I meant to get this up sooner, but I had a ton of homework this week. I apologize.
I'm not very satisfied with this chapter, but oh well.
Thank you for the follows/favorites!
Enjoy!~
John was walking up the steps to his flat, bags of groceries in his hands, when he heard voices coming from the other side of the door. He recognized one of the voices to be Sherlock's, but couldn't place the other. He strained his ears. The voice was higher than Sherlock's, cooler. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
John jumped when Sherlock said, "Come in, John."
John opened the door and saw Sherlock lying vertically on the couch, his head hanging off the side and his curls falling to the floor, face flushed, and Mycroft standing over him.
Oh. Mycroft. That explained a lot.
"Hello," John said to the brothers and put the groceries on the kitchen table.
"John, you look well," Mycroft greeted. "How's the new job at the clinic? Rather boring, isn't it?"
"How…never mind."
John had taken a job at the clinic, but that was only yesterday. He didn't want to know how Mycroft found out (he knew Sherlock didn't tell him; Sherlock didn't tell him anything).
"It's nice. I like helping people," John said, which was true, and the reason why he took the job when he had enough money for a lifetime.
"Of course," Mycroft said with that same cool smile.
John chose to ignore him. "Sherlock, don't sit like that," he scolded, "all the blood will go to your head."
"That's the point," he muttered. "I'm hoping to pass out so I won't have to hear him."
"You're being ridiculous," Mycroft said.
"Your existence is ridiculous."
"Would you talk some sense into him?" he sighed.
"Sherlock, sit up," John took off his jacket. He was tired and not exactly up for hearing Sherlock and his weird brother bicker.
"No."
"Oh, you're in a great mood, aren't you?"
"It's his fault."
"Don't care. Sit up," he said sternly.
Sherlock sat up with an immense sigh, swaying slightly with a wave of dizziness and putting his fingers to his temples.
John snickered. "That's what you get, you child."
"Thank you, John," Mycroft smiled.
"Right. Yeah, don't take this the wrong way, but why are you here?" He saw Sherlock smirk out of the corner of his eye.
"I was just dropping off some photos from the wedding," he gestured to a folder that was on the coffee table. "Mummy was very pleased with the results. She has a few framed around the house."
"Oh, wonderful," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've done your job, the photos are here, now leave."
"Fine," Mycroft sighed. "Farewell, John."
"Yeah, see you later."
After Mycroft left, John walked over to the folder and picked it up out of pure curiosity.
"You're actually going to look at them?" Sherlock asked.
"Why not? It's not like I'm going to put one in my wallet or anything."
Sherlock snorted and got off the sofa to stand beside John.
John opened the folder. The photos on top were of them posing with family members.
"Wow, you can really see our pain here," John said, looking over the pictures.
"Indeed. I look like I want to douse myself in gasoline and light a match. That thought was going through my mind that night, actually."
They weren't exaggerating; they really did look pained in the pictures. It was kind of funny. John smiled, looked up and saw that Sherlock was grinning, and they started laughing.
"I wonder how my parents reacted to these," John laughed.
"They probably overlooked our facial expressions and acted like these are the most gorgeous pictures in the world. Actually, that sounds more like my mother." Sherlock scowled when John shuffled through and found a picture of him and Mycroft. "Burn it," he said.
"Not a chance," John said happily. Then he found a picture of him and Harry. It was obvious that she was drunk. John grimaced. "Okay, maybe we'll burn those two."
The remaining pictures were of John and Sherlock alone.
The first one had John and Sherlock standing together, John's arm around Sherlock's waist, their smiles uncomfortable. John remembered how Sherlock's mother insisted that they engage in some type of physical contact for the pictures, but it only made them look more awkward (and John felt guilty for enjoying the warmth of Sherlock's body against his arm, but no one needed to know that).
There were a couple others similar to that, but those pictures were fine compared to the last one.
The last picture of them together was when John kissed Sherlock after their vows. How the hell someone caught a kiss that barely lasted three seconds, John didn't know, but there it was. In the picture, John's face was relatively impassive, but Sherlock's wasn't. His eyes were wide opened and he looked totally unprepared for the kiss, his face tinged with pink.
All in all, the picture looked entirely unnatural.
Sherlock's expression in the picture puzzled John. Did he look like that merely out of surprise, or was it disgust?
John swallowed, bracing himself before looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock's face was blank and John didn't know what to make of that.
A chime from Sherlock's phone erupted from his pocket.
Sherlock took his phone from his pocket and answered it, not meeting John's eyes once. "Lestrade?"
John closed the folder and put it on the table. He didn't want to deal with it now. He needed to get out. Going by Sherlock's sudden smile, Lestrade must have been calling with a case.
"We'll be there," Sherlock said and pocketed his phone.
"Case?"
"Yes!" Sherlock ran over to his coat and put it on quickly. "Come on, John! It's our first case in over a month! My brain will rot no more!"
Suddenly, it was as if nothing happened, and John couldn't help but feel disappointed.
"Is it a murder?"
"Sadly, no. Some thief that keeps outrunning the police. Art thief. No fingerprints. No surveillance footage. His name is Burroughs."
"You think we'll have to chase him through the streets?"
"Most likely," Sherlock smiled wildly. "You haven't done that before."
"Chased criminals through the streets? No, of course not."
"You'll have fun," Sherlock said too cheerfully.
John shook his head. This is him. This is the man I've fallen in love with. This is my life. And you know what? I'm no better than he is.
"John, we're losing him!"
Heart racing, blood pumping, legs burning, the cold air of the night a crisp contrast from the heat on his skin—god, it was all so beautifully thrilling.
Sherlock had known that Burroughs would be hiding in the alley behind some pet shop (how did he come to that conclusion? John couldn't keep up with the deduction, but it sounded brilliant) and when they confronted the man, he took off.
John loved every second of it, but it was his first (hopefully of many) chase and while he frequented the gym and kept in exceptional shape, he wasn't used to that much running. He willed his legs to run faster, but Sherlock was getting farther ahead of him. Damn him and his long giraffe legs.
He saw Burroughs sharply turn a corner and go into another alley, but it failed to throw Sherlock off. He followed the thief into the alley and John caught up with them thirty seconds later.
When John ran into the alley, wheezing slightly, he got there just in time to see the shine of a knife before it disappeared underneath Sherlock's coat. Sherlock gasped in pain and Burroughs pulled the knife out, red staining the tip of the blade.
John felt an anger wash over him so intense it nearly knocked the breath out of him. He didn't remember moving, but the next thing he knew, he had that bastard on the ground in a chokehold, the knife knocked out of the Burroughs' hands and on the ground somewhere.
"You fucker," John growled, squeezing his hands tighter around his throat. "You made a big mistake, you arsehole." Hearing Burroughs struggling for breath only increased John's anger. "How dare you touch him," he whispered fiercely.
He saw Burroughs' eyes roll in the back of his head. John wasn't going to kill him. That would get him thrown in jail. He just wanted to hurt him as much as legally possible. He squeezed tighter for two more seconds before he let go, moving his hands to the man's hair, pulling it, and smashing his head on the ground until Burroughs was unconscious.
John got up, panting, adrenaline leaving him slightly dizzy.
He heard a cough to his left.
Sherlock!
John rushed over to the other side of the alley where Sherlock was slumped against the wall, holding his side, eyes shut tightly.
"Sherlock," John touched his cheek.
Sherlock opened his eyes. "Lestrade—" he was cut off with a cough, "is coming. With an ambulance. Don't worry."
He was trying his hardest to sound fine, but John knew better. It was only their second case, and Sherlock almost died both times. What good is John if he can't even protect someone? Sherlock could have died. He could still be dying.
"Yeah, you were just stabbed, so I'll worry as I please. He got you in the abdomen?"
"Just below the rib cage," Sherlock said, a slight tremor in his voice.
"We need to do something—"
"It's not too bad. I've had worse."
"This is ridiculous! We can't wait for Lestrade, who knows when he'll be here?"
Then he heard sirens and lights from police cars were shining in the alley.
"Told you," Sherlock said with the smallest of grins tugging at the corner of his lips.
It was no surprise that Sherlock would be stubborn about the treatment of his own damn wound. The thick material of Sherlock's coat had actually prevented him from getting seriously injured, but the gash below his ribs still needed medical attention.
"John is a doctor," Sherlock protested, "he will take care of me."
Lestrade looked like he was about to have an aneurism. "For the last time, get in the ambulance!"
Sherlock, somehow maintaining dignity while clutching his side, said, "I'd rather die."
"Oh, for the love of god," John marched over to Sherlock, "you can't stand upright!"
"Which is why we should go home. You have a medical kit. I've seen it. Do your job, Doctor Watson."
John's fists were shaking. The bastard could have died and he was acting like getting stabbed was the most casual thing in the world.
"Isn't it Watson-Holmes?" Lestrade asked innocently.
"No," Sherlock said, "he kept his last name and I took his."
"Oh," Lestrade said lamely. "Well, I didn't know. You still sign your texts 'SH'."
"It looks better than 'SW'. I don't really want his last name, anyway. It worked out since John wanted no indication of our marriage so he could pursue potential mates."
John was certain he heard bitterness in his voice. They had agreed to that, but that was before. He didn't appreciate Sherlock telling Lestrade all of this.
Lestrade was silent for a beat. "Ah. I didn't know your marriage is, er, an open one."
"Of course it is, John went on a date just last night."
Okay, he was definitely bitter. What the fuck was going on? "And you said you have no need for a spouse, so we're even," John said through gritted teeth.
"And that remains true," Sherlock snarled.
"Sherlock," John snapped. "Get in the fucking ambulance before I pick you up and put you there myself. You think I'm kidding? Just try me."
For a split second, Sherlock looked surprised before his eyes narrowed. They stared at each other for a long moment before Sherlock huffed and went to the ambulance, muttering to himself under his breath.
John sighed loudly and rubbed his temples, "Bastard, giving me a headache like that," he muttered.
"So, married life not working out for you?" Lestrade asked, his tone teasing and a tiny bit awkward.
"If he wasn't such an insufferable arse, it'd be fine," John said.
"No honeymoon, then?"
John laughed at that. "A honeymoon with Sherlock? God, just thinking about that frightens me."
Lestrade snorted. "You know, I'm kind of shocked that he listened to you. To go into the ambulance, I mean."
"He's probably too exhausted to put up much of a fight."
"I don't think so," Lestrade said.
John didn't know what he meant and he didn't want to know. They stood in silence for six minutes before John asked, "You got Burroughs, then?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah. Wasn't difficult to get him in handcuffs since he was unconscious. I'm assuming you did that."
John shrugged. "Well, it was out of self-defense."
"You don't have a scratch on you."
"He could have killed Sherlock," John said tersely. "I did what I needed to do."
Lestrade nodded vaguely. "Right. Well, Sherlock appreciates it. Secretly. He might not say it, but it's true."
"Yeah, sure," John said, unconvinced.
"Really. We better shut up. Here he comes."
Sherlock came out of the ambulance, hunched over slightly and scowling. "Can we finally go home?"
They rode back to Baker Street in silence, John feeling like an utter failure for not protecting Sherlock yet again. He was feeling a horrible mix of anger, guilt, and the desire to protect. He wanted to hold Sherlock against his chest and say, "I'm sorry for letting you get hurt. I won't let it happen again, I promise. Stop worrying me you infuriating creature. Please."
Too much emotions for one day. He needed a drink.
The next evening, John caught Sherlock staring at him from across the room by the window. They hadn't spoken a word since the night before, having avoided each other all day, and now the air was heavy between them.
Sherlock saw that John was staring back at him and he looked away, biting his lip. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he frowned and shook his head to himself.
John remembered Lestrade's words: Sherlock appreciates it. Secretly.
He decided to take a leap. "Sherlock," he said, voice husky from disuse.
Sherlock looked back at him.
"You're welcome."
Sherlock blinked, then, ever so slowly, a smile lit up his face.
John smiled too, and the tension crawled back under the surface. It was endearing, really, how Sherlock struggled to voice his feelings. John could relate.
Sherlock moved away from the window and winced slightly.
That reminded him. John looked at his watch. "It's about time to change your bandages."
"Is it really necessary?" Sherlock asked tiredly.
"You know it is. It won't take long, just let me fetch my kit from my room."
"Fine, but be quick about it."
John was upstairs retrieving the kit from the drawer, pointedly ignoring the shine of the ring he knew was in there, and he heard Sherlock moving around downstairs. It almost sounded like he was running. When he went back into the sitting room, Sherlock was standing in the same spot where John left him, nonchalant.
"Did something drop? I heard noise coming from down here."
"Nope," Sherlock said. "I've been standing here the whole time."
John raised an eyebrow. It was a lie and they both knew it, but he dropped it. He just got back on good terms with Sherlock and he didn't want to screw it up over nonsense.
"Well, whatever. Shirt off."
It was agonizing trying to treat Sherlock's wound (which was healing just fine, thankfully) and not openly stare at the toned, pale chest. If John's palms got a little sweaty, well, that couldn't be helped. And if he imagined sucking one of Sherlock's pink nipples until it peaked, well, could you blame him?
He knew that Sherlock was staring at him intensely, but he couldn't look up. He might have kissed him if he did.
"Well, that should do it," John cleared his throat. "You were right, it isn't that bad."
"John," he said lowly.
Dear god, why does he have to have that voice? "Yes?" he asked casually while he busied himself with closing his kit.
Sherlock had that nervous look again, his plump lower lip disappearing beneath his top teeth.
Without any warning, Sherlock's arms were around him in a tight hug. John inhaled sharply and automatically wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. Their chests were pressed together and he felt Sherlock's heart beating against his own.
Oh god, Sherlock still didn't have a shirt on. His skin was warm against John's hands. John thought about what it would be like to have that bare, warm skin against his own in the night. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to start kissing Sherlock's collarbone or nuzzle his neck.
No. He couldn't think those thoughts, not when his body might react and Sherlock would be right there to notice.
Just as quickly as he initiated it, Sherlock broke the embrace, smiled, and went into his room.
John stood there in the darkening room for a solid minute. "What the fuck was that?"
What's up with Sherlock? What was he doing before John went downstairs? It's really not some dramatic plot reveal; I'm not a good enough writer for that.
Please review!~
