Hi guys! So this little thought popped into my head and then this started flowing out of me! Nothing better than being snuggled up on the couch with a blanket on a wet, cold day and writing.
Summary: Sherlock was going to be mad. Ever since the pool incident he had been overly protective of John and now he managed to get himself shot. John/Sherlock slash.
So this is all me so I apologize for any mistakes that end up in here! Sorry!
Wrapped Protectively
Sherlock was going to be mad. Ever since Moriarty had strapped a bomb to his chest and used him against Sherlock in the sick game he had started, Sherlock had been very protective. After they had been freed from the pool, no more red laser dots pointed at them, and were safely back at 221B Baker street with steaming hot mugs of tea, Sherlock had been close by.
He made a point to know exactly what John was doing at all times and he had to know where John was going if he left the apartment. At first John hadn't realised what Sherlock had been doing. He thought he had managed to end up in one of Sherlock's experiments but as the unusual behaviour continued over the week John started to piece the puzzle together.
He wanted to be irritated – he had been in the army after all and was more than capable of taking care of himself – but instead he felt a warmth glowing in the pit of his stomach that was slowly seeping its way up through his chest and settling in his heart. People often thought that Sherlock was cold and indifferent but John knew that wasn't true. Sherlock cared in his own, unique way.
John never said anything about it and let Sherlock continue to hover protectively in the background. He appreciated it but he didn't blame Sherlock for getting him kidnapped by a psychopath with expensive suits. Not one bit. He blamed Moriarty and promised himself the next time he saw him he would punch him right in the face.
It seemed that Mycroft was in on it too. John continually found street camera pointed his way and following him about. He caught glimpses of sleek, shiny black cars turning around corners and rolled his eyes at the Holmes brothers.
It's not like John was purposely going out to seek out trouble – unlike Sherlock who would do just that when he got bored enough – but he appreciated that he was being looked out for and let them continue.
But right now, John wasn't worried about the white hot pain in his leg or the blood that was seeping out between his fingers as he put pressure on the wound. He was more worried about Sherlock. He was going to be so mad.
Lestrade had called up Sherlock to help them with a case. Sherlock, bored and slight intrigued by the case file, had accepted and so John found himself in a taxi heading towards a crime scene. Sherlock had jumped out as soon as the taxi had come to a halt, leaving John to pay the man and hurry after him.
He ducked under the tape and found Sherlock already deducing the evidence and getting up close and personal with the deceased. John came to a stop beside Lestrade who was watching Sherlock with his arms folded across his chest.
"Anything?" Lestrade asked after a few minutes of silence.
"Of course," Sherlock murmured. "I have several theories already."
Lestrade had asked for details and John was once again amazed by Sherlock's sharp eyes and breathed 'brilliant' when he had finished, earning a sharp, calculating look from Sherlock which John ignored. He was used to them by now and hardly batted an eyelid anymore when he received them.
Sherlock stood straight and took his leave, John hurrying to keep up with his long strides.
"John, I need you to go to the Cleanest of Clothes Laundromat," Sherlock instructed John. "Have a look around and see if you can find anything."
"Yeah, sure. Where are you going?" John asked as Sherlock hailed a taxi.
"I need to go talk with the man supervisor," Sherlock informed him as a taxi pulled up. John watched as Sherlock jumped in the car and it pulled away. It wasn't until John was in his own taxi did he realise that this was the first time in weeks that Sherlock had allowed him to go pursue leads without him. He felt a little numb at the thought that perhaps Sherlock was letting up on his protectiveness but he shook the thought away.
The Cleanest of Clothes Laundromat was fairly large and the walls were lined with dryers and washing machines. The place was empty except for a man leaning behind a counter where you could exchange notes for coins. He looked up as John entered and frowned at him, lowering the magazine he had been reading.
"Can I help you?" he asked, glaring slightly at John.
John supposed it was a bit odd for someone to walk into a Laundromat without washing but couldn't do anything about it now.
"I was just wondering what your rates were," John offered lamely.
"2 pounds for seven minutes on the dryers," the man told him sceptically. "4 pounds for washing machine."
John nodded and gave him what he hoped was an appreciative smile. The man continued to look at him strangely.
"Do you know this man?" John asked, pulling out a photo if the deceased man that he had nicked from the police report. "He's a mate of mine and lost my good jacket. Spilt beer all of over and promised to wash it for me."
The man behind the counter looked between the photo and John before he bared his teeth and pulled out a gun from the under the counter.
John instinctively took a step back.
"Who are you? Police?" the man demanded and he pulled the trigger, shooting John in the thigh. John grunted with pain and fell to the ground with a thump, hissing and grunting with pain. The man vaulted over the counter and John reached into the waistband of his pants and pulled out his own gun.
The man towered over him, gun aiming at his heart and shouting at John but he wasn't paying attention to what was being yelled. He whipped his gun up and pulled the trigger twice.
Bang bang.
The man's eyes widened with surprise and he stumbled back, his arms falling limp and the gun slid from his relaxed fingers, cluttering to the ground. He feel to his knees, eyes rolling back into his head, blood streaming from the bullet holes in his chest and collapsed backwards. John kicked the gun away from him – just in case – and grunted as he scooted away from the man.
Crying out he put pressure on his own wound and breathed heavily though the pain. With one blood soaked hand he pulled out his phone and dialled emergency.
"Yeah, hi. I've been shot and I need an ambulance," John told them, relaying the address to them. He hung up and gritted his teeth. His thoughts weren't on the white hot pain that was coursing through his legs or the blood that was beginning to stream down his legs through his fingers. Sherlock was going to be so mad.
Sighing with a grunt he sent a message to Sherlock.
Been shot. Meet me at St. Bart's –JW
The reply didn't take long.
What do you mean you've been shot? – SH
Shot, Sherlock. With a gun. Bullet and everything. Just go to St. Bart's- JW
The ambulance arrived and John slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket and let out a sigh of relief.
John had been rushed to St. Bart's and was taken straight to surgery to remove the bullet and to stop the bleeding. John didn't remember much, not with the adrenalin and the kick ass drugs that they had pumped him with. His next coherent thought he was in a bed, blankets tucked around him and Sherlock peering at him closely from the chair he had pulled up right beside the bed.
"You're mad," John pouted groggily. "I knew you would be. I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for John," Sherlock snapped lightly. "I shouldn't have let you go by yourself."
"Now hang on," John grunted as he sifted slightly and hissed a pain shot up his leg. "I can take care of myself. I was in the army."
"You were a doctor," Sherlock huffed. John took a closer look and saw the tired eyes that had bags underneath them and undertone of worry.
"It's not your fault," John told him and Sherlock gave him a surprised look.
"I sent you to that place," Sherlock informed him. "Of course it's my fault."
"You didn't shoot me," John told him and then frowned. "Why did he shoot me?"
"He was selling drugs, using the Laundromat as a cover," Sherlock filled him in. "The deceased was a journalist who did his washing their and stumbled upon the truth and was killed for it."
John nodded and relaxed back into the pillows and stared at Sherlock.
"Still wasn't your fault," John told him and Sherlock glared.
"It was," he protested firmly.
"This wasn't your fault and neither was me getting strapped to a bomb by Moriarty," John snapped, suddenly angry. His leg was hurting and he just wanted Sherlock to stop beating himself up. "So stop blaming yourself or I swear I will punch you and throw you into the Thames."
Sherlock looked at John and blinked.
"Now, I'm sorry I got shot," John continued. "But I'm not sorry that I did to help you."
"Why?" Sherlock suddenly asked.
"Why what?" John asked, completely confused.
"Why aren't you sorry. Most people would have moved out by now," Sherlock explained. "But you continue to stay even with all the danger we get into."
"Well of course," John shrugged. "I like it and you're my best friend Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere."
Sherlock stared at John for a long time and John let him, staring groggily back. He was tired and his leg ached and the fight had left him. He watched as Sherlock stood and gently sat on the edge of the bed, carful of John's leg.
"You are my only friend John," Sherlock murmured quietly. John reached out and gently placed his hand over Sherlock's, rubbing his thumb over the pale skin. Sherlock looked at their hands before looking into John eyes. Slowly, he leaned in and brushed his lips against John's.
John wasn't shocked. Honestly it was a long time coming and he was sick of denying his feelings for Sherlock and pretending that he wasn't attracted to his flatmate. He leaned up and pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock's. Sherlock kissed back hesitantly, before gaining confidence and gently pressing John back against his pillows so he wasn't straining himself and cupped his cheek with his free hand.
Sherlock pulled back softly and gazed at John, taking in his appearance and deducing that he did enjoy the kiss as much as Sherlock had – which pleased him greatly.
"Good," Sherlock said, his thoughts a mess.
"Very good," John agreed and a smiled crept on to his face. Sherlock smiled back and chuckled slightly. Sherlock leant his forehead against John's, content to just feel John, to know that he was okay and that he would always be his.
"Sherlock?" John murmured, his eyes slipping shut. "Can you call a nurse for some more drugs? My leg his killing me."
Sherlock murmured an answer but John was already drifting off. They could talk about their relationship later, when John was out of the hospital and back at 221B Baker street where Sherlock could take care of him for once. He made a mental note to learn how to cook. Perhaps Mrs Hudson could teach him.
What did you think? Hope you enjoyed and happy reading!