Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.
AN: This is my first Sherlock fanfic and while I don't have anything against Johnlock (I actually like it quite a lot) this is a NO SlASH story…at least yet. So here we go.
'The one time John doesn't go with the detective is when Sherlock gets himself shot.'
Chapter 1: Drag behind
"And what induced him to strike his wife?" Lestrade asked patiently, but John could tell that his fists were itching for some kind of release.
"Well, she had her back to him. The frying pan was handy and the back door open, so he thought he'd take a chance." Explained Sherlock, while removing his gloves.
John left them at that and the last thing he saw was the detective inspector's clenched jaw and his flat mate's annoyed look. He snorted to himself, well knowing the amount of insults that were likely to be used.
"Told you to find yourself some hobby." He turned his head and was met with Donovan's signature smile. He greeted her politely and continued to collect his medical supplies, wisely deciding not to comment on what she said.
"I understand that you were a soldier and all…" she said hesitantly, but John shook his head. He had had this same talk with her for more times than he could count now.
"He is my friend," the good doctor said, glancing at the still arguing Sherlock and Greg, who were close to killing each other. "And I like solving crimes with him."
"He is Sherlock Holmes." She remarked indignantly. "He is always ahead of his game, while you" she gestured at John "just drag behind."
He blinked at her. If this conversation had made John slow down his packing, now he stopped completely. Since the incident with the cabbie that happened a few months ago, John had grown to be very irritated with this woman. He could see why Sherlock disliked her so much. She was very nosy and had decided it her job to keep John away from the consulting detective. He was used to decline her remarks as gently as possible and not paying her mind. But she had never been this straightforward and John could feel himself gradually losing his temper.
Whatever he was about to say, had died in his throat as his flat mate all but leaped in front of them out of nowhere.
"Come along, John." Was the detective's natural saying, as he started walking towards the door.
"Admit it." Sally said quietly and also disappeared out of his sight.
Trying to ignore the many thoughts that were flooding his mind, John went to catch up with the consulting detective. They were crossing a street, when Sherlock began fixing his scarf. The good doctor waited for the usual discussion they always had after leaving a crime scene…when Sherlock would explain to John what exactly had happened. This time the detective broke the silence for completely other reasons, though.
"Admit what?" he asked, while raising a hand and attempting to catch a cabbie. The good doctor was a bit taken aback by the question and looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face. Sherlock sighed impatiently.
"Donovan, John." He said. "What did she want you to admit?"
"Oh, that…Nothing. Nothing specular." John recovered quickly, briefly wondering just how much of the conversation he had heard. "Just the usual. People assuming that we're a couple." He lied instead, composing a smile.
The taller man turned to look at him at last and his gaze was so intense that not for the first time John thought that he might be reading his mind. However, he soon relaxed visibly, as Sherlock cast him a smile of his own and they got into the car.
A week had passed since the crime scene and John found staying in the flat almost unbearable. Sherlock was still struggling with the case and driving the good doctor insane with his intolerable behavior. They knew who the murderer was, but there was no evidence whatsoever to hold against him and the fact that the said killer had fled almost magically, was not helping at all.
John sighed while sipping from his mug of tea and thinking of ways to keep himself busy with that evening. Maybe he should call Sarah. He hadn't had the chance to see her for awhile and today it seemed like a great opportunity to take his mind off things. Yes, he would call Sarah.
He picked up his phone and walked out of the kitchen, dropping his mug into the sink. In the living room he came across with the pacing detective and half wished that he would too far in his mind palace to notice him. He honestly didn't have the heart to stumble on him during one of his foul moods.
John took a step back as Sherlock spun around to face him almost the same instant he entered the room and he noticed that the genius was looking comparably less miserable.
"Ah John," he said pleasantly, "I think I might be close to finding out his location. I only need to check something…" he trailed off, taking in John's appearance and frowned.
"Where are you going?" he asked. The doctor wanted to say something about the case, but chose not to.
"I'm seeing Sarah." He replied casually, putting on his coat.
"Why?" he sighed at Sherlock's question.
"Because, Sherlock," he grabbed his keys and stuffed them into his pocket. "That's what people do. Go on dates. Have fun." He was not liking where this conversation was going.
"I know what a date is, John," he rolled his eyes. "I mean, don't you want to see the man finally caught? Could be dangerous, you know."
Upon hearing the key phrase, John would usually stop any objections he might have had. But this time his mind drifted back to the latest conversation he had had with Donovan. And maybe it was the exhaustion, the lack of events or both, that made John speak more harshly than he intended to.
"Why, maybe I have better things on my mind." He said and walked right past him.
"Oh?" If Sherlock was somehow affected by his tone, he was doing a great job at hiding it.
"Well, if you find it worth wasting your time on such a dull thing as a date, rather than coming with me…" he said eventually.
"Yes, Sherlock!" John snapped, "It is bloody worth it!" And with that he strode out of the front door, closing the door after him with a loud thud.
It had taken John less than ten minutes to cool off and now he was already walking back to Baker Street. He wondered why he had let Sally's words get to him that way. He hadn't meant to raise his voice or say all those things at all. To Sherlock out of all people.
John wasn't sure why he had snapped in the first place. Maybe because he knew that there was some truth in her words. He was never of much use during cases, yet he never failed to show up with the detective, no matter what. He pursed his lips into a tight line. Maybe he was just scared to admit that he depended on Sherlock, just as the later depended on murders?
He fished out his keys and opened the door swiftly. If he was lucky and the detective wasn't sulking on the couch, he might even try to apologize. But to his surprise he found their flat empty. There were no traces of his flat mate anywhere.
John frowned. Where could he possibly be? He thought about asking Mrs. Hudson but then remembered that Sherlock must have had figured out the hiding place of the criminal by now. And suddenly he had this ludicrous idea that Sherlock might have gone to track him down alone.
Hopefully the man had had enough sense to call the yard. The doctor started searching the bottom of his flat mate's desk just to make sure and cursed under his breath when he noticed a certain item missing. Hadn't had sense then. John went to fetch his own gun, while dialing Lestrade's number.
The man in the coat grunted and clenched his eyes shut as a searing pain spread through his side. How could he have miscalculated so little? 'Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!' he thought.
Sherlock forced his eyes open and looked at his bloodied shirt, then up at the smirking face of the man in front of him. He tried to stand up, only to hiss in pain and fall down harder. The wound was numbing his senses. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak…he couldn't think. He watched helplessly as the other man aimed the gun at him once again, but he knew that this time he would not make it.
A shot was heard, something heavy toppled to the ground and Sherlock, opening his eyes, didn't understand why he was still alive. He could hear sounds of sirens in the distance, he was able to make out the approaching forms of people.
"Sherlock!" somebody shouted. The voice…so achingly familiar, but he couldn't figure out who… Now somebody was kneeling beside him, turning and laying him onto his back and whispering to him something, he couldn't make out. And him Sherlock recognized to be the person who had called out his name earlier.
He felt obliged to say something, to assure the other that he was fine, but he could feel his consciousness starting to fail him. He blinked, but all he saw was the messy picture of the man bent in his direction. The edges of his vision were becoming blurrier and he eventually passed out.
Sherlock stirred and inhaled deeply. His eyes fluttered open and he took in his surroundings. How long had he been out? He was definitely not in that dark alley anymore.
For once the sight of a hospital room was not so unpleasant to the detective. He tried to recall the events of the other day that were still rather cloudy to his mind. He only knew that he had been rescued just in time.
And then he finally took notice of the sleeping figure on the chair beside his bed. Sherlock smiled softly. John…Brave, loyal John. Of course he would have found him. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he had been secretly counting on that.
He moved, trying to sit up, but he instantly felt a pang of pain on his now bandaged side and groaned. It didn't hurt as it had earlier, but it was still painful nonetheless.
"Easy now." A voice said soothingly and Sherlock jerked his head, meeting his flat mate's concerned face. He hadn't realized that John was awake.
John put one arm around Sherlock's shoulders and another under his forearm, helping him into a sitting position.
"Thanks." He said hoarsely, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. The good doctor immediately retrieved a glass of water and held it up to him. The detective drank greedily, enjoying the slight coldness of it.
"How are you feeling?" John asked, after putting the empty glass away.
But Sherlock didn't answer.
"John, your date…" he said with a straight face that surprised them both. The former soldier gaped at the detective, that looked paler than usual. Very suddenly he had the urge to punch him.
"Shut up, you idiot!" he found himself saying instead.
Sherlock smirked to himself. He didn't miss the affection in John's voice. The good doctor tried to keep his composure as unforgiving as possible, but he soon snorted at the ridiculousness of it all, with Sherlock laughing as well.
"Nice shot, by the way." Sherlock said later, an odd twinkling in his eyes.
John's expression softened and he smiled, remembering the first time the detective had said that to him. He gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze.
"Sleep. You need to rest." He told him professionally. The detective nodded with a small yawn and carefully made himself comfortable in the hospital bed.
"Stay?" he mumbled sleepily, all energy now drowned out of him.
"I will." John murmured. " I will stay."
AN: A bit long, eh? Anyway, let me know what you think and if I should continue this.