This is my first story posted, although I have plenty on the way. It's also the only one-shot in my repitoir (forgive me if I misspell anything). I'm actually very happy with the results and I've received some good feedback so far, so I have high hopes.
To the formalities: I don't own Sherlock or John or Moriarty or anything that BBC does. If I did, there would be a lot more sexual tension and a lot less cliff hangers. I hate you Moffat. Keep up the good work.
Also, there are JohnxSherlock feels. If you don't like it, no matter how subtle, don't read this. And please... no flaming. Nobody likes bashers. Just don't. Okay? ... Um... I think that's about it, so I'm gonna stop rambling now. Enjoy the story, and feel free to review or PM me. :)
John gave Sherlock a sideways glance. His eyes traced the shadowed profile of his flatmate before finding their way back to Sherlock's piercing blue-green eyes. John started when he realized that Sherlock was watching him just as intently. He offered a small smile that Sherlock returned with a crooked one that lit up his entire face, making his eyes seemingly luminescent. The smile was the only genuine smile John had seen Sherlock give. And Sherlock only gave it to him.
They both turned back to their respective windows in the cab, but as John gazed absentmindedly out, he saw his own reflection. All the scrapes and bruises that addled his face were because of that man. Moriarty. Just the name made John's blood boil. He glanced back at Sherlock, noting the similar damage to his face and the sling that held his arm. Moriarty. John thought back to just last night.
He had gone out in a huff, pissed at Sherlock's general apathy, and was headed to the nearby park. John was hoping that the walk in the cool night would help him calm down. As he made his way down Baker Street, John shivered and pulled his light jacket tighter around him. He hadn't been expecting it to be so windy or he would've bundled up more.
John was about halfway to the park when the large black van pulled up next to him. The next minute happened too quickly. Three large men jumped out the back, ropes and a burlap bag in hand, and ran towards John. They grabbed him from behind, first securing his hands and then putting the bag around his face. The next second, John was sitting in the moving van, hands and feet tied with a sack over his head.
The next half hour was dark and silent. Eventually the men grabbed John and made him walk until they shoved him into a chair, securing his wrists to its arms. The bag was then whisked off of John's face, the rough material burning at such speed. Blinking, John looked up at James Moriarty, who had a wide, crooked smile splitting his face as John's mouth opened in a surprised "O".
"Hi, John." Moriarty's voice was whining, but smooth. "I'm sure glad you remember me, because I'm almost positive that Sherlock won't." Moriarty laughed lightly. "Besides, who would remember an insignificant gay man from the IT department? People can be so forgetful."
John looked up at Jim, his eyes burning and fistsclenched. "What do you want, Moriarty?" he spat. Moriarty spun on his heel, taking a large step away.
"I have a special use for you, John. Dear little Sherlock is going to play hero and we need a damsel in distress," Moriarty gave a half smile over his shoulder, "don't we?"
John pulled at the restraints, brow furrowed. "I-If you think that I'll do anything for you, then you're-"
"DON'T act like you have a choice, John," Moriarty interrupted loudly, rushing back and gripping John's cheeks tightly, silencing him. After a minute of silence, he released John's face, shoving his hands into his pockets, taking a few steps away again. "You see, John, I like explosions. They're bright and beautiful and destructive." Moriarty practically whispered the last word. "And you," he turned, pointing a finger at John, "you are going to be the best one yet." With a soft smile, Moriarty clapped his hands twice. He watched with hard eyes as two men came in, one carrying a vest with explosives and the other carrying a large heavy-coat.
John tried to pull away, but the men overpowered him, easily putting the explosives on. Once the vest was securely strapped on, and the overcoat was in place, Moriarty sauntered over and then jammed an earpiece into John's right ear. John jerked his head away, but to no avail.
"Your move, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered, his breath tickling John's left ear.
John swallowed. Remembering still hurt. Sherlock had burst into the pool, gun in his pocket and memory stick in his hand. Moriarty had sent John out, coat closed to hide the explosives, and told him through the earpiece that if John said or did anything that he wasn't told to do, then they would both go up.
John remembered the hurt that flashed in Sherlock's eyes when he saw John and the relief that followed when Moriarty told him to open the coat, revealing the explosives. He remembered the rush of adrenaline that accompanied his frantic attempt in saving Sherlock. He remembered the pure horror that wracked his body when he saw the singular red dot appear on Sherlock's forehead. He remembered the false safety that settled in when Moriarty left the room and the red dots disappeared. John remembered the elation he felt when Sherlock ripped off the coat and vest, flinging them both across the floor.
"I'm glad no one saw that." "Why?" "You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool? People would talk."
He remembered Sherlock's remembered the pure fear that flashed across Sherlock's eyes when Moriarty re-entered the room. He remembered the single thought of getting Sherlock safely into the pool as Sherlock shot at the discarded vest of explosives.
John's stomach dropped at thought of the different ways it could have gone wrong.
I could've died.
Sherlock could've died.
We both could've died.
Sherlock could've simply left, leaving me dead...
The last thought stung worse than the others. Sherlock's betrayal would have been worse than dying itself. Losing Sherlock would've killed John, he just knew it in his heart. He couldn't live without Sherlock. I love him too much...
John froze, the thought catching him off guard. Love him. Love him? I can't love him! He's my flatmate, John tried to rationalize. I'm dating Sarah. We're just friends. Nothing more. But then John found his gaze tracing Sherlock's profile. John found his eyes lingering on Sherlock's lips...
Oh. God... John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I love Sherlock. Okay... Okay... He began to think back on their abnormally close relationship. People don't normally bond so quickly, not even kindred spirits. Not like they had. John then carefully juggled the idea of loving your best friend in a very non-best friend way.
John found himself watching Sherlock stare out the window at the passing scenery, his mind probably processing data a million kilometers a second, and smiled. He did love him. But not in the I-want-to-do-nothing-but-have-sex way, nor in the snog-me-all-day-and-night way. John loved Sherlock in such a way that he would do anything to be with him; he would do anything to make him happy; he would do anything to save him; and his life would end if Sherlock's did.
John didn't just love Sherlock. He needed Sherlock. John needed Sherlock to eat, drink, sleep, breath, or live. He couldn't imagine a world without Sherlock.
And perhaps these feelings were one-sided, John couldn't tell. Nobody could tell with Sherlock. But it didn't matter. John was there for Sherlock.
John loved Sherlock.
And that was okay.