Day One – Holding Hands
Dumb idea. This was the dumbest idea he'd had in ages. He shouldn't – he really shouldn't have done that. But now, he found himself next to the one and only Sherlock Holmes, the world's most famous (and only) consulting detective trying to catch his breath.
"You alright?", asked the man in question, standing up and with one swift move shuffling away the strands of hair that had fallen into his face.
"Y.. yes." John coughed. He felt the last two years without exercise - or at least without chasing through London at night's sleep time – in all of his bones. He wasn't used to this anymore. "So, we missed him…" his lungs were still craving for more air. "Can we please go back home now?" John lifted himself off the ground, brushing dust from his legs and coat.
"Of course, John." Sherlock was just about to turn back out of the side alley towards the main road when he heard a gunshot not far from them. He rather felt than saw the bullet cutting through the air, missing his head only by inches and hitting the wall right above John's head.
The captain immediately switched into army mode. "Run!", he yelled, taking Sherlock's hand and pulling him out onto the main road. Everything became a blur. The streets flew past, John felt numb, not hearing any sounds other than his blood pumping through his veins, his heart exploding in his chest. He didn't feel anything neither. Not the pain in his legs due to the extensive running, not the pain in his lungs due to lack of oxygen. Not even the pain in his bad shoulder due to dragging his friend through the London night back into security.
I'm going to kill him. I'm so going to kill him. What was he even thinking? Tricking me into chasing a killer through London only to find out that he was very, very angry and very, very eager to kill us both.
John did only slow down when they finally arrived at Baker Street, only then noticing how tired and exhausted he was. He collapsed against the black front door, his lungs were rattling. He never wanted to move ever again. Never ever. He let his head fall against the threshold, subconsciously not letting go of Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock cleared his throat, slightly pulling at John's hand. "Um… John. First: Get up there. You're gonna catch a cold and we both know that doctors are the worst patients. Second: If you keep holding my hand that tightly, you're most likely to break or bruise something which would be slightly inconvenient. And third: I get cold. Let me open the bloody door." With that, he pulled the tired man up and into an embrace to support him as he was unsure if John was still able to stand once he had collapsed on the stairs leading to their front door. He got his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door.
John felt unsteady on his feet, but Sherlock's grip and embrace prevented him from falling. He felt so tired suddenly, he leaned his head against his best friend's chest, feeling his heart pounding hart in its cage. He lived. They lived. Everything was alright. John tried to steady his breath and in that moment, the door flew open and Sherlock ushered them both in. He was just about to let go of John's hand to fly up the stairs as he heard a sob escaping his friend's mouth. That's what made him change his mind; he squeezed John's hand and then pulled him up the stairs into their sitting room.
"When did it start raining? I didn't notice the rain outside"… John looked down on his damp clothes in confusion. "I feel cold, I feel so cold" He threw himself against his mate, trying to catch some of the warmth of Sherlock's body. Everything was still so blurry, his mind was clouded. What time was it? Midnight? Past midnight? And where was he? Baker Street? Yes… smells like Baker Street… and Smoke… and Sherlock… sweet tender scent of Sherlock… Sherlock… He felt no more ground underneath his feet but he didn't care. He was just so tired.
Sherlock carried the weeping mess in his bedroom as he would have to climb more stairs in order to reach John's, so his would have to do. He lay him down on his bed, pulling first his shoes and socks, then his coat off. He undressed both of them efficiently and quickly down to their pants and then rummaged through his drawers searching for warm pyjama pants. He put an old pair on, and then helped John into another pair. John seemed to have drifted off to sleep by then, so all Sherlock could think of doing was to cover his mate and tuck the sheets neatly in. He then lay down next to him, immediately falling asleep as well. All whilst holding John's hand.
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