Tentatively, Sherlock slips his arms tighter around John. He leans down and tucks his face into John's neck. John takes a deep breath and holds him close, hardly daring to believe, even now, that this is real. He fears that he will be jostled into wakefulness any second. As subtly as he can, John brings his hands together behind Sherlock and gives the thin flesh on the inside of his right wrist a vicious pinch. It hurts, and the world doesn't dissolve. John breathes a hitching sigh of relief.
"You're not dreaming," Sherlock rumbles, and John feels the words against his chest as much as he hears them.
John wishes he could relax at those words, but there is just so much to take in, not least being the fact that he'd kissed Sherlock. In John's trophy case of stupid decisions, that one probably sat between invading Afghanistan and not running the other way the first time he'd seen Sherlock. He cannot deny the fact that Sherlock hadn't seemed unwilling. Quite the opposite, rather, but John feared that it didn't mean the same to Sherlock as it did to him.
He wants to say something, anything, ask what it means, if Sherlock is here to stay, could he really not stay away, is it just manipulation to get John to come along on another of his mad dashes?
Also, John knows that once the shock and relief and everything else wears off, he will be livid with Sherlock. John knows the feeling intimately, being angry with Sherlock, but this goes deeper. This isn't something that will be swiped away by one of Sherlock's rare smiles and a promise to do the shopping. But, at the moment, John's emotional capacity is pretty well to the max.
And then something occurs that pushes John's capacity over the limit.
There is a subdued whizzing sound, then the snap of a bullet hitting wallpaper. On sheer instinct John drags Sherlock to the floor, throwing himself on top of his friend. It's probably unnecessary; if a sniper had wanted to hit them, they would be dead. No hail of gunfire follows, and John wishes he could concentrate on the warmth of Sherlock's body beneath his own, the jut of his hip into John's belly.
Footsteps on the stairs, heavy, big feet in thick boots.
Sherlock's eyes are huge and, if possible, more guilty than before.
"John, I'm so sorry, I brought them here," he whispers. "I knew this would happen, I could have stopped it…"
"Don't, don't apologize for that," John says in the last moments before the footsteps reach the top of the stairs. He skims perfectly steady fingers across Sherlock's cheek. "You have enough to be sorry for already."
John wants to take back the words as soon as he says them, but he only gets a glimpse of Sherlock's face, splayed open with hurt and something that looks like agreement, before he is hauled up by rough hands and has his hands wrenched behind his back. He struggles, ineffectually, and watches as another figure slowly ascends the stairs.
By this point, another two cronies (John cannot spare enough attention to take in much of their physical appearance: it is enough to know that they are stronger than him and he is outnumbered) have pinioned Sherlock and are holding him in place beside John.
The man on the stairs comes into view, and Sherlock snarls.
"It wouldn't have sat well, would it, Sebby, for Adair to have beaten you? You had to get that last word."
"He annoyed me," the man says. His voice is clipped, efficient, brutal, and John recognises the set of his features. He's seen it on men in the military before, that stone-set expression of sheer deadly intent. He can read the man's military history as clearly as Sherlock had read his on that first day at Bart's; his stance, haircut and the set of his shoulders all scream officer at John and a tiny part of his brain wants to make him stand at attention.
He resists. Sherlock is struggling like a mad, wild thing, flashing eyes fixed like daggers on the newcomer's face.
"I will bleed you dry if you harm one hair on his head," he growls, his face twisting with rage and determination.
"We've had this conversation before, Sherlock, remember? That phone call I tapped from Islamabad? Do you remember what I said to you?"
Sherlock blanches.
"That's what I thought," the man says. He strides over to John and looks down at him. The man is about the same height as Sherlock, but broader. He has thick blonde hair in a strict crew cut, and the skin of his face is weathered and littered with scars.
"So, John Watson. We finally meet. I'm Sebastian Moran."
