As per usual, Sherlock is not mine, obviously. If it were, no one would watch it.
Not quite sure what this is, just thought I'd get writing again because my fan fiction account was starting to look a bit dusty over here.
Post-Reichenbach, Post Sherlock's return.
When the first shot rang out, Sherlock hit the floor. Several more followed soon after.
There had been many a debate over the years as to whether the infamous Sherlock Holmes was indeed a human underneath it all—a debate which he did nothing to settle. All the same, he did retain most of his human instincts, however far he strayed from his humanity in general.
From the corner of his eye, he'd seen John do the same, behind a stack of boxes nearby.
Of course, they hadn't planned on their case ending like this, but things rarely ever went as planned. Sherlock kicked himself for not expecting the guns. Of course the thieves would have guns; it was hardly as if they had enough brains among the three of them to go about their business in any way that required less violence. After all, it hadn't even seemed to occur to them, in their crazed fury, to shoot through the boxes, but apparently that was too far beyond their comprehension, much to Sherlock's delight. Still, he couldn't help but feel a bit off his game on this one.
He made a mental side note to chide Lestrade for his team's inability to deal with even the simplest minded criminals these days.
The warehouse was untidy, especially after the brawl that had ensued mere minutes earlier before the criminals had gone for the guns, just enough that the clutter got in the way of his line of sight. He couldn't seem to get a clear view of their enemies or his friend. It was hardly the place he felt comfortable being in. Then again, he supposed, it was rarely comfortable being on the receiving end of the line of fire. He resolved to change that.
A smaller box flew into the air, promptly filled with bullet holes as Sherlock made his way to a set of boxes behind him. From his new hiding spot, he could see John just enough to catch the other man's attention.
With the waving of a few hands, they quickly formed a plan. Sherlock's constant annoyance at having to explain himself to the lesser of minds seemed to mix with John's military training over the years, proving a useful skill for the both of them.
Sherlock could see John tense against one of the crates, preparing to set a distraction while he slipped around behind the thieves. It was slightly risky, of course, but they'd certainly faced worse in their days.
Between the time sound erupts back into the room and the first man hits the floor, Sherlock hadn't even blinked. By the time the second registered what happened, he found himself out as well.
The third, to Sherlock's dismay, seemed to have been brighter than he'd given him credit for. It wasn't often Sherlock Holmes took a gun to the face, but the butt of one certainly felt a bit worse when unexpected.
He stumbled backward, more shocked than he expected to find himself on this case.
"That's for Moriarty, you asshole."
Sherlock looked up, finding himself staring into the barrel of the man's gun.
"This," he continued. "This is for me."
Sherlock ducked out of the way, fully expecting to hear another shot ring out. What he was met with, however, was John coming to his rescue. He was glad to have John around; he'd made a far better companion than his skull ever had.
It was times like these when Sherlock couldn't help but realize how foolish, how unforgivably blind he'd once been in telling John that heroes didn't exist. He'd never admit it, but he was so obviously wrong. They did exist, though Sherlock couldn't be counted among them.
"A little help here?" John said, his knee in the man's back, holding him to the ground.
Sherlock unhooked a pair of handcuffs, which Lestrade had unknowingly lent to him, and threw them to John. He wasn't fond of the method, but it got the job done and Lestrade would be wanting the last remaining live criminal he'd been looking for.
"You know," the man couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut. "We're still out there. And we will hunt you down, Holmes. Moriarty wasn't just a man, he was an idea. And you can't just kill," he spat, "you don't just kill an idea."
Sherlock was ready to shut him up, that was for sure, but John gave him a stern look. He'd heard his fair share of useless dribble over the years. They never did seem to learn.
"And you better be damned sure the next time I won't miss." The man looked over at John as he spoke. Sherlock made sure his fist found the man's face.
He felt a bit better afterward.