Hey there, Fang here. Sherlock for the win! I am a bit happy with how this one turned out. Please enjoy.
Sherlock was never good at listening to people.
More like he was never very recipient to taking orders.
Case in point when Lestrade deliberately blocked he and John's way out of their Baker Street flat with the protest that this time, the case was too dangerous for either of them. The criminal they were after was a skilled murderer, a real professional. This was no street thug, Lestrade proclaimed anxiously if firmly. However, the path of deductions was there to follow, and the high-functioning sociopath had already found his prey. Sherlock simply raised his eyebrow at the well-meaning inspector and brushed his way past him, his long, properly over-dramatic coat and John trailing close behind. John turned slightly and shrugged at Lestrade in farewell on his way out.
Rain fell in patters on the walk as the two men raced their way through the streets of London in the dead of night. The weatherman implied earlier on on the tele that it would be safest for everyone to remain inside until the expected storm blew over, but Sherlock barely even heard the warning. A case called, therefore, protocols dictated that anything even remotely argumentative would be ignored.
Sherlock barely paused in his hunt to make sure John still followed in the gathering gale that had snuck up on them in their pursuit. Not that it was wiping away any of the signs or markings that the killer had left; and even if it was, Sherlock Holmes was the Sherlock Holmes. Nothing got by him. The bloody wind had no right interferring with his work. If he wasn't in so much of a hurry he would stop and yell at it to blast away somewhere else, damn the consequences of looking like a mental patient. John already swore he was 99% there anyway.
The criminal, Haggard, his name was, was only a block or two ahead; Sherlock could see the figure clearly in the light of the street lamps. He motioned for John to take the way right into the alley, his extensive knowledge of London's backstreets and more unscrupleable areas mapping out in his mind the routes they would both take to corner this man. John nodded hurriedly and dashed into the darkened street. That man was fast when he wasn't convincing himself of his psychosomatic limp, Sherlock thought randomly, and then his entire being focused on the chase and everything else was cut away.
He pulled out the army revolver that he had borrowed from John earlier that evening and had convieniently and totally not-on-purpose forgotton to return; no doubt his flatmate was cursing himself for not remembering to ask for it back. His phone was vibrating; Lestrade, no doubt, probably ready to use his strong vocabulary to tell Sherlock what a bloody idiot he was, and how dare he go after such a dangerous criminal with barely any weapons and only himself and John, when he could have obviously waited for the police to help and blah blah blah Sherlock had no time for such quite logical speculation.
Sherlock was turning the last corner into the side road between the two buildings, where he hoped John was coming from the other side to catch this man's escape route and cut it off. John, at the speed he was going, would make it there first only a few seconds before Sherlock. It was a risk Sherlock had to take; anyway, John could take care of himself in a fight, if one was to take place.
The sight that met him as he rounded that last corner stopped him short as if a bullet hit him in the chest. Haggard had his back turned to him, standing completely still. Sherlock doubted that the gunman hadn't heard him, and so therefore, there were only two options.
"John?"
"I'm here, Sherlock." came John's oddly strained voice. As if he were pain. Even more strange.
A chuckle from Haggard made Sherlock's eyebrow raise a fraction of an inch, and then the criminal turned around to face the detective.
The criminal was where he wanted him. Sherlock already had John's gun aimed directly at the man. Everything had worked perfectly.
Except for the fact that Haggard had John in front of him, a knife at his throat and his other hand digging into John's shoulder.
John's bad shoulder. No wonder he wasn't fighting back.
"Mr. Holmes, I presume?" Haggard said conversationally, seemingly ignoring the pale man in front of him. Sherlock cocked the gun.
Upon the familiar sound, Haggard jerked the knife up into John's throat, cutting enough to draw plenty of blood, but not enough to make it life-threatening. John stiffened, but made no motion to suggest that he even felt the pain of the knife or the hand in his shoulder.
Sherlock's small intake of breath was his only sign of panic. His finger on the trigger of the gun now aimed at both men did not waver.
"Place the gun down on the ground, Holmes, if you would be so kind." Haggard's hand twisted the knife slightly in the wound in John's throat.
Sherlock did not take kindly to orders. Or listening to people. This was both.
There was no way he could shoot around John. Haggard wasn't going to let John live, even if he did put the gun down. Gun still steady, he met John's eyes, searching for that constant trust that he still wasn't sure he deserved. He found it there, radiating from John like a beacon of light. John nodded slightly, imperceptibly, and Sherlock found himself taking in a breath.
And shot.
Both John and Haggard staggered back, Haggard losing his grip on John as his arm stretched towards his own injury. Sherlock was on him in a heartbeat, his fist already crossing the man's face. In one fell swoop, Haggard hit the ground clutching his shoulder and nose, unconscious.
Sherlock already knew Lestrade was on the way with his officers to act as their "back-up", and so gave no more than a glance at his victim before turning his entire attention to the other man on the ground.
John was already starting to try to sit up, and Sherlock quickly pushed him back down, probably a bit more roughly than needed in his haste.
"Sherlock-" John bit back a choke of pain as he looked at the growing stain of blood on his jacket from the bullet wound.
"Where." was all Sherlock said forcefully, before quickly lifting John up to divest him of his coat. He tore the jumper he was wearing, ignoring John's protests of running out of them to wear (that was just simply impossible, and even if it was true, Sherlock would just go out and buy him ten more. What was John without his jumper?).
To his relief, the wound was superficial compared to the bullet hole Haggard would soon be nursing. Sherlock's slightly shaking fingers glanced over the wound in John's neck, assuring himself that no, John Watson would not be bleeding out today. Not today. Never. As long as Sherlock still drew breath, John Watson would not die today.
"Sherlock, listen and follow my directions exactly." John brought him back into the real world, and he shook his head once to clear it.
John's voice was a litany of calm, collected words, punctuated by an intake of breath or a grunt of pain that struck Sherlock's heart and implanted themselves forever in his memory. He followed John's orders on how to stem the bleeding from both his neck and shoulder, how to stop any immediate risk of infection before actual medical attention could be reached. He remained silent the entire time, his mind focused on his hands touching the wound he had made, the wound he was responsible for, the wound from the bullet he had shot.
The sounds of Lestrade and the Idiot Brigade (he was still trying to figure out when the inspector had graduated from that brigade to somewhat competent) were growing auditory just as Sherlock finished. John's hand had somehow wormed its way onto Sherlock's coat lapel and had never let go. The detective now pried it off the wrinkled fabric and gripped it in his own. John's expression had grown more and more pained, though he barely made a sound.
"Sorry..." Sherlock whispered so quietly that John almost thought he didn't hear it. Then even softer, he breathed his name, as if it had some calming force behind it.
"Sherlock." He looked up at the sound of his name to find John's firm expression fixed on him. "Don't be an idiot."
Don't blame yourself, Sherlock.
Sherlock's next breath was shaky, and his words soft.
"I will never aim such a thing at you again."
Because your order I absolutely cannot follow, John.
Sherlock kept the bloodied jumper and coat.
Author's comments:
Simply a request to review please. This story is one of my babies, and I would love to see what you thought of it.
-Fang