John

There was positively nothing more he liked than feeling adrenaline coursing through his veins. He nor Sherlock mentioned the possibility of running into anyone in the building, the attacker was beyond most likely gone, but he still felt his heart beating wild. It was tough to fight a smile on his face as Sherlock wordlessly told him to go left.

He did as was told, quietly as possible going down the short hallway and examining the first door. No blood anywhere to be found, no scuffle around the doorway. To be sure, he opened the door and found it empty, nothing but an old bedroom he assumed. Or study, whichever. After doing a thick study of the room, John left as quietly as he'd came. Sherlock was nowhere in sight but the door he was to be looking through was slightly ajar.

John moved to the second door slowly, checking the floor. Absolutely no tell-tale signs of a scuffle on the floor but the door had a small red mark he could only assume was blood. It was just above the handle, as if it were on the back of a hand or knuckle as the handle turned. John checked the handle itself but there were no traces of blood. Briefly, he thought of calling out to Sherlock and making him call Lestrade. He was just about to call out when he heard a shift inside the room.

Instincts taking over, John grabbed the handle and opened the door. Immediately, he slipped into he room, which was bare aside from a metal bed frame, a torn up mattress leaning against one of the walls, and a small bedside table. Not to mention the man half turned to the door, one hand on the mattress and the other half way there.

Without skipping a beat, the man realized John wasn't friend and pivoted his body. Just as John realized the man was a high threat, the man pulled a gun. Before a fire went off, John dodged just in case and smashed into the man. They both crashed into the mattress and John could feel the sharp springs dig into his arm as he braced himself. The man, having not expected this turn of events, had dropped the gun.

Without the immediate threat of being shot, John took as much weight into his hit as possible and elbowed the man in the face. Blood from his nose splattered the mattress and John. Not a small man, the hit having a fairly small effect, John found himself deflecting a blow to his own head.

Regardless of how strong someone was, there were only so many times you could be hit in the head by an elbow or shoulder. John got in exactly three elbow hits and one shoulder hit. The shoulder hit resulted in a blood splatter down his shirt. The man slouched against the mattress and John helped him slowly go to the ground, making as little sound as possible.

John figured this wasn't the only one, considering the relaxed, unworried expression the unconscious man had when John had first opened the door. Sherlock might be in trouble. He left the room, closing the door behind him so maybe they wouldn't get jumped if the man woke up, hopefully disoriented.

Checking the room that Sherlock had apparently left the door ajar in, John found a similar looking set up from the room he'd just fought in. The difference being there was no man or blood to be seen. Which left the stairs.

Sighing quietly, wondering if he should even be surprised that Sherlock would go up without him considering the way he acted earlier at the crime scene, John started up the stairs. For such an old building, the stairs were almost completely quiet. He found that if he stepped as close to the wall or the railing as possible, there was either no noise or barely enough to make it to his ears.

Getting to the top of the stairs, John located two doors, one closed and the other wide open. Dust in front of the closed door was stirred and it looked like someone had stood there and been dragged backward. John looking at the open doorway and felt his adrenaline spike fully once more. There were fresh scrapes on the floor, as if someone tried stopping themselves from being pulled in.

Sherlock.

John rushed forward, not really worried about being quiet anymore. In the doorway, everything slowed down to a perspective. Sherlock stood by the far corner, his hands spread out to his sides. A man was pointing a gun at him, half facing the doorway. Sherlock looked quiet surprised to see John appear with a gun of his own. The man seemed just as surprised but both men recovered quickly, Sherlock a few seconds faster. John aimed the gun straight at the mystery man.

"You will let him go." John said, his voice calm and demanding. The man laughed, his arm not shifting from pointing a gun at Sherlock. Inside, John settled. Calmness he hadn't felt since the battlefield surrounded him like a cloud and he became weightless.

He saw the mans laughter, saw the blood on his body. He'd changed clothes but the blood had stained his hands, wrists, arms. It had stained places on his face and neck and he had some in his hair which was a brown but John just knew it was blood. He was the killer and he was still on the high. John saw the intent in the mans eyes.

Slowly, John took a step forward and the man noticed, his malicious eyes sparking at the dare. John realized the closer he came, the closer Sherlock was to getting shot. Too close already, the trigger finger started to flex. John slipped into a firing stance and shot. The bullet struck the man in the chest, almost dead center. John knew he hit his mark as the mans arm jerked forward and he shot a bullet closer to John than to Sherlock. It tore through the top of the building and was gone in an instant.

John lowered his arms, Sherlock staring at him with a straight face, eyes intense. John watched the murderer fall down, dead before he hit the ground. John had hit his heart, very much so on purpose. The taking of another life didn't even remotely bother John. He'd killed more than enough in the war and it had given him horrific nightmares. In his mind, currently, the adrenaline and calmness decided not to add to the guilt.

Sherlock was by his side in an instant, seeming unsure of what to do.

"John, are you all right?"

"Fine, yes."

"You're covered in blood." Sherlock said this calmly, as if John was on the verge of killing him.

"It's not mine. You should see the other guy." John raised the gun ever so slightly. "He's the one I borrowed this from."

"Oh," Sherlock's expression was beyond emotion, his gaze so intense John could almost feel it burrowing into him. "You just killed him."

"He was going to kill you." John looked up at Sherlock and it was at that exact moment that John realized how happy he was. No depression lingered inside his mind and his shoulder ached from earlier but there was no pain. He'd ran and he'd chased, he'd fought and he'd watched a brilliant man at work. Today had been a wonderful day.

"I suppose he would have pulled the trigger." Sherlock allowed, eyeing John.

"I'll move in. To the flat, I mean. So long as you promise me something."

"Okay, what is it?"

"I get to go along all the time on your cases."

Sherlock

They'd called Lestrade after they'd cleaned John's hand of residue as well as agreed upon a story. The man downstairs had killed the murderer. John had knocked the man unconscious. Lestrade took the story in stride, asked few questions, and the two were off to the apartment together.

Sherlock told John to take a shower. No point in being covered with blood. John agreed and while he was showering, Sherlock texted Mycroft that John needed clothes. After a short few moments, he replied.

John Watson? -MH

Yes. -SH

There was a long pause, almost a whole minute. Sherlock held his breath a few moments, wondering if his brother would call. He hoped not. He preferred texting.

Less than ten minutes. Driver needs time to get there and back. -MH

Sherlock smiled and put his phone down. If Mycroft was good for one thing, it was finding what people needed. Usually, he abused those things and used them to get his way. With Sherlock, he used it to attempt to make peace with his brother. It rarely worked. Today, Sherlock would remember he owed his brother.

By the time John was out of the shower, Mycroft's man had come and gone, a whole suitcase of clothes specifically from John's flat now in Sherlock's possession. Sherlock knocked on the bathroom door.

"Yes?"

"I have clothes for you. I'm opening the door." Sherlock nudged the door open, not looking inside, and slipped the suitcase through. He immediately closed the door and heard John locate the case, open it, and pause for a few moments.

"These are my clothes."

"Yes."

"From my flat."

"Yes."

"Sherlock how the hell did you do that," John yelled and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

"Mycroft, my dear Watson. He's government, remember?" Absolute silence answered him and he chuckled, making sure it was loud enough for John to hear.

Sherlock sat down on the couch in the living room and listened to John cursing and mumbling to himself. What had finally led him to agree to move in was a mystery to Sherlock. He had to admit, he was curious about the reaction John had towards killing a man. Yet, war does strange things. If he was okay with killing a man, why does he have nightmares?

Having a moment of recollection, Sherlock thought back to hearing the name just one more time. Maybe it would help give him some insight. Mrs. Hudson had called. A man named John was on his way to see the flat. "Watson. Nice fellow, sounds like. I'll not say your name, Dearie."

Sherlock had felt excited but at the same time more than a little irate. John had been a center for great frustration during school. They'd never gotten along and it was difficult to pinpoint exactly why. Sherlock would normally have forgotten about such a nuisance but for some reason, he'd forgotten to forget.

Walking through the flat and seeing him for the first time in years, Sherlock had been stunned and almost immediately attracted. He'd never been attracted to any particular person before but John made a small flutter. He had broader shoulders, cropped hair. He'd filled out just beautifully, none of the previous childish features about him. The injuries he'd sustained overseas, Afghanistan of Iraq Sherlock didn't know, were not horribly visible but the sleepless state induced by nightmares was obvious. There was a pang in his chest he couldn't recognize as he'd looked at John, seeing the boy he'd known that had grown into a man and then been broken down. At least, as Sherlock found, he was still full of fight.

Sherlock had then attempted, while on the case, to see how far he could push John. Being okay with following Sherlock or knowing about his escapades was one thing but seeing the reaction John had was another. Sherlock had not been disappointed as John not only ran on his bad leg, nor left his cane behind, but had fought with his bad arm, as the blood patterns suggested. The therapist probably had it wrong, if she thought John was suffering from PTSD. No, he wasn't, for he actually missed the excitement.

Smiling coyly, Sherlock waited patiently for his cursing, flustered flat mate to join him in the lounge.