Fic: Let This River Flow; John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel; NC-17 - Part 2/5
Title: Let This River Flow (2/5)
Crossover: Sherlock
Type: Slash, Gen
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel, Sam, Kevin, Charlie, Harry, Mycroft, OCs.
Warnings: Violence, sex, language.
Author's Note #1: Post-Reichenbach, and set post-S8 of Supernatural.
Author's Note #2: Title comes from ‘Let This River Flow’ by Soilwork.
Author's Note #3: Written for sncross_bigbang. Link to the gloriously wonderful artwork by the talented finnickodair can be found here. Thank you again, m’dear. ♥
Summary: In the year 2014, after an unknown disease decimates most of humankind, John and Sherlock are left doing their best to just stay alive, scraping out an existence in the quarantined city of London - until they stumble into the lives of two brothers and a fallen angel, who talk of the Devil as though he’s a real being, and who have a name - Croatoan - for the virus that’s torn the planet apart. From then on, John and Sherlock find themselves caught up in the epicenter of the battle, and it’s going to take everything they have to make it through with their humanity intact.
- - -
By the time they make it to the area around Tower Hill station - and why, why, is Harry anywhere near the goddamn river? - it’s taking every bit of training John has to keep his shit together. Crouched beside him - they’re on the roof of a small building, with the Thames spread out before them, looking just the same as it always has - Sherlock’s looking just about as bad as John feels, and John gets it. If they screw this up, they’ll either end up dead, or they’ll make it out alive but still won’t have the option of leaving the city, because Harry will still be out there somewhere.
“Where is -”
“I’m meeting my contact here.”
“And who -”
Sherlock shushes him just as something makes a noise behind them, and they both spin around, guns up - and then Sherlock’s keeping his gun pinned on the young woman who steps out from behind the chimney, and John does the same, eyeing the large knife in the woman’s hand. She’s got blue eyes and a mess of dark blonde hair, can’t be older than twenty-five, and her clothes are full of holes; and John would offer his sweater, but it’s not in much better shape. Swallows hard and then reminds himself that there are no visible signs of the virus - no way to tell for sure.
“Jasmine.”
“Sherlock.”
For a moment, nobody moves, Sherlock and Jasmine just glaring at each other across the rooftop - and then Jasmine’s mouth twists into something that almost looks like a pained smile, and she takes a step away from them, her hand still gripping her knife and her eyes never leaving them.
“You holster those guns and leave enough space between us, and I’ll take you to her.”
Sherlock waits for a moment longer, studying her in silence, and then he nods and lowers his gun, holstering it, John wavering for a second before he does the same, and Jasmine turns and slides back down the fire route, and John glances at Sherlock before they both follow. Jasmine keeps steady hold of her knife as they all hit the ground again, and John and Sherlock leave her a good chunk of space as they follow her - twisting steadily closer towards the river, with John watching the area behind them for monsters, and Sherlock keeping his eyes on the woman in front of him - until they’re crouching against the wall of an old house, and staring down at a giant concrete wall. It’s a prison, obviously - barb wire running all along the top of that wall - and the river is dangerously close, running along the other side of the prison, and John doesn’t know how they haven’t run into trouble yet. This seems like just the sort of place that the creatures would want to infest.
“It’s a shelter. The entire area is well defended.”
“Why don’t I know about this?”
Sherlock - unsurprisingly - sounds personally insulted - as though this lack of knowledge is an unforgivable oversight on his part - and the wry smile the woman gives him makes John wonder just how well the network actually knows Sherlock. This woman, at least, seems amused by Sherlock’s reaction - provided, of course, that it’s not just a ruse, and that they’re not following a monster into a trap.
“It sprung up out of nowhere, just over a week ago. Some folks just swooped in and cleared out the whole thing.”
“How?”
“Dunno. But there’s a quarantine to get in.”
It’s said with a shrug, and she’s already moving again, but John watches as Sherlock soaks in the new information - it’s like John can actually see his mind latching on to it - and he can’t stop a fond smile, even as he nudges Sherlock to keep going. It takes a second to get Sherlock out of his head, and then Sherlock twitches a smile back at him, and they’re darting across a brief area of open space, and following the woman along the wall until it molds into the side of a guardhouse. The front door opens when she pushes on it, and John glances at Sherlock before they follow her through -
To come face to face with a wall of guns. Or, more specifically, a prison entrance room with people aiming weapons at them through a chain-link fence. John goes very still, feels Sherlock do the same, but Jasmine’s already taking her knife and tossing it through a large hole in the fence, into the container on the other side, barely paying any attention to the weapons pointed at them.
“Toss your weapons in there.”
“I don’t think -”
“The folks in charge here ain’t gonna care what you think.”
John still hesitates, his gun solid and safe in his hand, glances around the room - they’re not the only ones here, and there are plenty of other people leaning up against the walls, not looking at each other - but then Sherlock’s muttering something unhappy and doing as instructed, tossing his gun and knives into the hole, and John grinds his teeth together as he does the same. Bites down the surge of vulnerability as he goes to stand beside Sherlock, who’s leaned up against the wall beside Jasmine, neither of them saying a word - and after a moment of silence, wherein nobody in the room seems keen to look at anybody else, John can’t quite deal with it anymore. Reaches across Sherlock and sticks out his hand for the woman to shake - because if she’s brought them this far, then there’s a good chance, at least, that he’s not shaking hands with a monster.
“Jasmine.”
“John.”
“It’s your sister who’s in here?”
John swallows, hard, and feels his knees go a bit weak, because if Harry is here, if they’ve finally actually found her - manages a nod, at least, and the woman - Jasmine - smiles a bit at him.
“Harry, right? She’s a damn firecracker. Saved a friend of mine last week. Amazing woman.”
Again, all John can do is nod, and - embarrassingly - he can feel his eyes starting to burn. Looks away from Jasmine and Sherlock, drops his head and stares at the ground, and just concentrates on getting enough air, because - Harry. Here. It isn’t registering yet, it’s too much to take in - and then Sherlock’s hand is in his, fingers tangled up in between them, and John clings tight to it, lets Sherlock ground him. There’s a giant clock up on the wall - one of those old black and white giants - and that’s when he sees the giant sign plastered up beside the clock. A glance up at Sherlock shows him that Sherlock’s already long since started reading it, his expression pulling tight as he takes in the words.
Front Entrance Rules
1. Toss your weapons through the first slot. No exceptions. You’ll get them back on the inside.
2. Everyone gets a number, and everyone must provide a blood sample. Put your arm through the second slot. If you suspect that you’ve been infected, tell us now, and we’ll figure out what to do from there.
3. If someone in this room starts to turn, everyone else needs to get on the floor immediately, so the folks behind these fences can get a clear shot. Do not get yourself caught in the crossfire.
Si vous ne parlez pas anglais, dites-nous tout de suite.
Si usted no habla Inglés, díganos inmediatamente.
Wenn Sie nicht Englisch sprechen, erzählen Sie uns sofort.
Als u geen Engels spreekt, vertel dit dan onmiddellijk met ons op.
あなたが英語を話せない場合は、すぐに私達に告げる。
Se non si parla inglese, ci dicono subito.
Eğer İngilizce bilmiyorsanız, hemen bize bildirin.
如果你不會說英語，請立即通知我們。
Jos et puhu Englanti, kerro meille välittömästi.
Если вы не говорите по-английски, сообщите нам немедленно.
Αν δεν μιλούν αγγλικά, να μας ενημερώσετε αμέσως.
إذا كنت لا يتكلمون الإنجليزية، يقول لنا على الفور.
- - - - - -
“Wow. Guess they really want to make sure everyone knows the house rules.”
His voice is a bit shaky, though, and Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s hand, moves in a bit closer to him. It makes sense, now, why nobody here wants to talk to anyone else, and John finds himself clinging to the comforting sound of Sherlock breathing beside him, as Jasmine sits down in a lone chair, and slides her arm through a hole in the fence. On the other side, there’s a young man, a container of needles beside him, and John watches as he carefully draws Jasmine’s blood, hands her a piece of paper with a number, and then labels the vial and puts it in another container, before he looks up to meet John’s eyes as Jasmine moves away. John hesitates for a moment, but the needles are packaged, at least, so he lets go of Sherlock’s hand and sits down, pausing for a moment longer before he slides his arm through, the young man not saying a word as he does the same as with Jasmine. John barely feels the needle - has a moment of being impressed by that, before his mind gets stuck on trying to figure out where the hell these people have even gotten clean needles to being with - and then the man gives him a number, and John nods and gets to his feet, standing back against the wall as Sherlock takes a seat. By the time Sherlock’s done, several numbers have been called and several people have been let in, and John ends up leaning against the wall with Sherlock pressed close to him on one side, and Jasmine silent on his other side, as the minutes start to slip by and nobody around them says a word.
- - -
By the time their wait is up, several people have been let through the second set of doors, and several more have come through the main doors, and John has to admit that it makes sense. This waiting area might be a bit of a kill zone, but if it will keep infected people from getting past the wall, then John really can’t argue with that one - and when they’re finally let through the doors, he finally starts to breathe normally again. It’s started to rain, and the prison looks even more dilapidated with a haze of storm clouds hovering overhead, but they’re through the guardroom and they all have their weapons back, so John really has nothing to complain about it. Stays close to Sherlock as they follow Jasmine across the empty space - nothing but gravel and dirt - between the wall and the massive prison, and it’s only when they step up to the main doors that John feels something inside him starting to go to pieces again, because Harry is in there. Can’t quite stop his hands from shaking as the two people guarding the door - one a woman with red hair, and one a woman with black hair, and both of them carrying guns that John would not like to be on the receiving end of - nod them through, and then Jasmine pushes the door open and -
It’s a giant front room, filled with people and cots and smells and noise and weapons and, hell, there are even dogs running around, and John goes dizzy, so much to take in, feels the room tilt a bit, can’t even imagine what it’s doing to Sherlock, hears him suck in a breath and reaches out to put a hand on Sherlock’s arm, so much colour and sound after months of - but Harry, where is -
“Hey. This way.”
That’s Jasmine, tugging on the sleeve of his sweater, and he lets himself be tugged, follows her as she navigates through the swarms of people and beds and cooking stoves and backpacks, Sherlock keeping pace right beside him, and Harry, where is - they come to the door of one of the prison cells, eventually, with an empty bunk and a clear floor, and - Jasmine pauses. Frowns at the cell, and then looks around, as though trying to figure out something that doesn’t make sense, and John can’t breathe, suddenly, the hallway is too small, because what if Harry isn’t -
“Oi. Jasper. Any idea where Harry’s run off to?”
Her voice is loud enough to be heard over the hum of people around them, and a head pops out from one of the other cells - a young man with a mane of hair down to his shoulders, and a tattoo across his collarbone - and he stares at Sherlock and John for a second before he frowns at Jasmine.
“She’s gone. Took off this morning.”
“What do you -”
“We heard a rumour - something ’bout people digging their way out. Tried to convince her to stay, but -”
John only realizes he’s leaning against the wall to stay upright when Sherlock’s suddenly there beside him, a hand on his elbow, saying his name, low and calm, over and over again, and John - pushes him away, at first, and then tugs him back, uses him to yank himself back upright again, the world still far too close around him, and that white haze threatening to creep back up on him again.
“Where. You - Jasper. Where did - where is -”
“Christ, I dunno. Charlie, though - she brought the news, thought it was bollocks; she might -”
John spins on Jasmine, who’s already holding up her hands, the universal sign for surrender.
“I’ll find Charlie. You just - keep him here, alright?”
It’s directed at Sherlock, that last part, and Sherlock nods sharply, and then Jasmine’s gone, and Sherlock turns to John, puts both hands on his shoulders, and makes John meet his eyes again.
“You’re not - John. You’re not breathing. You need to breathe, alright? In and out. Steady.”
And John wants to pull away - wants to lash out, break his fists on the walls, wants to tear at something or someone until it falls apart under his hands, they were so close - but Sherlock holds him there, hands tight on his shoulders, eyes locked on his, and John gradually realizes how hard he’s panting, realizes he’s shaking top to bottom, and - he makes himself breathe, somehow, as steady as he can, gradually realizing that Sherlock’s thumbs are moving in circles against his shoulders, his eyes never leaving John’s, pinning him in place as the world narrows around him.
“We will do everything we can to find her.”
It’s not a promise that they will find her - he knows Sherlock better than that; knows damn well that Sherlock’s not going to make any promises he isn’t sure that he can keep - but it’s still better than nothing, Sherlock’s voice falling low and his eyes narrowing, and John feels himself nod, from a distance - needs Sherlock to be right, needs them to find her, because, god, Harry -
“You’re John?”
It’s a new voice, and John pulls himself free from Sherlock to face the woman standing beside them. She’s got red hair, and she’s got a rifle held in front of, and she’s wearing the most apologetic expression John’s seen in a long time, and, god, they need to be gone already.
“You’re -”
“Yeah, I’m Charlie. And you’re -”
“Yes. Harry - she’s my sister. Where did she -”
“God, I’m so sorry. I never should have said -”
“But where -”
“They were - the rumour said that Chesham Station was the meeting point. That someone would periodically show up, and take people to the fence. Harry, and a few others - I tried to stop them, but -”
“Perhaps you should have considered that before you said anything.”
Charlie, John notices, distantly, doesn’t cringe or flinch under the venom in Sherlock’s voice - just shrugs somewhat helplessly, still looking apologetic, and - they need to be gone already. He only realizes he`s already turning to leave when Sherlock catches his arm, stops him from going.
“Dammit, Sherlock -”
“Come with me.”
His voice is low, his grip on John barely enough to keep him there, and John - grits his teeth, and lets Sherlock tug him into the cell Harry had been staying in. Lets Sherlock pull him away from the crowd, because he trusts Sherlock to know what he’s doing, but god, Chesham Station - it’s the best lead they’ve had yet, and John closes his eyes, needs to go, needs to not be standing here, wasting time.
“You should stay here, in case she comes back.”
Sherlock’s voice seems to be far away, same as everyone else’s, and John - it takes him a second for the words to process. When they do, though, it’s with a horrible aching feeling in his gut, and he opens his eyes again and finds Sherlock still looking angry enough to start throwing punches.
“Sorry?”
“She’s less than a day ahead of us. If anyone can find her, I can.”
He’s already pulling his coat a bit tighter around himself - not quite looking at John as he does so, his hands checking each of the buttons, and then sliding up to adjust the ragged scarf he’s still got wrapped around his neck - and John finds himself suddenly drowning under a wave of such love and affection it’s almost painful. Gapes for a moment, and then takes hold of Sherlock’s hands, holding them tight as Sherlock looks up at him, an obvious question in his expression.
“John?”
“You think I’d let you go out there on your own?”
“We’re her best hope to get out of this city alive. If she returns and we’re both gone -”
“Sherlock -”
“Now that we know that she’s alive, one of us should stay where it’s safe. If something were to happen to both of us -”
But John’s already shaking his head, because, god, no, they are not splitting up, end of story, period; and John is still trying to breathe over the crushing wave of affection and fondness, everything inside him still all tangled up in knots as he tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hands. For a moment, Sherlock just watches him, and then he squeezes back, nods, lips twitching up into something that could almost be a smile if not for how pained it looks - and then someone clears their throat from the doorway, and they turn to find Charlie standing there, grimacing a little.
“Um, look. This is kind of indirectly my fault, so - not that I don’t think you two can handle yourselves, of course, but - want some help? I get that you probably, you know, hate me, but -”
“You know your way around that weapon?”
Sherlock’s voice is glacier cold - it would almost be amusing, if not for the reasoning behind why Sherlock seems to, indeed, have already decided to hate Charlie - but, instead of flinching, Charlie visibly bristles, straightening her back as most of her kicked dog expression slides away.
“Wouldn’t be carrying it if I didn’t.”
“Well, based on what we’ve seen, thus far, of your poor decision making skills -”
“Lose the attitude, jackass. You get to hate me over Harry, sure, but that’s your full quota of bitchiness already met, and don’t think I’ll let you walk all over me just because I feel guilty.”
And that - John feels his jaw actually drop, feels Sherlock go absolutely rigid beside him, but before either of them can say a word, Charlie shoots Sherlock another glare and turns to leave.
“Front doors, ten minutes. I’ll see who else I can find for volunteers.”
And then she’s gone. Just like that. And John - if not for how terrible this whole situation is, he might actually be finding some kind of dark humour in this, because how often does anyone stand up to Sherlock? As is, though, he simply puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm, and moves in a bit closer to him, not missing the way Sherlock is still glaring at the doorway at though Charlie’s still there.
“Think we can do this without the two of you killing each other?”
“That will depend on her.”
He sounds like he’s chewing on nails, and John’s all over the place inside - stomach too tight, because, god, Harry; but he’s also still being half-smothered by that wave of affection from earlier - and he tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve until Sherlock turns to look at him, and then John rocks up on his toes and brushes their mouths together, holding fast to Sherlock’s shoulders for support until Sherlock relaxes against his, mouth going soft and gentle as John closes his eyes and takes in the comforting feeling of Sherlock so close to him. When he finally pulls away again, settling back down on his heels to stare up at Sherlock, he leaves a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, going all shaky inside at the sudden vulnerability in Sherlock’s eyes as he stares down at him. Even after all this time, John’s finding that Sherlock still often looks at him like he’s still surprised that he gets to touch, and it’s something that’s always going to make John’s heart hurt.
“Thank you.”
Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer, and then he nods against John’s hand, and John gives them another few seconds before he takes his hand away, picks up his backpack from the floor, and slides it over his shoulders. He’s already lost his sister once. He’s not going to lose her again.
- - -
Ten minutes later, John and Sherlock are standing on the main prison steps with Charlie.
Charlie and Sherlock, for their part, are silently glaring at each other, the air between them feeling like it’s ready to explode; and John is nearly scratching off his skin with the need to just go already; but Charlie had promised him several more volunteers, and John would be a fool to turn down any extra guns for this mission - they need as many people as they can to cover as much ground as they can, need to get out there and start looking and, god, they need to find her.
“So this is the great Reichenbach duo, huh?”
It’s not exactly condescending, but it’s not necessarily impressed, either, and John, Sherlock and Charlie all turn to find two men exiting the prison doors, joining them and Charlie on the steps. John can feel Sherlock bristle beside him, but he’s too busy studying the newcomers, who both have to be younger than him, if not by that much. They’re also both around Sherlock’s height, and they’re both wearing almost uncannily similar outfits - ragged jeans and what look like a couple of old band shirts, the ACDC scrawl just partially visible underneath the ragged trench coat that the older guy’s got on - and then the younger guy sticks out his hand towards John, and John frowns as he hesitantly takes it, not quite sure what he’s meant to be getting out of this just yet.
“Do we know you?”
“The shelter started buzzing the minute you arrived. London’s great heroes, I hear.”
“And who are you, then?”
Sherlock’s voice is nearly as cold as his tone towards Charlie, but the younger guy - American, same as Charlie; and the only one of the newcomers who’s said a word thus far - doesn’t seem to be at all put off. Simply takes his hand back from John, sends a little smile in Charlie’s direction, and then tilts his head towards the guy standing in silence beside him, who seems keen on staring at them as though he can see straight through them.
“I’m Dean. This is Cas. Charlie said your sister took off this morning, so - figured we’d help.”
“And you both know how to fight?”
“We cleaned out this prison all on our own. Us here, and two others. That good enough for you?”
“If you’re telling the truth.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve got much choice in the matter. Seems to be us or going on your own.”
Dean shrugs at that, and, god, John could actually learn to like these people - would really like Dean and Charlie, already, actually, and would quite appreciate their unwillingness to take bullshit, if not for the situation with Harry, and if not for the fact that their ire has all been directed at Sherlock - but John’s right about them not having any choice, and he knows Sherlock knows it, too, because Sherlock simply glares at Dean for a moment longer before he shrugs, too. There’s a moment, then, where they all just kind of glare at each other, the air thick between them - and then John exhales sharply, because they do not have time for this¸ and he turns in the direction of the prison guardroom, Sherlock keeping step beside him as he walks, the crunch of gravel as their three new allies follow close behind, and - yeah. This is going to be one tense trip
- - -
Chapter Three
Crossover: Sherlock
Type: Slash, Gen
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel, Sam, Kevin, Charlie, Harry, Mycroft, OCs.
Warnings: Violence, sex, language.
Author's Note #1: Post-Reichenbach, and set post-S8 of Supernatural.
Author's Note #2: Title comes from ‘Let This River Flow’ by Soilwork.
Author's Note #3: Written for sncross_bigbang. Link to the gloriously wonderful artwork by the talented finnickodair can be found here. Thank you again, m’dear. ♥
Summary: In the year 2014, after an unknown disease decimates most of humankind, John and Sherlock are left doing their best to just stay alive, scraping out an existence in the quarantined city of London - until they stumble into the lives of two brothers and a fallen angel, who talk of the Devil as though he’s a real being, and who have a name - Croatoan - for the virus that’s torn the planet apart. From then on, John and Sherlock find themselves caught up in the epicenter of the battle, and it’s going to take everything they have to make it through with their humanity intact.
- - -
By the time they make it to the area around Tower Hill station - and why, why, is Harry anywhere near the goddamn river? - it’s taking every bit of training John has to keep his shit together. Crouched beside him - they’re on the roof of a small building, with the Thames spread out before them, looking just the same as it always has - Sherlock’s looking just about as bad as John feels, and John gets it. If they screw this up, they’ll either end up dead, or they’ll make it out alive but still won’t have the option of leaving the city, because Harry will still be out there somewhere.
“Where is -”
“I’m meeting my contact here.”
“And who -”
Sherlock shushes him just as something makes a noise behind them, and they both spin around, guns up - and then Sherlock’s keeping his gun pinned on the young woman who steps out from behind the chimney, and John does the same, eyeing the large knife in the woman’s hand. She’s got blue eyes and a mess of dark blonde hair, can’t be older than twenty-five, and her clothes are full of holes; and John would offer his sweater, but it’s not in much better shape. Swallows hard and then reminds himself that there are no visible signs of the virus - no way to tell for sure.
“Jasmine.”
“Sherlock.”
For a moment, nobody moves, Sherlock and Jasmine just glaring at each other across the rooftop - and then Jasmine’s mouth twists into something that almost looks like a pained smile, and she takes a step away from them, her hand still gripping her knife and her eyes never leaving them.
“You holster those guns and leave enough space between us, and I’ll take you to her.”
Sherlock waits for a moment longer, studying her in silence, and then he nods and lowers his gun, holstering it, John wavering for a second before he does the same, and Jasmine turns and slides back down the fire route, and John glances at Sherlock before they both follow. Jasmine keeps steady hold of her knife as they all hit the ground again, and John and Sherlock leave her a good chunk of space as they follow her - twisting steadily closer towards the river, with John watching the area behind them for monsters, and Sherlock keeping his eyes on the woman in front of him - until they’re crouching against the wall of an old house, and staring down at a giant concrete wall. It’s a prison, obviously - barb wire running all along the top of that wall - and the river is dangerously close, running along the other side of the prison, and John doesn’t know how they haven’t run into trouble yet. This seems like just the sort of place that the creatures would want to infest.
“It’s a shelter. The entire area is well defended.”
“Why don’t I know about this?”
Sherlock - unsurprisingly - sounds personally insulted - as though this lack of knowledge is an unforgivable oversight on his part - and the wry smile the woman gives him makes John wonder just how well the network actually knows Sherlock. This woman, at least, seems amused by Sherlock’s reaction - provided, of course, that it’s not just a ruse, and that they’re not following a monster into a trap.
“It sprung up out of nowhere, just over a week ago. Some folks just swooped in and cleared out the whole thing.”
“How?”
“Dunno. But there’s a quarantine to get in.”
It’s said with a shrug, and she’s already moving again, but John watches as Sherlock soaks in the new information - it’s like John can actually see his mind latching on to it - and he can’t stop a fond smile, even as he nudges Sherlock to keep going. It takes a second to get Sherlock out of his head, and then Sherlock twitches a smile back at him, and they’re darting across a brief area of open space, and following the woman along the wall until it molds into the side of a guardhouse. The front door opens when she pushes on it, and John glances at Sherlock before they follow her through -
To come face to face with a wall of guns. Or, more specifically, a prison entrance room with people aiming weapons at them through a chain-link fence. John goes very still, feels Sherlock do the same, but Jasmine’s already taking her knife and tossing it through a large hole in the fence, into the container on the other side, barely paying any attention to the weapons pointed at them.
“Toss your weapons in there.”
“I don’t think -”
“The folks in charge here ain’t gonna care what you think.”
John still hesitates, his gun solid and safe in his hand, glances around the room - they’re not the only ones here, and there are plenty of other people leaning up against the walls, not looking at each other - but then Sherlock’s muttering something unhappy and doing as instructed, tossing his gun and knives into the hole, and John grinds his teeth together as he does the same. Bites down the surge of vulnerability as he goes to stand beside Sherlock, who’s leaned up against the wall beside Jasmine, neither of them saying a word - and after a moment of silence, wherein nobody in the room seems keen to look at anybody else, John can’t quite deal with it anymore. Reaches across Sherlock and sticks out his hand for the woman to shake - because if she’s brought them this far, then there’s a good chance, at least, that he’s not shaking hands with a monster.
“Jasmine.”
“John.”
“It’s your sister who’s in here?”
John swallows, hard, and feels his knees go a bit weak, because if Harry is here, if they’ve finally actually found her - manages a nod, at least, and the woman - Jasmine - smiles a bit at him.
“Harry, right? She’s a damn firecracker. Saved a friend of mine last week. Amazing woman.”
Again, all John can do is nod, and - embarrassingly - he can feel his eyes starting to burn. Looks away from Jasmine and Sherlock, drops his head and stares at the ground, and just concentrates on getting enough air, because - Harry. Here. It isn’t registering yet, it’s too much to take in - and then Sherlock’s hand is in his, fingers tangled up in between them, and John clings tight to it, lets Sherlock ground him. There’s a giant clock up on the wall - one of those old black and white giants - and that’s when he sees the giant sign plastered up beside the clock. A glance up at Sherlock shows him that Sherlock’s already long since started reading it, his expression pulling tight as he takes in the words.
Front Entrance Rules
1. Toss your weapons through the first slot. No exceptions. You’ll get them back on the inside.
2. Everyone gets a number, and everyone must provide a blood sample. Put your arm through the second slot. If you suspect that you’ve been infected, tell us now, and we’ll figure out what to do from there.
3. If someone in this room starts to turn, everyone else needs to get on the floor immediately, so the folks behind these fences can get a clear shot. Do not get yourself caught in the crossfire.
Si vous ne parlez pas anglais, dites-nous tout de suite.
Si usted no habla Inglés, díganos inmediatamente.
Wenn Sie nicht Englisch sprechen, erzählen Sie uns sofort.
Als u geen Engels spreekt, vertel dit dan onmiddellijk met ons op.
あなたが英語を話せない場合は、すぐに私達に告げる。
Se non si parla inglese, ci dicono subito.
Eğer İngilizce bilmiyorsanız, hemen bize bildirin.
如果你不會說英語，請立即通知我們。
Jos et puhu Englanti, kerro meille välittömästi.
Если вы не говорите по-английски, сообщите нам немедленно.
Αν δεν μιλούν αγγλικά, να μας ενημερώσετε αμέσως.
إذا كنت لا يتكلمون الإنجليزية، يقول لنا على الفور.
- - - - - -
“Wow. Guess they really want to make sure everyone knows the house rules.”
His voice is a bit shaky, though, and Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s hand, moves in a bit closer to him. It makes sense, now, why nobody here wants to talk to anyone else, and John finds himself clinging to the comforting sound of Sherlock breathing beside him, as Jasmine sits down in a lone chair, and slides her arm through a hole in the fence. On the other side, there’s a young man, a container of needles beside him, and John watches as he carefully draws Jasmine’s blood, hands her a piece of paper with a number, and then labels the vial and puts it in another container, before he looks up to meet John’s eyes as Jasmine moves away. John hesitates for a moment, but the needles are packaged, at least, so he lets go of Sherlock’s hand and sits down, pausing for a moment longer before he slides his arm through, the young man not saying a word as he does the same as with Jasmine. John barely feels the needle - has a moment of being impressed by that, before his mind gets stuck on trying to figure out where the hell these people have even gotten clean needles to being with - and then the man gives him a number, and John nods and gets to his feet, standing back against the wall as Sherlock takes a seat. By the time Sherlock’s done, several numbers have been called and several people have been let in, and John ends up leaning against the wall with Sherlock pressed close to him on one side, and Jasmine silent on his other side, as the minutes start to slip by and nobody around them says a word.
- - -
By the time their wait is up, several people have been let through the second set of doors, and several more have come through the main doors, and John has to admit that it makes sense. This waiting area might be a bit of a kill zone, but if it will keep infected people from getting past the wall, then John really can’t argue with that one - and when they’re finally let through the doors, he finally starts to breathe normally again. It’s started to rain, and the prison looks even more dilapidated with a haze of storm clouds hovering overhead, but they’re through the guardroom and they all have their weapons back, so John really has nothing to complain about it. Stays close to Sherlock as they follow Jasmine across the empty space - nothing but gravel and dirt - between the wall and the massive prison, and it’s only when they step up to the main doors that John feels something inside him starting to go to pieces again, because Harry is in there. Can’t quite stop his hands from shaking as the two people guarding the door - one a woman with red hair, and one a woman with black hair, and both of them carrying guns that John would not like to be on the receiving end of - nod them through, and then Jasmine pushes the door open and -
It’s a giant front room, filled with people and cots and smells and noise and weapons and, hell, there are even dogs running around, and John goes dizzy, so much to take in, feels the room tilt a bit, can’t even imagine what it’s doing to Sherlock, hears him suck in a breath and reaches out to put a hand on Sherlock’s arm, so much colour and sound after months of - but Harry, where is -
“Hey. This way.”
That’s Jasmine, tugging on the sleeve of his sweater, and he lets himself be tugged, follows her as she navigates through the swarms of people and beds and cooking stoves and backpacks, Sherlock keeping pace right beside him, and Harry, where is - they come to the door of one of the prison cells, eventually, with an empty bunk and a clear floor, and - Jasmine pauses. Frowns at the cell, and then looks around, as though trying to figure out something that doesn’t make sense, and John can’t breathe, suddenly, the hallway is too small, because what if Harry isn’t -
“Oi. Jasper. Any idea where Harry’s run off to?”
Her voice is loud enough to be heard over the hum of people around them, and a head pops out from one of the other cells - a young man with a mane of hair down to his shoulders, and a tattoo across his collarbone - and he stares at Sherlock and John for a second before he frowns at Jasmine.
“She’s gone. Took off this morning.”
“What do you -”
“We heard a rumour - something ’bout people digging their way out. Tried to convince her to stay, but -”
John only realizes he’s leaning against the wall to stay upright when Sherlock’s suddenly there beside him, a hand on his elbow, saying his name, low and calm, over and over again, and John - pushes him away, at first, and then tugs him back, uses him to yank himself back upright again, the world still far too close around him, and that white haze threatening to creep back up on him again.
“Where. You - Jasper. Where did - where is -”
“Christ, I dunno. Charlie, though - she brought the news, thought it was bollocks; she might -”
John spins on Jasmine, who’s already holding up her hands, the universal sign for surrender.
“I’ll find Charlie. You just - keep him here, alright?”
It’s directed at Sherlock, that last part, and Sherlock nods sharply, and then Jasmine’s gone, and Sherlock turns to John, puts both hands on his shoulders, and makes John meet his eyes again.
“You’re not - John. You’re not breathing. You need to breathe, alright? In and out. Steady.”
And John wants to pull away - wants to lash out, break his fists on the walls, wants to tear at something or someone until it falls apart under his hands, they were so close - but Sherlock holds him there, hands tight on his shoulders, eyes locked on his, and John gradually realizes how hard he’s panting, realizes he’s shaking top to bottom, and - he makes himself breathe, somehow, as steady as he can, gradually realizing that Sherlock’s thumbs are moving in circles against his shoulders, his eyes never leaving John’s, pinning him in place as the world narrows around him.
“We will do everything we can to find her.”
It’s not a promise that they will find her - he knows Sherlock better than that; knows damn well that Sherlock’s not going to make any promises he isn’t sure that he can keep - but it’s still better than nothing, Sherlock’s voice falling low and his eyes narrowing, and John feels himself nod, from a distance - needs Sherlock to be right, needs them to find her, because, god, Harry -
“You’re John?”
It’s a new voice, and John pulls himself free from Sherlock to face the woman standing beside them. She’s got red hair, and she’s got a rifle held in front of, and she’s wearing the most apologetic expression John’s seen in a long time, and, god, they need to be gone already.
“You’re -”
“Yeah, I’m Charlie. And you’re -”
“Yes. Harry - she’s my sister. Where did she -”
“God, I’m so sorry. I never should have said -”
“But where -”
“They were - the rumour said that Chesham Station was the meeting point. That someone would periodically show up, and take people to the fence. Harry, and a few others - I tried to stop them, but -”
“Perhaps you should have considered that before you said anything.”
Charlie, John notices, distantly, doesn’t cringe or flinch under the venom in Sherlock’s voice - just shrugs somewhat helplessly, still looking apologetic, and - they need to be gone already. He only realizes he`s already turning to leave when Sherlock catches his arm, stops him from going.
“Dammit, Sherlock -”
“Come with me.”
His voice is low, his grip on John barely enough to keep him there, and John - grits his teeth, and lets Sherlock tug him into the cell Harry had been staying in. Lets Sherlock pull him away from the crowd, because he trusts Sherlock to know what he’s doing, but god, Chesham Station - it’s the best lead they’ve had yet, and John closes his eyes, needs to go, needs to not be standing here, wasting time.
“You should stay here, in case she comes back.”
Sherlock’s voice seems to be far away, same as everyone else’s, and John - it takes him a second for the words to process. When they do, though, it’s with a horrible aching feeling in his gut, and he opens his eyes again and finds Sherlock still looking angry enough to start throwing punches.
“Sorry?”
“She’s less than a day ahead of us. If anyone can find her, I can.”
He’s already pulling his coat a bit tighter around himself - not quite looking at John as he does so, his hands checking each of the buttons, and then sliding up to adjust the ragged scarf he’s still got wrapped around his neck - and John finds himself suddenly drowning under a wave of such love and affection it’s almost painful. Gapes for a moment, and then takes hold of Sherlock’s hands, holding them tight as Sherlock looks up at him, an obvious question in his expression.
“John?”
“You think I’d let you go out there on your own?”
“We’re her best hope to get out of this city alive. If she returns and we’re both gone -”
“Sherlock -”
“Now that we know that she’s alive, one of us should stay where it’s safe. If something were to happen to both of us -”
But John’s already shaking his head, because, god, no, they are not splitting up, end of story, period; and John is still trying to breathe over the crushing wave of affection and fondness, everything inside him still all tangled up in knots as he tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hands. For a moment, Sherlock just watches him, and then he squeezes back, nods, lips twitching up into something that could almost be a smile if not for how pained it looks - and then someone clears their throat from the doorway, and they turn to find Charlie standing there, grimacing a little.
“Um, look. This is kind of indirectly my fault, so - not that I don’t think you two can handle yourselves, of course, but - want some help? I get that you probably, you know, hate me, but -”
“You know your way around that weapon?”
Sherlock’s voice is glacier cold - it would almost be amusing, if not for the reasoning behind why Sherlock seems to, indeed, have already decided to hate Charlie - but, instead of flinching, Charlie visibly bristles, straightening her back as most of her kicked dog expression slides away.
“Wouldn’t be carrying it if I didn’t.”
“Well, based on what we’ve seen, thus far, of your poor decision making skills -”
“Lose the attitude, jackass. You get to hate me over Harry, sure, but that’s your full quota of bitchiness already met, and don’t think I’ll let you walk all over me just because I feel guilty.”
And that - John feels his jaw actually drop, feels Sherlock go absolutely rigid beside him, but before either of them can say a word, Charlie shoots Sherlock another glare and turns to leave.
“Front doors, ten minutes. I’ll see who else I can find for volunteers.”
And then she’s gone. Just like that. And John - if not for how terrible this whole situation is, he might actually be finding some kind of dark humour in this, because how often does anyone stand up to Sherlock? As is, though, he simply puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm, and moves in a bit closer to him, not missing the way Sherlock is still glaring at the doorway at though Charlie’s still there.
“Think we can do this without the two of you killing each other?”
“That will depend on her.”
He sounds like he’s chewing on nails, and John’s all over the place inside - stomach too tight, because, god, Harry; but he’s also still being half-smothered by that wave of affection from earlier - and he tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve until Sherlock turns to look at him, and then John rocks up on his toes and brushes their mouths together, holding fast to Sherlock’s shoulders for support until Sherlock relaxes against his, mouth going soft and gentle as John closes his eyes and takes in the comforting feeling of Sherlock so close to him. When he finally pulls away again, settling back down on his heels to stare up at Sherlock, he leaves a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, going all shaky inside at the sudden vulnerability in Sherlock’s eyes as he stares down at him. Even after all this time, John’s finding that Sherlock still often looks at him like he’s still surprised that he gets to touch, and it’s something that’s always going to make John’s heart hurt.
“Thank you.”
Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer, and then he nods against John’s hand, and John gives them another few seconds before he takes his hand away, picks up his backpack from the floor, and slides it over his shoulders. He’s already lost his sister once. He’s not going to lose her again.
- - -
Ten minutes later, John and Sherlock are standing on the main prison steps with Charlie.
Charlie and Sherlock, for their part, are silently glaring at each other, the air between them feeling like it’s ready to explode; and John is nearly scratching off his skin with the need to just go already; but Charlie had promised him several more volunteers, and John would be a fool to turn down any extra guns for this mission - they need as many people as they can to cover as much ground as they can, need to get out there and start looking and, god, they need to find her.
“So this is the great Reichenbach duo, huh?”
It’s not exactly condescending, but it’s not necessarily impressed, either, and John, Sherlock and Charlie all turn to find two men exiting the prison doors, joining them and Charlie on the steps. John can feel Sherlock bristle beside him, but he’s too busy studying the newcomers, who both have to be younger than him, if not by that much. They’re also both around Sherlock’s height, and they’re both wearing almost uncannily similar outfits - ragged jeans and what look like a couple of old band shirts, the ACDC scrawl just partially visible underneath the ragged trench coat that the older guy’s got on - and then the younger guy sticks out his hand towards John, and John frowns as he hesitantly takes it, not quite sure what he’s meant to be getting out of this just yet.
“Do we know you?”
“The shelter started buzzing the minute you arrived. London’s great heroes, I hear.”
“And who are you, then?”
Sherlock’s voice is nearly as cold as his tone towards Charlie, but the younger guy - American, same as Charlie; and the only one of the newcomers who’s said a word thus far - doesn’t seem to be at all put off. Simply takes his hand back from John, sends a little smile in Charlie’s direction, and then tilts his head towards the guy standing in silence beside him, who seems keen on staring at them as though he can see straight through them.
“I’m Dean. This is Cas. Charlie said your sister took off this morning, so - figured we’d help.”
“And you both know how to fight?”
“We cleaned out this prison all on our own. Us here, and two others. That good enough for you?”
“If you’re telling the truth.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve got much choice in the matter. Seems to be us or going on your own.”
Dean shrugs at that, and, god, John could actually learn to like these people - would really like Dean and Charlie, already, actually, and would quite appreciate their unwillingness to take bullshit, if not for the situation with Harry, and if not for the fact that their ire has all been directed at Sherlock - but John’s right about them not having any choice, and he knows Sherlock knows it, too, because Sherlock simply glares at Dean for a moment longer before he shrugs, too. There’s a moment, then, where they all just kind of glare at each other, the air thick between them - and then John exhales sharply, because they do not have time for this¸ and he turns in the direction of the prison guardroom, Sherlock keeping step beside him as he walks, the crunch of gravel as their three new allies follow close behind, and - yeah. This is going to be one tense trip
- - -
Chapter Three