Alternative 'Study In Pink'
He was holding the small white pill delicately between his thumb and his index finger, studying it critically. John could only stare in horrid fascination, his heart pounding in his throat. The young detective brought the pill closer to his face, a grim determination setting into his features. He was bringing it closer to his mouth- the idiot was going to do it.
Panic gripped John, making his blood run cold. With silent resolution, John pulled his handgun out of its holester. His steely eyes locked onto the cabbie, and he carefully raised the gun. He didn't want to kill again, but this was going too far. He couldn't just stand by, watch as the poison took over Sherlock's body and killed him.
Sherlock, who in less than twenty-four hours had given his life new meaning. Who had taken him in when the world had repelled him away. John wasn't broken, wasn't useless- the safety on the gun clicked as John prepared, his finger caressing the trigger.
Sherlock wouldn't die, not when he was there to prevent it.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, the pill was resting on his lips-
A shot rang out in the dark.
The cabbie careened backward, already a dark scarlet stain growing on his chest. John held his position, gun still held out in front of him. He sighed wearily, his gut twisting at the all too familiar situation. Just like Afghanistan. He could feel the blood as well as if he was there with that cabbie. A warm mess, sticky to his touch. Bile rose in his throat, and he slowly lowered his arm with a sense of finality.
His eyes connected with large, colorless ones through the broken glass shattered window. They were wide, the pupils dilating with fear. Black curls rimmed the shocked pale face. He was staring at him, burning into his soul. Yet John couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. There was something about that hopeless look, the icy crystal eyes that penetrated him. John shivered, his entire being on edge.
And then Sherlock's unusually thin frame disappeared from the shattered window, his coat swirling behind him.
John staggered away, blood only he could see dripping from his hands.
"Are you alright?" John glanced up at Sherlock, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.
"Yes," John coughed, glancing back down at the ground. "Of course I'm alright."
"Well, you have just killed a man." Sherlock intoned softly, eyebrows knitted in concern.
"Wouldn't be the first time." John growled. "Afghanistan, I mean." Unconsciously John rubbed his shoulder. Sherlock shifted from foot to foot uneasily.
"But," John sighed, breaking the silence. "He wasn't a very nice man." Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, letting the tension drain out him. Peering at John underneath his dark bangs, Sherlock smiled. It was a small smile, slightly lopsided and a tad awkward, but it fit him.
"No, no he wasn't really, was he?" Sherlock snickered, crystal eyes dancing in the growing darkness. His slender, almost feminine hand ran through his mess of curls ruefully. John felt a thrill of protective pride for the young man.
"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." John said cheekily. Sherlock snorted, his thin shoulders shaking silently.
"That's true," Sherlock replied breathlessly. "You should have seen the route he took to get us here!" John couldn't help himself- he burst into laughter, his earlier adrenaline waning. Sherlock's eyes glinted impishly, snickering happily alongside John.
"Stop- stop!" John gasped. "We can't giggle, this is a crime scene!"
"Well, you are the one who shot him." Sherlock said, a single eyebrow raised in amusement. "Don't blame me." John shook his head, eyeing Sherlock ruefully.
"Ssh, keep your voice down!" John hissed, but he couldn't find it within himself to be put out by his strange friend. Sherlock's smirk vanished at John's suddenly graved features.
"Wha-" Sherlock turned around, looking at what John was frowning at. The all-knowing gloat, the air of superiority, the umbrella- Sherlock groaned.
"And what are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded in greeting.
"I'm concerned for you." The man replied airily, twirling his umbrella dramatically. John felt a sudden surge of protectiveness; on instinct he stepped between Sherlock and the mysterious man, shielding Sherlock with his body. The man seemed highly amused by this gesture.
"One day gone by and already so eager to protect Sherlock? How... interesting."
"Stop it, Mycroft." Sherlock growled, his crystal eyes flashing.
"So loyal." Mycroft continued easily, pointedly ignoring Sherlock. "And yet you hardly know a thing about each other."
"I know enough." John said brashly.
"Do you?" Mycroft asked lightly, his eyes traveling to Sherlock's with a secretive smirk. "I think you'd be surprised-"
"Enough, Mycroft." Sherlock spat fiercely.
"Oh, Sherlock." Mycroft tutted. "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset Mummy."
"I was the one who upset her? Me?!" Sherlock sneered.
"Mummy?" John interjected confusedly.
"Our mum," Sherlock explained, his cold eyes never leaving Mycroft's. "Mycroft's my brother. Putting on weight again?"
"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft countered smoothly. John shook his head in utter disbelief. "Well, if you are indeed alright Sherlock, I must be going. No need to waste time traversing crime scenes. Good day, Dr. Watson. I look forward to our next meeting, if you haven't run off by then-" Sherlock darted passed John and stepped in front of Mycroft, so close they were almost nose to nose. Sherlock's chest seemed to be heaving with emotion, John realized. The eyes like colorless crystal prisms were alight with fury.
"I told you to stop it, Mycroft." Sherlock warned dangerously, his curls shadowing his face.
"You are delusional about this charade." Mycroft purred, like a cat playing with a mouse. Sherlock's unnaturally thin frame was fairly trembling with rage- and was that, John thought with a frown- fear?
"I can handle this on my own." Sherlock whispered, lowering his voice so only him and Mycroft could here. John causually stepped closer, his curiosity outweighing all other thoughts.
"But not forever, brother mine." Mycroft breathed. Sherlock stepped backward as though he had been slapped. Mycroft brushed past him, striding confidently away down the street. Sherlock turned to John, face flushed with anger. Questions were buzzing in John's mind, but he suppressed them at Sherlock's expression.
"Dinner?" John asked companionably. Sherlock cocked his head to the side, studying the doctor with those penetrating eyes.
"Starving." Sherlock replied, the barest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.
Should this be a one-shot, or should I continue it? What do you guys think? Please review!