A/N Hey guys thanks for your continuous support, and a special thanks to JohnLockSher who has been making me smile all weekend! I haven't edited this chapter as much as I usually do, so please tell me if there are any mistakes (this goes for all chapters as well)
It didn't take long for hell to break out at Baker Street.
John took a quick nap on the couch, and Sherlock went off to Bart's, something about a kidney that Molly had. It was fairly normal, Mrs Hudson was overly ecstatic about her boys being back, apparently Mrs Turner and her married ones had been quite the handful lately. She also went out, having tea with an old mate.
It was when John woke up, that hell broke out. Because as his eyes searched around the familiar items of the flat, they settle on the unmistakable item of a syringe. Which only meant one thing, Sherlock had been using again.
Wait, no. Brenton Walker had placed it there. Which meant that Brenton Walker had succeeded in getting into their flat. Which also meant that he had a way into their flat. Into all of the flats. Into his personal space… No! What if he went through John's personal stuff!
Panic begins to go through John in waves, even though there's a piece of his mind that knows that it's completely irrational panic. Quickly he fumbles with his mobile before calling his flatmate.
After he's dialed the number his thumb hovers over the 'call' button, too afraid to press it. Sherlock would much prefer to text anyway. John then cancels the call and goes to text.
Come home, need help
Obscure just like Sherlock's own texts. John could care less at this point. He has certain possessions that he hopes no one will ever see, let alone a murderer out to get him.
What is wrong? -SH
Do you need a doctor? -SH
I'm calling Mycroft -SH
Is Mrs Hudson home? -SH
Stay there -SH
The multiple texts from his flatmate give a short calming effect on the army doctor, but not for long, because he still doesn't fucking know if anyone has been in his room, and if he asks Sherlock then Sherlock will be curious, and he'll probably deduce it, and then more people will know, and the whole purpose of having a private room will be-
John? -SH
To cease his friend's worry and to do something with his hands John sends a text back:
Not hurt, just need a hand on something. Don't call Mycroft
He gets a reply instantaneously:
Already called, and I'm in a cab. -SH
John's phone then rings, the name 'Sherlock Holmes' lighting up the screen, but John declines the call and curls up on the couch. He feels a bit like his flatmate, all curled up in a ball, although John assumes that they curl up for different reasons.
The ex army doctor stays on his couch for a fair amount of time, too afraid to move around, incase Brenton has placed objects around the flat.
He doesn't know how much time has passed until his flatmate comes bursting through the door, holding a gun (how and where did he get that?) and looking around the flat for threats. Instead he finds his blogger wrapped up in the couch.
"John?" He asks tentatively, setting the gun down on a piece of furniture. "Is everything alright?"
"I need to get up to my room." John mutters into the pillows, not bothering to turn his body.
Sherlock stays still, not wanting to scare John. "I-I don't think that-"
"Please, Sherlock." John finally looks up at his friend with a face of worry, his left hand slightly shaking, which he is currently failing at hiding.
Sherlock inches his way closer to John until he's sitting on the edge of the couch and says, "If you need something from there I can easily get it for you, or-" He cuts off when he sees his flatmate's face: terrified. "Er, no, that's not a good idea." He says, trying to fix his mistake.
"Just help me get up there?" John asks, sitting up a bit on the couch.
Even though Sherlock's mind is finding one hundred and one things that could go wrong if they try to go up stairs, he can't help but say, "Okay."
The next fifteen minutes are spent trying to find the most efficient way up there, and then the next fifteen are actually getting up there without any injuries. By half an hour, the two are absolutely exhausted, and John's looking alarmingly pale.
"Er, thanks… I just need to…" He trails off, hoping that Sherlock will get the message. He fails to remember that it's Sherlock he's talking to.
"Hmm?"
"Can I look around by myself?" John flat out says, knowing that if he says anything else Sherlock won't understand that right now he needs to be alone.
"Oh, yes. I'll just- yeah." The detective quickly turns around and goes back into the kitchen.
Shite. The needle is still down there. "Hold on, Sherlock!" John calls back, not wanting his flatmate to see it, just in case.
In an instant his flatmate comes bounding up the stairs, expecting the worst. Instead all he sees is John exactly where he left him."Is everything… Okay?" Always had such a way with words.
"Yeah, just stay up here?" John asks, and curses himself for how poorly he has phrased that sentence. He then pulls out his phone and texts Mycroft, not knowing what else to do in order for Sherlock to not find the syringe.
Come to Baker Street. Downstairs there is a syringe with cocaine that was planted there by Brenton Walker. Don't tell Sherlock.
And just like every other time John texts the government official, the response is immediate:
On my way. -MH
"Who are you texting?" Sherlock asks, trying to peek over the top of John's phone.
"Sarah." He lies easily, turning his phone off and tossing it on his unused bed.
"Mm." Sherlock looks unconvinced, but it'll just have to do for now.
Now to distract his flatmate without him looking under his bed. John rubs a hand over his face in anticipation for this.
"Are you okay?" Sherlock inquires, looking intently at his flatmate, coming to stand up a bit closer to him.
"Fine. Just a headache." John says easily, since at this point it's not really a lie.
"Did you hit your head on something? Any bleeding? Did someone else hit your head?" Sherlock throws questions at his friend rapid fire style, before John interrupts and cuts him off.
"Sherlock! Just a headache. I'll be fine, and no, no one came into the flat while you were gone." This is going to be more difficult than originally anticipated.
"Oh." The Consulting Detective looks down as if he was in trouble. "Would you like some paracetamol then?"
"No, that's not necessary. It's really not that bad." Anything to keep Sherlock from going downstairs at this point.
Sherlock nods and then looks around before asking, "So why are we up here?"
"To look for anything out of the blue." John says plainly, trying to be as vague as possible, even though this is what he originally came up here to do. Balancing on his crutches, John walks to his closet and peers around his jumpers, trying to prove his point to Sherlock.
"Why?" God, so many questions.
"Just to make sure that Brenton Walker didn't put anything here." Other than a flinch from Sherlock when he said "Brenton Walker", he didn't say anything until a few seconds later.
"Why would he put anything in the flat?" Sherlock questions again, clearly not satisfied with John's answers.
"I'm just making sure, Sherlock."
"But then why go up to your room to check? Because you're not even using your room at the moment, it makes more sense to check downstairs first, perhaps in the kitchen, or around our chairs… But no, you specifically went to your room, went out of your way, in fact to do so, which means that there is definitely something in particular that you're worried about. Not something being placed, but something being stolen…?" Sherlock looks up at john to see if he's right, only to find John's long suffered flatmate face.
"Damn it Sherlock, just help me look." He mutters, wishing that Mycroft would just hurry up already.
"But was I right?" Sherlock questions, like a child in primary school wanting to be the best. John just simply opts for not answering that question.
After about a minute Sherlock stops wandering around John's room and asks, "John?"
"Hmm?" Was his flatmate's elegant response.
"What are you really here for?"
Damn his deductions! John sighs and says, "Really Sherlock, I'm just making sure that nothing was taken and nothing was placed here that could cause harm."
Looking extraordinarily unimpressed, the detective says, "I'd rather you not lie with me John, it's obvious that something is bothering you. And you're lying about how bad your headache is, it's quite easy to deduce that it's been getting worse. Furthermore-" The sound of the flat's front door opening stops both of the flatmates dead in their tracks. John knows that there is no way Mycroft got to the flat this quickly, it's only been a few minutes, and even traffic lights can't change that.
Due to the light padding of feet downstairs, it's obvious that the intruder doesn't know that they're home (obvious to Sherlock, at least. John is too busy having a small panic attack). Sherlock ushers John to his small closet, and then walks downstairs himself.
He avoids steps three and eight, which creak when stepped on, then peeks out to the side in order to see the intruder. As Sherlock expected, it is a male at a height of approximately 180 centimetres. What he wasn't expecting was for said intruder to be holding a handgun.
The detective ducks behind a few pieces of furniture, and can't help but feel like he's back in primary school, playing silly little games with the other children. As he watches the man, it's obvious that he's looking for something in particular. What it could be, Sherlock doesn't know.
After probably deciding that no one was in the flat, the intruder sets his gun down on the table between the duo's chairs. Ignorant fools! The man still continues to rummage through their belongings, even after searching through the kitchen twice.
A small noise from upstairs, presumably John, causes the intruder and Sherlock to reflexively look up. Sherlock immediately hides himself as the man jogs back to his gun, cocks it, and slowly heads up the stairs.
Then, without thinking twice, the detective runs over and tackles the man on the stairs, with a take down that would even make John impressed.
The man shouts out when he comes to hit the ground, but stops short when his head hits the edge of the stair. "What the bloody-!"
Sherlock smirks, all of these imbeciles coming into their flats should learn that the duo can take care of themselves.
"Sherlock!" He hears John shout to him, and when he looks up his flatmate is there at the top of the stairwell, looking awfully concerned.
"Just fine, John!" Sherlock shouts back, mid way up the stairwell, still attempting to subdue the man. When he looks up again to see his flatmate, he sees a look that he recognizes. It's the look that unconsciously comes on when he wants to be doing something. He can't come down and help, he's on crutches, and his browning is downstairs, but he can't just stand there and watch.
Eventually Sherlock gets a good grip on the man's head and slams it down on the next step up, rendering him unconscious. Then with a quick grin to his flatmate he drags the intruder out to the sitting room.
Not wanting to waste another second, John lightly tosses his crutches down the stairs, then sits down. Then, in the least elegant manner possible, he slides his way down the stairs on his butt. The good doctor then retrieves his crutches from the bottom and heads over to Sherlock and the unconscious man.
"Who is he?" John asks, making a face at the man who currently has a stream of blood running down his hairline.
"Since the chances of us getting a regular burglar is about four percent, even less of one not stealing anything - like this man -, I'd say that this man was sent from one of our numerous enemies." The detective answers calmly, as if his flat wasn't just broken into.
With a short disbelieving shake of his head, John says, "Alright now, let me see your stitches."
All he receives is a scoff and, "Please, I'm fine."
"Sherlock, you full on rugby tackled that man," A gesture toward said man, "on wooden stairs! Let me check your wound. And then, where did that come from?" He asks, pointing toward the handgun on the floor.
"Oh, this man brought it with him while attempting to burglarize."
John gives him a look of disbelief. "Sherlock! You're being so bloody reckless! You don't go after a man who has a gun!"
"Yes, but he heard you and was going to go upstairs." Then in a much quieter voice he says, "I couldn't let him hurt you, John."
The older man doesn't say anything at that, and a few labourious seconds pass by until he says, "Just let me check your side."
The Consulting Detective finally nods and lifts up the side of his shirt to reveal the bullet wound that has gone through far too much. Sure enough, two of the stitches have been pulled, and a thin red streak of blood is forming its way down Sherlock's side. John is about to comment on it, until the door clicks, revealing that someone is going to walk into their flat yet again.
Sherlock eyes the intruder's gun, but knows that it's too far away to reach. He then positions himself in front of John, in an effort to protect him from whoever might come through the door. This turns out to be futile, because the person that walks through the door is his damned brother.
When Mycroft walks in his eyes settle on the two flatmates, both on the floor looking like they're both in pain, causing a disgruntled look to appear on the politician's face. He opens his mouth to say something before he sees the third man on the floor, unconscious and bleeding. So he sighs, rubs a hand across his face and says, "What have you gotten yourself into, brother dear?"
Ignoring the question Sherlock asks one of his own, "What are you doing here?"
With a quick glance toward John, who had since positioned himself so he is not behind his flatmate, he says, "Just doing a favour for a friend."
Sherlock snorts at that. "'Friend'? You don't have any friends."
Mycroft makes a short noise, and a suffered look, but otherwise doesn't say anything. The silence only lasts a few more seconds until John interrupts with, "Under the sink in the bathroom there's a med-kit. Mind getting it?"
The British Government stays planted where he is and says, "Perhaps I shall just call Dr. Whitley. You are both obviously in pain, and from what I can tell, you are also bleeding, brother." As suspected, Mycroft gives an unsatisfied look at Sherlock before continuing, "Now, if you don't mind, there is a man in your living room that needs to be dealt with. And yes, Dr. Watson, I do believe calling Dr. Whitley for help is in your best interest."
And then, as if taking a stroll down the garden, Mycroft leisurely walks toward the man's body, discretely taking the previously planted drugs that John told him about. He makes a few texts, smooths out his suit, then leaves the flat without another word.
John leans against the sofa, letting his legs stretch out and tilts his head back before saying, "When did our lives get to a point where we don't even know which criminal mastermind sent people to rob us." He sighs and uses his good hand to massage his shoulder.
"I don't know about you," Sherlock starts with a smile, "But I've always had criminal masterminds out to get me. Multiple."
John can't help but chuckle at that, wondering when and how his flatmate got a sense of humour. It isn't until a minute later that he realizes his flatmate is staring him down. "What are you doing?"
"I was merely-"
"Deducing."
"Realizing." Sherlock corrects, cursing at himself for not noticing - observing, if you will - this sooner. He is about to explain what he realized until another person bursts into their flat (they really, really need a better security system). At least this time they're expecting her.
With a fairly large med-kit in her hands, Melanie exclaims, "Idiots! Why are you back home! This would've been so much better if you were still at the hospital like you should be!" For a petite woman, she sure packs a punch with her words.
"Sherlock's bleeding." John says, before the detective can ignore his own injuries.
"Oh!" Melanie says, closing the short gap between them, and then lifting up Sherlock's shirt. "Hold that up, please." Then wordlessly she puts a gauze on, deciding that replacing two stitches at this stage is not necessary. "What did you do this time?"
"Merely tackled a man on the stairs." Sherlock says, waving the woman off, even though all this does is increase her worry.
"Wha- Why on Earth would you do something like that?! What else hurts? Did you hit your head perhaps? Bang your knee against one of the steps?"
"Fine, just fine, thank you."
"Are you sure?" Melanie questions, staring him down.
"You're worse than John…" Sherlock mutters, making his flatmate smile. "But yes, as I've said before, just fine. John on the other hand, is not. From the way he's looking at us you can easily tell that he's in great pain. His shoulder worse than his knee."
"And what did you do? Also tackle a man in your flat?" Melanie questions, turning from one flatmate to the other.
"Er, no. Just not as good as it could've been." John says, letting his arm go limp so Melanie could inspect it.
"Oh, I knew I shouldn't have let you go on crutches! No more moving than necessary anymore, young man! And from now on you'll be using your sling again." She puts his arm back in the sling, and then stops when she sees the man on the floor. "What… Um, is this the…?"
"The man that I tackled and knocked out? Yes." Sherlock says, as if none of this is interesting. "Just ignore him. My brother has people who will take him."
Turning slightly pale Melanie says, "Right then… If you're alright, I'd better be leaving. I do hate to rush, but I still have patients at the hospital."
"Go ahead, we're fine." John says, with a smile.
She nods at the two, takes her kit and leaves the flat.
Sherlock then helps his friend up onto the couch, where he stretches out and almost falls asleep before the detective says, "John, what are you hiding?"
A/N I wonder what John's hiding...? I actually wonder myself, I haven't decided (such a great author, I know). So if you have any ideas please please tell me! I have no idea what personal item John would keep, but if you do, don't hesitate to tell me!
Also I wrote a one shot and published it a few days ago titled "A Study in the Great Game" you should totally check it out...