Their Great Adventure
By Astrild Niflheim
Rating: T Violence/Language/Mild Sexual Situations
Description: Sequel to Another Way 'Round the Problem John and Sherlock take on Moriarty's network so that it will be safe to return to London and their lives. They find themselves and each other along the way. Johnlock established relationship. There will be Romance, Hurt/Comfort and Angst scenes as well as the categories chosen for the story.
Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of the BBCs Sherlock or the characters portrayed by Cumberbatch and Freeman nor am I making money from that idea.
A/N: I felt encouraged by the reviews for my first story, so I'm going to try something a little harder. This story was actually the goal of the first one – the first one being the stepping stone to the story I really wanted to tell. However, it will not be written as quickly as the first one and I'm not sure where exactly I'm going or where I'll end up. I also expect it to be much longer than the first. Seriously, if anyone has any ideas on where things should be heading, in your opinion, let me know and I'll see if I agree and can take it there. I'm trying not to go OOC, so let's keep our fingers crossed.
Chapter One – The Demise of Dr John Watson
Two days after they put Sherlock Holmes to rest and Mrs Hudson on a train to her sister's for a holiday, DI Lestrade was called out to 221B Baker Street. Despite the professional detachment in the dispatcher's voice, he could hear a note of sadness. Or, that might have be his own thoughts, having a very good idea on what he would find once he got there.
He hated being right.
Lying on the couch was the body of Dr John Watson.
His face had been disfigured by the self-inflicted gunshot wound, but it was him. He lay there, wearing one of Sherlock's dressing gowns over his own usual attire, a human skull the inspector had often noticed decorating their mantle tucked under his arm, a rolled up suicide note sticking out of the eye socket.
Lestrade heaved a heavy sigh, sad to see the good doctor reduced to this, and wondering why he hadn't seen this coming. There had to have been something he could have done to prevent this turn of events; visited him, made sure he wasn't alone. But, no, Watson had clearly loved Sherlock too much to go on without him. He would have found a way no matter what anyone had done.
He waited until the photos had been taken before removing the note and unrolling it. Lestrade frowned as he read the last blog of Dr John Watson.
Today is not the day of my death. The day that Sherlock Holmes died, falling to the ground like an angel whose wings had been torn asunder, was the day that I died. How can I go on with my heart, my soul, my very reason for being no longer here? Sherlock was ripped from me and now I will rip myself from this mortal coil to join my love on the Other Side. Farewell. Farewell.
Well, that was… odd.
000000
"Are you seriously blogging? This is supposed to be a *secret*. No one is supposed to know that either one of us is alive."
"No, don't be obtuse, this isn't going online. I'm chronicling our adventures to be posted later, after Moriarty's ring has been broken, your good name has been re-established, and we can show up back home alive."
Feeling very self-satisfied, John put a period at the end of his last sentence and hit save, not closing his laptop until the dark haired man practically in his lap was done reading the page. Finished, Sherlock gave him a grave nod.
"Very informative," the detective announced, "and so much better than your last foray into the written arts."
"I knew you didn't like my suicide note," John mock groused, trying not to laugh.
"It was the most trite, juvenile, *lurid* piece of prose it has ever been my displeasure to read. And putting the body in one of my dressing gowns? Clutching the skull? What do you do when I'm not at home? Watch tella novella and eat bon bons?"
"I declared to the world my eternal love for you."
"If you ever say any of that rubbish to me I will *actually* step off of a high roof."
John shot a wicked smile to the man sitting on the bed next to him in their cheap, non-descript hotel in South America. The heat was oppressive, the air conditioner barely worked, and John *knew* he didn't ever want to shine a black light on their lodgings, but right then none of that mattered. Only one thing mattered. Making Sherlock pay. He lovingly wrapped his arms around the other man's shoulders.
"Well, how 'bout this, then?" And, jumping to his knees onto the bed, quickly placed his startled partner into a head lock.
"You, are, the, most, ungrateful, infuriating, beautiful, self-centred, ego-centric – "
"Don't those mean basically the same thing?"
"Don't interrupt when I'm strangling you! Infuriating – yes, I know I said that one but it bore repeating! Asinine, gorgeous, opinionated, insane, mad man I have ever had the pleasure of shagging in my life!"
They had struggled against each other until they were fully on the bed, John on top of a heavily breathing Sherlock, both with sweat dripping from their foreheads, and both grinning from ear to ear.
"And what exactly is it that you're going to do about these pent up hostilities of yours?" Sherlock asked, his voice heavy. "It's not good for you to let them fester."
"Oh, I'm going to make you scream my name."
"Yes, but should I scream John or Peter?"
John huffed, annoyed that Sherlock's brother had been the one to choose their assumed identities. Peter. Please. After going from a plain, but noble, name like John, he could have given him a better name than that. Sebastian, or something. Maybe called Sherlock Basil. But no, they were Peter and Carl, and wasn't that just – boring.
"On second thought, I think I'll just leave you speechless."
"Good luck with – oh."
Sherlock was unable to speak for the next forty five minutes, which John was sure must have been a world record.
00000
Freshly showered and dressed, John and Sherlock sat side by side against their headboard, shoulders pressed together, but otherwise not touching. They were simply staring out the window, watching the sun set. They had a decent view from their third floor window, and neither spoke for a long time. Finally, as the sky turned a dusky purple, John sighed and turned to look at his lover's profile. He didn't speak for a moment, just looking, letting the warmth in his stomach spread.
"What are we doing, Sherlock?"
"As I explained, Moriarty was funding a drug ring here in Bolivia. One of the lieutenants was also in his personal employ and most likely one of the many assassins he had lined up to execute you if I failed to kill myself."
"They were the ones living on our street, weren't they?"
"They weren't the only ones. The man was devious. And more careful than I like to give him credit for. He had backups for his backups. We may never know the full extent of his reach. We can only hope that we reach all those who were likely instructed to kill you. The ones in London have been dispatched by Mycroft's men. We have to dispatch the others."
"That's really what I'm asking, I guess. We're the assassins now, aren't we?"
Sherlock finally turned to face him. John couldn't read all the emotions that were swimming in the depth of his grey eyes, but he could read enough. Without lifting his arms from where they were crossed over his chest, John leaned into Sherlock and graced him with a lingering kiss.
"It's ok," he said when they broke apart. "I've killed for you before, without a second thought. Don't forget, I'm already battle hardened. I can do this. But how about you? Are you prepared to kill?"
There was a burning inferno in Sherlock's eyes just then, one that no one but John would have noticed because the other man's control over his expression had always been tight and perfect. Well, almost always.
"There is no limit to what I am prepared to do to keep you safe. And I will sleep well afterwards."
"I'll take that as a vow."
Sherlock nodded and turned back to look out the window. It had grown dark enough for stars to begin to make their presence known.
"Yes, I do vow that to you," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I give you my heart, my life, and my solemn vow that we will both walk out of this ordeal not only alive but free to live the rest of our lives together."
From anyone else, the moment may have been sentimental, John thought, but Sherlock's dark, intense voice sent a shudder down the smaller man's spine and he knew that anyone who stood in their way would be lucky if Sherlock simply killed them. The man did not do sentiment, be he knew how to hold a grudge and he did revenge very well.
TBC
A/N the 2nd: As I got to the end of the last story, I did intend to go on with the story and attempt to tell how they handled the last vestiges of Moriarty's hold over them, like I said in the top note, but I intended for their adventure to start in Belgium. It wasn't until much too late, like when I decided to write this and glanced at my last chapter of the other, that I realized I had accidently put them in the centre of South America. You can imagine that, right? Me sitting there going "Bolivia? That's not in Europe. Shit!" But, hey, so good for them! They're taking a world tour lol. Long ramblings, thanks for your patience. Hope you liked!