Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

LII • 52

John's POV:

I sat in my cell, my head in my hands. It had been four days now. I was still trying to believe in Sherlock, I was trying to be patient. I was hoping it'd be quick, but he was busy, if not imprisoned himself.
I could wait.
I couldn't help but think about before all of this mess had happened. Before I was arrested, before you were poisoned, before Sherlock 'died'.
I had taken it all for granted- complained when Sherlock was a git, argued with you. Now I just wanted both of you back. Just the way it used to be.
I still held on to my belief that it would all be back to normal soon. Sherlock would come back, you'd wake up, and everything would be fine.

I sighed, glanced at the food I'd been provided that morning. It was some sort of a bean soup concoction, now cold and entirely unappealing, but I was feeling hunger now. I hadn't eaten for 14 hours.
I had just picked up the spoon and dipped it into the murky liquid that was my lunch, when I heard the lock click and I looked up.
The door opened and Lestrade stood in front of me.
He sighed and smiled a little.
"I'm so sorry about all of this. I heard about your situation but I couldn't get you out till now, we got information and they've arrested Moran." He paused, "Seems like something Sherlock would've done, but you know.." He scratched his head and looked away.
"Yeah, I know. Thank you, Greg." I smiled.

******

By two in the afternoon, I was back by your bedside, glad to have the one weight off my shoulders.
I held your hand but stared at my phone.
I wasn't quite sure what to say. I knew he'd done it. He'd provided the information. I finally decided to keep it simple.
Thank you - JW

******

Sherlock's POV:

I smiled at the text he'd sent. I was glad I'd succeeded in getting him out, but there was still plenty of work to do.
I had presented my reasonings on Sebastian being an angler and a toxicology major, leaving out my thoughts about him being your brother, and Mycroft had made some calls and confirmed that his 'solid' alibi had been faked. With these facts, he was able to reverse John's sentence and get Sebastian arrested instead.
Finally, he'd provided a flight from where we were in Berlin, back to London. I knew that I owed him, but I'd worry about that later.

I stepped onto the jet, and the pilot lost no time getting us into the air. I stared out the window, watching Berlin disappear below us. I was so glad to get out of that wretched place.

Though I'd been on far longer flights distance wise, this seemed like the longest I'd ever had to take. I kept glancing at my watch, and was ensured that it wasn't actually taking longer than expected, but every moment away from your bedside felt like eternity. Now that I had the prospect of seeing you again, every minute felt like years. I laid my head back and closed my eyes, hoping time would pass quicker.
It didn't.

When I finally stepped off the jet two hours later, I couldn't get away from it quick enough.
Rather than my usual attire, I had worn a hoodie and jeans so as not to attract attention to myself. Everyone in London knew I was dead too.
I pulled my hood up and rushed to hail a cab.
"St. Bart's, as quick as you can."

As soon as the cabbie stopped by the doors, I paid him and rushed out.
"(F/N) Watson, 289." I told the receptionist, glad it wasn't Rachel. Still, I used a German accent just in case she knew me.
"You're clear to go." She said blandly, after a moment on her computer.
I found my way to a lift, then slipped out as soon at the doors opened.
286, 287, 288... 289. I slowed, suddenly afraid I wouldn't be welcome.
Forget it.
The door wasn't latched and I pushed it open. It groaned on its hinges as it swung wide.

John's POV:

I woke up with a start. I'd fallen asleep right there, holding your hand. I had no idea how long it had been.
I glanced at my phone. Two and a half hours.
I ran a hand over my face, then turned, realising that it had been the door opening that had woken me.
What I saw really woke me up.
He stood there- at least it sure looked like him- his lithe figure silhouetted against the bright lights of the hallway.
I half stumbled out of my chair and groped for the light.
I switched it on, squinting as the bright light assaulted my eyes.
"Hello John." He spoke, blinking rapidly, adjusting to the change himself. His voice sounded completely exhausted, and his eyelids drooped in the fashion of a man who hadn't slept for days.
"Pinch me." I half whispered.
He smiled despite his apparent exhaustion. I hadn't seen his face in a year and a half, let alone a smile.
"That won't be necessary."
I pinched myself, just in case. I looked up again and he smirked.
"Do you believe me now?" He asked, gently.
I grinned and wrapped my arms around him in a hug.
He grunted, but returned it without delay.
He pushed the hood of his sweatshirt- that was new- down and stepped forward.
"Are you okay?" I asked. He looked awful.
"I'm fine." It didn't sound very convincing, but I could deal with him later. "How is she?"
I sighed, looking back toward your bed.
"Stable, but I'm worried."

He stood by your bed and stared at you for some time, as though he felt he wouldn't be welcome to touch you.
Eventually he took your small hand in his own and rubbed his thumb over the back of it.
I saw tears running down his face, and he stood, unmoving, grasping your hand gently.
I pulled a chair from the corner and placed it next to my own.
He reluctantly let go of your hand and sat down, his tears still falling freely.
"It's all my fault." He murmured, almost inaudible.
I sighed. That thought had crossed my mind before, but I knew it was impractical.
"No, Sherlock, it's not. We would all be dead if you hadn't done what you did."
This didn't seem to comfort him much.
"I knew about Sebastian." He said, finally. "I thought he'd been taken care of, but I didn't check thoroughly. It's my fault."
I didn't say anything for awhile. Then, in an attempt to change the subject, I asked again what was wrong with him.
"It's nothing. I don't want to talk about my problems when she's lying here comatose because of my own stupidity." He sounded almost angry, much like his old self. Then, like he had realised how he'd spoken, he added, quietly, "Please."
He sounded so exhausted, but I figured there was something else to it. I was sure everything he'd been doing for the last year and a half wasn't all easy. He had probably suffered a lot, likely narrowly escaped death. If people wanted to kill him right here in London, I couldn't imagine how many enemies he had in Germany, where he'd said Moriarty had placed most of his assets.
He was sitting still, leaning forward a bit, grasping your hand once again.
After a moment, I saw him visibly sag, and he held his head in his hands, like he was overcome by guilt and sorrow. He probably was.
I laid a hand on his back, in an attempt to comfort him silently.
He winced, but said nothing.
I pulled my hand away, rather startled by his involuntary reaction to pain.
He pushed his chair back and got up, suddenly. He stopped only to press a kiss to your forehead, then left, pulling his hood up and sticking his hands deep in the pockets of his sweatshirt.
I was a bit shocked, but didn't follow him.