John ran as fast as his weary legs would carry him, faster than he thought possible, but Sherlock, with his longer legs, outran him, slamming into their prey from behind.
Chest heaving as though his lungs would burst, John closed the distance between himself and the two men as each fought to overwhelm the other. But not quite fast enough.
One moment they were scuffling there; the next they were gone, leaving John to stare in terrified disbelief at the empty space.
"No, no, no, oh, God no.."
"Sherlock!"
John threw himself onto his chest and peered over the precipice, shining his torch back and forth, desperate, hoping against hope that Sherlock had not fallen into the dark abyss.
Flashes of a memory struck him like a punch to the gut. Panic rose like bile, searing his throat.
"Sherlock!"
John heard nothing until the sound of loose earth sliding down the embankment reached his straining ears.
"Sherlock?" John felt as well as heard the fear in his own voice.
"John."
Finally...finally, John spied the dark curls in the beam of light.
"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm climbing down to get you."
"No! Stay where you are, John, it won't hold two of us."
John recognised the barely disguised fear in Sherlock's voice, a fear he'd only witnessed once before, long ago, in Dewer's Hollow.
"Then I'll reach down for you."
"No, John, I'm too far down."
"I can do this."
An uncomfortable silence and then John heard the words before Sherlock could voice them.
"Don't you dare, Sherlock bloody Holmes. Don't you dare."
"John."
The voice that forever echoed in the deepest chambers of his soul curled itself around him. It was the only voice that had the power to manipulate him into seeing things Sherlock's way. It was the voice Sherlock used when all was lost.
"No."
"John."
"Shut up. You don't get to do this. You promised."
"I can't hold on much longer, John, and you can't pull me up."
"I said shut up."
John edged farther out and looked down. Sherlock's bloodied fingers held on to what appeared to be a cleft in the rock just above and to the left of his head and a protruding tree root on his right. John reasoned that the root would not survive any added burden and it was that hand he'd have to grasp to pull Sherlock to safety.
"Sherlock, how solid is the rock under your feet?"
"Foot, John. My left foot, one foot, a toehold, that's all I have."
"Easy, Okay. Don't panic," he soothed.
"Really, John? No, stay back."
"Shut up, Sherlock." So much for the effort to calm him.
John leaned out and over and reached down. Dirt and rock forced Sherlock to drop his head to avoid getting the debris in his face. The doctor halted his movements until it settled.
"Sorry, I'm just a bit off. All you have to do is swing up with your right hand and we'll lock our wrists together and I can pull you up."
"John. No. You can't pull me up."
"Don't tell me what I can't do. I may be smaller than you, but I'm strong. I can do this."
"John."
"Don't! I don't want to hear that voice. Not here, not now."
"I won't risk pulling you over."
"Sherlock, we agreed that it was together or not at all. Do you remember that?"
A long silence followed before Sherlock spoke again.
"I remember, John," he said, his resigned tone unmistakeable.
"If we fail, we go over together. No one-" John paused to hide the break in his voice. "Neither of us will be left alone."
Sherlock looked up, their eyes locked and it was done.
"Very well, John."
"You have to promise that you'll try, because if you don't try and you fall or let go because of some stupid, fucking idea that I should live even if you die, I swear to God, Sherlock I will fucking follow you. And if we don't die, I will fucking kill you myself."
"No! John, please, I promise."
Sherlock's panicked voice sliced through John's heart. "All right then. Let's do this."
"I love you, John. I want that to be the last thing I say and the last thing you hear. Just in case. I love you."
John swallowed past the sob in his throat. "I love you, too, but I'm not planning on any just in case. Tell me you love me when we're safe."
John eased forward until both arms were completely over the edge, aiming the torch beam on Sherlock's head. "Are you ready?"
"Ready when you are, Captain."
"On three, Sherlock. One."
"Two."
Sherlock's whispered count nearly broke him, but Captain John took control.
"I love you, John Watson," Sherlock whispered.
John clutched Sherlock's words to his heart.
"Three!" They shouted together.
Sherlock pushed upward, swinging his long arm easily within reach of John's stronger right hand, each man's fingers locking around the wrist of the other. John struggled with Sherlock's weight as he fought to gain leverage to back away from the edge. John felt his shoulder stretch unnaturally, pain radiating through his back and down into his hips, but he held on with every particle of his Watson stubbornness.
"Don't let go, Sherlock, don't you dare let go."
Sherlock groaned. "John. You can't hold me."
"Shut up!" John growled back at him, letting the torch fall away and securing a fistful of Sherlock's coat with his free hand just as the earth and rock broke away.
"I'm here, John."
Lestrade. Leaning over him, reaching over the edge, holding Sherlock's other hand. Where he came from, John didn't care. That he was there was all that mattered.
Strong, stabilising hands folded around John's ankles. Others gripped his belt at the small of his back, where his gun should have been, but wasn't, and pulled him back from certain death. John watched with breath held as Sherlock was pulled over the precipice and dropped beside him with a grunt and a thump.
John locked his gaze on Sherlock's pale face, only vaguely aware of Greg Lestrade at his side, so concentrated was he on holding on to the detective.
"Don't. Don't let go, Sherlock. Don't let go."
Their ragged breathing filled the air.
"You can let go now, John. Sherlock's safe."
Lying face to face, they held each other's gaze longer than was probably appropriate given the company, until they were in control once again.
"You called Greg?" John gasped.
"Yes, John."
"When?"
"Just before Congdon saw us."
Seconds ticked away until John was able to respond. "Okay."
Waving off any help from Lestrade, John rolled onto his side and sat up, failing miserably to keep his trembling at bay. When he could stand, he simply limped away.
"John?"
ooOoo
Sherlock folded himself into the back of the car, observing at once that John leaned away from him and against the opposite door. He stared out the window, his rigid posture and empty expression a startling but not unexpected warning sign.
Lestrade caught Sherlock's eye in the mirror, but wisely said nothing. The ride back to Baker Street was oddly and uncomfortably silent.
John hustled out of the car before it fully stopped in front of 221B and strode to the door. He disappeared inside, leaving Sherlock staring after him.
"John didn't thank you, Greg, that's not like him."
"Don't need any thanks, Sherlock, go. He'll need you."
"I know."
"Then why are you still in the car?"
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "I don't know."
"He's hurting, Sherlock, and angry. You put yourself in danger. Again. He almost lost you. Again. And he can't delete things like you can."
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
"Get out of the car, Sherlock."
Sherlock felt numb.
"Sherlock! Get out. Now."
Sherlock stood on the pavement until Lestrade's car disappeared from sight. Glancing up to their flat windows, which he noticed were still dark, he drew in a deep breath, held it, then released it in a long, drawn-out sigh.
Approaching the door that stood open, Sherlock hesitated, then slipped inside. Securing the door behind him, he stood in the silent hallway, his thoughts at odds with what he knew to be true. Yes, under normal conditions, he would delete his near death moment, just as he had all the others, but not this time. The image in his mind of John's terrified face would not allow such a casual dismissal.
He'd acted without thinking, but more importantly, he'd terrified John, caused great emotional pain for the one man he cherished like a rare gem.
That was the problem. He'd yet to discover a solution that would allow him to embrace the danger in the Work, but not hurt John in the process. John often said-and he heard John's voice in his head-some questions simply had no answer, so a presumption could be made that his problem might not have a solution either. Drawing himself from his conflicted thoughts, he ascended the stairs slowly.
Dreading the obligatory, angry reproach and disappointment in John's expression, and with no inevitably futile plan to avoid it, the detective slipped through the door and stood in the darkness until his eyes adjusted.
Pale illumination from the street allowed him to visually search the living room from the door, until his gaze finally rested on the chair beside the fireplace and the John-shaped bundle within it.
Leaving his coat and shoes by the door, Sherlock padded deeper into the room, nearly tripping over John's discarded coat and shoes and stood beside John's chair. The doctor appeared unaware of his presence, his head downcast and turned away.
Slowly and on silent feet, Sherlock strode to their bedroom, returning with the duvet from their bed, which he dropped beside John's chair.
For several moments he stood there, silent, watching, Sherlock again sensed that John's mind was somewhere other than in the room.
The detective moved as if in shadow, building a fire that brought warmth and more soft light to the room. Turning away from the grate, he noticed straightaway that John stared into the dancing flames, tears streaking his face.
Sherlock's heart twisted in his chest as he knelt in front of the chair, continuing his silent, watchful waiting. As well as he knew John, could deduce him, Sherlock refrained from doing so simply because his doctor deserved a deeper respect than some cursory supposition. A wave of fondness washed over him, lifting his lips into a tiny smile.
The love of his life. Sherlock swallowed hard at the truth of that love and the wonder that each had found a home in the other's heart.
Holding his breath for the expected disapproval, several moments passed before Sherlock realized it was not to be.
"John?"
His army doctor reached for him, wrapping his arms around his neck and holding him fast. Sliding his hands beneath John's thighs, Sherlock lifted him, relief coursing through him when John locked his legs around his waist. He rose with ease, as though John weighed nothing at all. Turning, he lowered them both into the chair, and waited for John to adjust himself so that he was gathered to Sherlock's chest, his head pillowed against the detective's shoulder. Pulling the duvet around them, Sherlock held him close.
"Just hold on, John."
When John's silent tears soaked through Sherlock's shirt, he held his doctor tighter still.
"I broke the most important promise," he whispered against John's temple, pressing a kiss to his soft, pale hair.
"I'm an idiot."
John sniffed, curled one hand around Sherlock's nape.
"It was stupid of me to think what I did would not hurt you."
John burrowed into that soft place between Sherlock's neck and shoulder.
"No, that's not true. I simply didn't think. It's a character defect. A defect of which I am deeply ashamed. You probably think that I'm not emotionally equipped to feel shame, but I am. I am deeply ashamed that I hurt you...again."
One small finger slipped from under the duvet to lay gently across his lips. Sherlock kissed that beloved finger.
"You're not angry with me?"
No, John affirmed with a shake of his head against the detective's shoulder before lifting his head to gaze into his eyes.
"You were angry. In the car."
A slow nod.
"I don't understand," Sherlock whispered.
John clutched Sherlock's hand as though it were his lifeline.
"I don't want to be angry with you anymore," John said in his softest voice, then hiccoughed a sob.
"John, we both know that when it comes to me, that's an impossibility. Or, at the least, highly improbable."
John closed his eyes, his expression grave.
"It's the truth."
"I would try the patience of a saint."
"I'm not a saint."
"Clearly, but you live with me after all. And you've said on more than one occasion that I would argue with God to have the last word. On your way to canonization, I would argue."
John frowned, but there was no anger in his expression, just the soft look he wore when exasperated, but loved him all the same.
"When you came back? I should not have hurt you. And I should have apologised after I bloodied your beautiful face."
"I.."
"No, Sherlock. There was no way you deserved that. I was wrong, and I'm sorry."
John, his eyes brimming again, looked down and away. Sherlock swiped at his own tears with the back of his hand.
Still averting his gaze for a reason Sherlock couldn't deduce at that moment, John slowly shook his head.
"I understand why you did it. I really do. Moriarty was a monster and only you could end him."
"John?"
"No, Sherlock, I need to tell you this."
When John finally looked up, the plea in his eyes was almost more than Sherlock could bear.
"All right."
"I know there's more to it than what you've told me. And I accept that you don't want to talk about it. One day, I know you will tell me."
"I promise I will, John. One day."
"It's been two years since you came back. I've waited four years, but I will wait for as long as it takes. But right now, I need you to know that when you take chances with your life, like you did tonight, I'm afraid for you, for us."
"I know, John. I heard it in your voice."
"I will be frustrated at times, but I won't let myself get so angry that I strike you. Never again."
"Not even if it's subtext?"
"Mocking, Sherlock."
"Sorry."
"What you do when you are on a case is all that you know. Before me, you'd been alone so long that you didn't think beyond what you needed to do to catch the bad guy."
John's tears flowed freely as he spoke between sniffs and snuffles.
"You don't have to change for me because if you changed one thing about yourself, you wouldn't be you. I love you just the way you are. My fears are my problem, not yours."
"John."
Sherlock gathered John close, holding him through the sobs and hiccoughs that followed until he finally quieted.
The one day he'd just promised John arrived quite unexpectedly.
"I did it all for you, John. Yes, Moriarty had to be stopped. Yes, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were sniper targets if I didn't jump. But I did it for you, John. I did it all to keep you safe, so that you could live."
Sherlock's thoughts raced ahead, before John could speak again.
"I did it because I couldn't bear the thought of a world without you in it. I didn't think I would make it back to you, much less share my life with you, but as long as I knew you were alive and safe, that was all that mattered."
John was silent for a long time, his head resting against Sherlock's chest, over his heart.
"I'm thankful you came back to me. I'm sorry I was such a dick."
"No apology is necessary, John, but thank you. And I am sorry for not telling you-"
John tensed, just for a moment, a tell that would have gone unnoticed by anyone but Sherlock. Like an epiphany, John's words came back to him as clear as a star in the night sky.
'because of some stupid, fucking idea that I should live even if you die, I swear to God, Sherlock I will fucking follow you. And if we don't die, I will fucking kill you myself.'
"But you already knew."
Sherlock framed John's face with his long, elegant fingers, allowing his own tears to stream down his face, even as he swiped at John's renewed tears with the pads of his thumbs.
"Yes."
"Who told you?"
"You did. Berk. "
"What? What did I miss? How?"
"Because you're an idiot, but it doesn't change the fact that I love you."
"John?"
"You know my methods, Sherlock Holmes."
"I don't understand." Sherlock was too curious to be embarrassed by the whinge in his own voice.
"Sherlock, I know you. You can't hide anything from me anymore.
From the very beginning, everything you did, you did for me, to protect me, so once I worked it out, once I got a little bit past the grief, and the anger, the rest was easy. It didn't mean I was any less angry when you came back, but I knew by then that I loved you and keeping me alive and safe was how you showed your love for me."
"Brilliant," Sherlock squeaked out, "but you still didn't know I was alive? You didn't know for certain.."
"All I knew for certain was that I loved you and in my heart, you would always be alive and well, because I would never let you die. No matter what, we would always be together."
"The miracle, you asked for one more miracle."
John's finger against his lips silenced anything more he might have said, so Sherlock nuzzled his doctor's nose instead. Crushing him to his chest, he dipped his head to capture John's mouth.
Together, Sherlock vowed in his heart, for that was what they'd been from the beginning and would be until the end.