a/n: One shot. Could be developed into a series. Up to you. Review. Let us know.
'Sherlock? Sherlock, please.' John begged. The sandy haired man would have gotten down on his knees had he any inclination that it would make a difference.
The lunatic turned around.
"Come back to me, Sherlock. Please."
Idiot. Saying that was not a smart decision. Clever as he was, he'd just get himself blown to pieces. The other man just stood there unblinkingly. No, no, no no! Now was not the time for him to be in his bloody 'Mind Palace.' Hell, he knew that. He'd been living with the guy for the last year, but one wrong move and... he didn't want to think about it. Did he dare? Would it risk his friend and put him in more danger that he already was? What the hell were they doing out here in the middle of a damn minefield anyway?
Yet
...
Yes.
It would.
Yes.
He dared.
He had to try.
At the very least he had to try. So, he looked to the ground and saw his best friend's poncy rich person shoes indented into the dirt that lead to Sherlock's current position. John compared his shoe size to that of the other man's. They were three sizes smaller. He could work with that. Get the moron back here to safety. John would have to be careful though. An inch off from Sherlock's footprint and it could very well be 'Goodnight Gracie.'
He looked back to his friend who was standing there aimlessly in the middle of the minefield.
'If we get out of this alive,' John muttered to himself, 'we are going to have a long talk.'
Looking back to the ground, he followed the trail Sherlock had left. He looked up to him when he was halfway across the dirt of death. John mused that that would be a classicly terrible title for a horror movie. But nothing would be more horrifying than the look of pure, unadulterated terror that flashed across Sherlock's face.
So.
The click John thought he'd heard wasn't a figment of his imagination after all.