ihadabadday | Into the Night - AU - Locked to seaweed

The second he saw the two solider, his heart sunk. He knew, before they said a word what had happened.
Time seem to go syrupy slow. He heard their voices, but words didn't seem to really stick in his brain.

He nodded, his voice was gone, he couldn't speak, though he had a million questions- where had he been, what had happened...

And why had John left him and gotten himself killed?

Sherlock could feel his knees giving out under him, he had a death grip on the door to try to keep upright.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he was able to stutter out.. "H-h-how...."

"He was on a medical convoy, and it was attacked." The first solder supplied. They both noted how the man before them was taking it, how his world was crumbling. They had seen it many times in military wives.

Both soldiers saluted before they left.

Somehow, Sherlock managed to get the door closed before his legs gave out on him and slid to the floor, his sheet falling around him, his back to the door.

John... John was gone.

Sherlock hadn't gone back to the club in the months that John had been gone. He hadn't even had a casual hookup. There had been no one after John.

And now, there would be no John, either.

Ever.

He sat there, unable to move, unable to breathe as the sun made its zenith and then came back down, he was still there, unmoving.

John Watson was not dead. He had been found by a kind family, one that he had helped in times past. They nursed him back to health, helping build his strength. Once he was strong enough, a month after the attack, he was able to contact the British Embassy. He didn't know what else to do. He was positive the military assumed he was dead, and he was positive it had been reported to his next of kin.

Sherlock.

His heart clenched. Once he was healthy enough to travel, he would return to London and beg for Sherlock's forgiveness.

Another two months went by before he was deemed healthy enough to travel.

London almost seemed foreign. He caught a cab to Baker Street. Would Sherlock still be there? He wasn't sure. He paid the cabbie and got out, using his cane to support himself as he walked up the stairs. Well, his key still worked.

He took the stairs carefully, until he was standing in front of the door to the flat... He swallowed and knocked. He was nervous, trembling a bit. Had Sherlock moved on?

It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to fall off the map. He knew the places that he could hide from his meddling brother. He snuck into Baker Street once in a while, but mostly he lived on the streets, where it was easier to find the drugs that would keep him numb to the pain.

That only lasted for a couple of months. Mycroft had used his considerable talents to find his brother and ship him off to a rehab facility.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was a master of giving people the slip. He had snuck out of the facility and was back on the streets, this time taking more care to stay hidden, and not go back to Baker Street.

The knock on the door was answered by Mycroft on the other side. He had watched John's movements, and had anticipated when he was going to arrive back on Baker Street.

"He isn't here." Mycroft said, in an even, almost bored voice.

"Are you going to run me off?" John asked. He was thin and exhausted looking. And he was in no mood to deal with Sherlock.

"Where is he? Or are you not going to tell me?" He had been wanting to beg for Sherlock's forgiveness. But if the man wasn't here... His shoulders slumped and he knew. His love was gone. John stepped back and turned to go.

This time, his pension was large enough to afford him a decent place in London. But he was going to leave London.

"Is that is, are you just going to turn and run away again, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft asked as the man turned around. "It seems to be something that you excel at." He didn't care that he was antagonizing John. This was the reason, Mycroft was certain, that the whole mess had started in the first place.

"I would tell you where Sherlock was, if I knew." He said, his voice just the slightest bit dejected and exhausted. "He has run away.. again. He's living on the streets and has turned to drugs again. I wonder why he would have done that."

John stopped, but he didn't leave or turn back to face Mycroft. His hand tightened on his cane and he swallowed.

"I'm sure you know the reason. That I was reported MIA, presumed dead." He said.

Sherlock was on the streets, using again... Because of him. Because he did run away. John swallowed, defeated.

"Of course I know the reason why." Mycroft replied in a tone that told John that he was stupid for saying so.

"If we could get a message to one of his... homeless friends, telling them that you are back, and have them relate it to Sherlock, there is a chance that it would...entice him to come back to 221B." He took a deep breath, and continued.

"So far, my efforts to find him this second time have been... fruitless. This may be the best chance we have, if we don't want to find a homeless John Doe overdosed in a random hospital in the greater London area."

John finally turned to look at Mycroft. "I think that... That might be the best. If he forgives me. This will either bring him back, or send him spiraling."

He knew already how he would let Sherlock know it was him. His safeword. Only he and Sherlock knew it.

So he moved over to the table and sat down to pen a note to Sherlock. It was just a handful of words.

'Vatican Cameos

John looked at Mycroft. "Do you know who may be in his homeless network?" If one of them was watching the flat, then he suspected word might be on its way to Sherlock now of the newest visitor.

Mycroft read the writing upside down. Vatican Cameos- a term that had originated in World War 2. It was used when a non-military person, who was armed with a gun or knife entered a British military base. The phrase was a signal for everyone duck out of the line of fire.

It was an interesting choice of phrase, but obviously it was one that Sherlock would understand. He knew, being an army man, that John knew its meaning.

"I have no doubt that the flat is being watched, it is possible that the message may not even be necessary any more." He started, standing up and grabbing his brolly. "But, we have been keeping out eyes on a few.. persons of interest. I do believe that you could find a member of his... little group if you searched around."

Mycroft headed towards the door, pushing past John. "I do believe that it is time for me to take my leave. I doubt that he will appreciate my being here, if he does decide to.. grace you with his presence. Good day, Doctor Watson."

Mycroft headed down the stairs and out the door.

John watched Mycroft go and let out a sigh. He looked around the flat. It had been almost a year since he had been here last. And oh he missed it. He had missed London so.

He got up after a moment and carefully descended down the stairs to the outside. He looked around and then spotted a young woman sitting just down the street with a cup. John got a sandwich and coffee from the shot just under their flat and brought it to the young woman.

"Can you do me a favor miss?" He asked, "I'm looking for a tall man, skinny, curly black hair... Can you give him this note?" He held it out to her, along with the food and drink.

She took the food and drink with a wary eye, then looked up at the man. "Sounds like Shezza." She said,taking a bite of the sandwich. "I haven't seen him in a while, but I'll find him. Thankee, sir."
With a nod, she took her cup, food and drink and note and went off towards the nearest small alleyway.

"Miss! If you or any of your friends need food or medical attention. Please, find me here. I'll take care of you." John called.

He knew a vast majority of the homeless were veterans. He had almost been when he was first discharged.

John turned and went back inside. He looked at the empty flat and sighed. He sunk down into a chair, leaning his cane against the side of the chair.

She turned around and nodded to John before she disappeared.

Afternoon turned into night, and what had been a cloudy day turned into a rainy night.

It was well after midnight when Sherlock snuck back into his flat, avoiding the squeaky stairs that would alert someone to his presence.

Slowly, he opened the door, not sure what he was going to find.

John had cleaned up and straightened things. He had dusted and vacuumed. He had moved his things back down to what used to be their bedroom and put everything away. He had washed all of the linens and sent Sherlock's clothes to be dry-cleaned.

He was currently asleep in the bed, his cane leaning against the nightstand. He looked relaxed, yet uneasy at the same time as he lay curled in the bed.

Sherlock stood in the door, his body already starting to come down from the high. He was sweating and his heart was racing.

Seeing John again, it was both the best and the worst thing that could ever happen to him. John.. HIS John was still alive, sleeping peacefully.

But he was alive. His John had come back to him.

But.. he wasn't really his John any more, was he?

Sherlock watched the man as he slept. John was back, but for how long?

John shifted a bit in the bed. "Sherlock..." He muttered through his dream.

There was a stack of letters sitting on the nightstand. All of them were addressed to Sherlock. All of them expressed his apologies, his regret and his desire to be with the man once more.

Sherlock took the letter and quietly opened them, reading them one by one.

By the time he got through the last one, sunlight was starting to creep through the curtains. He put the letters back where they had been, and went into the kitchen to make a couple of cups of tea.

John woke in the morning and stretched. He lay in the bed for a moment, listening. He sat up and took the cane. Using it, he started for the kitchen. He paused and stared. His heart in his throat. His hand clutched the top of the cane tightly, knuckles turning white.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock had a cup of tea in his hand. The moment that he heard his name, he whirled around and saw John. The mug fell from his hand crashing and splintering all over the floor.

"John...." Unfortunately, he was barefoot, so he had to stay still, but he wasn't sure that he even could move if he wanted to.

John.

John crossed over, taking care to step over the ceramic shards. He put his free hand on Sherlock's face, tracing and memorizing his face again.

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me." He whispered, "I was an idiot..." John slipped to his knees in front of the other and took his hand, pressing a kiss to it.

Gently, Sherlock pulled John back up off his knees and back up on his feet.

"John...." He leaned down and kissed the man, deep and long, until he had to come up for air, and he reluctantly pulled away.

"You are alive. John. You are alive." Sherlock's hands went to his cheeks, and through his hair, like he was trying to re-memorize every single part of him.

He hugged Sherlock tight, not noticing how his eyes were damp and the wetness spreading to his cheeks. John didn't want to let go. He... He couldn't let go.

"I love you." he whispered.

"John... John. Please don't leave me again." His voice grew softer and softer. Sherlock slumped against John, finally giving into his withdrawal and exhaustion.

"I....lo..." he tried to speak, but it was just too much. He collapsed down onto the kitchen floor.

Into the Night - AU - Locked to seaweed_writes

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