Hey, I'm caught up with AOS and now am so happy that Fitzsimmons is canon. So happy, in fact, that I am writing a fanfiction about them. Tell me if you liked or disliked it, give me a suggestion on what should happen next!

"How the hell are we gonna get out of this one?" Jemma asked me in a low voice. We were pinned down, with at least four enemies approaching our flanks.

"How much ammo do you have left?" I asked her. I frantically tried to think. We had sufficient cover behind the sandbags, but that would change as soon as they got around our flanks.

"Only three shells left." This did not look good for us. I was down to one magazine for my pistol. "Okay," I replied, "I'm going to rush them. You cover me."

"Fitz! You know that you are going to die if you do!" The panic in her voice was growing. I wasn't exactly calm, either.

"It doesn't matter, Jemma. One of us has to carry out this mission. It's either this or we both die." I tried to get my breathing under control. She gripped her shotgun tightly. "Whenever you're ready."

"NOW!" I cried, and jumped over the sandbags. I shot down one of them and was drawing a bead on the other one, but it was too late. Their bullets tore through me like I was made of paper. The last thing I saw before I died was Simmons catching a bullet to the head.

"DAMMIT!" She cried, throwing her controller across the room. "THAT WAS THE THIRD TIME ON THAT ONE LEVEL!"

I was frustrated, too. We had been playing the game for at least two hours now, and we weren't even halfway done with the campaign. "Maybe we should take a break. This much stress can't be good for us." I set down my controller and leaned back into the couch. She put her arm around me and sighed.

"You're probably right, Fitz. It's just, we've been doing so well up until that point!" she said, standing up to get her controller. "Maybe the problem was with the classes we've been choosing. What if I went sniper and you-"

"We're going to take a break," I said firmly. I stood up and turned off the Xbox.

"...So now what are we going to do?" she asked me. "We could play a board game, or see if we want to watch a movie…"

"Let's play twenty questions!" I blurted out. Internal cringe alert. Twenty questions? Really, leo?

She let out one of her laughs, the ones that only she knows how to do. "Sure, why not?"

So we played twenty questions, and I soon learned that it was NOT a good idea to play twenty questions with a biochemist. They always know more words than you. Always.

So we chatted into the night. We talked science, we talked about how crazy our lives were, and we talked about when the hell we get another episode of Sherlock. Then she asked the question, the one which started it all.

"Are you Johnlock?" she asked me. She was smiling, but I could see the danger in her eyes. Play it cool, Leo.

"No," I replied, "I'm Sherlolly."

See, I've been through some shit. I've tasted combat, and not just in a video game. I've sat by my mother's bed hoping, praying that her chemotherapy would be successful. (It was, thank god). I've been punched by men almost three times my weight class, dropped to the bottom of the ocean and scienced my way out, and waited while my best friend was working on the cure to her alien lightning disease. But not until that moment did I know true, unadulterated fear tasted like.