Mending Icarus by Aless Nox

After a particularly brutal case, John tells Sherlock that he is moving out. Sherlock decides to investigate John in order to figure out why. A post Reichenbach story. Warning: Violence, language, suggestive situations.

"I've texted Lestrade. He says the police are on their way," Sherlock said as he and John crouched on the floor of the bank among two dozen or so frightened customers.

"But I don't know if that hostage will survive till then," John said, "Do you see the way that man is waving the gun. The safety is off. It could go off any minute."

"Quiet over there, I said quiet!" The masked gunman demanded waving his gun carelessly around the room at the cowering people. He pulled his arm a little more tightly around the neck of his hostage: A blond, middle aged woman in a brown dress and sensible heels. She looked like she had just come to town to shop for clothes for a new grandchild, little knowing that a trip to the bank would lead to this. She squealed as he pointed the gun toward her, walking on her toes as he dragged her toward the teller's station.

"Fill it!" He said to the man behind the counter as the second masked man climbed behind the counter forcing the bag into the teller's hands.

The first man held the gun to the woman's temple. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth contorted into an expression of horror and fear. John started to rise, but Sherlock put a hand on his arm, "No heroics, John. Lestrade will be here soon."

"They'll kill her before then," John whispered, "We've got to do something."

Sherlock looked into John's eyes gauging his intentions. He nodded, then he shrunk down to the floor and crawled behind the line of crouching people until he was lost from sight behind a desk. John slowly crept forward, pushing himself to the front of the crowd of people most of whom had just come into the bank at lunchtime to get a bit of cash. They let him pass through eager to have someone else between them and the gunman who waved his gun freely aiming at the crowd every time he heard a threatening noise.

The woman under his arm was blinking and bending at the knee as if she was about to faint. He pointed the gun at her head. "You stand up lady or I'll shoot you right here. There are plenty of other hostages besides you."

The woman finally did faint slipping from his grasp to the ground. He took the gun in both hands and pointed it down at her head, only to be distracted by Sherlock standing with one hand raised at the edge of the room.

"Excuse me," Sherlock called, "But I need to get into my safe deposit box now." The man, startled, swung his gun aiming directly at Sherlock's head.

At that moment, John charged. He hit the man full on knocking him back, then he reached out to take the gun. The gunman was half a head taller than John. He tried to turn the gun toward John, but he stood too close. John grabbed the man's arm with both of his hands bending away from the gun as the gunman tried to turn it toward his face. The gun fired.

People screamed and ran in all directions. The other masked man jumped up onto the counter to attack John from behind, but the gun went off again hitting him squarely in the chest. He fell backward beside the teller who cowered on the floor crawling away from the pool of blood that was starting to soak into the spilled pound notes.

The gunman turned in surprise when he saw the other man fall, and John took his opportunity chopping at the man's wrist so that he dropped the gun and pushing him across the floor like a Judo master until he crashed up against the wall. John put his hands around the man's throat choking the life out of him. His teeth gritted in an expression of fury.

The gunman, disarmed, seemed to have lost his spark. He tried to talk but all that came out was a screech as John's finger's tightened. His eyes widened in fear as he looked into John's and he slowly passed out. John kept holding his throat. Suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder.

"John."

John whirled around to the man behind him throwing him to the floor. He pressed against his throat, grabbing a convenient scarf and pulling it tight, before he realized that it was Sherlock. A pair of sudden indrawn breaths and John loosened his hands on the scarf. He dropped down on his knees and breathed heavily. Sherlock sat up rubbing his neck. Suddenly there was the sound of sirens and a face peered through the glass door before a host of policemen with riot shields rushed in.

Lestrade walked over to where John and Sherlock sat against the wall of the bank lobby. Some officers were carrying away the gunman. Others took photos of the gun on the lobby floor as medics took care of the fallen woman.

"A little late for the party," Lestrade said. "Nothing to do now but sweep up. This your handywork?" he asked Sherlock.

"No, John's," Sherlock said. "I was going to try to separate them, but he got there first. Always one for the heroics, John."

"I can't say that I mind," Lestrade said, "It seems that no one got hurt, that is no one other than the robbers. John, are you okay? It's just you look a bit out of sorts. Let me call a medic."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," John said, "I just need to go home and get some rest."

"Well, we should be able to get everything sorted here. You get John home to get some rest. We know where you live," Lestrade smiled and patted John on the back as he passed. "Good job there," he said. John walked past without turning.

They rode in the cab in silence. Then suddenly Sherlock cried out, "I didn't get the clock out of the safety deposit box. That was the entire reason for our trip. Excuse me, turn the cab around."

"Ignore him," John said to the cab driver.

"Sherlock, we're going home. The bank will be closed now anyway."

"I suppose you're right," he said sitting back in his seat.

John slouched to one side looking out of the window, or not looking. Sherlock noticed that he seemed quiet, thoughtful, and preoccupied. He hopped out of the cab leaving Sherlock to pay. When Sherlock came into the flat, he left saying, "I'm going up to my room for a nap." Sherlock watched him climb the stairs his step rapidly increasing in speed before he slammed the door.

Weeks later, John sat on the stand at the inquest. His face impassive and emotionless as the judge read the verdict.

"In light of the evidence of the numerous witnesses at the scene, and the fact that there was a clear danger to all involved, Dr. John H. Watson is cleared of all charges. You are free to go."

The gavel pounded and pleased sounds escaped from the audience. As John walked through the courtroom a number of people rushed up to shake his hand. Sherlock fell into step with him as he reached the doorway.

"Now whose the famous one?" Sherlock said smiling. John pushed himself ahead to avoid the crowds and Sherlock rushed behind.

At home Sherlock opened the paper. "It seems the gunman will survive to stand trial. He 's still in hospital though. May suffer brain damage. That's quite a skill you have John. I still have the marks on my neck."

"Sherlock," John said his eyes sharp his voice firm, " I have something I need to talk to you about."

Sherlock put down the paper and looked at John's serious expression. "What is it, John?"

John licked his lips and looking straight into Sherlock's eyes he said. "I'm moving out."

Sherlock examined John. He was sitting forward at the breakfast table. His jaw tense as if he had been grinding his teeth. The edge of his mouth turned down. His right knee bouncing up and down as if he wanted to be off this instant.

Sherlock looked into his eyes, and asked, "Why?"

John leaned back in his chair. He put the knuckle of his right forefinger into his mouth. "Does a man need a reason to go where he wants? I'm just giving you fair warning. I plan to move by the end of the month." John rose from his chair and walked into the living room. Sherlock opened his mouth but said nothing as John put on his coat and left.

Sherlock stood pulling his dressing gown closed around him as he contemplated John's statement. He thought, "This is unlike John. There was no sign before that he was displeased with our living arrangements, but something has caused him to want to leave now. What has precipitated this sudden reaction? Have I said anything, done anything different today than yesterday? Why was John suddenly so agitated? Something about John has changed. I must investigate it. I need data."

Sherlock rushed to his room to get dressed.