A/N: this story is by Ekaterina Popova 4; translated from the Russian by me as a gift for Captain Facepalm earlier this year.
The wind threw yet another handful of dry snow into John's face, and he frowned unintentionally, squinting against the too-bright mountain sun. Sherlock, who was looking in the other direction and seemingly unable to discern John's facial expression right now, reacted immediately:
"You're angry."
"No, really? And how did you possibly manage to deduce that?"
Despite his effort, he wasn't able to hold back his irritation, and Sherlock, with a relieved sigh, turned to his companion. He didn't seem happy about the situation either-but John currently wasn't in the kind of mood to care about his companion's peace of mind.
"You'd said that you like mountains."
In the detective's tone of voice, one could discern a faint hope that the doctor would come to his senses, repent, and stop spoiling his...hm...hunt by the sour expression on his face. Well, Sherlock's hopes were not to be realized-John was tired, cold, annoyed and, therefore, not at all inclined to repent.
"What? Sherlock, liking mountains is one thing, but chasing across the entire country of Switzerland after yet another one of your fans is quite another!"
John turned away, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Damn Sherlock! If he could have at least warned him ahead of time, why he wanted to go to this accursed Meiringen, if he had at least brought his pistol with him...
Behind him, Sherlock cleared his throat-John wanted to hope that it was an attempt to attract his attention and not the beginnings of bronchitis. May in Switzerland, as they found out, was not at all the same as May in London. That is-it was cold, cold, and once again-cold. And also, there was snow. Sherlock cleared his throat again, louder and more insistently this time, and, still not getting any reaction from his offended friend, extended his arm and awkwardly touched him on the shoulder.
"Hm...John…"
John kept silent.
"John, I…" a second attempt. And finally, having decided:
"John, this is the last time, I promise!"
"You said the same thing six months ago, when my former commander nearly shot you dead. And a month ago, you said the same thing, too. By the way, as I see things, you got less trouble from Moran than from that lady with an unpronounceable surname. Curious, isn't it? You are not interested in women, but it is women who manage to hand you the short end of the stick…"
"Krzhizhanovskaya," the detective replied sulkily. "Her surname was Krzhizhanovskaya. And she didn't…"-an annoyed grimace-"...hand me the short end of the stick. I simply didn't expect a sniper to be such an expert in poisons and narcotics-usually a person has one dominant specialty, and to assume that…"
"Yes, yes, I remember. All right, Sherlock, to hell with it. Don't start again. Confess your love to your poisoners when you're in different company, all right? I still start shaking when I recall how your face had turned blue. So-let's drop the topic, please."
"You're the one who asked," he growled. And, after a short silence, added, "John, Evans really is the last one. There were three of them-those who were able to escape Mycroft's and my trap. Trust me, John. Have I ever deceived you before?"
"Umm? Will a simple list do, or shall I cite the dates as well?"
Disconcerted, the detective fell silent. He had clearly expected a different answer. Apparently, he simply couldn't understand the reasons for his friend's annoyance. Well, of course, how could he understand! The fact that, thanks to a certain brilliant person, they were stuck in the mountains, without weapons or sleeping gear, didn't trouble him at all! His brilliance never extended far enough to encompass things of that sort. And meanwhile, it was nearly noon, and so far, their...hm…"guards" still have not contacted them. R-radio silence, damn it! Annoyance at the entire bloody Holmes family hasn't yet reached his peak, but Watson could feel that he didn't have far to go.
The wind became even colder and more piercing. John, squinting, was looking down, at the nearly concealed by the whitish haze mountain meadow, and was listening to the soft breathing of Sherlock behind his back. Sherlock...it's not that he's a freak, it's not even that he's a risk-taker. He's just...just… He's just Sherlock. This fact sometimes annoyed John dreadfully, but… But, on the other hand, half a year ago he would have given his life for one more crazy caper of the detective's. So why should he complain now?
Sherlock gave another small cough behind John-this time, apparently, not deliberately. Watson didn't like the sound of that cough-bronchitis was the last thing they needed.
"All right, never mind. Sherlock, another half an hour-and either our overseers get in touch with us, or I tie you up and drag you to the hotel."
John turned sharply, and, not waiting for the detective's answer, started loping along the path. He didn't need to look back-he knew for sure that Sherlock was smiling contentedly. Since he didn't give any answer to his "threat"...There you are!...Sherlock got John there. To try to appeal to Sherlock's conscience, when he is engaged in a case is futile effort. Even more futile than trying to catch the runaway subordinate of Moriarty's in the snow-covered Alps. Ah yes, sorry, messieurs conspirators-not trying to catch! Merely trying to lure him farther away from the populated areas. Merely that. "Hunting with live bait" was what Sherlock called it, and John was not at all happy about the phrasing.
He was willing to bet that he knew who exactly would be this "live bait". And he hoped only that this yet another adventure of Sherlock's wouldn't cost them both their lives. He palpably missed the pistol in his left pocket.