The limo stopped in front of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock took off his coat, wrapping John's semi-conscious body in its warm folds. He reached for the door, only to have it wrenched open by Mrs. Hudson. She took one look at John and sank down on the first step. "Dear god, Sherlock, is he…?" Her voice trailed off unable to say the hateful word, 'dead'.
Sherlock shook his head answering, "No." His voice came out in an unsteady wobble.
Mrs. Hudson trailed behind, following Sherlock to their bedroom. Her hands flew to her mouth when Sherlock deposited John on the bed. "Sherlock…. he belongs in hospital."
Sherlock came across the room and laid his hands gently on Mrs. Hudson's shoulders. "Mrs. Hudson, please leave us alone. Everything will be fine."
Mrs. Hudson nodded backing out of the room, unable to tear her eyes from the horror that lay before her. Sherlock gave her a wan smile, then shut and locked the door. Its click a quiet dismal to all who would disturb them.
John's eyes flew open when Sherlock inspected his body for signs of deep cuts or gashes. "John, let's get you into the bath." The dulcet tones of his voice failed to soothe John as they usually did.
"No, no, I can't don't make me. Sherlock they'll find us. Hide. We have to hide," John whispered burrowing his way under the covers. "Sherlock, get my gun we'll need it."
Sherlock retrieved John's automatic, checked the magazine and safety, then joined John. Once under the covers John began to panic. "Sherlock, we've got to get out. I can't breathe there isn't enough air." Then he kicked Sherlock in the stomach throwing the blankets to the ground. Clenching his abdomen, Sherlock swore as his muscles cramped up. John was still strong, that was for sure.
"Sherlock, give me the gun," John demanded.
"No," Sherlock grunted rolling over. John was beside him in a moment, taking advantage of his inability to stand. Once the gun was his, John became a soldier, checking the door to make sure it was locked and scanning the perimeter of the room. Sherlock remained quiet hoping that John would recover from his disorientation.
"Sherlock, get up. I'll protect you. We're under attack. Come on damn it. Don't fuck around." John screamed out his voice hoarse from the adrenaline that coursed through his system.
Sherlock stood up and whispered, "John, it's alright you're safe. You're home at Baker Street."
John shook his head. "Nope, you're lying. Don't lie to me Sherlock!"
Sherlock crept closer to John. "John, look in the mirror. Just look in the mirror."
"There is no mirror in the fucking desert, you moron," John shouted.
"John, look at me. Keep your eyes fixed on me." Sherlock said walking towards John.
"No, the last time you told me that you jumped and…and…. Oh no, Sherlock, Alex he's dead. He suffered so. I couldn't help him. I am Doctor and I couldn't save him. I just couldn't…" John sobbed, dropping the gun. He put his hands over his ears as if the room were filled with the sounds from a previous firefight.
"I've been hit. This is Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and I've been hit." Then his eyes rolled up to the top of his head and he passed out in Sherlock's arms.
Sherlock looked down at John's tattered form and attempted to quell the hate which raged through his system. In a calm manner he walked over to the nightstand and retrieved John's medical bag. Riffling through its contents he finally found what he needed, a Librium injectable. John's eyes fluttered open when Sherlock bent down and kissed his forehead. "Sleep," he whispered, prepping John's arm, ignoring the wave of desire that swept over him when the needle pricked John's pale skin.
Sherlock took in a deep breath as his hips thrust forward against John's body. He gritted his teeth in frustration attempting to quell the stirring in his groin when he disengaged the needle from its blue venous position. Throwing the syringe in the trash, Sherlock got up retrieving some warm moist towels. Though he would have never guessed it, he loved wiping away the filth that covered John's body. When he finished, Sherlock inspected his handy work. John was clean. His skin a glowing pink. Beautiful. He shook his head to focus, grabbed a pair of sweats from their dresser and bundled John up, then he waited with gun in hand. John was too fragile to run so he would just have to wait. Wait for them to come, then Sherlock would take his revenge.
Sherlock must have fallen asleep for the room had grown colder. What had awoken him? He looked down at John's sleeping from. For a moment he forgot about the events of the evening, studying John's relaxed facial features. He traced a wrinkle or two with his forefinger. "I am most likely the cause for the wrinkles and gray hair," Sherlock whispered aloud. Though the gray looked sexy as hell he frowned at its implication. John was aging. "Aging is normal," Sherlock mused, then fought down a wave of panic when he thought of the human degeneration process eroding his own body as well as John's. A surge of anger coursed through his veins at the realization that he couldn't protect John from everything. A proper genius was no match for the ravages of time. "Someday we will both die, but do not fear for I will follow you into the dark," Sherlock vowed aloud, covering John's jawline with kisses.
A creak just outside the door made Sherlock tense. The way the wooden floor boards sounded told him who it was, Mycroft.
"Come in," Sherlock hissed grabbing the gun. As soon as Mycroft entered the room he pulled the hammer back. "Get out and leave us alone, or I'll be forced to splatter your brains across my periodic table of elements."
Mycroft glanced at the chart and sighed. "Must you always be so dramatic, brother mine?"
"Sod off. Do you know that those animals from MI6 almost killed John? They did kill Alex." Sherlock growled, lining up Mycroft in his sights once again.
"Sherlock, I had no idea what was happening until it was too late." Mycroft said, running a hand across his face.
"Liar!" Sherlock screamed.
John stirred in his arms and muttered. "What's going on?"
"Sssh, nothing. Everything's fine. Go back to sleep, John," Sherlock crooned a kiss on John's forehead.
"Okay," John murmured in a sing song voice. Then he laid his head back down on Sherlock's chest.
"Sherlock, these men are dangerous. Let me help you. I can get you and John out of the country for a while," Mycroft pleaded. "Haven't I always been there for you?"
Sherlock looked up at Mycroft with red-rimmed eyes. "No, not always."
"When?" Mycroft challenged.
Sherlock's teeth began to chatter from stress and rage. "You let Redbeard die but worst of all you failed to protect me from…those animals you called friends."
Mycroft's face paled. "Sherlock, I had no idea that they would abuse you in such a manner. Rest assured they have all paid for their dastardly deeds."
Tears ran down Sherlock's face. "Dastardly deeds? Is that what you call the rape of a 10-year-old boy? They took a piece of my soul that day, Mycroft. Sometimes I think you left me there alone on purpose. Getting your cigarettes was more important than protecting me. Did you know what they were going to do? For Christ's sake they didn't even bother to use lubricant. Never mind your actions come too little too late brother mine, now get out. Rest assured I will pull the trigger and kill you if I have to."
Mycroft's features softened and he whispered, "Sherlock, I'm so sorry that I failed you, but that was then. This is now. Where will you go, Sherlock? How can you protect John without my help?"
Sherlock pulled John closer. "Get out. John and I are no longer your concern."
Mycroft paused and looked down at the ground. He started to say something then clamped his lips shut and left. Sherlock fought down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. How was he going to protect John and himself from one of the most powerful organizations in the world?