Okay, John has a psychosomatic limp, or he did. In the pool scene, he didn't collapse until Sherlock was looking away. I just thought that the pool scene from his point of view would have been good
I hope you like (:
John's leg hurt, no more than that, it fucking throbbed. Whatever Moriarty had done, all the poisonous words that had eaten at him, that had dripped into his ears and all the carefully inflicted wounds that wouldn't bruise or bleed, John could not feel them over the fundamental thudding of his leg. Every moment was a massive force of will to remain standing, his leg threatened to give out and he shook, but he couldn't let Sherlock see. When he'd seen Sherlock, his whole body had snapped to attention and he'd nearly dropped to the floor, because the pain was so intense as his muscles locked.
His mind, however, was undamaged, so he tried - oh he tried so very hard - to let Sherlock know it was a trap. Blinking S.O.S. in Morse code was all he could think of, and Sherlock acknowledged it,; the slight tip of the head, and the sadness in his eyes when John started talking. But he wouldn't run. God damn him he wouldn't run.
"Evening. This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" His voice shook. It fucking shook. But that was fine; he could pass it off as listening to Moriarty's voice filtering through his ear. It burned like acid, that Irish voice, it was almost intrusive in his mind, and he had to say those words. Each one was like a physical blow to both Sherlock and himself. The look of blank shock on Sherlock's face was almost more than he could bear, but the soldier in him was stronger than that… He was better than that. He stood firm, forcing the pain to the dark recesses of his mind. He didn't want to be killed, no, of course not, so he spoke those words; he articulated them and controlled the tremble in his voice.
"What would you like me to make him say next?" John could hear the strain in his own voice; he could feel the tremble in his chest every time he spoke, but he straightened, pulling the green parka apart a little so that Sherlock could see the Semtex and blinking lights, see the weight on his chest. Sherlock's face registered blank shock.
"Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' g-." John would have laughed at the absurdity, but he didn't want to get his head blown apart, and he didn't want Sherlock to have to die because of his own stupidity. Instead, he straightened his back until it was ramrod straight and kept his face impassive. A soldier's pride was hard to break. He. Would. Not. Be. Scared.
Finally, Sherlock mercifully interrupted John, so he no longer had to speak. At last he could just breathe and attempt to control the infernal shaking of his leg. The next words caught in his throat, a loathe to say.
"Nice touch this, the pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him," the doctor paused, "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."
Oh Christ, he was talking about killing him. Moriarty, that evil man was telling Sherlock how easy it would be to kill John, and it did more than scare him, it horrified him and fucking terrified him because he knew, he knew that the chances were high that he would die here at this pool side… just like Carl had. How ironic that Carl's murder was the first Sherlock ever tried to solve, and this one would likely be his last.
He wanted the words to stop, to cease, to go away. He didn't want to hear them any more… Not in his ears or anywhere near him; he didn't want to have to narrate his own death. Because that's what it was, of course it was… It was John Watson narrating the death of himself and Sherlock Holmes.
That infernal man took those last words as a cue. He appeared and captured Sherlock's attention, paying little to no mind of John. But Sherlock, that wonderful man, was still watching him out of the corner of his eye, even as he conversed with the psychopath. It took him a moment before he realized Sherlock was talking to him, the words were fuzzy, as if heard from a long way away.
"You all right?" At last, Holmes' composure crumbled and John saw his vulnerability, but he wouldn't let that happen, he couldn't see the fear once again light in Sherlock's eyes. Before he had a chance to respond, Moriarty had jumped in. Of course he had.
"You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead."
I wasn't asking permission. John thought but remained silent, almost poised to recite his military code number as was his default. That was when he realized that he was in real danger;the type of real danger that people only ever talk about in movies or novels. This type of real danger didn't happen in real life, but it seemed as though it was, and there was absolutely nothing John could do to get out of this mess. When the missile plans were tossed and those red lights were blinking on his chest, John knew that there was nothing left to keep them alive, so he acted. It was entirely on instinct. He jumped and grabbed Moriarty around the throat.
"Sherlock, run!" John shouted. But that man, that brilliant, impossible man, shook his head and blinked slowly in John's direction. Not while you're still here.
"Just like that, Mr Moriarty. Pull that trigger and we both go up." He should have thought that there would have been others, but he didn't and he knew then that those lights would appear on Sherlock too, the red laser interrupting his smooth and pale skin. Moriarty hissed something about pets and sentimentality and his suit. As if John gave a shit that it was Westwood. He just wanted out. There was more talk, almost banter, and then Moriarty was gone, the last sing-song tones of his voice filtering away into the echoing cavern of the pool space.
"All right? Are you all right?" Sherlock had an edge of panic in his voice, and John wanted to grab him and shake him, but the weakness in his knees wasn't allowing it. He had to stay upright, alive, safe. He had to do it, because Sherlock knew him as the dependable one, the steady one, the one that saved their lives, and he couldn't let him down. He was a soldier.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Sherlock." He paused as Sherlock slide the bomb away. It was odd that it didn't go off, given the force that Sherlock had used in wrestling it off his body.
"Sherlock! Are you okay?" His priority, first and foremost, was Sherlock. It always had been since the moment they met. As Sherlock tossed the jacket, John felt himself collapsing and reached for the wall that was so far away, so very far out of reach. All he wanted was to sit down, get his strength up and then run, but Sherlock wouldn't stop talking. And neither would he. Words just spewed out of his mouth; conversation. Why weren't they just running? It was logical that they should be, so why weren't they?
He tried to catch Sherlock's eyes, but his weakness had given him a bad vantage point. So bad, in fact, that Sherlock couldn't see.
And then, in an instant, Moriarty was back. (That bastard was so changeable, as he said himself, he'd told John that so many times when he'd had him alone, over and over.) How could he have forgotten? What were they talking about? All he heard was Sherlock.
"Probably my answer has crossed yours." The gun. Oh god his gun. It was aimed at the vest. Sherlock was going to blow them sky high. Oh god. Sherlock looked at him, and he nodded, he nodded because there was nothing else they could do. The laser dots were back, over him and Sherlock, so they had no choice.
Sherlock pulled the trigger.
John had positioned himself, bunched his legs up, and as Sherlock pressed down on the cool metal, he sprung at him. The explosion was hot, rolling over him in waves of searing heat and pain. Then there was water; cool and wet against his blistered skin. He could feel Sherlock beneath him.
They surfaced, gasping for air, and then, finally, the soldier in John gave up. He was a soldier; he had managed to be a soldier, but now, in the water that was still rolling over them, the grit in his mouth, the plaster dust in his lungs, the heat on his face and the pain in his leg, he could no longer take it, and he surrendered.
I hope you enjoyed it
Drop me a review if you have the time
Much much love, Erin xx