A/N references to character death and grieving.
Ritual Disclaimer I do not own Sherlock Holmes. This story is just for fun and clearly not for profit.
Excerpt from the end of Chapter 9
Seb pulled a knife out of his boot, his throwing knife. Sherlock had a gun, my gun? They faced each other ready to kill, ready to die, and I had to pull the trigger. I screamed. A ragged wail escaped my burning throat as I shot my best friend dead.
Chapter 10 I Live and Die for You
I gasped for breath. Do not cry. Soldiers do not cry.
What have I done? Oh my God, what have I done? Do not cry.
I would have died for him. Soldiers do not cry. I would have done almost anything to help him, but I couldn't let him hurt Sherlock Holmes.
When the Colonel pulled his knife on Sherlock, I only had seconds and I had no choice. The Colonel was deadly with that knife .I had to kill my former best friend, my Colonel, to save Sherlock Holmes because Sherlock is everything.
I didn't bother to go check Sebastian's pulse; I knew he was dead. At this range, I don't miss, not even in the dark. I know that there will be a small, round, neat hole right between Sebastian's eyes. Do not cry.
Good shot Captain Watson, don't you feel proud? Soldiers do not cry.
Sherlock however stooped and checked the body for a pulse. Then he began rifling though his pockets.
I watched my detective rushing about in a frenzy. Thank God Sherlock didn't seem to be hurt. All of my pain, all of my confusion is worth it because Sherlock Holmes is alive. I will not show him any tears; he wouldn't approve, and he wouldn't understand. Besides, soldiers do not cry.
In the end, I really never had any choice at all.
I was going to kill Moran. I was going to rip him limb from limb, then stomp on his face. He was going to pay for nearly stealing my blogger away. He was going to pay with his life for even touching John, let alone kissing him. And as for choking John, death might not be good enough. Moran should have to suffer. Luckily, I've had lots of practice killing people over the last three years. I might try snapping his neck…
Moran, hideous with his bleeding, his scar and his manic leer, circled me. Luckily, John was well out-of-the-way near the windows. I could hear his wheezing and his attempts at shouting; they reassured me that he still lived.
Moran and I fought to the death over my John. It was a savage fight. I don't remember either of us speaking. I only remember grunts and growls and snarls. I had never felt this much raw hatred, not even for James Moriarty. John Watson was mine and Moran would die.
Then Moran fell backwards, dead. I was stunned for a moment. When I came up close, I saw the bullet wound, right between his eyes. I checked to ensure that he was dead. I felt an overwhelming fury that my prey had escaped me by dying. I ripped though his pockets for evidence or ID's but only found toothpicks, cigarettes and a cheap lighter.
I turned enraged to look at Sebastian's executioner. John knelt on the floor, hunched over the gun in his lap. I couldn't read him. I couldn't read his face or feelings.
There were some things about John that were easy to read. Even in the dark I could read his exhaustion and list his injuries: torn ear-how did it get injured? it is bleeding significantly perhaps dangerously so; a scalp wound behind the damaged ear-ditto; wheezing and coughing from near strangulation, minor bullet wound in his left arm- negligible blood loss; broken arm and head laceration from earlier this evening. Assessment multiple traumas, significant blood loss. Cannot rule out internal injuries or possible neck injuries.
But I cannot read his emotions. I do not know where I stand with John now. He offered himself to Sebastian Moran. He offered to escape with the insane assassin.
John allowed himself to be kissed by the monster. Yet I know that he was repulsed by the kiss. At the time, I could easily read John's distress and aversion to the assault. John was rigid in the monster's embrace; his fists were tightly clenched, and his head was turning away involuntarily. His entire body shook. Why didn't he fight back?
I don't know how to approach my blogger, my friend, and the idiot who almost got himself killed.
I charged over to him. I wanted to pick him up and cradle him. I wanted to kiss him back. I wanted to slap him for getting hurt and especially for kissing Moran.
"John you're an idiot; what the hell were you thinking? Don't answer; you weren't thinking," I yelled angry and frightened. I used my scarf to try to stem the bleeding from his mangled ear and the scalp wound. Upon close inspection the scalp wound is from a bullet. Obvious, the gun fired once during the scuffle between John and Moran. The bullet tore through John's ear and across his scalp. Another inch and John would very probably have died. I fought off panic at the very thought.
"What made you offer to run off with Moran? What the hell possessed you to let him kiss you? I told you to stay back and follow…"
"Shut up. Just shut up Sherlock. You were the one who stepped in front of me, you," John punched a finger painfully into my chest, "you blocked my shot. I told you not to block my shot." John stood, swayed and sat back down heavily.
"And let go of my head; you're making it hurt," I did not lessen the pressure over his wounds. "Just so you know, Mr. Genius, you had about twenty to thirty seconds to live once he raised his gun. I had to distract him. I would have done anything; I would have promised him anything to keep you from dying again. You got that? I will not watch you die again," John screamed hoarsely at the end of his tirade.
John's outburst calmed me. I know this John. This is the angry and overprotective John, and I want to help him. I steadied John by grasping his shoulder. This is a friendly, comradely and comforting gesture to use with John. I know this because I have researched friendships and relationships on the Internet.
"You really would have gone with him?" I asked, holding his shoulder.
John pursed his lips, "Yes, of course. If it meant keeping you safe," John met my eyes, but his dark eyes were still unreadable. "I didn't want to go but it was the only way I could think of to keep faith with you and Chas. Don't frown at me. I know we probably wouldn't have made it to Dover before Mycroft killed us, but that was acceptable. Same goes for the kiss since you brought it up."
"I'd kiss a crocodile if it kept you alive, you idiot," John muttered. Then he picked up steam again, "And, and I suppose you have a problem with me shooting him? Well he had his knife out, and you had about another twenty seconds before it was lodged in your chest. Believe you me, Sherlock Bloody Holmes, I may not be a bloody genius like you, but I know the Colonel and he was about to kill you. And so I had to kill him before he killed you. I had to kill him, God forgive me; I had to kill him."
I quickly reassessed the data. John did not lie; he can not lie to me. He didn't want to go with Moran. He didn't want to kiss Moran. He wanted to protect me. I still have John.
I looked down at my blogger. For an instant, I could read the pain in John's face. His mouth pursed and tightened, his brow furrowed and his eyes glittered with unshed tears. Then he froze his face again with that unreadable neutral look. I had to reach John somehow.
"Calm yourself John. I am grateful for your assistance…" I stopped at the wide-eyed, outraged look on my blogger's face. "Let me rephrase that, thank you John for saving my life, twice at least tonight. He was your friend at one time; this was hard for you. I feel, I want…just thank you John for choosing me." I squeezed his shoulder again, perhaps harder than I had intended because I saw him wince.
"I didn't just choose you a few minutes ago, you idiot. There was never a choice,"
I was confused. John didn't want me?
John continued, "Sherlock I live and die for you and if you don't know that by now, then you aren't such a genius after all." John leaned towards me. A small half-smile tugged at his lips. "In other words, I chose you a long, long time ago. You're my best friend, you're every..." John shook his head.
"I just don't know what Chas will think; he'll be so disappointed in me."
"I doubt that John, I seriously doubt that. I'm sure he would have understood," I said taking John's weight against my shoulder. "I think I understand John." He looked up at me, his brows raised in questioningly. His eyes twinkled with a hint of my old emotional blogger.
"It's going to be alright John, I promise, " I said, holding him close. It was perhaps too close for comrades but surely it is acceptable for best friends and partners.
John must have agreed because he did not pull away. I vowed that I would make it alright, for us both.
I heard the police charging up the stairs, I foresaw explanations and lectures. John is not up for that. He needs to be cared for. I texted Mycroft and requested his assistance. Mycroft could quickly get John into hospital and away from the police, at least until John was stronger.
I abhor asking Mycroft for anything, but I would have asked the devil himself for help for John's sake. After all, I live and die for John.
The End of Nonplussed
A/N The story will be continued in The Further Adventures of a Blogger and his Detective (or some better title) in the near future. Thank you to everyone who read this and for all the reviews and encouragement that you gave me.