Protectors
Chapter 2
A/N at end
If Sherlock had met someone more infuriatingly normal and simultaneously inexplicable than Dr John Watson, he must have deleted them. As that was unlikely, John remained an outlier.
He watched as his flat mate shoved himself out of the chair and went upstairs.
Jaw tension: Headache, unsurprising, likely general pain as well. Hands clenched: military training in play, doesn't want to acknowledge pain. Alternative: anger or frustration. Shoulder limiting arm movement.
Spinning his wedding ring, preoccupation with Mary. Likely caused by similarity of victim to his image of his daughter. Likely to continue distracting him. Unlikely to be deleted. Will need to reassure him of Mary's safety.
Single glance back. Concern? Why? I ate the sandwich. Unfinished business? More likely. John cut off the conversation without answering. The last theory therefore is the most likely truth.
John is concerned that pain medication would slow him down making him unable to keep up with and protect me.
Unnecessary.
It had never been required that John would need to save him. There had been instances where he had shortened a crisis. The cabbie that first day. The golem. The swimming pool. However, as Sherlock did a cursory examination of his memories of John's behavior, it became clear that John believed he did need to protect Sherlock.
He would need to correct that misunderstanding.
It was far more common that John needed to be protected by Sherlock. His proximity to the doctor put him in nearly permanent danger. The probability of him suffering permanent injury increased with each case. Moriarty and Magnusson had both used him as a proxy, like royal whipping boys. He had been kidnapped. He had been beaten. He had been drugged. He continued to stay by Sherlock's side. It was irrational.
Mind palace then. He steepled his fingers once more, closing his eyes and beginning to tour his memories.
Sherlock had been slowly assembling data regarding his flat mate-wedding aside, that was John's title in the mind palace. It had become a substantial collection. He paused and opened the door on all things John.
The first image that hit him was new. John stumbling towards the fire in the bank yesterday. Beyond a small tremble in his knees he had not looked like a man who had just been hit by bomb blast. And then the echo of emotion that followed.
Guilt.
He shoved it out of the way along with the image, and stepped inside. He was looking for the best way to clarify his self sufficiency to the doctor. The overwhelming flood of experience to the opposite was discouraging. He had been unable to convince John that he knew how to feed himself, let alone protect himself.
The memories sorted themselves as he looked from side to side. First into memories where John had directly done something for him in a case, or indirectly. Then further, he pulled out the memories where the doctor had been either overly determined or intractable on the subject. Again; now to just experiences where he endangered himself in protection of Sherlock.
Then the image that was a culmination of the rest.
The swimming pool.
"Sherlock, run!" His reaction of anger that John had been so stupid still made him tense. Though under his anger there was a flare of the opposite.
"GOOOOOD! Very Good."
"Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."
"Mm, he's sweet. I can see why you like having him around. But then, people get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. Oops! You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson."
There was Sherlock's hurdle. Moriarty had identified it, not that John hadn't announced it clearly. Magnusson had seen it too. Sherlock was one of John's pressure points. It made Sherlock smile, just a little, before he turned to the rest of the John room to find a way around that.
Loyalty will be a problem. Playing on his loyalty to Mary may be an option. No, he considers her mostly safe, removing her from the equation. Obligation to his daughter? No, she's safe with Mary. In that, at least, Mycroft's skills are unquestioned. Mary is safe. Try to convince him she isn't? No better, he would want her closer here. He wavered tonight but he knows she is as safe as possible. Which leaves John's safety to me. I could ask Mycroft to forcibly keep him with Mary until this situation has been dispersed. No. Once he convinces Mary to help him, which will take approximately half a day, she will use her skills to get him out once more. A possible temporary answer, but of no use long term.
I could evade him, though it would require using an alternate location as a base of operations, and would remove Lestrade's limited help and resources. And, once again, he can get to Mary, who would assist his search.
I could attempt to start enough of a row that he leaves angry, then continue to restart the fight when he returns. Pointless. Angry or not, he would follow me, and if we are not speaking he will not be aware of all the dangers, placing him at greater risk.
Hospitalization? Yes, I insisted he leave earlier, that rumor my network found made it dangerous. No, he would have to be completely incapacitated, and I would prefer he not suffer permanent damage.
Use Mary to convince John? Possible. She's more likely to listen.
Explain the situation? It has the merit of being out of character for me, it might catch his attention.
And if he doesn't?
Uncalled, the memory of Bonfire Night flared in front of him. He did not like to look back at that one. It was far blurrier than most of his mind palace. His mind had not been working at capacity by the time they reached the park. The hollow drop he had felt in his stomach at the realization of where John was still made him feel sick. I should have sent John with Mary and started looking for evidence in the park. I didn't because John had been hurt.
It had happened again yesterday.
That dart stuck in his shoulder, his doctor didn't even know it was there. He was trying to find me instead of leaving or addressing his injuries. Idiot. Which forced me to get him out rather than attempt to recover what had been in that vault. It was destroyed before I got back. I should have stayed. John would have survived, the fire crew was just behind.
Would he?
Shut up.
Sherlock shoved the memory out of the way before the thought could reach the obvious conclusion. That frustrating thought and it's implications were not something he intended to address. They were supposed to be securely locked away with everything else, but had begun to slip out whenever he visited this room. One of the reasons he rarely did.
He had time to convince John to keep out of harms way. Moriarty had yet to deviate from schedule. A buzz brought him out of his mind and to his phone.
From Molly.
Secobarbital in a gel compound.
What else?
SH
Nothing.
"Ha."
Return the dart and
remaining blood samples.
SH
If Molly had not found anything else it could not be anything common, possibly not anything categorized, or whatever it was was no longer on the dart. Moriarty would not bother with a secondary attack without purpose. He needed more data. All he knew as he returned to his chair and his mind palace was that he had missed something.
John came downstairs the next day solely because he had already taken the remaining pain meds in the kit in his room.
It had occurred to him, laying grumpily on his bed that morning, that the string of messages about his state of consciousness was likely the closest thing to an apology he was going to get from Sherlock Holmes about the utter mistake of going into the bank. And, it being Sherlock, there was no point in pushing for a more recognizable admission of guilt.
"So no news yet? Molly hasn't finished the tests yet?" He said as he saw the detective still sitting in his chair, dressing gown wrapped about him like a cape. His shoulder blades were poking out of his back and he seemed nearly translucent. He looks like shit.
"Secobarbital."
"And why didn't you wake me?"
"Pointless. It has already cleared your system and is not toxic in the dosage administered."
"What else?"
"Nothing."
'That doesn't make sense." John said around the pills in his mouth. Swallowing, he continued, "Secobarbital might have kept me down but what's the point of it? Two bombs wasn't enough? It wouldn't have harmed me unless I'd stayed down there while the building burned. So what was the point?"
"Proximity to me must be beneficial for your mind."
"Yeah. Thanks for that, what?"
"I have reached the same conclusion. There must be a second element."
"Right. What is it?"
"No idea."
He set the kettle to boil and turned for cups. Sherlock was staring still. No, deducing still. What the hell is he looking for? He knew my life story after two minutes, what could take him several hours?
Better not to ask. Tea. Biscuits. Cheese. Chicken. He knew he needed to keep eating, even if he felt sick from it. They had a little less than twenty-seven hours before Moriarty's next game would begin.
"Tea."
"Later."
"Now."
"Shush John. Mind palace."
He couldn't help it, he laughed, "No you aren't."
"Yes, I-"
"No. When you're in your mind palace you don't answer at all. You just sit and twitch a bit and gesture. You're deducing, and you can drink some bloody tea at the same time." Calm down. Exhale. "You're going to kill yourself trying to beat him. And yeah, I'm pretty sure that would put a stop to this stupid game between you two, but it won't stop Moriarty."
This was his real job. Not helping at crime scenes. Definitely not helping with deductions. This. Keeping the bastard alive. Pissed off as he was over the bank, it hadn't changed that. Sherlock put the work first. Always would. Someone had to remind him he was still human from time to time.
Sherlock took the tea.
At least after this long the detective could tell when John wasn't going to budge. After eating a bit himself, he slipped off to the shops. Calorically dense was his goal, and in that at least he succeeded.
Dropping the bags in the kitchen, he made new tea. Two cups. He didn't even ask as he handed it to Sherlock, just held it in front of him until he won the battle of will.
It had taken far longer than usual to make the walk there and back. He had detoured into a bookstore just for the excuse to sit down for a little while. It was already past midday. A quick glance around the flat confirmed that sherlock had eaten nothing.
"This too." John said, handing a trek bar to the detective.
"What is this? It looks terrible."
"Its food Sherlock. Just eat it."
"I don't want to." He retorted in a tone that made it clear he was being difficult for the amusement of tormenting John. As the recipient of the unnecessary trouble, he should have been miffed. Instead he was glad his friend was thinking about something other than Moriarty for two minutes.
"Then what will you eat?" John knew that he may as well have been talking to a four year old facing a plate of veg.
"I don't need to eat. I'm not hungry."
"Right, great argument, eat the bloody thing."
"No."
"Do it."
"It looks terrible, weren't you listening?"
"Eat it or I'll hide your phone."
"I'll find it." Sherlock unleashed that cheshire cat grin.
John grinned back. "I'll ring the company and cancel service. I'll tell them that-" Sherlock snatched the bar, ripped it open and took a bite.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"It is terrible."
John held back his laughter, but only just.
The day continued. Stretched, more than continued. Sherlock was locked in his skull, now with that far away look that made it clear he really was in his mind palace this time. John read and reread the file they had built. He went back all the way to Heathrow and read through to the bank. Well I'm not having any epiphanies.
He rubbed his shoulder. Damn him. Damn that damn dart. Secobarbital? Sherlock's right, it doesn't make sense.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Molly.
Feeling better?
A bit. New results?
JW
No, sorry.
How is he?
Off.
JW
Asleep?
No, wait, stupid question.
I'll text if I get an id on the drug.
Much of the afternoon evaporated like that. Him fielding texts and the stray phone call as his-and Sherlock's health was measured. Not that he could blame them, the hours were ticking away, and once Moriarty presented his next challenge, Sherlock would be moving non stop. Everyone knew John would be just behind.
Finally, a bit before five, Sherlock shifted. It wasn't much, but John recognized it. The detective had exited his palace and would hear him.
"You didn't drink your tea."
"Hm? What?"
Your tea's gone cold.
"Oh, yes."
"Fresh? Reheat? Maybe a sandwich?"
He recieved a substantial glare, so moved the cup to the kitchen and sat down once more, conceding the fight for the drink.
"Any closer to a theory for all this yet?" He ventured after a while.
"Regarding?"
"Dont be an arse. About why. What's his game? His goal?"
"No."
That little girl's face filled his vision for a moment. Something about the smugness, something about seeing that bastard sit there without a trace of guilt for the lives that had been lost and ruined by their mistakes and inadaquecies threw John over the edge.
"Then what the hell were you just working on? You didn't sleep last night. No, don't lie, I know you didn't. You've got something more important to deal with than a terrorist spree in London?" He knew he shouldn't yell.
Too bad. I hate this. What did Molly call me? His tether? My job to keep him here, keep his focus on where it needs to be. Damned brilliant arsehole will practically kill himself on a case. Is going to kill himself on this case. He knows we cocked up on the bank. He knows we cocked up with the school. Children died and even him, EVEN Sherlock feels that hit closer to home. Calm down. I have to keep him going forward not trying to re-solve the last case.
"Six weeks Sherlock. It's been six weeks and you still haven't gotten ahead of him. In fact, he's getting farther away."
"And you think tea is going to help?"
"I think you're down near a stone since he came back. I've seen anorexics eat more than you. Do you think this is going to help anyone, hm? Dropping dead? None of the rest of us could have stopped any of this, do you think if you just drop dead one of us is going to suddenly know how to do what you do? Even your brother is out of his depth on this. He needed back so bad he got an exile ignored because we needed you. Now you're doing this?"
The look of deduction had been replaced with confusion, and a hint of insult. Too bad.
"Do you think we'll have an option besides negotiating with that sick bastard? If you die, he's just going to get worse. He'll kill Mycroft, and then he's going to burn this country. Unless you stop him. And you can't do that half dead from exhaustion and starvation!"
There was a brief flash of something in the look he got, something he'd have called fear if he'd been feeling generous. If it hadn't been Sherlock. Too quickly it was replaced with anger, and then John was, for the first time, on the receiving end of one of rages he had heard about so many times.
"If your ordinary mind was able to establish that, do you for a second believe that I am unaware of the facts?" There was a hint of a tremor in his voice. "That I have not noticed that there is no one else? Jim Moriarty won't burn England John, he'll own it. It and every person inside it. This is a different game from last time. He wanted a distraction before. He wanted to play. He wanted to test me. Now he knows how we work! I spent two years picking apart a crime ring he assembled solely to let me think I was winning. All I was doing was clearing the ranks of those he thought weren't good enough. He's been ahead of me from the beginning and the only chance there is to catch up now is to find a mistake! And I will not waste my time on frivolity until then!"
"Frivol-you-Christ!"
"I have to keep my mind clear!" The tea cup shattered on the wall behind John's head. "I cannot make any mistake!"
At some point both of them had stood up to shout.
"You already have! You haven't solved them all! You haven't stopped them! You were too late with the school! You were wrong about the Bank! You aren't thinking clearly!" The small doctor part of his brain informed him that all this yelling wasn't the best idea for his head. He ignored it. "You. Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Aren't. Thinking. You're getting blind!"
"Blind?!"
"Yes! And it is going to get you dead! Again! Except this time it'll be real!"
Sherlock turned to the stairs and screamed "Not now, Mrs Hudson!"
John hadn't even heard her approach.
"You're going to lose, Sherlock! So just Shut UP and listen to me and bloody eat something, get some rest, and maybe you'll start being of use again!"
"Shu-"
"No! Do you know what Molly told me last week? She hasn't seen you like this. Ever. Molly, who you know damn well has seen you at your worst, has never seen you this far gone. What's different now?"
Sherlock didn't answer, anger boiling just below the surface, just below a thin film of guilt and fear. John noticed the emotions but was too mad to recognize how far he had pushed his friend.
"Is it because people have died? Or, is it because he's winning, and you are the great Sherlock Holmes and you're always bloody right?" The man in question was tensing, his hands in fists and a snarl on his face.
If he had taken a moment to think, he would have stopped. This was helping neither of them. But he continued, "You know what else Molly told me? She told me I'm your damn tether. That I'm the only thing that can bring you back down when you go off. That you float up so damn high trying to find the answers and be a hero that I have bring you back to the ground so you can do the work. But she's wrong about that, isn't she, Sherlock? You and I aren't worried about you floating too high, because that's not your problem. The problem is that you're drowning, you're sinking, and that's what I'm trying to bring you back from. If you were headed up, if you were playing hero again, you'd have already found a crack, some way into Moriarty's plan. But you haven't. Because you made some mistakes, he beat you and you're letting it drag you down. You're letting him make you a coward for some reason. And I don't understand it, but it's going to get you killed. And I'm not going to let that kill you Sherlock, because this time it'd be for real."
John did his best not to let his voice crack on that. When it did, he finally broke eye contact. Well shit. I've gone too far.
His mind was full of shouting and memories. John doesn't understand. Wouldn't understand. Mustn't. He was close, but he couldn't see what the real problem was.
Fine. The rational part of his mind ceded control to the angry mob that wanted to destroy the man who had awaken them.
"Moriarty is a step ahead of me because of you." He said, cutting into the vacuum of silence that had clamped down on the room after John had shouted himself out. After he had stumbled on his accusation, he had lost the strength to keep yelling. At this new accusation, Sherlock saw his friend snap up, defensive and fuming. "You're getting in the way. You keep thinking you're protecting me. Wrong. Alone is safe. Alone protects me. I don't need you. I don't need anyone. In fact, I need you gone."
John Watson was a formidable opponent for most of the people he encountered. He had taken down junkies and criminals and guards and everyone else in his way.
Sherlock saw the tension build and dodged the fist coming for his face. While John was overextended he grabbed the man's wrist and shouldered him into the wall. "You are my distraction!" The mob inside had intended to threaten and insult and bluster until John was angry enough to go stay with Mary. He hadn't intended to inadvertently deduce himself in that moment.
In the few seconds that John was still against the wall, stunned, Sherlock's mind tumbled. The box of thoughts and memories he kept locked away, that he refused to acknowledge, that he should have deleted the moment he noticed any sentiment in it, was leaking. Damndamndamn. Emotions, normally buried too deep to be a problem were seeping into his thoughts. No. Not right now. Lock it down. It's irrelevant.
He did, and quickly, trying to cling the rage that would let him truly hurt John, to finally get through to him the necessity of his solitude. To make clear the risks and the consequences and what that lurking danger was doing to the detective. But his mind didn't want to settle. John's face was close to his, and he could see his eyes widen, having recognized something out of character in Sherlock. His mind opened his mouth to say that John was too stupid to be trusted without supervision in this case, but that wasn't what left his mouth.
"I can't let you get hurt, John. You're too important-" to me, he finished silently, only barely repressing the end of the sentence. He knew his voice had lost its power. He knew he had just let slip one of the incessant little gnats of emotion and thought that were supposed to be hidden permanently.
He knew that every bit of sentiment was visible when John's eyes locked with his.
Still pinning him to the wall beneath him, Sherlock was entirely aware of the acceleration in John's pulse and breathing. He saw the muscles of his jaw clench, but John had snapped his eyes shut, and did not leave enough information to identify the reaction. Sherlock had more than enough information to register his own horror at having said that, for having inadvertently revealed something he had truly intended to one day delete. There was a moment when he considered attempting to coerce John into leaving by playing on his insecurities, or telling him the truth, all of it, but he couldn't bring himself to do either. John finally made eye contact.
Fear. Anxiety. Panic. Nausea.
Rejection.
His furious mental mob, temporarily stilled while it waited to identify John's reaction, reclaimed control. Half unconscious of his words, he launched into the invective laden tirade he had paused. What he said didn't matter as much as John's reaction, and so he continued until there was nothing left to be seen in the doctor's eyes but boiling resentment.
Then he kept going until John snapped.
He shoved Sherlock away, grabbed a coat from the hook and was gone.
Pub. Now.
JW
He hit send as he stormed down the street. It was just starting to get dark, and fog was rising again. Lestrade answered quickly.
What? Why?
Pub
JW
10 min
What the hell was that? Seriously, what the bloody hell just happened. I know I pushed him, but God, that was more than he expected in reply. Sherlock got angry. He's done that before. I've managed to get him mad. That was expected, but Christ that arse!
"Useless, simple, ordinary boring idiot." "Weak, incompetent coward" "a distraction" "A liability." "not needed"
"Well fuck you too." He shouted, turning his head back at the flat. The tourist couple beside him seemed startled.
But what the hell was that after I went to punch him? What the hell? "I can't let you get hurt. You're too important-"
He took his phone back out of his coat. New message: Recipient: Sherlock Holmes.
No, fuck no I'm not messaging him.
If the detective wanted to be a prat, John wasn't going to stop him. If he wanted to starve himself, he would let him. Sod him. He'd probably just been testing to see how I responded to false kindness. Or its cause of Mary and the baby. Some rule he read about how lives are more important when there's children involved. Sherlock doesn't tolerate 'sentiment'. He's fucking machine.
Jesus my head hurts. And fucking fuck, I left the pills on the table back there. Like hell I'm going back to the flat. Fine, no bother, I shouldn't have any with how much I plan on drinking anyway.
Hurry up.
JW
He stepped inside the pub.
That had not gone well. The only silver lining to that disaster was that John had left. It was unlikely he would return in a hurry, if he was willing to return at all. He may have succeeded after all in one of his dismissed approaches to keep John safe. Hopefully he would contact Mycroft and stay with Mary. Maybe he actually had convinced him to stay away.
He didn't like the thought.
One thing he had actually listened to during John's nearly incoherent lecture was the need to eat. He would not admit it, but knew his fitted suits were loose at the moment. More importantly his hands were trembling, shaking actually.
Shaking because of what I just-No. NO.
Shaking because I need to eat.
In the bags he found some unpleasant looking drinks promising to help you gain weight. He sneered, but drank two of them. The caloric content would help with the shaking. Trembling. Hypoglycemia. Obviously just an in balance of blood sugars.
Out came his phone. New message: Recipient: John Watson.
NO. Close it.
He's safer there. This is better.
He had shoved his blogger away to remove the distraction. That was the only reason. Alone was safe.
His phone rang.
Mycroft. He had wanted it to be John.
"What?
"The receptionist has no records."
"None?"
"Not until six months ago."
"Hm. Of course you'll continue looking?"
"Of course." Sherlock was about to hang up, but heard his brother once more. "Sherlock?"
"What now?"
"Is this a danger night?"
He hung up. Damn. What did I miss? How does he already know? I only said ten damn words. Cameras? Bugs? Ah, no, I forgot to tell him off for calling not texting. I cannot be this distracted. I will not allow it.
It's enough of a problem Moriarty knows at all. This removes John from the direct line of fire. And I can concentrate during on the case. More emotions tried to rise. No.
"John Watson is definitely in danger."
No. NO. Not you. Besides, John will go to Mary. He will be safe there. I can trust Mycroft's people to keep him safe.
"What do you need, Freak?"
John's face.
Rejection.
He slipped into his mind palace, angry. Went back to that John room, and crammed the thoughts inside. He shoved into the box that look on his face as he left. Shoved in the memory of rising pulses and mingled breath. Shoved in what he had wanted to do instead of insult him. Shoved away everything he could about his best friend. As he closed it, he looked at it one more time. It was against his own wish, but he had learned that it was almost impossible to escape his more human instincts in here. Sherlock gave in for just a moment to really examine that box that leaked emotions at him.
Once he stopped fighting it, the box seemed to glow a bit in his mind.
It was, after all, full of dozens of nice things and the thoroughly irritating emotions they provoked.
Instead of attacking him with visions of his friend in a bonfire, or strapped into exploding vests, or staring at him with a look he saw from nearly every person he met, he heard laughter. "No, we mustn't laugh. Its a crime scene. Sorry, its just, uh, shock." All of the ridiculous things they had done flashed by. "That was amazing. Extraordinary, quite extraordinary." It had been the first time anyone he had met had been genuinely astounded, without the usual overtone of offense in their voice. It was, up to that point, the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.
It was topped by John's voice, sitting in the kitchen.
"And I want to be up there with the two people that I love and care about most in the world….Mary Morstan...And...you."
That moment had ground the endless wheel of thought in his head to a halt. Not simply because he had never had a best friend, but because it had been John. Many hours had been spent picking at that memory until he had understood his own reaction. My best friend, my doctor, my flatmate, my blogger, my assistant. The only man I-NO-A man that I cannot allow to come to harm. He wouldn't allow the sentiment to exist in words, not even here.
He had allowed his mind to wander and his mind palace responded, and showed him John's eyes. Forced him to as the image and the overwhelming echo of Rejection thundered about him.
Suddenly fuming, he put it all back, hid it all again, cramming it violently into the corner of the room he kept in the corner of his thoughts.
He stepped out of the John room into the sudden clarity of his own mind, free from chaos for the first time in weeks. The door was still looking at him, distracting him. Delete it. Permanently. Go back and delete that box. Do it.
After a moment, he locked the door, he barricaded it, and he walked away.
"Who does he think he is Greg?" John was cursing over his drink. "That prat. That arse. He can barely manage to reheat a leftover."
"Yeah."
"He's gonna faint over himself during the next one. I say let him."
"Yeah, sure. John?"
"What?"
"You know you're going to have to wrap up this little lover's spat before this mess starts again?"
"Not gay. Christ, how many times do I have to repeat it. M'not. Gay." John slammed the pint down with a bit more force than intended.
"Yeah, whatever, doesn't matter. Or at least, its not my point. He's gonna need you back."
"Oh no no, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't need anyone, haven't you heard? Better off alone."
"Give me that." Greg took the remainder of the pint and dumped the last of the crisps into it. "No, you're done drinking, shouldn't have let you have it in the first place. You were in hospital yesterday, remember?"
John protested but was overrun. "You're mad at him, sure, and seems like he was being even more of an unfeeling git than normal. But if you were just mad you'd have clocked him and gone to bed. You're hurt."
"M'not-"
"Shut it. You are. You're out drowning your sorrows instead of going to Mary. So you plan on going back to Bakers Street again."
"Nope. He wants to be alone, so, sod him."
"John, he doesn't think like people do. That's why we need him. But it also makes him a right tosser sometimes. You're the only person I've ever seen him let closer than ten feet. You're the only person he has ever listened to about anything. Damn." Lestrade looked down at his phone. "Donovan, I've got to get back. One of you is going to have to be an adult John, and we know it won't be him. Look, just, If you don't go back at least go to Mary, talk to her about this. She's gonna steer you right back here, but maybe you'll actually hear it coming from her."
"Yeah, sure, whatever,I will."
Lestrade dropped some bills on the table and walked away.
John ordered a fresh pint.
The beer calmed him down a bit more, though it was fair to say he was no less angry; he had just moved most of it back to Moriarty. That had been the easiest conclusion to draw from that row. Both men were well past stressed and pulled in too many directions. They had to lash out at someone, somewhere eventually. The city of London should be grateful I took that one for the team. Most people would wee themselves in the face of Sherlock at full boil.
Phone. New message: Recipient: Mary.
danger night I think. sorry
I'll talk to mycroft about visiting.
Maybe a few days
JW
Take care of him.
We need him.
Love you.
Stay safe. Love you.
JW
He slipped the phone back into his pocket walking back towards his damn flat, and his damn friend. His mind started replaying the argument as he traversed the fog shrouded streets. John wasn't sure what the hell had happened: during the fight, after, or at any time really, but it was Sherlock. Moriarty was still out there, and they only had about a day before he would contact them again.
When that happened he needed to be beside Sherlock.
Not that he was going to give him the satisfaction of a text ahead of time. With luck, the detective would be in his room, and he could just pretend in the morning that nothing had happened. Sherlock would delete it and they'd deal with whatever Moriarty had next.
He stopped a moment, lost in the pea soup fog. Do I want him to delete it? Well, yes, the fight, of course. Me trying to clock him, sure. But I think thats the first time he's ever spontaneously admitted that he'd prefer I not die. Mixed in with a speech why I was of no use, yeah, but that part at least seemed honestly different.
There had been a brief flash in his eyes, just for a moment, a flash of something that had sent a shiver clear through John's spine. It had shocked him, scared him, to see something so Un-Sherlock as that in his friends generally logic deadened eyes. We probably should talk about that part. Today's probably not the day to ask though. That'll be on me, he'll never say anything about it again, I'll bet. If he doesn't just delete it entirely.
Another thought flickered. I hope he doesn't. He pushed it aside, as he always did.
He grinned, then smothered it, shaking his head.
"Nope, not gay at all." he muttered.
"Oh? Is that what you tell yourself, Johnny-boy?"
A/N- Yeah, I like long chapters...hope you do to. I have no Beta or Britpick (which I always misread as BitPrick, which is a less desirable thing), and would love to have either or both. In the mean time, let me know if anything stands out to you. I redid the wording of that fight at that moment about a dozen times before I was happy with it. I'd love to know what you think. Until I figure out the next chunk: thanks for reading.