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John had no idea what the time was. It was pretty hard to judge, what with the lack of windows. The only light they had came from a single lamp, which had been set up at one end of the shipping container they were locked in, casting everything in a pale glow.
He’d have checked his phone, but the bastards who’d trapped them had taken it. Hadn’t taken the microphone, for whatever reason, but at some point in his scuffling – between him tackling one of the suspects and him hitting the deck after another one slammed something against the back of his head, he assumed – his phone had gone missing.
Thinking about it, maybe it was for the best he didn’t have a phone to check, the bright screen would have made his head feel even worse. The dull glow from the light fixture was bad enough.
He was honestly pretty pleased he’d forgotten to wear the watch Sherlock had gifted him, likely would have been stolen too otherwise.
He’d asked Sherlock whether he had any clue on the time, at one point. The detective had been refusing to look at him, let alone speak to him, since they’d been locked in together, though, and apparently clarifying whether he knew how long they’d been there wasn’t enough to break his vow of silence.
If he had to guess – and honestly, trying to do much of that made the throbbing in his temples spike – it had been a couple of hours. Two, perhaps three. They’d had their… altercation, just past 7pm if he remembered correctly, so chances were high it was late, on the approach to midnight.
New Year’s Eve, and they were trapped in a shipping container. What a wonderful start to 2025 it would be.
He just hoped Mariana and Gregson found them soon.
Movement from across the way caught his attention.
Glancing over, he watched as Sherlock shivered again, shoulders bunching in his coat and hands tucking into his pockets.
Thinking about it, John realised that the temperature must have dropped. He could just about see the puffs of air when he exhaled, and his hands were aching from more than just the bruises. Luckily, he’d remembered to put on his warmer jacket that evening, and he’d always been pretty good in the cold. That had served him well in Ukraine, for sure.
By contrast, he knew that Sherlock fared far better in warmer temperatures. He didn’t do well with either extreme, with the sensory issues both heat and chill brought with them, but the cold was especially bad given his awful circulation.
“You doing OK, mate?” he asked, cautiously.
Sherlock didn’t reply, just kept glaring off towards the door of the shipping container.
John did his best to fight off the swell of hurt and frustration, changing tack. “Glad I warned you to wear your winter coat. Temperatures are meant to be dropping below freezing tonight.”
Silence.
“Sherls.”
No response.
“Sherlock.”
Nothing, aside from another shiver.
“Sherlock Podcast Holmes.”
The detective glared at him, before turning away again. John slumped, resigned to the apparently-ongoing silent treatment. Both the frustration and the hurt were growing, getting worse with each passing minute of being shunned.
He knew the detective hadn’t been pleased with him, was likely upset that the suspects had gotten away and they’d been confined. That they’d managed it because of John’s own failings. Usually though, Sherlock would have shown his annoyance through a grumbled insult before quickly moving on to focus on next steps. He’d braced for it, the moment he’d swum back into awareness and made out where they were.
“For god’s sake, Watson, I’d have thought your army training would have led to you knowing that staying quiet is important when you’re trying to remain unseen.” he’d expected to hear, “And really, you should have remembered the assailants were likely armed or dangerous in some way. They’re hardly office workers. Now, come over here and help me check the door for any gaps.”
What he’d received instead was a best friend who refused to even glance his way, choosing instead to sit on the opposite side of the container and stare at the wall.
Sherlock was more than annoyed, it seemed.
He was fed up of John.
Maybe this latest blunder was the nail in the coffin. The straw that broke the camel’s back – the back of their friendship. Sherlock, finally realising that John’s involvement was more hindrance than help on his cases.
Realising that John was a hindrance.
It had taken longer than John had expected, honestly.
There was something in the back of his mind, pushing back on the theory. Insisting that it wasn’t right, that there was something else and Sherlock wasn’t tired of him. But try as he might he couldn’t focus on it long enough with the way his head was pounding, and between the cold and the pain he was too weary to investigate it further.
It was probably just his stupid wishful thinking, making unfounded claims that Sherlock wouldn’t drop him and leave like everyone else had.
That and the unfortunate fact he was in love with the detective. Had been for some time.
He shook his head, regretting it immediately as it caused a spike in the pain behind his eyes. Sucking in a careful breath, he looked across at Sherlock again, watching him curl into a tighter ball in an effort to retain some warmth.
He stared, at a total loss on what to do. The detective clearly wasn’t interested in talking to him, but he was going to get ill if he got too cold. On top of that, if the temperatures really plummeted and they weren’t found quickly, there was a risk of hyperthermia kicking in.
He knew the medical guidance. The best solution would be the sharing of body heat, keeping warm together to conserve energy and limit the drop in their core temperatures. The issue with that was that, at the moment, getting close and personal with John was likely the least appealing concept to Sherlock, given his apparent determination to pretend he didn’t exist.
Well, if the main issue was the ways in which John had – once again – screwed up an investigation, there was only one way to try and make progress.
“I’m really sorry, Sherlock.”
-
Sherlock had no idea how things had gone so wrong, so very quickly.
Sherlock had picked up the case when their client – Mr Robert Santiago – had reached out, pleading for their help in finding his missing daughter, Angelina.
She’d gone out with the rest of the roller derby team to her university’s sports social, but had disappeared when she’d gone to smoke outside. When her teammates had gone looking, they’d found her bag, alongside a ransom note making a demand for the sum of £50,000 for Angelina’s safe return. It had been printed off and folded into the front pocket, one corner sticking out messily.
Mr Santiago, a commercial lawyer by trade, had indicated that whilst he’d have simply paid the ransom, he couldn’t afford the amount requested due to his firm being dissolved and himself being made redundant. He’d managed to keep the news quiet, he explained, not being able to bring himself to tell even his daughter the truth about his job loss.
What had seemed like an isolated case of kidnapping-for-ransom had turned out to be anything but, however. In digging around, Sherlock had discovered that Angelina was the fourth student to have been kidnapped in the past academic year. Each time, it had been a student with wealthy parents, taken during a social event. Each time, a printed page outlining the amount expected and the terms – a location, and a date and time given for the funds to be dropped off. There had also been a warning of harm coming to the student if the police were brought in.
Each time, the families of the students had opted to pay the ransom money, following the agreed terms and leaving the funds at the locations. The following morning, their child had returned to their uni halls, shaken but unharmed.
This time, after doing some investigation – and putting some theories about the culprits together – Sherlock and John had followed Mr Santiago from a distance as he left a decoy briefcase in the stated location, and had remained hidden after the man had left.
Two hours after he’d gone, they’d watched as a group of three young men appeared, picked up the briefcase, and walked away. Quietly, Sherlock had followed, aware of John behind him along the way. They’d followed the trio as they wound their way through a number of streets, approaching the docks along the river after some time.
Eventually, they’d stopped between a number of shipping containers, laughing amongst themselves as one of them opened the briefcase. Their cheerful demeanours had vanished, however, on discovering the lack of money inside the case. Cursing, one of them had pulled out his phone, dialling someone, whilst one of the others tore through the briefcase as if searching for the missing money, and the third stormed off.
“What the hell gives, Angie? He didn’t cough up, there’s maybe a grand in there at best!” the one on the phone had shouted. Well, that confirmed one of Sherlock’s theories at least.
Behind him, John had inhaled sharply.
Unfortunately, he’d done so at the exact moment that the men had fallen quiet. Two heads immediately snapped their way.
“Gotta go, looks like your stupid dad tried to be clever.” the one on the phone had growled, ending the call and lurching up to his feet.
Sherlock, aware that their cover was blown, had gestured for John to stay out of sight, before stepping out into view.
“Ah, good evening. And an early Happy New Year, I suppose – though perhaps not so happy for you now the ruse is up?”
“Who the hell are you?! Police?” the other man had yelled, fists clenching. The first one stepped closer, eyeing him warily. Both suspects appeared to be in their early 20s – students themselves, he supposed, would explain their connection with the not-so-kidnapped daughter – and, based on their physiques, both were involved in some form of contact sport.
They’d be stronger than him, but certainly not smarter.
“No, no – Mr Santiago obeyed your note to the letter. I believe the line you used was ‘if any information is passed on to the police, your daughter’s safety cannot be guaranteed’ – but as I am not a member of the police, it’s null and void.”
“So who then – a concerned bystander? One of his lackeys? Either way you’d better clear off, chum, before you regret it.” the man growled, getting even closer. They were spreading out, moving to stand on either side of him – clearly planning on taking him down if he moved any closer, and likely to do it even if he turned to leave.
Bugger.
Thank goodness he’d turned GPS tracking on his phone and notified Mariana before they left. She knew to reach out to DI Gregson were they not to get in contact in the next hour. There was also a good chance that John would be able to make an escape, call for help-
He’d taken too long to respond, it seemed. The man without the phone, who had appeared least in control of his nerves, had lunged at him, slamming him against the nearby container and gripping at the lapels of his coat.
“Maybe we’d better make sure you can’t say shit about us, just in-”
“Let go of him!”
John.
Taking everyone by surprise, the podcaster had lunged at the one holding Sherlock captive, tackling him to the ground with a yell. Stunned, Sherlock had frozen where he was, watching in shock as the pair scuffled on the floor. The man with the phone had also gotten involved, trying to pull John off of his accomplice, kicking at the doctor to loosen his grip.
He’d come back to the present with a jolt at John calling his name.
“Go, Sherls! Run! Get out of-”
In the chaos, he’d entirely forgotten about the third suspect. As he’d stepped forward to try and help, a pair of arms had wrapped around him from behind, and a foot had collided with the back of his knee. He hit the ground, flailing, before something – a jacket, based on the fabric and the residual heat – was thrown over his head. Someone reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
The jacket muffled the noise, leaving him unable to make out what the assailants were saying, but he felt himself being moved, half-dragged for a short distance before there was a metallic shrieking noise and he was propelled forwards.
He’d landed hard on his side, hard enough to wind him. By the time he’d managed to rip the jacket off of his head, he’d looked up to watch John get thrown in too, the doors of the shipping container being slammed shut behind him.
They were trapped, with no real option than to wait for Mariana to note their missed check-in, alert the authorities and find them.
Sitting still, he took inventory of everything that hurt. Not too much, thankfully – abrasions on his hands from catching them on the rough floor outside, sore leg from the kick, bruises and scrapes. All minor damage. John had taken most of the hits.
John.
He felt furious, both at the doctor and at himself. He’d expected John to be smart enough to stay hidden, to perhaps make a break for it once the coast had cleared so that at least one of them was free and able to help the other.
John’s military and combat training should have been enough to raise the fact that the odds were against them, even three to two. And still the doctor had revealed himself, getting into a fight that they all knew he had no chance of winning. Getting himself punched, and kicked, and hurt.
Telling Sherlock to leave him behind.
As if that were even remotely a possibility.
There was also the fact that he’d lost track of the third suspect. If he’d managed to remember about him, he wouldn’t have been taken by surprise, and perhaps together he and John would have stood a better chance of fighting back. Perhaps they’d both have walked away with mild bruising at the most.
And now they were locked in a shipping container, with barely any light, no phones, John likely more than slightly injured across the way from him. And it was cold, and the noise of their breathing was too loud in the confined space.
Everything was too much.
When John had started shuffling, letting out a groan of pain, the overwhelming rush of anger, fear and guilt was so strong that Sherlock couldn’t speak. He tried, opening his mouth to ask John where he was injured, but no noise had left his lips, and he’d slammed them closed again once he realised it was futile.
The stress of it all was causing him to spiral towards a meltdown, one that he very much didn’t want to have right now when there was nowhere to go. He hated them, how they left him shaky and emotional and helpless.
He didn’t have his headphones, or any of his go-to stim toys. All he could do was close his eyes, count his breaths, and try to distract himself enough to prevent it hitting. Something that he couldn’t do if John kept talking to him.
Knowing it was unfair to John but unable to find an alternative solution that would help him fight the growing panic, he turned his head away, focusing on the door at the end and trying to calculate the surface area of each.
He kept getting distracted from it, however, by the shivers that shook his frame. It was cold, and getting colder. Sherlock hated the cold. It made his skin more sensitive to things, caused his hands and feet to sting, and his muscles to ache with shivering.
He heard John trying to talk to him, again. His name, repeated a couple of times before the doctor’s voice rose and his full name was used. Detesting the flutter of anxiety in his pulse at the volume, he glared at the other man, praying desperately for John to get the hint and stay quiet.
He had to look away again quickly, though, as his mind started cataloguing John’s injuries and the growing list caused the dreadful feeling to dig its claws deeper into his psyche. Bruises, a few cuts across his face and arms – likely from the ring one of the men had been wearing, as well as the rough floor outside. Light wheezing indicated potential damage to his ribs, possibly a fracture. Black eye already forming. One ankle sitting at an awkward angle – sprained, perhaps minor swelling.
Enough.
He started squeezing his hands into fists, trying to stimulate the amount of pressure he needed to stay in the moment, but he was shaking too much for it to work. Trying to figure out the area of the doors led to thoughts on the areas where John would likely bruise. Frustrated and getting increasingly overwhelmed, he bit back a whine.
“I’m really sorry, Sherlock.”
The words took a long moment to process, but the resigned tone they were stated in registered quicker. Startled, he glanced across again at John, who was staring down at his hurt ankle, other leg pulled up towards himself.
Seemingly unaware that Sherlock was now staring at him, John continued, shoulders slumped. “I know you’re upset with me. I get it, honestly. But- but it’s New Year’s Eve, and we’re both cold, and-”
The doctor shivered, wincing slightly, before continuing, “-and I think we need to try and put the issues aside for now in order to focus on being OK. I’m not going to ask you to… forgive me, or anything. You can be as angry as you like once we’re out. But I’m worried about you, ma – Sherlock.”
Sherlock frowned, trying to puzzle out John’s words. He was upset with John, yes, but not to the point of needing to forgive him for anything. If anything, he felt like he owed him an apology for not being any use in the fight, and allowing his best friend to be hurt.
And why had the doctor changed from his usual term of ‘mate’ at the end? If he weren’t three steps from a meltdown, perhaps he’d have already deduced it by now, but as things stood the detective battled to keep his focus on the other man and his breathing under control.
Realising that John was waiting for some form of response, he hummed. Even that was uncomfortable, another noise added to the pile. He desperately wanted to be back in 221B, under his weighted blanket with his ear defenders on to block out noise. Perhaps one of his stim toys to help with regulation…
John twitched at the noise, and Sherlock fought to keep his eyes on the doctor’s jaw, unable to meet his eyes but confirming he was paying attention.
“Sherlock? You… you OK? Did they hurt you?”
-
John fought off the haziness of his thoughts, staring across at Sherlock. He’d half-expected to be ignored again, but the detective had turned back to stare at him. Not meeting his eyes, but at least looking his way now.
The silence – not to mention the strained hum he’d uttered – had him worried. He frowned, scanning the other man to look for any injury. He didn’t think Sherlock had been struck, but he couldn’t say for sure. He knew for a fact he was missing a couple of seconds in there somewhere.
He swallowed, clearing his throat a little before asking. “Sherlock? You… you OK? Did they hurt you?”
The detective shook his head roughly. John had no idea which part of the statement he was disagreeing with – ‘no, I’m not OK’? ‘No, they didn’t hurt me’?
He watched as Sherlock chewed at his lower lip, a frown on his face and his hands twitching into fists. Something about it flicked a dim bulb in the back of his head, underneath the pain and the misery.
The last time he’d seen the detective like that had been a few months ago, when they’d been out in Trafalgar Square and someone had run full-pelt into Sherlock. He’d fallen back with a yelp, landing hard on the pavement. His ear defenders had gone flying, clattering away from him, whilst the person who’d collided with him had also hit the ground and had started to yell.
John, who’d been a few steps back as he’d paused to answer a mailbag question from one of the Patreon members, had startled at Sherlock’s cry, and started pushing through as soon as he’d seen the detective on the floor. By the time he’d made it over, the other person had been in a full-blown rant, and Sherlock was… curled up. Hands over his ears, fingers tightly fisted in his hair, rocking in place as he bit his lip hard enough to bleed.
Acting on instinct, John had cussed out the other person, telling them where to go, before searching around and locating Sherlock’s ear defenders. Defenders located, he’d sprinted back to the detective, keeping his voice as level as possible as he asked people to back up, to give them space. He’d hesitated over whether or not to touch the other man, but seeing some of the detective’s hair coming loose from where he was tugging pushed him into action.
Apologising quietly, he’d placed his hands over Sherlock's, untangling them and squeezing the detective’s hands within his own. He’d only let go for a second, to place the ear defenders over Sherlock’s ears securely, before taking up the detective’s hands again and squeeze rhythmically. A few minutes later, and Sherlock had sobbed, before his rasping voice had just repeated, “home, home.”
John had hailed the very next cab, willing to fork out the money to get Sherlock home again. He’d let go of the detective once they were in the taxi, placing one hand on the seat between them which the other had ignored, moving instead to squeeze at his elbows and rock. The fifteen minutes it had taken to get home were some of the longest in John’s life.
As soon as they’d made it home, Sherlock had fled to his room, crashing into doorways on the way, and had remained hidden for a number of hours. Eventually, just as John was starting to fret over whether he should knock and offer tea, the detective had emerged, weighted blanket over his shoulders and eyes red, but clearer.
Sherlock had explained later, tiredly describing the way in which everything had gone from bearable to painful. He’d called it a meltdown, and described that he’d been attempting to regulate himself to fight off the worst of it but had been unable to until he’d been away from the crowds and felt safe.
A meltdown.
Of course.
John mentally kicked himself for not recognising it sooner, feeling even worse over how badly he’d failed the man he was in love with.
But now wasn’t the time to focus on his uselessness. Sherlock needed help.
“Hey,” he called, keeping his voice just above a whisper, “OK, it’s OK Sherls. You’re overwhelmed, aren’t you? That’s what this is.”
A long pause, before Sherlock glared at the floor and nodded.
“What do you need?”
Sherlock’s expression crumpled, his head shaking again with a bitten-off noise. John realised with a jolt that the other man was struggling too much to verbalise things. Closing his eyes to push back the ache in his temples again, he thought through the next steps.
“Alright, how about I focus on yes-or-no questions, and we work out how I can help.” he soothed, going over what he remembered of the last meltdown for guidance. Sherlock had covered his ears, had tugged on his hair and then his elbows, and had worn his blanket around the flat. So quiet, and pressure? Warmth?
He saw Sherlock shiver again, letting out another pathetic noise, and thought again of what he’d been about to suggest before.
“Is the cold making it worse?”
A nod.
“Would contact be a bad thing right now?”
A long pause, before a slight shake. The detective was unsure, then, but didn’t think it’d make things worse.
“OK. Is my voice making it worse?”
An even longer pause, and some rocking, before a head-tilt. Sherlock’s eyes darted up from the floor to his chest, before going down again.
“Not worse, but not better?”
Nod.
“Alright, that’s fine. OK, Sherlock, I have an idea on how to help with the cold. The best solution to warm you up would be for us to huddle together, using our coats too, but if you think that’ll be too much you can have my coat as an extra layer. Do you want to try huddling?”
After another long minute, Sherlock slowly made his way over. He grabbed something from the floor as he did so, and John was glad to spot it as an extra jacket.
His medical training kicked in, and he shuffled.
“Good, perfect. Thank you. Could you please lay that spare jacket on the floor? Ideally we need a layer of insulation between the metal and us, or we’ll keep losing heat that way. We can use that one to sit on.”
He kept his voice quiet and calm, aware of how tense the detective looked. Up close, the signs of a potential meltdown were even clearer, and John felt a stab of self-loathing almost as strong as the pain in his ankle. He shook it off, though, needing to keep his focus on helping.
Sherlock had paused, before lying the jacket down and flattening it against the metal. John lifted himself as best he could, trying to keep movement of his leg to a minimum, and settled onto one half of the jacket, leaving space for Sherlock on the other. That done, he started to pull his coat off, shuddering at the frigid air that hit him and biting his lip to avoid crying out at his ribs.
Sherlock was staring at his chest, brow furrowed and gaze intense. Worried. The last thing he needed was stress, so John took a steadying breath and forced himself to relax.
“All good, mate,” he soothed, “just a little achy. I know it’s not pleasant, but can you pull your coat off for me, too, and settle down? We can use my coat behind us for protection from the wall, yours should be big enough to cover our fronts.”
Nodding, Sherlock tugged his coat off, dropped onto the jacket, and clumsily helped to pull John’s coat behind them both. He tensed as his arm brushed against John’s, but before John could repeat the offer of just lending him the coat he pushed himself firmly against the other’s side.
John bit back a hiss, both at the discomfort to his ribs and the icy cold of Sherlock’s arm. The detective was even colder than he’d first thought, and without thinking about it John lifted his arm around the other’s shoulders, pulling him tightly against his side and ignoring the strain it placed on his ribcage.
He’d had worse before. Sherlock was more important.
He wriggled around, pulling the end of Sherlock’s coat under his other leg and behind his shoulder to tuck it in firmly, watching as Sherlock slowly did the same. His shivering was already starting to lessen, and the detective subconsciously drew even closer, seeking out the bit of warmth. He felt the other’s frigid nose pressing up against the side of his neck, curls tickling at his jawbone as the shivering persisted.
In any other scenario, John had no doubt his face would be blazing red, his stomach in knots. They were tactile, sure, but this felt more intimate than any of their prior hugs. Were they talking, he’d have been a stuttering wreck, disarmed by the proximity of the man he loved.
But right now, he was in pain, all over, and Sherlock was freezing cold and overwhelmed, and there was a chance the detective would still walk away from him once they were freed. His stupidity had landed them in this mess, after all, and then he’d gone and made things worse because he’d been unobservant enough he’d missed the warning signs.
John tightened his grip around Sherlock’s shoulders, feeling relieved as he felt the tension in the other man’s frame lessen in response.
The pair sat in silence, gradually warming up and waiting for any noise from outside to indicate a rescue was on the way.
At one point, John blinked as he felt his other hand, the one not gripping onto Sherlock, get pulled in between the detective’s own. He kept still as the detective bent and straightened his thumb, then his index finger, then on to the pinkie before working back again. His heart fluttered as he realised the detective was using his free hand as a form of stim toy. The movements felt shaky to begin, but after a couple of minutes Sherlock appeared to have calmed down further, hands gentling their grip on the other’s wrist and fingers.
He weighed up the options, before deciding that checking in was more important than keeping the silence.
It took him a few goes to get his voice working, but he managed eventually.
“How are you doing? Feeling a little better?”
-
John’s voice took Sherlock by surprise, but thankfully didn’t hurt the way it had done so before. Whilst not entirely out of the woods, the looming threat of a full meltdown had passed, and he was feeling less overwhelmed by everything as time passed.
He was warm, and his heart-rate was back to acceptable levels. Now he mostly felt tired.
Speaking of tiredness…
He frowned as he paid closer attention to John, the words being asked finally registering. He sounded strange, but Sherlock needed more information to figure out the details.
“...Yes. Thank you.” he managed, after a few attempts. He felt more than heard John’s sigh of relief, but was quickly distracted as the movement caused John to tense, briefly.
Oh.
His ribs – his injuries.
Sherlock came to the realisation that he was leaning heavily against John, in a position that was almost certainly putting pressure against his ribs in a way that would hurt. He tried to pull back slightly, to relieve the burden, but frowned as John held onto him tighter and pulled him back.
“Best to stay together if you can manage it, mate. It’s gotta be sub-zero out there now, can barely feel my nose.”
There was something… off, again, with John’s voice. Paying closer attention, Sherlock realised that it sounded a little slurred, as if the doctor were on the verge of sleep. He suddenly remembered the black eye, and the way that John had been tackled.
“Are… you OK?” he asked haltingly.
“Mm, yeah. Sore, mostly, but alright.”
“Where?”
Another humming noise, but no response. Staying close but shuffling around, he glanced up at John, noting that his eyes had drifted closed. His black eye looked even worse now, the mottled bruise spreading down to his cheekbone and up towards his temple. Possibly a concussion, then.
He was fairly certain that people with concussions shouldn’t sleep, and was especially aware of it being a risk in the cold. He squeezed John’s hand tightly, realising he was still holding onto it, and cleared his throat.
“John?”
“Hhhmyeah?”
“You need to stay awake,” he stated, “I believe you may have a concussion.”
John frowned, wincing as the movement tugged on the bruising, before one hazel-green eye fluttered open. “Hmm, maybe. Head hurts.” he admitted, “Feeling kinda woozy.”
Sherlock fought down the surge of worry, pushing hard against his own weariness to support his podcaster. “Almost definitely concussed, then. Stay awake.”
“But ‘m tired, Sherlock. It’s gotta be nearly midnight.”
“It’s important, Watson. Come on, talk to me. Ramble like you usually do for the listeners. What are you going to call this case?”
“I dunno…” John mumbled, “maybe something with students? Oh, but then I’ve already posted Three Students. Can’t use a similar name. Can’t really… think of it all.”
Some progress, but not enough.
“Well, these ones are also scheming, it appears. Though not an academic issue this time. I believe they’re all part of a group together. Affluent students were ‘kidnapped’ for ransom, with a stylised ransom note left behind, aware their parents would choose to pay up rather than involve the police and risk them being harmed.”
John snorted, immediately seeming to regret it as it aggravated his injuries. “Ouch, ow. Hmm. Can’t give it all away in the name, so… ‘The Case of the Typed Note’? ‘The Stolen Students’? Oh those are both… bad.”
Sherlock had to agree, but chose not to voice it.
“I dunno, Sherls, I just… honestly probably won’t upload this one, anyway.”
“Why not?” he asked, puzzled. All in all, it seemed like a good candidate – assuming, of course, they made it out and managed to get those involved arrested. There had been some comedic moments between themselves and Mariana, a good level of intrigue around uncovering the wider ring of kidnappings. An ideal case for the New Year.
“S’just another case where I messed things up… Got too many of those already.” John continued, quietly. “Don’t need to add to it, do I?”
Sherlock frowned, perplexed. He would have considered, perhaps, that John was joking in the self-deprecating way he sometimes did but the tone wasn’t right.
Aware that the doctor had pushed for them to stay close – and, honestly, very unwilling to move away from both the warmth and the comfort of their position following the near-meltdown he’d only just been able to curtail – Sherlock instead tightened his grip, pressing himself carefully closer.
“Why do you believe you ‘messed things up’, Watson?”
John huffed a laugh, tinged with a whine at the ache it undoubtedly caused.
“Where do I begin? Gave away our hiding spot, got my arse handed to me by a couple of students, got you trapped in here w’me, was too selfish to notice you were struggling…” he sniffled, and Sherlock felt him press his face into the side of his temple. “’m sorry, Sherlock. I let you down again.”
The doctor was trembling, and Sherlock felt his heart figuratively crack at the feeling of moisture landing against his hair.
John was crying.
“You did no such thing.” he breathed, moving away just enough to let go of John’s hand and cup the side of his face instead. His chest ached at the sight of the other man’s tears, and the sound of his shaky breaths.
“Watson, John, you haven’t let me down. Alright, perhaps you gave away our position but there was a high chance they’d spot us eventually. And I should have helped, when the fight broke out. I froze, instead, not to mention completely forgetting about the other student. We both made silly mistakes this evening. This isn’t your fault, or at least not yours alone.”
John’s hand reached out of the protection of the coat, clumsily resting over Sherlock’s whilst he leant into the touch. Even whilst he did so, however, his expression was one of guilt when he opened his eyes – one pupil noticeably more dilated than the other – and stared at the detective.
“You were angry with me.” he said, voice shaking, “I was reckless, and it upset you, and you’re right to be upset. This whole thing was enough to trigger a meltdown, you were that stressed. Maybe you’d be better off without me coming along. I’m just… slowing you down.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened as some of the pieces came together. John, concussed and tired and clearly in some level of pain, had – as he so often did – seen but not truly observed. He’d seen Sherlock was upset, but not observed why.
Time to correct him.
“I was angry, yes. I still am – but not for the reason you so clearly think.” he answered, rubbing his thumb gently across the edge of the bruise. “I am angry that they hurt you. I am angry that I failed to help you. I am angry that you thought I could run and leave you behind. I am not angry at you. And I never will be.”
He paused, taking a steadying breath and shifting to hold John’s face carefully between both hands. The doctor stared at him, eyes wide and shimmering.
“You know that I am not… good, at verbalising more emotional matters. Sentimental ones. But I will try, because you deserve for me to do so.” He took another breath, feeling John tighten his grip around his upper back, the other hand still cradling Sherlock’s against his cheek.
“You are my best friend, John Watson. I have not had many friends in my life, and whilst I’m lucky enough to have a few now, you are still my best friend. Even with my other friends – with Mariana, with DI Gregson – I wouldn’t have them as friends were it not for you. You lay the foundations for me, and guided me along the way.
“Perhaps you make mistakes sometimes with our cases. So do I, so does Mariana. That does not mean you are slowing me down. For each mistake made, you’ve proven key to the resolution for three more things. And even if that were not the case, John, I wouldn’t want to go without you. I cannot imagine going back to a time where I didn’t have you with me, at my side. I don’t want to imagine it.”
He met John’s eyes, determined. “It’s imperative to me that you understand this, so I’ll repeat it again once you’ve recovered from your concussion – but I need you. I’d be lost without my podcaster.”
John sobbed, but Sherlock was relieved to see a smile on his face. “Thank you,” he whispered, “I’d be lost without you, too.”
The pair sat together, Sherlock’s thumbs rubbing at John’s cheeks and John’s hand smoothing over Sherlock’s back, calming each other down. Despite the cold, it was comfortable, and Sherlock found himself unwilling to move away again.
After some time, the distant sound of explosions could be heard.
“Midnight, then.” Sherlock murmured, “A new year begins.”
“Happy New Year, Sherls.”
John leant forwards, and Sherlock felt a brush of warmth against his cheek. Blinking, he realised that John had kissed him.
He’d wondered, over the past months, whether John felt more for him than simple friendship. He’d always been awful at recognising when someone was attracted to him in any way – it had taken Victor giving him a Valentine’s Day card for him to realise the other boy liked him – but he’d noticed things.
John’s eyes on him, a fond look on his face when he thought the detective wasn’t looking. The increase in hugs, and physical contact. The small gifts, seemingly given for no particular reason other than the fact Sherlock would enjoy them. The way he’d get flustered if Sherlock praised him for something. The tinge of jealousy whenever Sherlock was flirted with by a client.
And yet, the focus on platonic endearments – buddy, mate. The way he blushed when an attractive lady paid him attention. The lack of more blatant flirtation. For all he knew, John’s other behaviour was based on friendship alone.
His own feelings were, for once, far simpler to understand by comparison. Whilst not being interested in all the aspects that generally came from conventional relationships, John was undoubtedly his favourite person. He wanted to spend time with him, and enjoy hugs and movie nights and cases. He also knew he’d be open to more romantically-slanted things like holding hands or kissing, were that something John was interested in.
The kiss on the cheek seemed to indicate it was.
However, now wasn’t the time to bring it up. They were still trapped, and John was suffering a concussion. There was a chance he wouldn’t remember their conversation in the morning, let alone the fact he’d kissed Sherlock on the cheek at midnight, the way one would usually kiss a partner. Starting the year in a way they hoped to continue.
It could wait. There was no rush. They had a whole new year ahead of them. A year of cases, and exciting days, and warm nights, and affection – in whatever form it took.
So long as they were together.
Just as he was thinking it, there were muffled shouts from outside the container. Based on the pitch, he suspected Mariana and Gregson had located them at last. He reached up to cover John's ears - aware that noise would only make the other man feel worse - and yelled. As the sound of scraping metal could be heard at the doors, he moved his hands back to wrap around John's shoulders, and pressed his lips gently against the doctor's temple.
“Happy New Year, my dear Watson.” he breathed, "Here's to many more."