AN: So sorry how long this took! I don't know what came over me! Thanks so much for your reviews, please leave one! Lots of exclamation points! Agh!
"He doesn't mean anything, Wally. Honestly. We haven't done anything, it's the truth to God." To Beatrice's credit, her voice only quavers slightly.
Rice's unsteady hand stops pointing at John and brings the gun to his own left temple. "And you haven't "done" anything with me, either." His voice goes a little hysterical. "what am I supposed to think?"
His eyes snap from Beatrice over to John as the man gives a quiet groan, seeming to start to waken. John's eyes flicker but for now remain closed. The sedative was heavy.
Beatrice stutters another gasp, doesn't scream because she can't. "Wally, please no—" She doesn't even notice John, because she wants to wrench the gun away from Wally but is too terrified to touch him.
Lestrade grimaces, waving full-armed to get the cars to follow them as he jogs to follow Sherlock, again trying to stop him, voice a little too loud and attracting the attention of the few passers-by. "Sherlock, you will not go in there without a plan, or you will be arrested when it goes wrong and half of you die."
For the first time in a long time (the pool, he thinks with a stinging somewhere in his chest), he doesn't know what to do. He sags visibly, and it's horrible, and he wants to do anything but listen to Lestrade so that he can do what he can to save John.
But he stops, and he nods, and it's the hardest thing he's ever done. "Yes. Okay. Please."
Soon, Lestrade is on the far side of his squad car, gun out and gesturing with a flick of his head for one of the other officers to go in. They have made a rough perimeter, and Lestrade has told Sherlock to stay near him. The detective inspector glances over his shoulder for a second to check that Holmes is still there. He's obviously even less stable than usual.
Sherlock checks and unchecks the safety on John's gun over and over in a loop, watching blankly as the officer walks into the building. Sherlock thinks he's probably going to die. Better him than John. Better anyone than John. He keeps an eye on Lestrade, clicking the safety on and off and on and off and...
Wallace's eyes suddenly well up and he lowers the gun, spreading his arms. Almost as if it was inadvertent that the gun is on John again. "Darling, can't you see how I would think...?"
He is cut off by a casual knock on the door. Who would be coming here? And why would they knock? The windows, few that there are, are far too dirty to see out of. Carefully moving to have a clear look- or shot, Rice thinks giddily- at the door he calls. "Do come in." His gun hand hides itself behind his back.
A young man wearing the police uniform edges into the house, eyes taking in the situation. He looks a little panicky, Rice thinks.
"H-hello officer.. it's probably best if you just leave now." Rice has no idea how menacing his attempt at a smile looks to the man.
The young officer holds his hands up slowly. "The building is surrounded, Rice. Release your hostages and we can negotiate. No one wants to hurt you, just let them go." He is obviously not a trained hostage negotiator, just one of the PCs that Lestrade happened to pull along with him on this merry chase.
Beatrice is terrified, but as Rice's attention turns to the officer, she makes the smallest imperceptible move backward, toward John and his chair.
Suddenly Rice's gun goes off and the officer is screaming and clutching at his kneecap. The room bursts into movement. Rice whirls on Beatrice and grabs her by the wrists, pulling her away from John before releasing her and glaring around the room. The policeman has hit the ground, partially against the wall where he had entered, and is clearly out of the game. John is fighting the effects of the sedative, blinking far too often and starting to look around the room, surprisingly calm as he starts to struggle against his bonds. Rice still hasn't noticed that John is lucid.
Lestrade curses rather loudly when he hears the scream, tilting his head up to the sky briefly. He racks his brain for what to tell his men now. Rice can be treated as hostile? Obvious. We're going in? Too great a chance of death on both sides. Then what?
Sherlock's lungs contract at the sound of the gunshot, and he must have taken a sharp breath. The gun's safety is off. Lestrade isn't even looking at him. So there is no one to stop him when he turns on heel and disappears from amongst the police barricade. Not running. Walking briskly. Not stopping. Round the opposite side of the building almost as if he's guided by something else. The sounds of struggle inside hit his ears but he can't register them. Because if he does, he'll lose it, and he can't afford the time that will waste.
So he kicks in the back door.
Beatrice screams, she can't help herself, shouting for the police to come and help, that Rice is crazy and he's going to kill everyone. She wants to bolt, but the gun is horrifying and she can't move, unless her knees give out on her.
Rice spins again on the back door and registers who it is. "Holmes..." He near-growls, and his gun is cocked again already and on John, who is across the room and freezes in his bonds. John's mouth is open as if he was going to say something, but he doesn't know anymore and his gaze flickers between Rice and Sherlock, remaining on the latter. Help, the veteran's eyes seem to say.
Rice's arm shakes unsteadily but his eyes stay on Sherlock. "Leave, or I s-shoot your boyfriend now." He hates himself for the stutter.
Sherlock has John's gun on Rice almost casually, and his eyes fix on John. "Are you all right?" He asks, and clearly that's what matters. God help Rice if he's hurt John, because Sherlock will tear him apart.
John does a quick mental inventory, and his eyes flicker back to Rice for a second before he nods. "Yes. Just tied. A little bruised." Mentioning the bruising is an afterthought but he thinks he ought to admit it.
From where her knees have dropped her on the floor, Beatrice's eyes flash between all three of them, and suddenly no one is paying attention to her. She could run. She could help that officer. She could do something. Her hands close very quietly around an abandoned paperweight on the ground at her ankle.
Rice gestures with the gun. "Out. Or he's d-" Distracted by the soft ting of fingernails on glass paperweight, he turns slightly and regards Beatrice, confused anger in his face. "What are you doing?" He moves as if to grab her and pull her up, maybe even shoot her.
A second later, without it even registering in his eyes, Sherlock shoots Rice in the kneecap, taking precious broad steps to stand between John and the shooter. Through the deadpan look on Sherlock's face, the briefest sneer breaks through as he stares Rice down and shoots again for the second kneecap.
Beatrice screams, throws her arms over her head, and buckles into herself.
John's eyes fly open and he is staring at Sherlock, stunned that his friend could and would do such a thing. He is distracted by Rice's loud cries just after each shot and twitches slightly, war visions in his eyes. He takes a sharp breath, knowing that knee injuries are some of the most painful. Especially if the kneecap is shattered.
"Holmes..." Rice gasps, trying to struggle back up, his hands scrabbling to find purchase to cock the gun again. "You'll p-pay for this." It is obviously taking almost all of his concentration to keep himself conscious and talking.
Sherlock strides to Rice and kicks his gun hand unkindly, knocking the gun away and perhaps jamming a couple of fingers in the process. He holds John's gun steady in his hand, aiming at Rice's head. And he frowns.
"You're very lucky nothing happened to him. There are worse places I could have shot you." He takes a steadying breath, and suddenly he's not so in control anymore. His gun hand shakes just slightly, and suddenly he whirls around and moves back to John, kneeling by the chair and untying his hands without another word.
Biting back the tense "No, Sherlock" that had formed on his lips when the gun pressed against Rice's head, John tries to move so as to help Sherlock get the ties undone. His head follows Sherlock's movements, somehow uncertain that this is all really happening.
Rice is on the floor, gasping back sobs as he sees his plan crumble, and as the deep crimson begins to seep through the fabric of his dark-coloured pants. The police officer has pulled himself up by a dusty windowsill and takes a limping step towards Sherlock and John. "Look..." he says, voice low. "None of us wants to get arrested for anything that happened here. You shot in self-defense, alright?"
John watches Sherlock's face, however unreadable it tends to seem, as he starts to be able to shake off his bonds.
Sherlock ceases freeing John's hands, and at first he doesn't move. One touch at John's wrist, fleeting but reassuring, and Sherlock is suddenly on his feet, turning to the officer.
"Yes, of course. Thank you. Your name is Atherton, yes? I'll see it gets to my brother." He doesn't turn back to John, looks instead at Beatrice on the floor. She's fainted dead away. Utterly useless woman. "We'll be needing an ambulance. For you, and for Mister Rice. And someone should attempt to revive Miss Braithwhyte."
John stands, wincing slightly and cracking his neck sideways. It has been at least a few hours without any movement. He comes up to Sherlock's side, rubbing at his chafed wrists, and watches as his friend talks.
The police officer nods, letting out a sharp gasp nonetheless as his knee threatens to buckle. John is back into medic mode and he comes forward to support the man and surveys the damage. He can tell that Sherlock is still looking at him; he feels a strange tingling feeling in the back of his neck.
Just then Lestrade bursts in through the front door, and John can hear behind him another officer mirroring Lestrade at the back entrance. He grimaces, quickly helping the man find the wall to support himself then raising his hands in the gesture of surrender.
Lestrade looks around and quickly lowers his gun, shouting, "All clear! Get these men to the ambulance," gesturing to Rice and his officer Atherton. His eyes find Beatrice, fainted on the floor. "Miss Braithwhyte, also, please." He puts his hands in his pockets and approaches Sherlock. His face is unreadable, jaw set.
Sherlock takes his eyes from John and focuses with minimal interest on Lestrade. "Took your time." The adrenaline is still working its way out of his system, and it shows as John's gun, still in his hand, shakes noisily as it rattles in his grip. He swallows the emotion away with some effort. "That man Atherton deserves a promotion. Or at least a raise."
Lestrade frowns slightly. "I'll consider it. And I'm not going to ask you what happened in here," He turns to John. "But I will need some sort of statement from you over the next few days regarding the events before today John nods, brow furrowing. Lestrade looks between Sherlock and John. "Thank you men, I'm sure that this could have gone worse if you weren't here." And with a crisp nod he has turned and is walking away, supervising Rice's handcuffing in the ambulance. Someone else has retrieved the madman's gun from where Sherlock had kicked it.
John faces Sherlock, eyes locking with his as he softly pries the gun from Sherlock's fingers and, putting the safety on, slips it back into his own inside pocket. His fingers stay lightly touching Sherlock's for a moment. "Are you alright?" He searches for some sort of honest answer, some sort of feeling. The policemen are slowly dissipating, helping with either Rice, Beatrice, or Atherton.
Sherlock doesn't answer immediately, and his fingers twitch lightly when John lingers. But even though his eyes are low on the wall behind John, he manages to keep his face unreadable. He nods tightly, and he gathers himself enough to look John in the eye. "Yes. Now." He steps away when he says it, looking for anyone who might stop their exit. No one bars them. "Baker Street?" As if he didn't just shoot a man in the kneecaps (and was thoroughly satisfied with the fact).
John nods decisively, though Sherlock is already on the move. He trails after, shortly catching up. "Sherlock..." His speech peters off, John forgetting or deciding against whatever he was about to say and replacing it with something else. "Let's not do anything else too exciting today." A pause. "At least not until the evening."
Almost as soon as the last officer has left the building, Sherlock turns right on heel and gathers John in an awkward, all-elbows embrace, grips tight for precisely seven seconds, before he lets John go. He doesn't linger on it, hardly acknowledging it has even happened. "Quiet night in. Next Bond film. Yes." He turns again for the door just as quickly.
Caught in the embrace, John barely realizes it is happening and starts to return it before Sherlock breaks away and goes on with his life. Of course he does, John thinks to himself ruefully. He's married to his work, after all. But John's chest feels oddly light, as he heads for the door. "A cab?" He suggests, doubting that either one of them particularly wants to take the tube.
Sherlock tries very hard not to rub his face with both hands, but weakness is bad. Very bad. He certainly can't show it in front of John. Regardless, his voice isn't strong when he replies: "I don't have cash. I gave it all on my way here."
John looks worriedly at Sherlock, almost putting an arm around him before he thinks better of it. "Don't worry," He says, trying to keep his tone light and chipper. "I had a few quid on me before... you know." John raises his arm for a cab, and there is still one pulling up to the curb relatively quickly- given that they are now just leaving a crime scene. He pays and slips into the back seat, making room for Sherlock. "221B Baker Street, please." The soldier's gaze often flickers back over to Sherlock, just checking.
Sherlock's gaze catches John's as he calls the cab, and it's almost as if he can see straight through him (as always, like a mind-reader). And when he climbs into the cab after John, he's smirking. Not the usual smug, self-satisfied Sherlock smirk, it seems almost, for the lack of a better word, normal.
Halfway through the drive, Sherlock speaks up lowly. "I suppose that if I hadn't assaulted McCallister, this wouldn't have happened."
John lets out a short laugh, smiling at Sherlock. "I suppose not. But it's better to have it over with. Perhaps?" He is trying to be the optimist, and for the most part he is convinced, himself. John's eyes cloud over as it suddenly occurs to him to wonder how Beatrice is do- no, mustn't think of that. He frowns, quickly distracted.
Sherlock recognizes the look metamorphosing in John's eyes, and he doesn't like it, so he smirks in reply. "She'll be fine. Better than you, in all likelihood." He drops his eyes to his shoes. "It's my fault, I don't see why you should feel upset."
John's expression clears up slightly and he shrugs. "It's better to know, I suppose. Than for her to still be.. cheating." He almost has to spit the word in order to get it out. They are just pulling up to the stop on Baker Street, and John starts to go for the door, sparing a last glance for Sherlock before he goes.
AN: Next chapter may be the last of this arc! Exciting! See you then.