Epic Fail (Sherlock BBC fanfic)

Set after 'Back in the Saddle'

November 26th, 20:11

Current Mood: exhausted

Current Music: shhhhh

"... Isn't that a bit childish?" the comment, coming as it did at that particular moment was unfortunately enough to set off his rather spectacular temper. John had said such things to him before - and in circumstances more trying than this - but today, right now, Sherlock was feeling thin skinned and difficult and in no mood to let things slide. So John's comment, on top of the fifteenth unread text from Mycroft that morning set off one of their more vicious arguments.

The two bickered on a daily basis, and John could be a nudge at times, but Sherlock had always known that underneath it all they were still on solid ground. Today, though his temper took control of his mouth and he managed to say some really not good things before he regained command. Things like 'and I suppose your relationship with your sister is perfect' and 'how much did your father drink before Harry's addiction came to light' and worst of all 'why I put up with damaged goods such as yourself is beyond me. If I ever want your opinion, which is a most unlikely event, I'll ask for it.'

"You're right," John's voice was even and his face impassive, though Sherlock was well aware he might have just said something truly unforgivable and lost his friendship forever, "It's not my place to tell you how to manage your relationship with your brother."

That was all he said, which was somehow worse than if he'd yelled back, or given into the temper Sherlock could see thrumming in his frame and thrown the punch that Sherlock so obviously deserved. Before the genius could even think to marshal some form of apology or even attempt to qualify what he had said - after all John had forgiven him for calling the veteran an idiot on their first evening together in the flat once he'd explained himself - the veteran had snagged up his coat and walked quietly from the room, down the stairs without pause and into the night, shutting the front door behind him.

That soft click felt like a kick to the chest. Knowing that he'd just done a Very Bad Thing, Sherlock had vaulted across the room, down the stairs and into the night, just in time to see a black cab pull away, John's head and shoulders visible inside it. Shouting didn't help and running after it was no good - John knew that trick and by the time he'd caught up with the taxi John had slipped out of it. The cabbie gave him a very funny look and refused to say anything about where John had gotten out. He'd taken Sherlock back to Baker Street because 'that other bloke had paid him to do it', a kind gesture that was worse than being stabbed.

Even now, John took care of him. Sherlock was first angered by that - how dare John Watson presume to take care of him! He was Sherlock Holmes! - but as the hours passed and there was no sign of his John, he began to see the true magnitude of his mistake.

Going into the kitchen to make tea, the genius discovered that John had left his phone in the flat, on the charger, so the text that Sherlock had taken an hour to write was no good. He'd been very miffed that John would have to wait to see how well he had learned to apologise - something he had learnt specifically for John's sake. No one else had ever received an apology from Sherlock Holmes - at least, not a sincere one. The argument had occurred just before lunch, which meant John had plenty of time to access somewhere warm and safe, well away from Sherlock. One of the things he really loved about John was that the other man was capable of surprising him, even though they had been friends for months and lovers for the last few weeks. John was not mundane, no matter how he seemed to others - there was something captivating about him.

He'd forgiven Sherlock's transgressions before - but Sherlock had never crossed such a meaningful line before. As the day wore on and turned into night, he was terribly afraid that he'd just found John's limits - something that he had almost come to believe didn't exist. With no way to track the other man, Sherlock finally gave in and texted Lestrade, hoping to come off casual. He didn't bother with Mycroft, who had given up on him hours ago.

John left phone at flat - is he with you? SH

The answer came back within minutes.

Don't be stupid. Stop ignoring your texts and get down here now. GL

Hands shaking, blood alternating between hot and cold, Sherlock recovered the deleted texts from his brother and snagged his coat, running from the flat to find a cab. As the cab went to the address in Mycroft's last text, Sherlock scrolled rapidly through each one, the picture that emerged making him physically ill.

Mycroft had been trying to get Sherlock to do a bit of legwork, connected to a home-grown terrorist cell. He had supplied enough details for Sherlock to complete the assignment - namely rounding up the last evidence needed for Mycroft to send his teams in and sanitise the cell - which was Mycroft-speak for either killing them all and making the bodies disappear or rounding them up and disappearing them into some sort of secure holding facility with no prospect of release. In the text that had sparked off the argument - Sherlock knew the precise moment that he had ripped his relationship with John apart - Mycroft had informed him that he would send a car if they didn't take action soon.

It was possible that John leaving the flat minutes later had been seen as taking action. The driver of his cab hadn't said where he'd dropped John off, but it was not hard to deduce that one of Mycroft's cars had pulled up beside them and John had transferred over to it, probably at Mycroft's insistence. Once aware of what Mycroft needed them to do, John had probably offered to go and do it himself. The veteran had no time for terrorism; the Taliban had inculcated in him a strong hatred of those who targeted defenceless civilians.

Something had gone wrong. John was in danger and Sherlock was not there to protect him. Sherlock was not there to protect him because he'd done something unforgivable. The turmoil in his head and heart was worse than anything he'd ever felt before. John was his greatest treasure, his saving grace. Donovan and Anderson had both predicted that the relationship would end with someone dead, but John had always retorted 'of old age' under his breath, something that had reassured Sherlock that his lover knew what he was getting into and was well prepared for it.

Now Sherlock was about to lose the one thing that made the inanity of everyday life bearable.

"Sorry mate, end of the line," the cabbie called and Sherlock threw money towards the voice, leaping from the cab and running through the cordon. The constable that liked to show up on drug busts waved him through, which was useful because there was no power on earth that would stop the consulting detective now. The rows of terraced houses were splashed with the strobe of emergency lights from the surrounding vehicles, one in particular lit up by various spotlights. At first glance it looked no different to its neighbours until you noticed the reinforcement on the doors and the way the windows had been turned into facades to disguise the interior of the house.

"Has your phone been off all afternoon or what?" Lestrade's voice was angry, but held an undercurrent of fear for the situation they found themselves in, "We got a triple nine call from this address two hours ago. The caller identified himself as John Watson and informed the operator he'd found a bomb factory. He gave this address, told them to notify me and the bomb squad and then there was a scuffle, gun fire and the line cut out. The neighbours also called in gunfire and when we attempted to gain access to the house..."

The front door burst open at that moment, cutting off the flow of unwanted information. Sherlock swallowed bile as a stout man of German origin shoved his John forward, waving a handgun around as he did. John was once again strapped into a vest full of explosives; something that Sherlock had never wanted to see again.

"American manufactured glock - self manufactured explosives, chemically based, most likely ANFO. Detonator unstable..." Sherlock muttered as he leaned forward, trying to see how the vest was constructed and the quickest way to get John out of it safely. He was somewhat distracted by the blood, John's blood, from the gunshot wound that was bleeding...

"Everyone will leave or I will kill us all!" the would-be terrorist screamed. Sherlock could already tell the man wasn't a traditional terrorist - he was out for personal gain, not political or religious. That didn't make him any less dangerous though.

The man waved the gun again as Lestrade tried, and failed, to calm the situation down. When the terrorist screamed in anger and aimed the gun away from John to menace Lestrade something quite extraordinary happened.

The hostage disarmed the hostage taker. In a sequence of movements that was so rapid it took Sherlock several moments to process, John got both hands - slippery with blood and someone was going to pay for that with their own - around the gun, ejected the clip, twisted the gun down, fired the round in the chamber into the hostage takers foot, yanked the gun from the suddenly lax hand and threw it towards the police line while pushing away from the now collapsing hostage taker. john staggered clear of the other mans grip, taking five precise steps towards the oncoming wave of policemen, suited up in gear that would protect them should Sherlock's lover suddenly explode by accident. While Lestrade directed several men to drag the now harmless terrorist away, several others darted into the house to ensure that everything was secure.

John's eyes met Sherlock's for a moment and everything went away but the most basic of their connection.

Then sound returned in a rush and Lestrade grabbed the thin genius before he could run to his lover.

0o0o0

"What's this?" John asked, prodding the box with a single finger where it rested in his lap. Sherlock would have much preferred to be in John's lap instead, but his doctor was still on bed rest and he'd promised Mrs Hudson that he would take especial care of their John.

"Your wedding ring," Sherlock replied smoothly. John gave him a doubtful look and poked the box again. They hadn't spoken about the Argument that had led to John being hospitalised once again. Sherlock had tried and John had told him to shut up when he'd staggered so terribly through his (over rehearsed) opening remarks.

"Never again, Sherlock," John had warned him and Sherlock had agreed wholeheartedly. John was generous and kind and Sherlock didn't deserve him, but he had him now and was going to keep him, no matter the cost. He'd read every one of Mycroft's inane texts and count the cost as low.

"It's a bit big," John recalled Sherlock's attention with his words, "I take it we're not going for a traditional ring?"

"When was the last time I was traditional?" Sherlock scoffed, "Open it, man."

"Yes dear," John rolled his eyes and lifted the lid off easily. The skull grinned up at him from its nest of shredded newspaper. Sherlock had owned that skull for years; it had heard some of his darkest secrets and witnessed some of his worst moments.

"Sherlock... thank you," John reached a finger in and stroked the supra-orbital notch gently, "Come here."

Sherlock leant down for the offered kiss, giving in and sinking to sit beside John when a thin hand tugged at his shirt. He curled up against his doctor and put a head on his shoulder.

"I'll have to think of something to give you," John murmured, sounding tired. He slept a lot as he healed: something that Sherlock had checked upon the internet. Apparently it was a good thing, though he disliked losing John's attention.

"There's no rush," Sherlock tried the statement out, wondering if John would hear the meaning beneath the surface.

"We have plenty of time," John agreed, proving that he did.

END

Disclaimer - characters and settings as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.