Chapter 2: Saving each other's lives.

Here was a fact that John Hamish Watson had recently discovered: Sherlock Holmes was hell to drive with.

Sure, he could understand a little agitation about wanting to reach their destination before '3:00 sharp, John! It is imperative that we drive without stopping', but things became a little more blurry when it came to the other perfectly sound fact that the driver in question had not slept in over 36 hours. For once, this piece of information was about John, not his madcap flatmate.

The blame fell fully on a particularly demanding case of theirs, one involving the presence of a deflated 'Happy Birthday' balloon, a pamphlet for volunteering in Africa, and a string of vicious murders. Completely unrelated, one might think, unless you happened to be the world's best consulting detective.

So if they got pulled over for speeding and happened to offer up an explanation, John could look forward to seeing the inside of a mental hospital for the rest of his life. Which happened to be one of the reasons why-

"You're not driving fast enough! John, you idiot! We'll never get there in time! Speed up!"

Oh, the words reached John's ears all right. His hearing wasn't the problem. It's just that, when you have a maniac as your navigator and you have slept in almost two days, that whole part about 'ignoring whatever ridiculous things come out of your mouth' becomes a whole lot easier.

"Sherlock, would you please do me a favour and be quiet? You're lucky I'm even agreeing to this."

This response was, predictably, given a less than favourable expression. "But John…!"

John cast a withering look in his friend's direction. "Sherlock, shut up, okay? I'm tired! This case has been bloody awful and you've not been better. It's not my fault this car barely goes past sixty. And you know, if you'd just accepted Mycroft's help for once in your bloody life, we could've been there by now, so just stop yelling at me!"

He breathed in deeply, surprised by the intensity of his outburst. Next to him, Sherlock flinched away, obviously hurt. That giant piece of air John had just sucked in came out as a sigh. "Jesus," he said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll see if we can go faster. It's not-"

"Let me drive."

John blinked, making an enormous effort to drag his lids open again each time. Honestly, he wished he could sleep for eons, except that the current situation would likely not allow for it. "What?"

Sherlock's gaze was level, those eyes of Christ-I-can't-even-tell-what colour staring straight in to the doctor's soul, face clouded in seriousness like whatever he was focused on was the only thing in the world. Okay, so that description might have been a little overdone, but John figured, when it came to the Holmes brothers, a flare for the dramatic never went unappreciated. Also, he was really exhausted.

Then that baritone voice spoke again. "Let. Me. Drive."

John managed to nod. "Fine, sounds good." How lovely, he'd almost ridden himself of that bitter edge when he spoke. No need to sound supremely pissed off when you were n- well, only a tad pissed off. He glanced at the digital display on the dashboard. "Lord, it's almost one in the morning." He sank in to his seat, eyes closed.

A sharp rapping on his window jolted him to consciousness once more. A very annoyed looking Sherlock was peering in, the dim light casting shadows to make him look more menacing than he actually was. "John," he said, the impatience made obvious in his tone, "The act of me driving requires you to switch seats."

"Oh… right," he nodded twice, as if to make himself certain that 'yes, Watson, you idiot! You need to move', before exiting the vehicle and promptly positioning himself in the near side. Sherlock gave him a pointed glance, already settled at the wheel.

"Just don't get us killed."

Sherlock sniffed, offended. "Not likely."

"Glad to hear it." John chuckled. He should really go to sleep now; delirium was starting to seep in.

And so Sherlock eased his foot on to the pedal, a gentle start-up before the alarmingly perilous drive. The detective noted just how much of a good thing it was that the good doctor remained sleeping for the majority. He wouldn't have heard the end of it and John would never let him near a vehicle again.

But all good things cannot last forever, at least not for a certain man with deadly sharp cheekbones and a desire not to have his precious concentration disrupted. Because it came to be that John Watson awoke at 2:30 in the morning to a crick in his neck and a psychotic detective intent on endangering their lives.

He blinked blearily, trying to make sense out of the blurs of red and yellow lights that seemed to dance in his vision. Then the vehicle swerved and he was rudely thrown against Sherlock's shoulder. "Fucking hell! You're going to kill me!"

His flatmate ('Why on Earth did I move in with him?') bore the expression he did when he was deep in to a chase. The intense way his eyes stared ahead, flickering side to side, seeing everything. The furrow of his brow as he frowned ever so slightly, as if he was seeing a miniscule smudge of dirt on the window that had not been properly cleaned. Under normal circumstances, John loved that look, or, at the very least, had a healthy fondness for it. It signified the sheer brilliance of Sherlock's mind, and the thrilling sensation that came with viewing it. Unfortunately, it also meant that there was nothing in the entire existence of the universe that could distract him.

"John, get off me." his voice was cool.

John did, but only because the latest turn was so sharp as to fling him against the window of the passenger side. "Slow the fuck down!"

"Time, John." There was no inflection in his tone.

Couldn't he see how dangerous this was? Horns from the numerous cars they were passing burned in to John's ear. "Fuck the time, Sherlock, you're going to get us killed! This is idiocy! You know, that word you're always using? You're being one right now-" His eyes focused in on an object in the outskirts of his vision. "Sherlock- oh! – bloody- fuck! Fuck! Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock!"

There was just enough time for John to see Sherlock's eyes widen, and his hands spinning the wheel quicker than John had witnessed anyone else. He'd reacted with a speed unknown to most, yet not fast enough.

The truck rammed in to the passenger side of the car and sent them careening in to the ditch. The airbags deployed, smashing him in the face. There was a long horn blast; John couldn't tell who'd sent it. Someone might have screamed, but it was not clear whom.

They stopped. John was distinctly aware of being upside down. If he hadn't been so numb from the shock, he might have noticed a pain in his head, but all that he was able to focus on was-

"Sherlock." He forced out, turning his head a minute distance.

The detective's eyes were closed, and a dark liquid trickled down his face from an unknown region. John carefully studied him, the icy clench of fear settling in when there was no reply. "Sherlock, you alright?"

There was a pregnant pause, allowing for a good dose of rising hysteria for his friend. Still he said nothing.

John mustered up all the strength he could in to forming his cry of "Sherlock!"

His heart got caught in his chest and after that, everything seemed blurry. He could recall the sound his body made when he unbuckled his seat belt and fell on to the ceiling. He remembered shoving against the door to break out of the vehicle, and how it had hurt. How he'd dragged Sherlock's limp form to the safety of whichever space was closest. Despair, at being unable to locate his mobile. Relief at seeing the uninjured truck driver phone 999 using hers. That stone-in-water sensation of dread upon seeing the extent of his flatmate's trauma. 'Too much blood,' he'd thought, 'really shouldn't be here'.

John had choked back the memories of Reichenbach and pavement and that horrific phone call in order to assess Sherlock's clinical state and put pressure on the wounds. It was all too similar to him, his mind screaming against the scene. Their car was in ruin; the glass from the windshield had found its way underneath his skin and the blood from those little cuts was staining his hands. Sherlock had not regained consciousness but still managed to keep breathing.

Until -because nothing could ever be simple, could it- about two minutes before the paramedics were set to arrive.

John, of course, was none too pleased with this development.

"Come on, Sherlock," he rasped, "just do this one thing for me, okay? I know you find it boring, and simple, and beneath you, but please, for the love of God, keep breathing!"

His hands made fists, nails digging in to his palms. The woman from the truck watched him uncertainly, dialling emergency services to inform them of the change. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered, not if he died. So John did what he could, and damn if he didn't try his hardest.

The ambulance arrived not much later, to a man bent over a body, respiring for two people at once, and a tearful woman standing by, idle fingers fumbling over a mobile.

They told John they'd handle it from there and he was permitted to ride in the ambulance with his friend, while they checked him and the other driver over for injuries. Later, once they arrived at the hospital, he was told by an unusually chipper doctor: "You probably saved his life."

Sherlock was released from the hospital about a week later, largely due to Mycroft's involvement. He was upset about losing the tail end of the case and had taken to turning any word in to a whine. He remained despondent on the subject, even though Lestrade had informed them that 'his men had it covered'.

John too had been in a decidedly bad mood since the whole thing, but he was there to escort Sherlock out of those glass doors and back to Baker St, albeit discontentedly. The doctor figured it was something about almost losing him (again) that had made him less than eager to go anywhere with the detective. Or do anything, for that matter. No cases, nothing. John Watson was not in the mood.

Because of this, he ended up reclining in his chair, with a book in his lap that he'd stopped actually reading an hour ago. His eyes skimmed the words, and he turned the page regularly, but if he was being honest, he'd forgotten if the main character was a neuroscientist or plumber.

Hell, what did it matter anyway? It's not like it was even that good to begin with. He'd been spending too many hours watching his flatmate deduce, and had figured out the entire plot within minutes. What he needed was a good distraction, John thought to himself, casting a sigh towards the warm light of the hearth. The flame was small, having deteriorated in to glowing embers. Downstairs, a door slammed and the sound of rushing footsteps became audible.

And suddenly, there was Sherlock, his tall form swooping in all-dramatic like with his huge coat and that godforsaken scarf. John folded the book in his lap, gaze drawn to him.

"John, we have a case! Lestrade wants us to meet him at the old sawdust factory at 6:00!" Came the outburst from a vibrantly expressive face.

John just stared, counting his breathing. He wasn't entirely sure where his anger had come from, and he was doing his best to subdue it. "Sherlock, I'm not going."

A frown. "Why not?"

If it sounded this stupid in his head, it would sound way more so aloud. "You almost died, Sherlock. And you made a promise not to."

There it was again, that tiny crease in his brow. Sherlock was puzzled. "I don't understand the relevance, John. Didn't you hear me? We have a case!"

It wasn't fair that he could look so innocent when he was excited. "Yeah, Sherlock, I heard you." how best to say this? "It's just, you promised."

Way to go Watson. Go ahead and sound like a whiny teen why don't you?

"John, I do not think I," there was a considerable pause here, "get what you're saying. Correct me if I'm wrong. You feel upset because I broke 'my promise'; presumably you're thinking of the car when I said I wouldn't crash or get us killed. I did not, in fact, 'promise' those things, and besides, John, what would be the problem if I had? I crashed the car, but if I remember correctly, neither of us took it to such drastic extremes as to die." He sneered this bit, as if it were insulting to him. "You should put down that book now and come with me. This one looks interesting.

Oh, and that thing about subduing the anger? Yeah, you can just toss that in the rubbish bin. John was on his feet now and practically fuming.

"Yeah, no, Sherlock, you've got it wrong. What I'm saying, you idiot, is that every single time we go on a case, you always have to put yourself in the most stupid positions! You say you're going to be careful, but that's a bloody lie, isn't it? Last week proved that! Except that time, there was no excuse, because honestly, you could have stopped being so petty for once and just fucking accepted Mycroft's helicopter or something! And I'm sick of watching you almost die… hell, I'd give anything not to even be reminded- and that's another thing, Sherlock! I know Reichenbach was a long time ago, but it'd be really nice if I didn't have to be fighting a fucking flash-back every time you do something stupid!"

"John-"

But he was like the soldier he was now, and wouldn't stop until he deemed himself finished. "No, no, no! I'm not done! You have no fucking concern for anyone's safety, Sherlock, and that includes your own! We both could have died in that car, and you just waltz out like I didn't have to do rescue breathing on you! And I'm sorry that stopping breathing wasn't such a drastic extreme for you, okay? But it fucking terrified me! So you know what? I can't just forgive that! Forget about the case, because I'm not going."

"John." Was it just him, or did the detective's voice just crack?

"Go." Said John, turning away. "You can solve this one without me."

And to his immense surprise, Sherlock did. The detective lingered in the doorway for a single, minute second, before turning the collar of his coat up and stalking out. His friend watched him leave.

'What have I done?' John thought, sinking back in to his chair. He still hadn't typed up that serial killer case on his blog. Perched open on the desk, the task seemed quite daunting. But at least it would give him something to do. Now that he'd blown off some steam, he should get the news out there. Their fans were undeniably curious (though his followers were somewhat smaller in numbers since the whole 'Moriarty thing'). He eased himself upright and headed over to where his laptop rested, typing in the password that Sherlock had guessed within seconds.

His email came in to view, and since John didn't have a normal life, of course there was a threatening message from the suspect of Sherlock's case. Of course there was. Of course it was the criminal, threatening to blow up that sawdust factory, along with everyone in it. Of course it was. Because fate fucking hated it when John stayed home.

He was out the door in seconds, not even thinking to put on a matching pair of shoes so that he could look passable in public. What a convenience that both their phones had been destroyed in the crash. What a coincidence that he didn't think of calling Greg. Things always happen for a reason, at least when the world's greatest consulting detective is around, even if those reasons are completely shitty.

"Montgomery Sawdust Factory." He instructed the cabbie, heart acting like it was hosting a rebellion against his chest. "Get me there in ten and I'll give you a hundred."

They were there in seven.

John burst out of the door, flinging the cash towards the very happy and puzzled man, who promptly thanked him and drove away. Not that John would know. He was already a good distance from the road, sprinting towards the crime scene as if his best friend's life depended on it. Which it sort of did.

The officers at the scene looked sideways at him, a panicked middle-aged man with one brown shoe and one black welly, but thankfully let him pass.

"Sherlock!" he shouted once inside. "Sherlock!"

There wasn't a peep from anywhere, aside from the echoes of his voice. John resumed his course.

It wasn't hard to see how an explosion could be set up there. Decades old layers of dust and wood chips scattered the floor and any other available surface. It was clear that the place had been condemned for a seriously long time. But what drew John's attention the most was the heaping pile of dynamite that had now become visible right in front of him. Oh, and there was the criminal, sitting atop it all, grinning at him.

"Hi." He said, "I was wondering when you'd turn up. It was kind of cute, to be honest. Loyalty tends to be." The murderer paused, chewing his lip in thought.

"Where are they?" was what he asked, and it must have been quite the sight. A short man with an oatmeal jumper and two mismatched shoes glaring at a ginger headed criminal who was giggling from his perch on some highly explosive items. It could have been something in a storybook, if someone had so wished. But no, the last person to do fairytales was Moriarty, and John had vowed to personally strangle the next criminal to even venture close to said genre.

"You might want t'go find them," the red head suggested, as if advising John on how to locate a missing pet. God, he had really bright hair. So neon, it almost hurt to look at. "Won't be long now and I'm starting the countdown. You stay here and it won't be pretty."

John met his eyes for a moment longer, the criminal tilting his face to the left. 'Jesus Christ, his hair.' After that, he bolted from the room, taking the route closest to him. He did not glance back.

"Let's start at ten, shall we?" the criminal's youthful voice echoed in the vacant space. "Ten…"

'Shit.' John thought, veering to the right. It was getting pretty hard not to crash in to a wall; corners seemed to pop up out of nothingness. Where the hell was Lestrade when you needed him? Or a loudspeaker. Yes, wouldn't that be nice. Unfortunately, neither was available to John at the moment, so he had to make do with just his lungs. "Sherlock!"

"John!" the voice came from behind him. He had just entered a narrow corridor, with a million rooms adjoining. He almost managed to turn around, so damn pleased that he'd found him, when an impressive force tackled him, diving in to an alcove labelled 'Exit' and forcing him to the ground. "Cover your ears." came the whisper from the man that was crushing him. John complied.

At that moment, there was a gigantic BOOM noise, and the sensation of a million strikes of thunder whipping through the ground. All the while John laid there, a detective and his obnoxiously thick coat on top of him. And then it was over. A sense of quiet came over him and sound seemed to disappear.

Sherlock was the first to speak. A low chuckle as he rolled to one side, apparently amused by the turn of events. "Well, it seems as if we're even."

John frowned, dragging his sore self up to standing position. "What do you mean by that?"

"You save my life, I save yours; wouldn't you say they cancel each other out?" he was upright too, the back of his coat dirtied by the blast. That didn't stop the great git from attempting to straighten his scarf, though.

John had to snort at that, shaking his head. If Sherlock didn't get it now, when would he? "Yeah, but both of those were your fault."

"You're being ridiculous, John." Sherlock declared, "I just made sure you didn't die in that explosion."

Okay, he could concede on that point. "Still doesn't mean I forgive you."

The detective had been walking away. This made him stop to glance back. "But we're getting there, surely?"

The doctor nodded. It wasn't as if he could say 'no'. His wave of panic had subsided now that the worst part was over and simply being in Sherlock's presence was calming. "We're getting there."

There was an exhale of relief. "Good." Sherlock said, and pushed open the door. How very good for them that it led to outside. Figures. The detective strode out confidently, heading towards Lestrade's confused armada of police and a very upset looking Anderson with- was that a chef's uniform? John would have to hear the story of that later. He couldn't help himself; he laughed. Somehow his mirth reminded him of the ridiculous criminal with his ridiculous hair colour. He laughed even more.

"John, are you coming?" Sherlock was peering at him was one eyebrow raised in expectation, and he had halted where he stood.

John looked at his flatmate, then at the smoking factory, and then at his flatmate again. He took several steps forward, until he was where the other man stood. He gave a terse nod at Sherlock and they went off together.

"Did you see the criminal?" John asked him in a whisper.

Sherlock gave him a knowing look and then broke in to hysterics.

AN: So that took an extraordinarily long time. Sorry about that. I'd blame it on First Time fanfiction nerves, except that's just a horrid excuse and isn't really true. But… it's here now, so , and this is ticklethedragon1.