Hello~ My first Sherlock or Sherlock Holmes fic. I wrote this pretty much a year ago about a week after the third episode of the BBC series. Just my take on things C:
Slight Sherlock x John if you want to see it that way. I know I do~
Sherlock Holmes characters (c) Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock the BBC series (c) Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat.
My name is Dr John Watson. I was a doctor in the Royal Army, serving in Afghanistan until recently. I was shot in the shoulder and invalided home.
I couldn't take it. My therapist thought I had PTSD. I couldn't settle, I had an intermittent twitch in my left hand and a psychosomatic limp. And the hardest thing to deal with was that I found I was no longer suited to the civilian life. I couldn't take the ordinariness, the banality. I couldn't convince myself I cared about getting the shopping, which programs were on TV, whether or not I could afford to remain in London on an Army pension.
And then I met him. Sherlock Holmes, my greatest friend. I wouldn't say we clicked at first sight, but I did feel as if I had always known I would meet him someday. Sounds silly, I know, and I dismissed it as well. And within two days we were flatmates, unlikely partners in (solving) crime, and I had shot a man dead to save his life. Suddenly boredom wasn't an issue anymore. As Sherlock's brother said to me, I wasn't going to leave Sherlock now I had met him.
So who exactly is Sherlock Holmes? Well. A self-confessed sociopath, "former" junkie, now nicotine-patch addict, manic violinist, occasional anorexic, snappy dresser, suspected homosexual, a man who gets his kicks proving he's clever – which he is. He's the cleverest man I know, if not the most sociable. Well, he certainly likes to talk. He's just not really a people person. He manages to offend almost anyone he meets – not out of any malice, usually (except for Sgt Donovan and Dr Anderson). He just doesn't know when to stop. But he is, undeniably, fun to be around. If a little dangerous. But that's okay.
I remember the first time we met Jim Moriarty. We didn't know it at the time, of course. He was playing a game with Sherlock, breaking poor Molly's heart by playing gay and trusting Sherlock to tell her. He said he was trying to spare her the pain – he thought he was being kind – but like I said. He doesn't understand people beyond the work. The work being cadavers, usually. He's not so good with the living. The second time we met him was more serious. That time, we knew how dangerous he really was.
"A consulting criminal. Novel." Sherlock had said, dryly amused at the subject. It wasn't so amusing that Moriarty had killed at least fifteen people (though not by his own hand, naturally), faked a Vermeer painting, press-ganged suicide bombers including a young child, encouraged a cabbie with a serious death-wish, and hired an assassin who nearly asphyxiated Sherlock just to get him to "come out and play". He had led Sherlock (and me, by default) a merry dance trying to see who had been killing innocent people and teasing Sherlock with the Greenwich pips, counting down.
That second encounter was memorable to say the least. I was knocked out, strapped to a pack of C-40 large enough to take out a large house, and marched to the pool where Sherlock and Moriarty were meeting. The open shock on Sherlock's face when he saw me. It was as if his brain had stopped working for the first time in his life. He must have thought I was the bomber at first, until he saw the explosives. There were snipers concealed in the building, under orders to shoot us at Moriarty's word.
Moriarty warned Sherlock to stay away from him.
"Or what?" Sherlock asked in a bored voice. "Oh let me guess, you'll have me killed."
"Well no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. No. I would burn you. I would burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed I don't have one," Sherlock said, supporting the gun – my gun – he had trained at Moriarty's head with his other hand.
"Well we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty smiled and I saw a muscle jump in Sherlock's cheek.
Moriarty left, his warning delivered. Sherlock looked at me, dropped the gun and rushed over, looking for a second almost panicked.
"Are you alright?" he asked in a tight voice, kneeling to unfasten the C-40 from me. I couldn't reply; I was too relived that Moriarty hadn't given the word to detonate. "Are you alright?" he asked again. I mumbled an affirmative, protested as Sherlock forcefully ripped the explosives off me and threw them away from us. My heart was pounding with adrenaline.
"I'm glad no one saw that," I said, crouching against a pillar. My legs couldn't support me.
"Mm?" he replied, tossing the gun between his hands distractedly.
"You, tearing my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool at night. People might talk."
He grinned. "People always do."
I grinned back at him. Then I saw the red dot jittering on his forehead. From the look on his face I knew a sniper had me lined up as well.
"Sorry, boys!" Moriarty called, coming back in. "It's a weakness – I'm just so unpredictable. Though, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You're both too dangerous to live. I would try to persuade you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
Sherlock looked at me and our eyes met, understanding passing between us. Moriarty was too dangerous to live, either. I could see Sherlock make the decision and I felt fiercely proud of my sociopathic friend; he was willing to risk his own life for the faceless people Moriarty could hurt. As I had known, Sherlock was not a soulless monster. He did feel.
"And my answer has probably crossed yours," he said, turning and levelling the gun at Moriarty, who smiled as Sherlock lowered it to aim at the explosives lying between us and Moriarty. I felt my breath coming in ragged gasps, knowing death was coming for me after all, after everything I'd gone through in Afghanistan. Sherlock looked calm, though he was breathing shallowly as well. I wanted to close my eyes but I knew that if these were my last moments, I would want to see them. And all I could see was Sherlock standing beside me, gun levelled at the bomb, face resolute. A good last memory, I thought.
He fired.
...
"No, I knew it wasn't real," Sherlock said, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Moriarty looked no less delighted.
"It was a good one, though. It really had your pet there going," he said, nodding at me. I took a deep breath and stood by Sherlock. He wordlessly passed me my gun, keeping it centred on Moriarty the whole while. I kept it steady at the man who had caused so much damage for so little reason.
How the hell are we going to get out of this? I thought. Moriarty obviously wasn't worried by the gun; he just kept smiling, head weaving from side to side in an oddly reptilian movement. Sherlock's eyes were darting around the pool, looking for exits, thinking at top speed. I took deep breaths, feeling the calm of the battlefield on me once again. I knew then that I absolutely trusted Sherlock to find a way out. And if he couldn't… dying with him wouldn't be so bad.
"Do you see the fire extinguishers?" Sherlock murmured to me out of the side of his mouth. I nodded. "Then get ready to run."
Three on the wall next to us, all foam canisters.
"I'll catch you," Sherlock promised Moriarty.
"I look forward to it," he replied with a sarcastic smile.
"Now!" Sherlock shouted. I whirled and fired at the canisters. They exploded in a rush of steam and foam and I groped beside me, found Sherlock's wrist and pulled him out the doors through our temporary smokescreen, running down the corridor. I heard him cry out in pain and almost stumble but I kept hold of him as we bolted as fast as we could out of the pool. I could hear the snipers jostling for position, trying to line up shots and Moriarty shrieking the order to kill us.
We burst onto the street and kept running, ducking and weaving through late-night shoppers, dodging into and out of shops at Sherlock's direction, winding a path away from the pool.
"Stop, John," Sherlock gasped eventually, pulling back on my hand. "My arm…"
I immediately batted his bloodied hand from the injury, seeing blood course through the gash in his jacket and sleeve and skin. The bullet had just sliced him, not gone through the arm completely. But it had torn a gash almost all the way around his upper arm, and there was a lot of blood on him, all over his white shirt. I knew we must have left a blood trail. He gritted his teeth in pain, closed his eyes and leaned back against the alley wall for a moment.
"It's not life-threatening," I said clinically, trying to get my breath back. "But keep the pressure on until I can see to it. Can you deal with the pain?"
He nodded sharply, clutching his arm again.
"Where to now?" I asked. "Baker Street?"
"He knows we'll go there," Sherlock said tightly, forcing his eyes open and looking around us.
"I need to get my medical kit," I said.
"Too dangerous."
"I don't care," I said. He looked around sharply at me, an incredulous look on his pale face. "That needs bandaging, and I'm going to do it myself. My kit is at home, so I'm going to get it. I'm not suggesting we stay there, but I'm still going."
"He'll have people watching it," Sherlock said as blood kept flowing over his hand. "You'll be killed. Call Mrs Hudson. Use my phone."
I nodded, fetching it from his inside jacket pocket and trying not to jostle his injured arm. I wondered briefly if Moriarty would be able to trace the call, but then I saw how extra-pale Sherlock had become, and how much blood was leaking from between his fingers.
"Yes, dear?" Mrs Hudson opened with.
"Mrs Hudson, I need you to fetch something from my room. A medical kit. It's on the table beside my bed."
"I'm not your housekeeper, John. Can't you get it yourself?"
"It's not safe," I said from between gritted teeth. "And it's not safe for you either, Mrs Hudson. I need you to bring it to the corner of the alley by Speedy's, then find somewhere to go for the night. It's not safe there – Sherlock and I are probably being followed. Please, Mrs Hudson, just do as I say!"
"Oh, alright dear, if you must—"
"Thank you." I said and hung up. "Come on, Sherlock. Any ideas where we can go after?"
"Lestrade," he hissed as we started moving again. "He may be a policeman but he should be able to keep us safe – for one night, at least. A night in the cells sounds like fun, don't you think?"
"Sure," I replied, putting my arm around my friend's shoulders and almost pulling him along. He was panting with the pain as he directed us through back alleys to Baker Street.
Mrs Hudson was waiting there with an overnight bag over one shoulder and my medical kit in hand. She put a hand over her mouth when she saw me and Sherlock staggering along towards her.
"What's happened? This one of your tricks, Sherlock?" she asked, eyes wide and frightened.
I delved into the kit and brought out a thick pad, pressing it over Sherlock's wound as a makeshift bandage. Blood immediately began to soak it.
"Sherlock, I need to see to that now. Is there somewhere nearby we can stop for a few minutes?"
"Left," he groaned, eyes closed and grimacing in pain. "Then right. Third turn after that. Left fork, door at the side of the corner building. Should be empty."
"Right. Mrs Hudson, find a safe place to stay. I'll call you as soon as we're both safe. Now go."
Sherlock and I staggered on and Mrs Hudson left, casting anxious looks back at us.
When we reached the house I found the door was unlocked and heaved Sherlock inside, closing the door with my foot. We were in a small kitchen. Sherlock slumped into a chair, sweat beading his brow. I tore the jacket and sleeve away from the wound, using the rip in the fabric. He sucked in a breath at the jolt of pain. I muttered an apology under my breath and ran a wad of tissue under the tap, then washing the wound and trying to stem the flow of blood.
"This will hurt. A lot," I warned him as I prepared a bandage.
"Do it, John," he replied weakly. "I trust you."
I began to bind up the gash as tightly as I dared; as soon as I could get him to hospital they could do it more neatly. I didn't have time to be neat, however, only practical. Afghanistan had at least given me the skills to do that.
"You keep a medical kit by your bed?" Sherlock asked halfway through, eyes closed and head leaned back. "Just in case?"
"Mm," I replied, busy racing to close the wound before he lost even more blood. "You never know what can happen. Good thing I knew where it was, now."
"John, did you think the bomb was real?"
"It was done very well. I wasn't on the Bomb Squad in Afghanistan, but I've seen a few. It looked very real."
"You thought I was going to set it off?" he said. "Get rid of Moriarty?"
"I did," I said quietly.
"You were willing to let me endanger your life like that?" he sounded as if he couldn't believe his own words.
"Yes. I was, Sherlock."
He groaned. "I don't deserve you, John," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I really don't."
"Quiet now," I cautioned him. "Keep up your strength. I'm almost done."
The worst of the bleeding had stopped, thankfully. I knotted the bandage and looked around; there was blood all over him, me and the table. It had saturated his clothes almost completely down the right side of his body. I could see him starting to shiver. He was going into shock.
"Call Lestrade," he said wearily. "Call him now."
I took his phone again.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade said in surprise when he picked up.
"It's John – Dr Watson. I need your help. Have you heard anything about a disturbance at the pool where Carl Powers died?"
"Just a few minutes ago. Did he have anything to do with it?"
"Yes. And we need a place to stay – Moriarty's going to have Baker Street watched. And Sherlock's injured; he needs somewhere to rest."
"Wait – Moriarty? What exactly happened at the pool, Dr Watson?"
"Inspector. Sherlock has lost a lot of blood and needs to rest. We need a safe place to stay for a while. Can you help us?"
"Well where are you?"
I asked Sherlock – I hadn't the faintest – and relayed it to Lestrade. He said he would be over in a car soon.
"John," Sherlock said suddenly. "I feel very cold."
He was deep into shock now. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around him, rubbing his chest and uninjured arm to keep him warm. I took a pair of scissors from the kitchen and carefully cut the fabric back better so any stray threads wouldn't become tangled in the bandage.
I soon heard Lestrade pulling up. No sirens, at least. He didn't knock but came straight in as we had. He stopped in the doorway when he saw all the blood. He was appalled at how weak Sherlock looked as well, I knew.
"Sherlock," I said, waking him from his tired stupor. "Lestrade is here. Come on."
"He needs a hospital," Lestrade said quietly as I helped Sherlock to stand.
"I know," I replied. "But it won't be safe. As soon as we're at the station, somewhere secure, you can call in all the doctors and surgeons you like. But it's not safe, not yet."
I pulled Sherlock's uninjured arm around my shoulders and put my arm around his waist, helping him to stumble out of the empty house and into the car.
I remember the journey to the police station as a blur of trying to keep Sherlock warm and helping him walk until his legs pretty much gave out and Lestrade and myself had to almost drag him the last way. We laid him down on a bunk and I carefully elevated his arm to rest on his chest. He moaned in pain but otherwise said and did nothing.
"Fetch blankets, and a doctor," Lestrade ordered Donovan and for once she did as he said, shouting orders.
I sat beside Sherlock, absently dabbing the sweat and blood from his face. Lestrade watched but said nothing. Sherlock seemed to be dozing. I wrapped him in the blankets Donovan brought and rolled up my jacket for a makeshift pillow. He woke when I did that and looked blearily at me.
"Where are we, John?" he croaked.
"Police station," I said gently, watching him frown and flush a little in embarrassment.
"I should have remembered that," he muttered.
I smiled crookedly. "You're in shock, Sherlock. With orange blankets and everything."
He smiled a little. "Stay with me?" he whispered, closing his eyes. I glanced at Lestrade who was pretending to be deaf.
"Of course," I replied. His hand twitched and I took it automatically in my own, squeezing his fingers reassuringly. He squeezed back.
I woke from a doze the next day to find Sherlock watching me with a tiny smile on his lips.
"What?"
He shrugged a little and I stretched to loosen the stiffness from my shoulder and back. I looked at him properly – he was propped up and swathed in blankets. His skin colour was, thankfully, only his usual pallor. He seemed to be recovering from the blood loss.
"What time is it?"
"Around eleven in the morning. Lestrade was in just a few minutes ago. I told him to let you sleep."
"How long have you been awake? You need to rest, Sherlock."
"Oh, rest. Resting's boring." He said dismissively.
"You were shot last night. You need your rest. How's your arm doing?"
"It tingles," he said with a perfectly straight face. I raised an eyebrow and his lips twitched in a brief smile. "It's not as bad now. Though, if you don't mind, I think the bandage could do with changing. The dried blood is… irritating."
"Right, let me have a look."
He pulled the blankets down from his shoulders and let me carefully take his arm and unwrap the blood-soaked bandages I had wrapped so hastily last night. When they were all off I gingerly inspected the wound, seeing how it had stopped bleeding, the flesh immediately around it bruised-looking and dry. At my instruction, Sherlock flexed his hand and slowly rolled his shoulder. He almost cracked the still-forming scab, but it held. I bathed the skin, trying to be as gentle as I could with the alcohol wash. Then I found a soft pad and began to bandage him up again, not as tightly as before now the bleeding had stopped. This was more to keep the wound clean.
"Thank you," Sherlock said when I was done.
"What I do," I muttered, debating whether to make a sling or not. I decided not, as we would have to change our clothes soon anyway to less bloody ones, and a sling would only hamper his movement.
Sherlock lightly touched my knee and I looked up into his pale eyes. "Really, John. Thank you."
I smiled. "Careful. You'll ruin your reputation if you keep on like that."
"That would be absolutely intolerable," he smiled back. "It's just so fun being the cold-hearted bastard."
"Well, I know, at least, you're not cold-hearted," I said quietly. He blinked a few times before lowering his gaze almost submissively, the smallest of smiles hovering at the corners of his mouth.
"When did you last eat?" I asked.
"What day is it?"
"Wednesday."
"I'll be alright for a bit."
"Sherlock. When did you last eat? I know you think your body's just transport for that brain but you need to eat, to refuel. Do I need to force you?"
"That could be fun," he commented.
"Oh, behave," I laughed helplessly. He grinned before nodding in assent.
"Lestrade said something about food. I wasn't really listening."
I sighed. "Any ideas yet?"
"Eleven, at last count," he said, eyes flicking to the ceiling in thought.
"Care to share any?"
"It would be premature. I need more data."
"Right. Oh – can I use your phone again? We should check on Mrs Hudson."
"Oh! Yes, sure."
"Wait," I said cautiously. Sherlock watched me, eyes bright as he watched me think. I could almost hear him encouraging me. "Will he be able to trace it to where she is?"
He looked immensely smug. "Marvellous, John. He might – the number is on the website, after all. But then again…" he raised his eyebrows expectantly at me.
"But then again," I said slowly, "If he was watching Baker Street for us, he should know where she is anyway."
"So…?"
"So? He'd have no need to trace the call, no need to want to look for her."
"So therefore?"
"I don't know. You've lost me," I gave up.
"If she picks up, then he has no immediate interest in her. If not, then we'll know she's either not answering her phone when she should be on high alert or Moriarty's men have taken her. We gain something either way, and Moriarty gains nothing at all. We'd be one-up on him."
I didn't say anything for a moment.
"That wasn't why I wanted to call her." I rebuked him softly, but firmly.
He wouldn't look at me. "I've told you before, John. I am not a good man. I cannot care the way you do about people. I thought you understood that."
"I do, Sherlock, I really do. But nothing is set in stone."
"Are you trying to humanise me, John?"
"If you like," I smiled. He smiled too, and the momentary friction was gone. Then Lestrade came in and I resettled the blankets on Sherlock's shoulders. He gave me an unreadable look before turning to watch Lestrade, who had gotten a tape recorder from his pocket.
"Now then, Sherlock. We need it on record, what happened at the pool. If we're going to assign you protection, there needs to be due provocation."
"Paperwork will be the doom of us all," Sherlock predicted. He told Lestrade everything that had happened, leaving out the incident with the Bruce-Partington plans. That was Mycroft's business, not Lestrade's – especially as Moriarty could have gone through the pool at his leisure for the memory stick after we ran. Mycroft would not be happy about that.
"Oh, we won't need protection, Lestrade," Sherlock said causally as he finished.
"Won't need—" the inspector spluttered.
"Sherlock, are you mad? He tried to kill us. With snipers! He won't stop just because we managed to escape." I said, clutching his uninjured arm.
"On the contrary, John. He knows we can't prove anything forensically. He knew I was watching him anyway, and he wants to be caught. I've told you before – genius needs a spotlight and an audience."
Lestrade and I shared a look. "Yes, I suppose it does." I muttered. "So how are we going to stay alive?"
Sherlock smiled slowly. "The game is on, John. And I have a plan."