So because I admin for a page, (shameless plugging: it's called Johnlockian on Facebook, give us a like!) I was asked to write a little fic by one of my likers, so here ya go! It's based of a Reapersun picture in which John is in a hospital bed hugging Sherlock. It's set before TRF. Make sure to leave me a review telling me what you thought! Enjoy!
And Then it Hit Me
"Sherlock!" the voice rang out in the cold London night right before a solid wall of army doctor rammed the consulting detective. Sherlock felt his friend get knocked back with the impact of what could've only been a speeding bullet, and felt as John fell to the ground, partially on top of him. He felt the wet concrete rush up to hit his face, striking his cheekbone and temple area, scraping up his bare hand as he reached out to catch himself. He sat up immediately, pulling his legs out from under John.
"John!" He screamed, not caring that the shooter was still out there, not caring that they were alone, without backup, that they were exposed in the middle of the street. Sherlock Holmes's brain typically ran a muck with thoughts, like a bee hive, he could taste the air and sense fifteen different things, see a speck of dirt on the ground and give you the exact address of where it had come from, hear a whistle a mile away and tell you the frequency. But now everything stilled. Now there was only John, laying on the ground, blood spreading through his shirt in an expanding pool of darkness. Sherlock pulled John into his lap, and started pressing his hands frantically to the bullet wound, trying to stop the bleeding. He took off his scarf and pressed it to John while he took out his phone and dialed Lestrade.
"LESTRADE COME QUICK JOHN'S BEEN SHOT! 3677 THOMPSON SQUARE! NOW!" He barked into the phone, knowing the officer would be there in minutes. Sherlock pocketed his phone and looked back down to John, who had his hand pressed over Sherlock's on top of the scarf. Sherlock saw a drop of water fall onto John's hand and didn't register that he was crying. John smiled weakly. "John just hold on. Lestrade is going to be here." John started to cough, his breathing growing labored. "JOHN!" Sherlock screamed.
"I'd . . . I'd do it again." Sherlock, now painfully aware of the tears blurring his vision and dulling his senses, shook his head.
"No John, please just hold on. Please don't go. Help will be here soon, you can make it." John just looked out at him through his dark blue eyes, serene.
"I'll always take a bullet for you Sherlock." He said quietly, so quietly Sherlock had to lean in to hear him. He laughed a little, through the pain. It wasn't a happy laugh, it was a very sad laugh, a laugh that ached and told of loneliness.
"Why? I'm not worth it John. You are so much more valuable to the world. So much better than I. You save people." Sherlock told his Doctor. "You can't leave me John." he practically whimpered, trying to speak past the lump in his throat. John raised a hand to press it shakily to Sherlock's face, nudging him down towards him gently as he brought the consulting detective's lips to his own. It was a gentle press, nothing too serious or demanding. Sherlock would almost think it meant nothing, if he didn't know John better. It meant everything. It was John finally letting go of his secrets, finally not caring that Sherlock was "married to his work" because this was to be John Watson's last act. This one simple kiss would be the last thing he would do, and that was okay with him. So what if his last thing he ever did was kiss the man he loved? Pretty good way to go.
"I'll never leave you Sherlock, not really." He whispered, coughing more.
"John I-," and then the world went black to John Watson. He could no longer see, he closed his eyes finally, exhaling what he was sure would be his last breath. He heard though, he heard Sherlock scream something, he didn't even know what, but in the darkness, he heard his familiar voice. Then there were footsteps and ambulance sirens. And then it was all, truly gone, and he floated amongst a void of nothingness.
Beep . . .beep . . . beep . . . the sound entered his ears, causing him to blink eyelids that felt like they weighed a thousand tons open. Something warm was pressed against the underside of his arm and hand. He looked down to see his hand rested in a curly nest of hair, and his arm was laying across a coat-clad back. Sherlock was sleeping against the bed, his face on it's side facing John, resting across his arms. John stroked a hand through the soft curls, amazed that he was able to do so. He was a doctor, he knew the moment he took the bullet that he wasn't going to survive, but his survival didn't matter. As long as Sherlock was okay. How did he survive? Sherlock felt the hand moving through his hair and smiled a little in his sleep, almost nuzzling into John's hand in contentment. John felt a smile grace his lips, and love pouring through his heart. Sherlock sat bolt upright then, and John withdrew his hand.
"John!" His voice was hoarse, but his eyes were wide open.
"Sherlock." John answered, his voice just as scratchy and his throat feeling like he had swallowed a tiny person who had clawed him on the way down.
"John you . . ." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times and John laughed, though it pained him to do so.
"Seeing you speechless was worth taking a bullet for, remind me to get shot more often." Anger suddenly flared from within the depths of Sherlock's eyes.
"YOU IDIOT! YOU NEARLY GOT YOURSELF KILLED! HOW COULD YOU GO AND DO SUCH A SELFISH THING LIKE THAT TO ME?! WHAT IF YOU HAD DIED?! I WOULD'VE BEEN LEFT ALONE! COMPLETLEY ALONE! I CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT YOU JOHN! I CAN'T DO IT AND I WON'T-," John pressed a hand to Sherlock's cheek, silencing his distraught detective.
"Shh now, you're not going to have to live without me, it's okay."
"You could've died. . ." Sherlock said, choking up, fresh tears spilling over his already red eyes.
"C'mere." John said, and allowed Sherlock to collapse against him, avoiding the bullet wound of course. John bent over him in the hospital bed, comforting his best friend. "I'm okay, and you're okay." Sherlock was sobbing so hard now his entire body was shaking. John held him until he stopped, rubbing his back soothingly and combing fingers through his long curls. Sherlock finaly sat up, hesitantly.
"John, when you kissed me-," John felt himself blush suddenly. Ah yes, that had happened, hadn't it? He wasn't planning on ever telling Sherlock about his feelings for him, but he honestly thought he was dying! So . . . why would it matter if he wouldn't be alive long enough to face the possible rejection? "Were you doing that just . . . just because you were dying and there was no one else around to kiss? Or . . .?" The question hung in the air, the silent question that shouldn't have ever had to be asked. Do you love me? John threw his head back on the pillow in exasperation.
"Of course I love you you prick! I wouldn't just kiss you as my last action if I didn't love you!" Sherlock sat back in his chair a little, and John readied himself for the rejection that was sure to come. "Listen, it's okay if you don't feel the same way. It's not going to make things weird between us, I swear. I'll just . . . I'll figure things out. But we can still be friends, yeah?"
"No." The voice was small, John was almost unsure that he had heard it. He felt as if his heart was stopping. He wished he had just died when that bullet hit him.
"No?" He asked, his voice coming out in a whisper. Sherlock stood up, and John assumed it was to leave, but then Sherlock was pressing his lips up against John's, hesitantly, sweetly, his long fingered hands coming up to cup the side's of John's face. Sherlock pulled away, resting his forehead against John's.
"I would like to be much more than friends, John. If that's alright with you." John felt himself crying now. Getting shot was the best thing that had ever happened to him, it had prompted him to act on his feelings for Sherlock instead of just hiding them for the rest of his life.
After two weeks, John had recovered enough to go home to 221B Baker Street. He walked out, standing tall, next to his boyfriend. Sherlock slipped his hand into John's and went to hail a cab.
"Sherlock, let's just walk. I haven't been outside for ages, and it feels good." Sherlock nodded, smiling, and pressing his lips to John in a quick, familiar kiss.
"Whatever you say." John grinned back at him and then tugged his hand, leading Sherlock off down the street. They walked for a long time, and as they started to near Baker Street, John felt himself get excited. This was a new life, a new experience, opening up it's doors just for him. Now Sherlock and John would get to date, maybe marry eventually, solve crimes together forever, as a couple. Maybe adopt a kid . . .this life opening itself up before him seemed full of endless possibilities. Mostly he couldn't wait to get home so he could finally shag Sherlock senseless. There had been dirty talk in the hospital room, promises of what would happen when John got out, but it was never enough. John felt his step quicken now, as Sherlock released his hand to get his keys out of his pocket to open the door. John started crossing the street, and looked back at the man. He was gorgeous, standing there, rifling through his pocket, the sunlight streaming onto his alabaster skin, and his eyes- good god those eyes! They weren't just one color, they seemed to be all of them at once. And that mouth, that ever so kissable mouth, opening up wide in shock and screaming,
"JOHN!" John didn't feel anything as a bus came seemingly from nowhere and slammed into his body, killing him instantly. Sherlock tried to go on without him, but found he could not. He killed himself two weeks after the funeral, by jumping off a building. London grew darker without the two men, and fell into chaos when Moriarty grew bored of the silence.
The End