Rated T for the same language and gore found in the Sherlock series.
John swore under his breath, pressing his body against the worn brick wall. With a flick he turned off his torch, and darkness consumed him. His breathing was slightly elevated, though not from physical exertion. Once again he cursed venomously, his firm grip on his torch tightening.
Sherlock was in danger. Damn that pompous detective, always rushing headlong into trouble. Hadn't bothered to wait up for John, hadn't bothered to call for backup. His massive intellect coupled by his fever for constant stimulation was constantly getting him caught in dodgy situations like these.
John, out of a habit he had adopted in Afghanistan, tapped his side where his handgun was concealed. His soldier's mind analyzed his surroundings as his eyes adjusted to the dark.
In the gloom, John could just make out a concrete statue of a coiled serpent. Its wide, unseeing eyes seem to penetrate him coldly, calculatingly. A few meters away was a small building, large glass windows dimly illuminated with green light.
The Snake House.
John slowly detached himself from his comfortable hiding place, slinking in the shadows towards the building. His mind narrowed onto his mission, his eyes darting around to recognize any possible threats. He appeared to be alone, but he did not let his eyes deceive him. Sherlock had come here for a reason. It was all connected to the case.
A gunshot pierced the cold night, ringing out from within the snake house. For a flicker of a moment, John could have sworn his heart stopped.
Sherlock was in there.
He was unarmed.
John, abandoning stealth all together broke into a run, throwing the torch onto the ground and reaching into his jacket. Terror seeped throughout his body, raw, undiluted fear that he had not experienced since his drug-induced paranoia at Baskerville. His brain went into over-drive, adrenaline roaring through his veins. John took his handgun out of its holster in his jacket and clenched it in his right hand. Not bothering to look down at what he was doing, John flicked the safety on the gun off with a practiced move. He barged towards the snake house, ignoring his instincts that were screaming that he was running into a trap. His heart was lodged in his throat as he imagined Sherlock, bleeding on the unforgiving floor- with a strangled yell, John threw himself at the snake house.
His bad shoulder screamed in protest as his entire side exploded in pain, but John couldn't care less. He rammed himself into the door repeatedly, his jaw clenching with determination. He would not let Sherlock get hurt, he could not. Pain and fear and rage all seeped together to form a lethal concoction. With an inhuman yell, the deadbolt broke and the door finally swung open. He rushed into the darkness, his gun held steadily in his hands. John looked around cautiously, his eyes trying to pick up on the slightest movement. All around him the glass exhibits shown with unearthly low green light. Reptiles slithered and crawled, their many-lidded eyes watching the army doctor with dumb curiosity. John walked farther into the room, his footfalls slow and cautious. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and perspiration dotted his brow.
John felt the air stir and knew what was happening an instant before it happened. He whirled around as the broken door slammed shut. John held his handgun out, the barrel aimed in the direction of the door.
"The police are here," John said calmly, praying that whoever was in this foul place would believe the lie.
"Surrender when you still can." There was a silence that followed John's forceful words. Something wasn't right…
Suddenly there was light, bright and blazing light. John stumbled back, blinded.
A scream punctured the air.
Four Days Ago:
It was at an ungodly hour early Tuesday morning when a disgustingly energetic Sherlock had rushed a very indignant John out of bed. The younger man had practically dragged the army doctor down the stairs from their flat. Once on the street Sherlock proceeded without further adieu to manhandled John into the waiting cab, after which he fairly flew to the other side of the cab and climbed inside in a tangle of uncoordinated long limbs. The gleam in Sherlock's eyes shone bright with maniac glee, causing John's stomach to sink unpleasantly into the floor of the cab. He knew that look. It was the gleam that was usually followed by Sherlock doing something dangerous or idiotic or both. That look- the slight self-satisfied curve at the ends of his mouth, the smugness of the arched eyebrows- meant trouble. Sherlock raised his coat collar up, turning to face the still half-asleep John. The light in the cab cast shadows from the consulting detective's cheekbones, which sent a thrill of irritation through John's bleary mind.
Bloody cheekbones.
Sherlock being Sherlock gave absolutely no useful information to John during the car ride to the crime scene as to the details of the case. But one didn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to deduce the bare essentials. John could tell by Sherlock's tight smile and fingers tapping impatiently on his lap that the case must be ranked at least an eight, if not a nine, on Sherlock's imaginary scale of importance. John figured it had to be nothing short of a double homicide to get Sherlock moving about so quickly. Sherlock was normally disinclined to obey someone else's orders quickly, the stubborn arse. John peered out the window, noticing that the sun hadn't even risen above London skyline. God, it had to be at triple homicide then.
Imagine John's surprise then, when the cab stopped in front of the London Zoo. John had unabashedly let his jaw drop at the sight of the sickly pink cotton candy machines and bunches of cartoon animal balloons. There was no blood pooling on the cement or a grisly signs of a knife fight. There even weren't any ambulances or fire trucks, for Christ's sake. Only a handle full of police cars and a caution tape barricade near the zoo's entrance. Lestrade was pacing in the front of the main gate, his cell phone pressed against his ear. Judging by his violent hand gestures, he was greatly agitated. Sherlock scrambled out of the cab without a second's hesitation, his dark curls flying about in the wind. He ran across the street, his coat billowing around him impressively. John sighed in resignation as he fished out his wallet to handle the tab for the bewildered cabbie.
By the time John managed to catch up with him, Sherlock was already quickly wearing on Lestrade's patience with his rapid-fire assault of questions.
"Time?"
"My team guesses it was less than three, maybe four hours ago."
"The area has been searched?"
"'Course it has! All clear."
"You're quite sure? Your team has proven incompetent before, and I would hate for the entire case to be blown because Anderson had his attention compromised by Donovan's close proximity."
"Bloody hell, Sherlock-!"
"Greg," John said, interrupting the Detective Inspector. Lestrade's reddened face calmed a bit in John's presence, though he still shot Sherlock a dirty look. John shook Lestrade's hand solidly before standing at attention, always the soldier. "Could you explain the situation to me? Sherlock couldn't be bothered." Sherlock gave John a hurtful frown.
"You could just have asked."
"I did, Sherlock. Seven times to be exact, on the way over."
"I was in my mind palace. You know better than to interrupt me when I'm thinking." John rolled his eyes.
"If you listened only when you weren't thinking Sherlock, you'd be deaf."
"Was that a compliment?" Sherlock asked cheekily, smirking at the light banter.
"Hardly."
"I don't mean to intrude," Lestrade cut in. "But have you decided to help us or not?" Sherlock spun to look at Lestrade, a wolfish grin spreading on his features. His dark cobalt eyes gleamed, sending a shiver down John's spine.
"Show me."
The game was afoot.
Follow and review your thoughts! Do you think I should continue with this story? This is my first time writing a Sherlock fan fiction, so feedback would be much appreciated!