouldn't be left alone.
John is still coming to work, she can see that much from their timesheets and patient records. She wonders who's caring for Sherlock during those hours. Poor Mrs. Hudson, Sarah thinks to herself, and resolves to apologise next time she sees her.
***
Absolutely not, Sherlock texts. Bad enough Mycroft keeps 'supplementing' our finances when he thinks I need the help. I won't have this on top of it.
This declaration goes ignored.
***
John stares at the woman in his kitchen. "Ah, hello. You're usually gone by the time I get back."
'Anthea' smiles. How she can manage a kettle one-handed while simultaneously texting is beyond him. "Hi. I'll be out in a moment, sorry. Don't mean to intrude."
John pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingertips, scowling. "You're not intruding. I should be thanking you, actually."
"Don't. I'm getting a healthy bonus for this, and it's a nice change of pace from the usual," she replies. John doesn't want to know what 'the usual' means for her, beyond being glued to her mobile and getting ferried about in sleek black government vehicles. "If I can work for Mycroft during political crises, I can handle his brother. To be fair, the narcotics help."
John smiles grimly. "Give it a couple of weeks. He'll have to get weaned off them."
Her answering smile is very kind, painfully so. "Let's hope I won't be needed by then." John doesn't know how to respond to this.
***
Sarah drives past 221b, slowing down while she debates looking for parking. She's not sure if she's ready yet, but she can't go on like this, either.
As she passes at a crawl, she spots someone coming out of the door. Young, brunette, very glossy hair and sleek dark clothing. That's all she sees as her foot hits the gas by reflex, and she's two streets down before she processes it.
Not a nurse, she thinks, remembering the flash of sky-high red-soled black heels. Who the hell was that?
***
Sherlock tries to deduce despite the drugs in his system. He has Mycroft's assistant bring him a notebook and a pen - Fountain, not rollerball or felt or anything idiotic like gel, he'd specified via text, and she'd complied with enviable efficiency - and he uses it to keep track of his various trains of thought. It's embarrassing, to require these props for his intellect, but the need to pursue the problem at hand in an organized fashion outweighs his wincing pride.
He writes until his hand shakes so badly that John takes the journal away from him with gentle hands and gives him another dose.
***
There is a man waiting for Sarah in her office at the end of her shift on Friday. "Um," she says. "Hello?"
He's sitting behind her desk, shoes crossed atop its surface. "Hi!" he replies brightly. "I just wanted to say 'thanks' in person." His smile broadens even more, if that's possible. He swings his feet to the floor and stands in one smooth motion, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. His suit looks entirely too expensive for how he's wearing it.
"I'm sorry, have we met...?" She tries to remember if she's treated him recently, but there have been so many patients over the years...
"Noooo, not personally. But you got my messages, and I just wanted to express my utter gratitude for your... cooperation." His gestures are too broad, too familiar for him to be a stranger, and yet he is one by his own admission. It's all very confusing, so Sarah doesn't realise that he's strolled entirely too close to her for comfort.
"Are you with-" she starts, and he rolls his eyes expansively, his head tipping back in emphasis. She's reminded of a nature documentary on sharks. Their eyes are flat and round, and they roll back when the shark strikes.
Sure enough, the man is suddenly right in her face, backing her up against the door, a vicious snarl exposing his teeth. "No, no, no, oh my God, what did he even see in you? John was bad enough, but you... Is it an additive-IQ thing? Are you both smarter around each other? Can either of you even pretend to keep up with him?"
"Moriarty," she says aloud, damning herself for the tremor in her voice.
"A pleasure," he replies, all smiles again as he takes her hand and kisses it with a flourish. She snatches it back, wanting antiseptic. "It's always flattering to know people talk about me. Especially Sherlock. The 'one that got away,' as it were." He sighs wistfully. "Not many of my victims do, you know, once I've resolved to get rid of them."
"What do you want from me?" she interjects while he seems lost in nostalgia.
Moriarty frowns, waving dismissively. "Absolutely nothing. You've done exactly as I asked, haven't you?"
"Asked," Sarah says flatly. "What d'you mean, asked?"
"The shooting, the kidnappings, the extended hospitalisations... or, oh. Oh, you are a dull little thing. I'd pity you if I cared to spare you the energy. You thought those were all unrelated incidents, didn't you?" His shoulders slump and he shakes his head. "Is it because you're a girl? Even Irene needed a nudge in the right direction when she wanted to know which 'private contractor' the government was going to send after her, and she's brilliant." Moriarty slants Sarah a sharp smile, just the edge of his teeth showing. "I have footage from the M&S security cameras that you might be interested in seeing."
"How dare you." Sarah feels her lip curl, bile and rage percolating in her gut, well on its way to a boil. "You grotty little-"
"Oh!" he says, eyes rounding. "There's the spark in you! Did he get you angry before he fucked you, because that I can appreciate."
"Don't try it yourself," she grits out between clenched teeth. "Or it will be your last mistake."
Moriarty laughs in her face. "God, no. If I'd wanted to inspire that kind of reaction in Sherlock, I'd have let my boys do you in the shed."
Sarah flinches at this, her fists clenching. "Get out of my office," she says, low and quiet. "Get out this instant, or I'll-"
"What? Scream, cry, call the police, try to attack me?" Moriarty puts his hands up in front of his face like a boxer, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Come on, then." He drops them and stands upright again, a smirk on his face. "I didn't come here to fight. Like I said, this is purely a social call, so that I could thank you in person. You see, I promised Sherlock something, last time I saw him, and you've helped me admirably in fulfilling that promise."
"Get. Out," Sarah repeats firmly, lifting her jaw and squaring her shoulders.
"I would," he says reproachfully. "But you're blocking the door." Face burning with shame, she fumbles for the doorknob at her back and turns it, pulling the door open as she steps out of the way. "You are much prettier in person," he comments as he strolls past. "Though for your sake, let's hope we never have to see each other again, eh?"
She slams the door behind him and scrambles for her phone.
***
When John gets to the practice, he can barely see the entrance for the police vehicles in front, officers and bystanders milling about. He drops his bag and sprints, ignoring the protests from his body and the shouts rising around him, calling for Sarah.
"I'm here," she calls from a particularly dense knot in the waiting room. "I'm here." The cluster parts as he approaches and he finally sees her, huddled in a chair looking wrecked. Her expression breaks open into relief when she spots him, and she says, "John."
He doesn't even know how it happens, but she's in his arms, face tucked against his jumper, hands clutching the front of it as she just breathes raggedly into the knit. "Sarah," John says, cradling her head in one palm, the other rubbing circles between her shoulders. "What happened? Are you all right?"
She lifts her face, determination winning out over terror in her eyes. "I'll tell you at home," she says. "Take me home."
"Yeah," a familiar voice cuts in, and they both turn to look. DI Lestrade, thank God. "Fine, she's given her statement; she can leave. You remember anything, find out anything more, you come to me, right?" Sarah and John nod in tandem, and Lestrade sighs. "Shouldn't trust you on that, but off you go," he says with gruff resignation.
John tucks Sarah against his side with one arm and they leave. She fills him in on the way.
***
Sherlock takes a single look at them and says one word: "Moriarty."
"Did you know this was going to happen?" John shouts. Sherlock sinks back against his pillows as if the volume of John's voice is physically weighing him down.
"...not exactly. Ask 'Emma' if you don't believe me, she's been paging through my journal while I've been unconscious."
"Emma?" Sarah asks. A woman - the woman she'd seen just the other day, in fact - pokes her head round the doorframe, waving with a polite smile.
"It's what he calls me," the stranger says.
"Well, it's that or 'Diana,'" Sherlock says.
Sarah has to interject, "Who are you?"
"Mycroft Holmes' PA," not-Emma/not-Diana says. "He sent me to look after his brother. It's been like a vacation, at least when you've been asleep," she adds to Sherlock.
"So what is your name?" John asks.
"Oh, don't bother," Sherlock cuts in before the woman can answer. "Only her mother and Mycroft know for sure. She hasn't even told her girlfriend the truth."
"Shut it," the woman says, "Molly does so know my real name. She's been cleared for it." She gives Sherlock a dazzling smile. "She earned it." She turns back to John and Sarah. "Call me whatever you like. I'm rather attached to Anthea, personally."
"Well," Sarah says, already having had enough shock and confusion in one morning for this to throw her, "it's a pleasure to meet you, Anthea. Can you give us a moment?"
"Take all the time you need," Anthea responds. "Now that you're back, I'm to leave."
"Ah. Thanks again, Anthea. Really," John says, and Anthea pats him on the arm sympathetically as she goes.
"Good luck," she calls over her shoulder.
"Now," Sherlock says, getting pen and notebook ready. "Tell me everything. Clear as you can; with these drugs..."
Sarah bites her lip, feeling awful. "Sherlock..." she starts, then stops, not knowing how to continue.
"Later," he says dismissively. "There's a lunatic who's trying to destroy us, and he keeps getting closer to success. Let's focus on that while I can still focus, if you please. Treacly emotional business can wait for when I'm swimming in narcotics."
At this, John laughs aloud. "Even as an invalid..." he says, chuckling. He gives Sarah a little nudge. "Go get interrogated, love, I'll get the tea."
Feeling ill at ease, Sarah sits at the foot of the bed and starts talking.
***
Sherlock writes until his handwriting is a spidery scrawl slanting down over the ruled lines of the journal. This time, Sarah is there to take them away from him and get his medication. She doesn't feed him his pill and hold the glass for him like the others had, for which Sherlock finds himself pathetically grateful. Instead, she hands him both and lets him do it himself while she tidies away their empty tea mugs.
Sarah's almost out the door when he says, very calmly, "You flinched."
She stops dead in her tracks, the mugs rattling in her hands. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I did."
"If you don't want to continue on, I'm sure John and I can manage without," he says, meaning his recovery, chasing Moriarty, everything, if need be. "I don't want you staying out of pity." This last comes out rather more bitter than he'd like, but there it is.
Sarah turns, setting the mugs on one of the bookshelves. "What promise did Moriarty make you?" she asks quietly. "The one he said I was helping him with."
"He said that he'd burn the heart out of me," he replies, as condescending as he can manage. "As if-"
"Don't," she interrupts. "Don't lie there with stitches in your chest and say that he hasn't done a good job trying. You got shot saving me. And you were in nearly as bad a state - metaphorically speaking - when they took John."
Sherlock sniffs, trying to hold the fog at bay long enough to articulate. "I disapprove of people getting hurt on my account," he says.
"Liar," she replies equably. It's infuriating.
"I don't have a heart," he says, ruthlessly. "Look to John for endearments and affection and promises, but don't expect me to say-"
"I don't expect you to say it," she says over whatever else was coming next. "But I'd like very much if you stopped lying to me."
"Fine," he snaps, baring his teeth. "The truth? I want to make you bleed on my sheets and study the smear patterns as you writhe. Needles, blades, whatever I can try. I haven't wanted that from anyone else. Is that declaration meaningful enough for you?"
She closes her eyes as if in pain. Then, very slowly, she replies, "Don't say those things when you're in no position to deliver." She opens her eyes and just stares him down. "I'll talk to John. He'll come round by the time you're well."
Sherlock starts to reply, then realises he has absolutely no idea what to say. Sarah smiles at him again, impossibly kind and wicked at once.
"What? Did you think you could chase me off with that?" she asks.
"You seem to be in a fleeing mood of late," he responds acerbically.
"I ran because the world seemed to want to rip us to shreds at random, as if your job painted a target on our backs for all to see. Now that I know there's a singular will behind it, I have something to focus on. Something to solve. Surely you can understand that impulse, fleeing from irrationality?" She picks up the mugs again. "I am a scientist, Sherlock. My mind may not be of the same calibre, but we have the same mettle."
She leaves him to agonize over that pun while the drugs take hold.
***
John waits for Sarah in the living room. If he hears her story again, he'll go out on his own to find Moriarty, and he knows the inherent lack of wisdom in that impulse. Instead, he cleans his gun.
The process is neat, and orderly, and precise. A gun is a machine to be taken apart, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled. It has weight and texture in his hands that he can focus on, unlike the memory of a soft voice in one ear and the cool sloshing of chlorine waves in the other.
Bet you never saw this coming. Not a question, either in Moriarty's voice or in his own. He remembers Sherlock's shock, even as John had tried to communicate non-verbally - screaming with posture and expression: Don't believe me!
Sherlock is rubbish at reading the subtleties of live bodies, unless there is physical evidence contradicting their words. It had taken a glimpse of the semtex for Sherlock to comprehend.
Burn the heart out of you, Moriarty had promised. And now he's seen past their mask: engaged doctors and their brilliant, eccentric best friend. It's a pleasant fiction that most people prefer to believe rather than question, but Moriarty is certainly not 'most people.'
Pet, he'd called me. Sherlock's pet, John remembers. Does he still think that? Am I still Sherlock's dog in his mind? Does he think I'd gotten lonely, so Sherlock had gone out and brought home a second to keep me company? The bullets snap into the magazine, satisfying click, click, clicks. Won't he be surprised.
"John," Sarah says quietly, and it takes all of John's skill to carefully set the gun down on the table. He wouldn't have pulled the trigger, but it's a poor thing to point a gun at one's fiancée regardless.
"Is he asleep?" John asks.
"Yeah, or well on his way." She brushes the fringe from his brow with cautious fingertips. "You look like you haven't slept since I left. Go on up to bed."
John frowns at the reminder. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"
"No," she replies, "No, I've got myself all sorted out now, I promise."
"Good. Then put my ring back on." She often took it off at work, strung it on a chain around her neck, but right now it's nowhere to be seen. She digs in a pocket and holds it out to him.
"I thought I'd rather you did that," she offers, her smile bittersweet. He takes it and kisses her before sliding it back onto her finger.
They end up kissing quite a lot after that, making up for lost time.
***
“D'you need to talk about it?” John asks later. They're tangled together on the couch, still dressed. His gun glints from the table, just visible over the edge of her shoulder.
“No. I'm all right.” Sarah tucks her face up under his jaw. “I'm sorry I hurt you. Both of you.”
“I understand,” he says into her hair. “Believe me, I completely understand the occasional urge to run away from the madness of my own life.”
“But you never do,” she points out. Her fingers fiddle with the cuff of his jumper and he captures them in his own, bringing them to his mouth to kiss absently.
“Military training,” he says dismissively against her fingertips. “They kind of frown on panicked retreats.”
“Is that what we're calling this?” John can feel her smile against his neck.
“Completely different for civilians,” he says. “And it was a tactical retreat in this case, I think.”
“I'm still sorry,” she says quietly. “Now that I know there was someone behind all of it, I just want to track him down and...”
“Right there with you, love.” He drags the edge of his teeth over one of her knuckles.
“We'll have to wait for Sherlock to get well. He'll never forgive us if we did this without him,” Sarah points out. “He may still be sulking about my... 'tactical retreat'.”
“I don't think we could do it without him,” John admits, “and I'm sure you'll make it up to him somehow.”
“Ah,” she says. “About that...”
- END -
(of this installment; series TBC)
(Next installment: Grace to the Strong )
[ Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost ]
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.
Author: saathi1013
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: varying permutations of Sarah/John/Sherlock (established)
Spoilers: just watch the series, it's only 3 episodes.
Rating: R? but just barely.
Contents/Warnings: Angst, h/c. Mention of bloodplay/needleplay.
Series: This is the fifth in the Lorem Ipsum Series. Also, there's a reference to another of my fics snuck in there, out of pure self-indulgence, though I haven't gone to check if the respective fanons are compliant (they probably aren't).
Summary: Wherein things get Difficult, and the Metaplot creeps in.
Word Count: ~4500
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: I AM SO SORRY. Also, caoilin_noir once again stepped up in between saving lives to save my fic from typos and Americanisms, and as always, I am profusely grateful.
***
"I don't know if I can do this," Sarah says. She's sitting in the bathroom, on the closed seat of the toilet, staring blindly at a paper bag in her hands. It's filled with Sherlock's medications.
They'd been debating the relative merits of a lock-box with a alphanumeric combination and one with a key when Sarah had fallen silent. At the sudden change of topic, John pauses in his task of unpacking Sherlock's suitcase in the bedroom.
"I'm sorry, what?" John can feel his face creasing into a bewildered smile, and he schools it to something more like serious concern. Bewildered smiles are useful with erratic sisters and eccentric patients and the right kind of commanding officer, but not with girlfriends. Fiancée, he corrects himself. "If we stick to a six-digit code, we ought to remember it all right..."
"Not that," she says with a sigh, dragging one hand over her face. The bag drops to the ground from nerveless fingers. "I just. We keep getting hurt, John. I don't know if I can... stand it anymore."
John's ribs seize and constrict. "I don't. I don't understand. What." Beside him, Sherlock snores softly, drugged into oblivion.
"Do I even need to list it all?" she asks, her voice very small and very tired. John braces both of his hands against the dresser and lets his head drop, just trying to breathe while her words tumble out all in a rush. "From the very beginning at the circus, it's all been dodging bullets and running after dangerous criminals, and that's fine, it's fine, really. But the bullets have been connecting lately - literally, in Sherlock's case - and it's like the criminals are chasing us instead, and we're just running for our lives. And I don't. I don't know if I can do this."
John forces himself to take a deep breath. "What," he tries again, failing.
"I love you, John," Sarah says. "I love Sherlock, too, as much as anyone can ever be permitted to love someone like him." She sounds a little wondering at this last bit, like she hasn't admitted it to herself until now. "But I need. I can't." Her voice breaks, and John looks at her just in time to see her expression crumple like damp newspaper.
He takes a few unsteady steps towards her, but she turns away, one palm held out to halt him and the other scrubbing tears from her cheeks. He stops; he always stops when she tells him to, but he doesn't know how to stop this, whatever this is. Is she asking him to not work with Sherlock - does she want Sherlock to stop working? Sherlock doesn't stop, not ever, and in all other circumstances, they both enjoy that, but... "What am I supposed to do?" John says, feeling lost.
Sarah makes a few awful, hurting sounds that twist his guts up in knots. "I don't know, John," she says. "I just. I need to step back, find some space to think without... all of this staring me in the face." She stands unsteadily and closes the distance between them. She kisses John once, chaste and salty, and backs away when his hands come up to hold her. "I'm sorry, I. I don't. I'm sorry."
And she's gone as John's still trying to process what she's said.
***
Sherlock wakes up once that afternoon, consciousness hitting him in the face like a freight train. Everything hurts.
"Drugs," he calls out hoarsely. John's at his side in an instant.
Something's wrong with John's face, Sherlock thinks to himself as the pill is pushed past his lips and cool water follows. Why does he look broken?
The drugs take hold before he has the chance to ask.
***
Sarah goes to her own flat, but there are too many reminders there. Sherlock's laptop and an untidy pile of books lurk in the corner of her living room; one of John's jumpers is tossed haphazardly on her sofa.
Her bed still smells like them.
She packs a suitcase and goes to her mother's. She still has the rest of the weekend, then her partners expect her back at the practice.
***
Where are you? Sherlock texts Saturday evening. John's asleep; isn't this your shift?
Shortly followed by, I need drugs.
You can't be at work, or doing the shopping, he sends ten minutes later. Where are you?
Then, Are you all right?
John wakes up and takes the phone away from him after this last. There are no responses.
***
"How are your boys?" Sarah's mother asks over breakfast. "You said Sherlock was in hospital, is he doing all right?"
Sarah rolls her eyes, automatically responding, "They're not 'my boys,' Mum." Her mother keeps making the joke, and the effort of denying it had gotten old some time ago. Now it's grating. "John's taking care of him. I just needed a couple of days off, you know? Between taking care of Sherlock at home and taking care of strangers at work..." She shrugs. "I just needed some time."
"Is that why you're not wearing your ring?" her mother says, and Sarah draws in a quick breath.
"How did you-" Sarah starts. "We haven't told anyone yet..."
Her mother looks smug. "You think I haven't kept an eye on that hand since you introduced John? Your finger's got an indent now; it wasn't there the last time I saw you."
Sarah exhales slowly. Sherlock hasn't anything on a mother's observational skills. "I. Yes, we've been engaged for a while. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. We were thinking of throwing a party, but... Well, things have been rather hectic." She smiles ruefully at her own understatement.
Her mother gets up to refill their mugs, and pats her on the shoulder as she passes. "It'll work out, whatever this is. John's a good man, don't forget."
Sarah sighs again. "I know. I know, mum." She doesn't add, and that's why this is so difficult.
***
Sherlock figures it out on Sunday, and sulks for the few hours of consciousness the drugs permit him. He's not sure if he's more irritated that John's refusing to talk about it, or that it took so long to figure it out.
"Just focus on getting better," John says when Sherlock attempts to sit up in bed.
For once, Sherlock agrees. He could solve this problem if he were well, he knows he could. The once-welcome haze of drugs in his system is appallingly counterproductive, and he can't budge an inch without his chest burning like there's acid in his veins.
And he has the awful suspicion that the problem goes deeper than just Sarah's absence. Which means that it does; his 'suspicions' are more reliable than most people's 'facts'.
***
John can feel himself shutting down. He's not proud of it, but it's all he can do with Sherlock unwell and Sarah gone.
He tries not to remember the last time he was like this, and fails. When the nightmares come, as they inevitably do, Sherlock is in uniform beside him, crumpling to the ground. When he wakes, he creeps into Sherlock's room and curls up carefully on the bed beside him.
***
Sarah goes to work as usual, a pleasant, false smile masking her near constant desire to just start screaming and never stop.
The waiting room is filled with strangers and a few regulars, ordinary dull people with common ailments, and they keep her busy all day, but. In the back of her mind, she sees Sherlock, thinner than he ought to be with dressings over a still-healing wound that cuts right down through his lungs and nearly to his heart.
She doesn't see John, which is a mercy. She remembers what he'd been like the first time they'd met, brittle and uncertain but doggedly determined to regain normalcy, and doesn't want to ever see it again. Back when they had been making arrangements to help Sherlock recover, they'd scheduled separate shifts so that Sherlock wouldn't be left alone.
John is still coming to work, she can see that much from their timesheets and patient records. She wonders who's caring for Sherlock during those hours. Poor Mrs. Hudson, Sarah thinks to herself, and resolves to apologise next time she sees her.
***
Absolutely not, Sherlock texts. Bad enough Mycroft keeps 'supplementing' our finances when he thinks I need the help. I won't have this on top of it.
This declaration goes ignored.
***
John stares at the woman in his kitchen. "Ah, hello. You're usually gone by the time I get back."
'Anthea' smiles. How she can manage a kettle one-handed while simultaneously texting is beyond him. "Hi. I'll be out in a moment, sorry. Don't mean to intrude."
John pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingertips, scowling. "You're not intruding. I should be thanking you, actually."
"Don't. I'm getting a healthy bonus for this, and it's a nice change of pace from the usual," she replies. John doesn't want to know what 'the usual' means for her, beyond being glued to her mobile and getting ferried about in sleek black government vehicles. "If I can work for Mycroft during political crises, I can handle his brother. To be fair, the narcotics help."
John smiles grimly. "Give it a couple of weeks. He'll have to get weaned off them."
Her answering smile is very kind, painfully so. "Let's hope I won't be needed by then." John doesn't know how to respond to this.
***
Sarah drives past 221b, slowing down while she debates looking for parking. She's not sure if she's ready yet, but she can't go on like this, either.
As she passes at a crawl, she spots someone coming out of the door. Young, brunette, very glossy hair and sleek dark clothing. That's all she sees as her foot hits the gas by reflex, and she's two streets down before she processes it.
Not a nurse, she thinks, remembering the flash of sky-high red-soled black heels. Who the hell was that?
***
Sherlock tries to deduce despite the drugs in his system. He has Mycroft's assistant bring him a notebook and a pen - Fountain, not rollerball or felt or anything idiotic like gel, he'd specified via text, and she'd complied with enviable efficiency - and he uses it to keep track of his various trains of thought. It's embarrassing, to require these props for his intellect, but the need to pursue the problem at hand in an organized fashion outweighs his wincing pride.
He writes until his hand shakes so badly that John takes the journal away from him with gentle hands and gives him another dose.
***
There is a man waiting for Sarah in her office at the end of her shift on Friday. "Um," she says. "Hello?"
He's sitting behind her desk, shoes crossed atop its surface. "Hi!" he replies brightly. "I just wanted to say 'thanks' in person." His smile broadens even more, if that's possible. He swings his feet to the floor and stands in one smooth motion, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. His suit looks entirely too expensive for how he's wearing it.
"I'm sorry, have we met...?" She tries to remember if she's treated him recently, but there have been so many patients over the years...
"Noooo, not personally. But you got my messages, and I just wanted to express my utter gratitude for your... cooperation." His gestures are too broad, too familiar for him to be a stranger, and yet he is one by his own admission. It's all very confusing, so Sarah doesn't realise that he's strolled entirely too close to her for comfort.
"Are you with-" she starts, and he rolls his eyes expansively, his head tipping back in emphasis. She's reminded of a nature documentary on sharks. Their eyes are flat and round, and they roll back when the shark strikes.
Sure enough, the man is suddenly right in her face, backing her up against the door, a vicious snarl exposing his teeth. "No, no, no, oh my God, what did he even see in you? John was bad enough, but you... Is it an additive-IQ thing? Are you both smarter around each other? Can either of you even pretend to keep up with him?"
"Moriarty," she says aloud, damning herself for the tremor in her voice.
"A pleasure," he replies, all smiles again as he takes her hand and kisses it with a flourish. She snatches it back, wanting antiseptic. "It's always flattering to know people talk about me. Especially Sherlock. The 'one that got away,' as it were." He sighs wistfully. "Not many of my victims do, you know, once I've resolved to get rid of them."
"What do you want from me?" she interjects while he seems lost in nostalgia.
Moriarty frowns, waving dismissively. "Absolutely nothing. You've done exactly as I asked, haven't you?"
"Asked," Sarah says flatly. "What d'you mean, asked?"
"The shooting, the kidnappings, the extended hospitalisations... or, oh. Oh, you are a dull little thing. I'd pity you if I cared to spare you the energy. You thought those were all unrelated incidents, didn't you?" His shoulders slump and he shakes his head. "Is it because you're a girl? Even Irene needed a nudge in the right direction when she wanted to know which 'private contractor' the government was going to send after her, and she's brilliant." Moriarty slants Sarah a sharp smile, just the edge of his teeth showing. "I have footage from the M&S security cameras that you might be interested in seeing."
"How dare you." Sarah feels her lip curl, bile and rage percolating in her gut, well on its way to a boil. "You grotty little-"
"Oh!" he says, eyes rounding. "There's the spark in you! Did he get you angry before he fucked you, because that I can appreciate."
"Don't try it yourself," she grits out between clenched teeth. "Or it will be your last mistake."
Moriarty laughs in her face. "God, no. If I'd wanted to inspire that kind of reaction in Sherlock, I'd have let my boys do you in the shed."
Sarah flinches at this, her fists clenching. "Get out of my office," she says, low and quiet. "Get out this instant, or I'll-"
"What? Scream, cry, call the police, try to attack me?" Moriarty puts his hands up in front of his face like a boxer, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Come on, then." He drops them and stands upright again, a smirk on his face. "I didn't come here to fight. Like I said, this is purely a social call, so that I could thank you in person. You see, I promised Sherlock something, last time I saw him, and you've helped me admirably in fulfilling that promise."
"Get. Out," Sarah repeats firmly, lifting her jaw and squaring her shoulders.
"I would," he says reproachfully. "But you're blocking the door." Face burning with shame, she fumbles for the doorknob at her back and turns it, pulling the door open as she steps out of the way. "You are much prettier in person," he comments as he strolls past. "Though for your sake, let's hope we never have to see each other again, eh?"
She slams the door behind him and scrambles for her phone.
***
When John gets to the practice, he can barely see the entrance for the police vehicles in front, officers and bystanders milling about. He drops his bag and sprints, ignoring the protests from his body and the shouts rising around him, calling for Sarah.
"I'm here," she calls from a particularly dense knot in the waiting room. "I'm here." The cluster parts as he approaches and he finally sees her, huddled in a chair looking wrecked. Her expression breaks open into relief when she spots him, and she says, "John."
He doesn't even know how it happens, but she's in his arms, face tucked against his jumper, hands clutching the front of it as she just breathes raggedly into the knit. "Sarah," John says, cradling her head in one palm, the other rubbing circles between her shoulders. "What happened? Are you all right?"
She lifts her face, determination winning out over terror in her eyes. "I'll tell you at home," she says. "Take me home."
"Yeah," a familiar voice cuts in, and they both turn to look. DI Lestrade, thank God. "Fine, she's given her statement; she can leave. You remember anything, find out anything more, you come to me, right?" Sarah and John nod in tandem, and Lestrade sighs. "Shouldn't trust you on that, but off you go," he says with gruff resignation.
John tucks Sarah against his side with one arm and they leave. She fills him in on the way.
***
Sherlock takes a single look at them and says one word: "Moriarty."
"Did you know this was going to happen?" John shouts. Sherlock sinks back against his pillows as if the volume of John's voice is physically weighing him down.
"...not exactly. Ask 'Emma' if you don't believe me, she's been paging through my journal while I've been unconscious."
"Emma?" Sarah asks. A woman - the woman she'd seen just the other day, in fact - pokes her head round the doorframe, waving with a polite smile.
"It's what he calls me," the stranger says.
"Well, it's that or 'Diana,'" Sherlock says.
Sarah has to interject, "Who are you?"
"Mycroft Holmes' PA," not-Emma/not-Diana says. "He sent me to look after his brother. It's been like a vacation, at least when you've been asleep," she adds to Sherlock.
"So what is your name?" John asks.
"Oh, don't bother," Sherlock cuts in before the woman can answer. "Only her mother and Mycroft know for sure. She hasn't even told her girlfriend the truth."
"Shut it," the woman says, "Molly does so know my real name. She's been cleared for it." She gives Sherlock a dazzling smile. "She earned it." She turns back to John and Sarah. "Call me whatever you like. I'm rather attached to Anthea, personally."
"Well," Sarah says, already having had enough shock and confusion in one morning for this to throw her, "it's a pleasure to meet you, Anthea. Can you give us a moment?"
"Take all the time you need," Anthea responds. "Now that you're back, I'm to leave."
"Ah. Thanks again, Anthea. Really," John says, and Anthea pats him on the arm sympathetically as she goes.
"Good luck," she calls over her shoulder.
"Now," Sherlock says, getting pen and notebook ready. "Tell me everything. Clear as you can; with these drugs..."
Sarah bites her lip, feeling awful. "Sherlock..." she starts, then stops, not knowing how to continue.
"Later," he says dismissively. "There's a lunatic who's trying to destroy us, and he keeps getting closer to success. Let's focus on that while I can still focus, if you please. Treacly emotional business can wait for when I'm swimming in narcotics."
At this, John laughs aloud. "Even as an invalid..." he says, chuckling. He gives Sarah a little nudge. "Go get interrogated, love, I'll get the tea."
Feeling ill at ease, Sarah sits at the foot of the bed and starts talking.
***
Sherlock writes until his handwriting is a spidery scrawl slanting down over the ruled lines of the journal. This time, Sarah is there to take them away from him and get his medication. She doesn't feed him his pill and hold the glass for him like the others had, for which Sherlock finds himself pathetically grateful. Instead, she hands him both and lets him do it himself while she tidies away their empty tea mugs.
Sarah's almost out the door when he says, very calmly, "You flinched."
She stops dead in her tracks, the mugs rattling in her hands. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I did."
"If you don't want to continue on, I'm sure John and I can manage without," he says, meaning his recovery, chasing Moriarty, everything, if need be. "I don't want you staying out of pity." This last comes out rather more bitter than he'd like, but there it is.
Sarah turns, setting the mugs on one of the bookshelves. "What promise did Moriarty make you?" she asks quietly. "The one he said I was helping him with."
"He said that he'd burn the heart out of me," he replies, as condescending as he can manage. "As if-"
"Don't," she interrupts. "Don't lie there with stitches in your chest and say that he hasn't done a good job trying. You got shot saving me. And you were in nearly as bad a state - metaphorically speaking - when they took John."
Sherlock sniffs, trying to hold the fog at bay long enough to articulate. "I disapprove of people getting hurt on my account," he says.
"Liar," she replies equably. It's infuriating.
"I don't have a heart," he says, ruthlessly. "Look to John for endearments and affection and promises, but don't expect me to say-"
"I don't expect you to say it," she says over whatever else was coming next. "But I'd like very much if you stopped lying to me."
"Fine," he snaps, baring his teeth. "The truth? I want to make you bleed on my sheets and study the smear patterns as you writhe. Needles, blades, whatever I can try. I haven't wanted that from anyone else. Is that declaration meaningful enough for you?"
She closes her eyes as if in pain. Then, very slowly, she replies, "Don't say those things when you're in no position to deliver." She opens her eyes and just stares him down. "I'll talk to John. He'll come round by the time you're well."
Sherlock starts to reply, then realises he has absolutely no idea what to say. Sarah smiles at him again, impossibly kind and wicked at once.
"What? Did you think you could chase me off with that?" she asks.
"You seem to be in a fleeing mood of late," he responds acerbically.
"I ran because the world seemed to want to rip us to shreds at random, as if your job painted a target on our backs for all to see. Now that I know there's a singular will behind it, I have something to focus on. Something to solve. Surely you can understand that impulse, fleeing from irrationality?" She picks up the mugs again. "I am a scientist, Sherlock. My mind may not be of the same calibre, but we have the same mettle."
She leaves him to agonize over that pun while the drugs take hold.
***
John waits for Sarah in the living room. If he hears her story again, he'll go out on his own to find Moriarty, and he knows the inherent lack of wisdom in that impulse. Instead, he cleans his gun.
The process is neat, and orderly, and precise. A gun is a machine to be taken apart, cleaned, oiled, and reassembled. It has weight and texture in his hands that he can focus on, unlike the memory of a soft voice in one ear and the cool sloshing of chlorine waves in the other.
Bet you never saw this coming. Not a question, either in Moriarty's voice or in his own. He remembers Sherlock's shock, even as John had tried to communicate non-verbally - screaming with posture and expression: Don't believe me!
Sherlock is rubbish at reading the subtleties of live bodies, unless there is physical evidence contradicting their words. It had taken a glimpse of the semtex for Sherlock to comprehend.
Burn the heart out of you, Moriarty had promised. And now he's seen past their mask: engaged doctors and their brilliant, eccentric best friend. It's a pleasant fiction that most people prefer to believe rather than question, but Moriarty is certainly not 'most people.'
Pet, he'd called me. Sherlock's pet, John remembers. Does he still think that? Am I still Sherlock's dog in his mind? Does he think I'd gotten lonely, so Sherlock had gone out and brought home a second to keep me company? The bullets snap into the magazine, satisfying click, click, clicks. Won't he be surprised.
"John," Sarah says quietly, and it takes all of John's skill to carefully set the gun down on the table. He wouldn't have pulled the trigger, but it's a poor thing to point a gun at one's fiancée regardless.
"Is he asleep?" John asks.
"Yeah, or well on his way." She brushes the fringe from his brow with cautious fingertips. "You look like you haven't slept since I left. Go on up to bed."
John frowns at the reminder. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"
"No," she replies, "No, I've got myself all sorted out now, I promise."
"Good. Then put my ring back on." She often took it off at work, strung it on a chain around her neck, but right now it's nowhere to be seen. She digs in a pocket and holds it out to him.
"I thought I'd rather you did that," she offers, her smile bittersweet. He takes it and kisses her before sliding it back onto her finger.
They end up kissing quite a lot after that, making up for lost time.
***
“D'you need to talk about it?” John asks later. They're tangled together on the couch, still dressed. His gun glints from the table, just visible over the edge of her shoulder.
“No. I'm all right.” Sarah tucks her face up under his jaw. “I'm sorry I hurt you. Both of you.”
“I understand,” he says into her hair. “Believe me, I completely understand the occasional urge to run away from the madness of my own life.”
“But you never do,” she points out. Her fingers fiddle with the cuff of his jumper and he captures them in his own, bringing them to his mouth to kiss absently.
“Military training,” he says dismissively against her fingertips. “They kind of frown on panicked retreats.”
“Is that what we're calling this?” John can feel her smile against his neck.
“Completely different for civilians,” he says. “And it was a tactical retreat in this case, I think.”
“I'm still sorry,” she says quietly. “Now that I know there was someone behind all of it, I just want to track him down and...”
“Right there with you, love.” He drags the edge of his teeth over one of her knuckles.
“We'll have to wait for Sherlock to get well. He'll never forgive us if we did this without him,” Sarah points out. “He may still be sulking about my... 'tactical retreat'.”
“I don't think we could do it without him,” John admits, “and I'm sure you'll make it up to him somehow.”
“Ah,” she says. “About that...”
- END -
(of this installment; series TBC)
(Next installment: Grace to the Strong )
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