The Pyre
Inside John Watson's mind, inside the Guy Fox pyre (S3E1). Prompt by sherri-3This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Was the universe trying to tell him something? He'd waited, hesitated, stood unsure on the pavement with every intention to step inside but too cautious to commit--story of his life--only to have the choice made for him. Random abduction? Not likely. As Sherlock would say, the universe is rarely so lazy. It wasn't coincidence that said John Watson should once again be abducted from the pavement outside 221B. It had happened before and the target, he feared, was the same. No one took John Watson because they had issue with him, they took him because of Sherlock. Which meant Sherlock was in danger, again--story of his life--and John was once again bait.
It was wrong to feel pleased. He'd have to work on that later--if later ever happened. He was with Mary now. Abductions and 'against the rest of the world' type scenarios weren't a part of that life. His life. Two years and you'd think he'd be over the excitement and disappointment that existed in finding himself in danger once again, Sherlock to blame, and no heads up given as to his potential as target. Maybe had they spoken that night instead of hopped place to place in disjointed conversations punctuated in blood he might have known. Still Sherlock's fault--who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to dress as a French waiter to announce they had faked their suicide years past? Sherlock was laughing at him, mocking every moment of strangled grief with that stupid mustache and accent. What was he supposed to do? Hug him? Kiss him? Be grateful that the single most important person in his life was back and just as heartless as John had ever feared him to be? No. No, it wasn't going to be like that. And the single fact that John knew he couldn't possibly be this cruel, that there most certainly had to be a good explanation, was what had put him on the pavement in the first place. There wouldn't be an audience this time. There wouldn't be distractions like engagement rings and almost fiances and an all-consuming elation chained in disillusionment and pain. Now there wouldn't be anything. He'd waited too long. Like a time machine, he'd simply been brought back to a place that existed two years ago where there was no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson and the two were synonymous to foes. Sherlock's enemies were John's enemies and Sherlock's enemies wanted John in a pyre.
No telling where Sherlock was. No way of knowing if John were just bait or somehow intended as a savior. Had they gotten Sherlock too? Was he nearby, similarly dazed and uncoordinated under a stack of wood? Did he need help as much as John did? Not knowing never sat well with him, though it did do wonders for his resolve. John tried to move, tried to speak, was almost certain the dull roar in his ears was signs of life and not just echoes from a distance broadcast to his locale. His body would not move, though. When it did, it did not obey the pull of muscles but instead jerked and rolled, catching on only the most desperate of motions as coordination still seemed hours from his grasp. He didn't have hours. Sherlock might need him, might be in danger, might be waiting for him to rise up as he had done, like a phoenix, born of flame.
Or maybe he wasn't there. Maybe he wasn't coming. Maybe he didn't even know how much he was needed at his side.
John had waited too long and in the end, someone took their choices from them. Again.
No, the universe wasn't lazy. But he could argue it certainly seemed cruel.