Waking You Up

Wake You Up XV

He wakes up, at Scotland Yard, sitting in Donovan's chair, with John-bear in his lap. 

Sherlock never wants to hear the words "wake up" again. 

There's something warm around his shoulders. Sherlock grabs for it, and his fingers meet soft wool. He pulls, tugs it into view. It's John's jumper. 

"Oh, God," Sherlock murmurs. Proof. Actual, tangible proof, more than just Sherlock's word. He didn't come in with the jumper, half of the Yard saw him walk in, and he talked to Donovan. So where else could he have gotten it, if not from John?

"Sherlock," Lestrade says from in front of his office.

Sherlock starts, then jumps to his feet and strides over. "We need to find him, Lestrade."

Lestrade frowns. "Find who?"

"John," Sherlock says impatiently. 

"John is dead, Sherlock," Lestrade says quietly, gently. 

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. "That's what he wants us to think. It's Moriarty, it has to be. He's got John held somewhere. But John, oh, he's clever. Not the way I am, so he thinks I don't see it, but I do. He's figured out a way to communicate with me, somehow. In my dreams."

Lestrade blinks, slowly, like he doesn't know what to say. "It's perfectly normal to dream about him."

Sherlock scowls. "I'm not just dreaming about him. He tells me things, things I couldn't know. He said he got something for me, told me where to find it, and there it was. Told me how he got it, with a friend, and the friend corroborated the story. I never knew any of it, how could it all have been true unless John is out there?"

Lestrade fidgets slightly. "Dreams are funny things. He probably told you all of that when you weren't really paying attention, but you remembered it subconsciously and your grief caused it to surface."

Sherlock sneers. "You're a detective, Lestrade, not a psychoanalyst. Keep it that way. And besides, I've got proof. His jumper. He gave it to me in the dream and I woke up wearing it, that's it on the chair over there. I didn't come in with it, how else do you explain that?"

Lestrade is silent for a long time. Then he says, "Sherlock. That's not John's jumper on the chair. That's your coat." 

"Oh, come on Lestrade, you can't be that-" Sherlock turns. "-blind."

It is his coat. There's no sign of John's jumper, just Sherlock's coat in a heap next to John-bear. 

"But it was there," Sherlock murmurs. He'd seen it, touched it, it'd still been warm and smelling of John, as it would if John'd given it to him only moments before. "Someone's taken it," Sherlock says, turning back to Lestrade. "Someone must have taken the jumper while we were talking. There's a plant in Scotland Yard, why didn't I realize it sooner, look at how easily Moriarty got into Bart's-"

"Will you listen to yourself, Sherlock?" Lestrade shouts. "Do you have any idea how insane you sound? I know you miss him. You're not the only one. I know you feel guilty, but this – whatever it is you're doing, it won't bring him back." 

"I will not leave him in Moriarty's hands just because you have too much of an ego to accept-"

"Why couldn't you just wait?" Lestrade asks. His voice sounds completely different now, soft and filled with regret. "We told you to wait for us. John asked you to wait. This wouldn't have happened if you'd just listened for once. You wouldn't be here right now, would you? You two would be back in that flat of yours, doing – whatever it is you two get up to in there, God knows, but I certainly don't want to. And I wouldn't be here, either, talking to you like-" His throat catches, like he's swallowing back tears. "Like anything I say is going to make a difference." 

Sherlock can't breathe. He's to blame, he knows he is, it's all he can think of, all he can feel when he's awake, but it's different hearing it from people like Harry and Pete than it is hearing it from Lestrade. Especially when John – John's still – "You think it's my fault."