musicalluna

Title: Sit Tight
Fandom: Sherlock
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: John, Sherlock
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Drama
Warnings: None
Complete: Yes
Word Count: 1900
Summary: So far John had managed to nick himself only twice, but it was getting harder and harder to sit still with every passing moment.
A/N: More John whump I wrote to rile up tunes64 and patster223.
Disclaimer: Great show. Really great characters.

For the better part of an hour, John had been sitting as absolutely still as he could bear.

It was necessary, because if he slouched a bit, listed to the right or left, or drifted back a bit too far, the crudely fashioned collar of blades around his neck cut into his flesh. So far he'd managed to nick himself only twice, but it was getting harder and harder to sit still with every passing moment.

The police had only just stumbled across him twenty minutes ago, sitting straight-backed and alone in a department store because the owner had left an important package in the office.

She had noticed him sitting in front of the store's enormous glittering Christmas tree and had come to confront him.

“Hey,” she had called, her voice quivering ever-so-slightly. “What are you doing in here?”

John had swallowed, tried to breathe calmly, and said, “I'm stuck. I need you to call 999 and ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

She frowned and moved closer, peering at the device around his neck. He knew the moment she spotted the blood because her eyes widened, her gaze jumping back to his face. “Who did this to you?”

John turned his head to shake it and then thought better of the motion. “Just—ring the police, will you? Then I have another number I need you to ring.”

“Shouldn't I help you out of that first,” she said and reached for the collar.

“No!”

The woman looked at him in alarm, snatching her hand back and he forced his voice even. “No. The police will take care of it.” More likely, Sherlock would take care of it.

But Sherlock hadn't answered his phone when the woman called. John presumed he couldn't be bothered to answer a call from a number he didn't recognize. Or he couldn't be bothered to get up. Either possibility was vexing considering his current predicament.

And so Lestrade and his men had arrived. Lestrade's face had gone slack with shock upon seeing him. “John!”

“Evening Detective Inspector,” he'd said with a wry smile.

“What in the hell...?”

Lestrade had ordered his men to keep back, as wary of the device as John was. “Where the hell is Sherlock?” he demanded.

“At home where I left him, I presume. I just popped out to get some groceries. Do you think you could call him? He wouldn't answer when the department store lady rang him.”

“Yeah, all right,” Lestrade said, eyeing the collar warily. “I think we're going to need him anyhow. I don't want to risk touching that thing without him.”

John had nodded and taken another breath. Not much longer then. Sherlock would come and he would be out of this, no worse for wear than if he'd had a bad morning shaving.

Then Lestrade had gone to make the call and the others had moved in around him, peering at the collar with fascination and horror mixed on their features. It had been a little uncomfortable, a little awkward, but harmless enough.

“I think he's coming,” Lestrade said when he returned.

“You think?” John echoed.

Lestrade sniffed. “Yeah, well, when I told him you were here, with that contraption round your neck, he hung up on me.”

“Ah,” John said. “'Course he did.” That was flattering. He thought.

Then Lestrade looked at him, really looked at him, and asked, “How are you doing then, John?”

“Well, you know,” he said, shrugging slightly. “Getting tired, but all right I guess, considering.”

Lestrade snorted softly. “Considering.”

“I could be dead already,” John pointed out.

“Thank God for small favours,” Lestrade murmured. His phone buzzed with the arrival of a text and John felt his stomach settle. That would be Sherlock. “It's Sherlock,” Lestrade said.

John allowed himself a small smile.

A grimace wrinkled Lestrade's face. “He's in a right state.”

John sighed. “Tell him I'm fine.”

Giving him a long look, Lestrade said, “I think fine's a bit of an overstatement.”

“I'll be fine,” John revised, “just as soon as Sherlock arrives and gets me out of this thing.”

Lestrade's phone buzzed again. “He says he'll be here in two minutes,” he said, incredulous. “Are you sure he was at home?”

John tilted his head ever so slightly. “I can never be sure about Sherlock.”

“Hey,” Anderson said from over John's left shoulder. “There's something here. On the collar.”

“Yes,” John said irritably, “There are a lot of things on the collar. Razor blades to be accurate.”

“You're starting to sound like him,” Anderson muttered peevishly. “I mean, there's something on the outside.”

“Don't touch it—” John started, but it was too late.

The soft sound of metal scraping against metal reached his ears and John tensed as the blades rose from a downward angle to rest horizontally, leaving no space between his skin and their sharp edges. John grit his teeth when he swallowed and felt several of the blades sink just slightly into skin. That twat, he'd gone and touched it!

“ANDERSON! You complete and utter bumbling fool!”

Sherlock's voice rang through the empty department store like a gunshot and John felt more than saw Anderson withdrawing, hiding behind his chair death-trap. Oh, thank God.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade called in warning, holding out his hands. “Don't.”

“Look what he's done!” Sherlock raved and John finally spotted him, his coat flying behind him like the wings of a demon. He looked utterly enraged.

“I'll deal with him,” Lestrade said, putting himself in Sherlock's path. “You get John out of that damn thing, all right?”

It was that that finally dragged Sherlock's attention away from Anderson and down to John. He stared for a moment, each breath causing his nostrils to flare and his eyes blazing and after a long moment, he said coldly, “Fine. Get him out of my sight. If I see him again tonight, I won't be responsible for what I do to him.”

“Understood,” Lestrade said and turned, making a sharp gesture at Anderson.

Sherlock moved straight toward John, his eyes taking in everything at once. “What have you gotten yourself into this time, John?” he asked softly.

John started to open his mouth and immediately discovered that was a very bad idea.

“No no no no no,” Sherlock said, sweeping closer and touching his shoulder with a delicate hand. “Don't. Move. Stay exactly as you are.”

John closed his eyes and did his best to resist the urge to swallow, feeling a drop of blood slide down his throat. Dammit, Anderson.

He listened as Sherlock circled him, the soles of his shoes whispering against the tiles, the heavy rustle of his overcoat. He was muttering himself, too fast and too quiet to understand.

Another pair of footsteps approached and Lestrade said, “Can you get it off of him?”

“Of course I can,” Sherlock shot back. “Just shut up and let me think.”

Then the only sound is Sherlock's voice, muted and fierce, the occasional rustle of his clothing as he moves around the chair. His voice goes lower, coming from near John's hips, and then lower still, and John frowns because he can only imagine that Sherlock is lying on the ground if his ears are correct.

“Aha,” Sherlock murmurs, triumphant.

Oh, that's a good sign. That's a very good sign. After a moment that seems to go on for an eternity, John hears the sound of fingers brushing against wood, a few quiet taps and then a snap. The collar whirrs softly, metal scraping softly against metal and he winces as the blades drop back down at an angle again. Then there's a clunking sound and the two halves of the collar move back about an inch. John blinks.

“Is that it then?” Lestrade asks, and he looks like he's itching to move forward.

“That's it!” Sherlock declares and scrambles up onto his knees, pushing the sides of the collar apart carefully with his hands. “All right, John?”

He nods and then immediately winces, the sliced skin all around his neck stinging. “I think so.” He's still sitting there, and he feels locked in place, like he's sat so still so long that his body is refusing to move any-more. He twitches his wrists, still belted to the arms of the chair and says, “Ah, can you get me off of this thing, please. Right now.”

Sherlock stares into his eyes for a second and then sets upon the belt around his left wrist, barking, “Lestrade, get his right.”

Lestrade hurries to help, looking relieved.

“Hurry up!” John yells, struggling now to get his arms loose. He knows it's not helping and doesn't care. He wants off, he wants away—it's too much. He needs to be away from here, as far as he can get, now.

Sherlock and Lestrade pull back the straps almost simultaneously and John presses his hands down, pushing himself up and lurching away from the chair. Panic is seething up the back of his throat and John fights against it because he's free now, he's safe, but it won't be quelled.

“John,” Sherlock says, reaching after him, but John isn't paying attention to him any-more, his heart pounding against his sternum. The sudden rush of blood through his body makes him light-headed and his knees are weak after sitting so still for so long. He crashes onto them before he's gotten very far and then Sherlock is upon him, crouched at his side and hunched over like a thin black gargoyle. He reaches out, a hand curling around John's elbow and the other threading into the hair along the side of his head. “John, it's all right,” he says. “You're out of the chair. You're all right.”

John snorts, leans into Sherlock's body and touches the cuts on his neck. He pulls his fingers back bloody, puts them in Sherlock's face. “D'sat look all right to you?”

Sherlock's mouth hardens into a thin line. “Lestrade,” he says, raising his voice, “He's gone into shock. Fetch the medics.”

“They're already on their way in,” Lestrade's voice confirms. Where from John doesn't know. He doesn't particularly care. He's still staring at the bright blood on his fingertips and he realizes that his entire hand is shaking. His heart is racing so he clings to Sherlock, anchoring himself.

“Sherlock,” he breathes and then chokes, “Sherlock, what the hell was that?”

“A test,” Sherlock says darkly and soothes his hand over the crown of John's skull. It hurts and John hisses and flinches away. He remembers that he'd been knocked unconscious.

“Don't worry, John,” Sherlock murmurs, “They will be found.”

“I want to stand up,” John tells him. The need to be on his feet is suddenly consuming and he pulls out of Sherlock's arms, struggling to make his feet cooperate.

“All right, all right,” Sherlock says tersely, getting to his feet in a fluid motion. He grips John's arms and pulls him up, supporting him when his own legs turn traitor.

John sighs, feeling the ground, firm beneath his feet and lets his head drop against Sherlock's shoulder, his wool coat rough against his forehead.

“See,” Sherlock says. “Nothing to worry about.”

John nods, exhausted and flooded with relief. Nothing to worry about. Sherlock is here, and he's safe again.