It had to be written. It just had to.
I was on DeviantArt and inspired by a pic called BBC Sherlock - rebels made by Clicio (I compel you to go check it out somehow, it is awesome!)
And as a Potter Nerd all the way, my combined love for Sherlock and HP made it impossible for the plot bunny to slip away. So, to quote Dr. Who, my whole brain just sort of went, 'What the hell?'
Warnings: Violence later on, swear words, and probably some eventual John/Sherlock because I love it.
A park scenery stood serenely in the background, a playground inhabited by a local group of visitors. A teeter-totter swung back in forth at a pendulum's speed and a merry-go-round whirled all in sync with the gentle sway of the wind.
Away from this horde of wholesome neighbors, a single child stood alone. In his pale hand, he held a flower petal, closed up and hiding from the late afternoon sun. Silently, the little boy drew closer to the slide and swing set, the blossom perched securely in his hand.
At first, the others were none-the-wiser to his intentions. However, suddenly one curious bystander acknowledged his approach and decided to see what was up. Then, like a strategically placed row of dominoes, the rest followed suit.
Having their full attention at last, just as he wanted, the boy smiled. Anxiously, he held out the palm that encased the flower. Without a flick of his fingers or a even a twitch of the breeze to assist him, the flower petals opened up to display the beautiful blossom hidden inside. Gasps arose.
"Look!" the boy cried with delight, eyes gleaming in accomplished excitement. He had been at this for a while now, attempting to make the petals bend to his whim. And now that he had it mastered, why shouldn't he share his ability and gain the rightfully earned praise?
But there were no immediate sounds of stunned spectators or impressed chatter. Plenty of them were gaping, of course, yet the joy was mysteriously absent.
Strange, the now perplexed child thought, as he had assumed the feat quite incredible indeed! At least somebody should be congratulating him by now...
Instead, all he received was the slow-moving clatter of feet backing away. Whispered words he couldn't quite make out and shadowed glances made until he caught them with his own; then they would be retracted quickly, averting to the ground or sky, anywhere but him. Puzzled, he simply stood in the midst, utterly put off by the behavior.
Something went wrong, he concluded furiously, but was helpless to deduce the rest. What had he done to deserve such scandalized, sideways glares?
He had only wanted things to get better. Only wanted them to want to get along with him. He had worked his hardest to achieve that trick, and for what? All he had hoped for was a playmate or two to keep him company...was it all too much to ask?
"Freak," the voices reviled, crowding around him. The previously attained anticipation thrumming in his chest melted at the sheer burn orchestrated on those faces. There was no awe or surprise as he had expected.
Only aghast. Shock. Disapproval. And anger at what they couldn't understand.
Blue eyes fell with the harrowing loss of hope, blacks curls deflating as the breeze died down. Why were they so afraid? Why were they looking at him with those hating, hurtful eyes...?
His confusion was his downfall. For they saw his weakness, and three who had before been backing away now abruptly stepped forward. They had no affinity for knowledge or any unique ability like he did. However, they were quite taller and bulkier than he, which was why shoving him painfully to the ground was no arduous task.
And the remainder of them merely gazed on with fear and contempt, their eyes still screaming at him in that apathetic mantra of, 'You deserve this. It's your fault for being different.'
He distinctly remembered screaming for them to stop, aching for only acceptance, and in turn getting brutality. Such harsh, calloused words raining down upon him, more sharp and searing as the blow themselves. Blows made by persons not much...
Sherlock Holmes awoke with an inaudible gasp, clawing at the covers that were tightening around his repeatedly abused neck. Then he realized it was his body doing the asphyxiating, a response to age-old fear, and berated himself for not being adeptly alert as per usual.
Certain things in this world still caught even the world's greatest detective off guard. Certain nightmares, at least. Just another reason to abhor sleep, he decided morosely.
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice rang up the staircase, and he took this time to notice he had fallen asleep on the couch again. He groaned, wanting nothing more than to resume suffocating himself in the pillow beneath his messy curls. "Inspector Lestrade has just arrived, dear! Seems you have a case!"
Without another word of complaint, Sherlock sprung from the confinement of the cushions and hastily drew a robe around his dishelved form. This was more than enough reason to be dragged from bed. A case! Oh, thank the bloody imbeciles over at the police department, he had a case!
The boredom had really begun to get overbearing as a week or two fled by, no signs of any ominous murders or puzzling disappearances posted in either the newspaper or on the telly. Insufferable, really, and probably the reason those damnable dreams had been able to breach the carefully crafted barriers of his mind. He never dreamt when his brain was focused on more important subjects.
Just as he was about to leave and plunge into yet another misadventure, John cut him off from the opposite side of the doorway, carrying a bag he suspected was filled with groceries.
John cocked an uncertain brow at him. "Going somewhere?"
Sherlock was so pleased he was nearly giddy.
"Lestrade's come to fetch me for a case. Finally, a reprieve from that lengthy period of mundane activity! I'd appreciate it if you tagged along, actually. Could use another competent set of eyes to bounce ideas off."
"Well, sure, but—"
"But, what?"
John gestured to his attire, looking dangerously close to laughing. "In your sleeping outfit...?"
Sherlock snorted. He was wasting time on such a trivial matter?
"Pants are for idiots!" he declared over his shoulder, conquering the steps with ease, while a snickering John Watson went after him.
Truer words had even been spoken, John adamantly admitted a day and a half later, as he, Sherlock, and Lestrade were perched outside the crook's rendezvous, ready to strike.
After all, Sherlock had easily deduced the basics of the case, the color of the perpetrator's coat, and discovered his occupation with little to no effort at all, while in sleeping shorts; while Anderson and his crew had been baffled in their properly donned suits.
Roderick Badger—the rodent, as Sherlock had taken to calling him, and John saw no fit reason to discourage it—was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but certainly one of the quickest to disappear, which is why it was vital they catch him before he was scheduled to leave town.
Conveniently, him and Sherlock's combined powers figured out that the specific date of departure was in a mere few hours, so time was of the essence to put the crook behind bars.
"Now, we'll wait for an opportune moment to strike," Lestrade was saying strategically, in a hushed tone, "so no taking risks and exposing us early. Right, Sherlock?"
"Why am I always pointed at?" the detective whispered back, petulantly.
"Because you're the one most likely to act on impulse, and the only one not armed with a weapon."
"Shh, here they come," alerted John. The trio fell silently when two men approached the run-down vehicle in the center of the abandoned garage.
"Ol' Roddy travelin' shoddy? What's this bloody world coming to?"
Rod scoffed, "Please. This rubbish is just enough to take me out of the city. Then we chuck it, buy a sleek new ride, and I'm golden."
"Uh huh. Reckon this plan's too perfect to get caught on, then?" said the nameless man, raising a scruffy eyebrow.
"If I haven't been charged by now, what makes ya' think I will be anytime soon?"
"Frankly, I would have to disagree," said Sherlock suddenly, straightening himself so both blokes could see him clearly. There a distinct note of annoyance in his voice, "I mean, it is one thing to be arrogant. It is entirely another to be arrogant and stupid."
"Who the 'ell are you?" demanded the accomplice. At once, two weapons were aimed threateningly towards the detective.
"Pretty stupid, coming here alone," said Badger darkly. His gun was cocked and his crooked teeth posed excitedly. He was itching for a fight.
Luckily, both John and Lestrade took that as the cue to reveal themselves and aimed their weapons right back at the crooks.
"Alone?" Sherlock repeated calmly. "No, unfortunately for you, I'm not. See, I usually get into trouble on my own, or so I'm told. So I suggest you come quietly, or else these two trigger-happy cohorts of mine will have an awful lot of paperwork over the subject. Dreadful stuff, paperwork is."
The accomplice was looking increasingly uneasy, but did not lower his gun. Badger, however, growled like a cornered dog, "I ain't going to prison."
"Better than being dead," Lestrade advised. His eyes never left the targets. "If I were you, I'd be smart and listen to him."
John remembered something Sherlock had once said to him about stupid criminals never listening. Like most statements the consulting detective threw out of his mouth, the words definitely held some merit worth listening to. Even still, you can never completely prepare for the unpredictable.
Like most terrible situations, it started with a bang. The concerned accomplice shot and missed Lestrade by a few close inches, prompting the inspector to retaliate. Badger followed suit, shooting for Sherlock's unprotected form, only to be thwarted by John's much more experienced hand.
Of course, most wounded animals never went down without a desperate fight. And Badger, in this instance, was no better than a snarling creature caught in the crossfire. The bullet battle continued for a brief juncture without any fruitful results. Until, taking cover behind the beat-up car, Badger let the accomplice keep them busy with his continual shots, while he snuck up unnoticed.
Years of target training finally paid off, and Lestrade managed to get a hit on the accomplice's shoulder, rendering him useless. But at that exact moment, Badger jumped over from behind the rear end of the car and knocked the gun right out of closest do-gooder's hand. "Gotcha." He scowled a vicious smile.
In a matter of moments, the gun was poised, the perfect shot aimed, and all three men in the room realized a minute before the inevitable trigger pulled that neither of them could move in time to stop it. It was simply impossible.
"JOHN!"
John heard the sound of Sherlock's shout in sync with his own thunderous heartbeat—that irrevocable moment when you know your life is about to be forfeited into the Reaper's grasp, and all you can do is wait and pray for something to go wrong in the millisecond margin before the scythe falls in a final, fatal swoop.
He'd been in near-death situations before and was much too experienced at this point for fear; only a twinge of regret for dying just when life had begun to get interesting shattered the bulwark of his soldier's acceptance.
Yet death never came. The click of the trigger never registered, because it never happened, for an almost desperate sounding echo was released beforehand. A sudden, almost deafening cry of, "Stupefy!"
And then to John's absolute amazement, the man flourishing the gun went rigid with a hoarse yelp, collapsing onto the floor like a paralyzed slab of brick.
Silence descended, with the threat of demise now gone, or at least knocked out cold. John found his pulse still erratic, drumming to the beat of not only intense relief, but triumph—he had escaped the Reaper once more.
Smiling unashamedly, he glanced around to get a better look at the flatmate who had again managed to save his arse, and also get a full-detailed explanation on how he did it this time—when John realized something was terribly off.
Sherlock was breathing hard, his usual mask of perpetual calm diminished into a gaze of utmost distress. His hair was more unruly than usual from a trembling hand that ran itself through his dark locks, staring at the man he had just defeated with a simple command. Or had it been...more than just a word?
John hadn't even considered that. He only went by what he had heard, and that was a garbled sort of shout, but whatever kind of language it was, it had done the trick. His only queries were why...? ...how? ...and why was Sherlock so disturbed by an endeavor he initiated?
The revelation of what occurred finally seemed to sink in, and John belatedly figured out that his friend was actually in shock of his own actions. No sooner than the epiphany came did the shock suddenly wear off, and clarity settled in. Horror flitted across that pale face in a way that made the ex-army doctor's stomach twist.
"No," Sherlock barely whispered, the hand running through his ruffled hair now clenching the scalp in what looked like a painful grip. Said hand was still perceptibly shaking. "No..."
"Sherlock, what—?" Before the hesitant askance could even escape his mouth, Sherlock was on his feet and leaving without further adieu or explanation.
John had never seen his friend so sick or frightened. It astonished and alarmed him on so many unwanted levels. And as appalled as he was, still frozen in surprise from the last ten minutes, he still managed to act on instinct and do what he did best.
Without another thought, John leapt up and after his friend's retreating back despite Lestrade's stalling protest and did what he was possibly destined to do for the rest of his lively days; chase after the rebellious yet brilliant Sherlock Holmes.
Good? Bad? I'd really like to know. *pleadings puppy eyes* Should I continue?