Chapter 6 – An Apology
Summary: Wilkes pulls the trigger but the bullet never hits John.
Author's Notes: This is the second upload today so make sure you read chapter 5 first!
xXx
The gun clicks, no shot ringing out.
John freezes in a moment of tense surprise until a movement grabs his attention. From behind the bar to their right, Sherlock appears, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.
John's heart stutters for the split of a second. He came. Sherlock came.
"I've always known your intellect to be lacking, Sebastian. Any man used to handling guns would have noticed the difference in weight. But then, you've always been a pacifist, haven't you?"
"Holmes," Wilkes snaps with enough venom to poison an elephant. "What the hell?"
"I emptied your magazine. Only an idiot leaves his gun unattended for even a second, especially when he plans on taking out a highly decorated Captain that same evening."
With a grunt, Wilkes throws the gun to the floor but his grip on Harry doesn't loosen. John sees how Wilkes shifts his weight – he is up to something.
Suddenly, Wilkes bows down, snatching up John's Sig though before he has a chance to aim, John is on him, trying to wrestle the gun out of his grip without hurting his sister in the process.
John crashes Wilkes' hand onto his thigh with all the force he can muster, trying to dislodge the gun but a shot is released, ringing out loudly in the room before Wilkes drops the weapon.
"John!" Sherlock calls out, sounding worried, but John doesn't stop to see if he is injured. With a few strikes, he renders Wilkes unconscious and his grip on Harry finally slacks.
Yet, as John's eyes snap to his sister, all he sees is red. The bullet hit her in the thigh; now blood is running down her naked skin.
"Shit!" John throws his suit jacket off, then rips his shirt open and presses it on the wound. Harry cries out in pain. "Harry, Harry, listen to me! It's just a leg wound; you're going to be alright. I'll take you to the hospital. You're safe now, Harry. You're safe."
He bandages the wound as well as possible with his shirt, then grabs his jacket and gently eases Harry's arms through it. She is in shock; her eyes open and unseeing, her muscles tense.
Once she is haphazardly covered, he scoops her up in his arms. Sherlock, meanwhile, must have freed Lubitsch and the other three agents, for they are on their feet again.
"Someone call an ambulance," John orders and he waits long enough for Karl to produce his mobile before he makes his way up the stairs.
He waits just inside the front door, not wanting to expose Harry to the cold night air outside. The ruffle of a coat announces Sherlock's arrival but John doesn't turn, unwilling to face whatever awaits him when he meets Sherlock's eyes.
"Is she going to be alright?" Sherlock asks softly.
"Do you care?" John snaps back, too riled up to rein in his emotions that are suddenly all over the place, now that he is holding his sister in his arms and she is so light that he doesn't even feel a strain in his arms.
Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I care about you, John."
"Well, I'm fine, so thanks for saving the day."
He hears Sherlock swallow. "It was a trap. The Sterling case. There was no motive behind it other than to distract me, forcing you to walk into this alone."
The sound of a siren announces the ambulance's arrival.
John closes his eyes as the meaning of Sherlock's statement registers. "You're telling me you only came here because you solved the case?"
"I-"
"Don't, Sherlock. I'm in no mood for your logic."
Without glancing at the Omega, John elbows the door open, and meets the medics.
xXx
A strange air of melancholy settles over Sherlock that he has never experienced before. He can't will it away and it drives him even madder than John's gruff behaviour.
Sherlock wants the softness to return to John's eyes, wants the Alpha to caress him again, kiss him, smile at him and the Omega inside of him longs for John's smell. He follows to the hospital - Lubitsch is kind enough to arrange for him to get there - where Sherlock finds John in the waiting room, staring into space.
His sister must be in surgery then, for the gunshot wound.
John doesn't react to his presence and when Sherlock yields to the impulse to reach out, John almost flinches and withdraws from him.
Sherlock stays, craving John's scent, waiting. He keeps his distance when a doctor comes to talk to John and when he walks off to Harry's room a little while later.
Sherlock enters briefly, yet the glare John shoots his way suffices to make Sherlock leave the room again. Instead, he takes up residence on a chair and waits.
He dozes off at some point and the early hustle and bustle of the hospital rises him. Sherlock contemplates his next course of action - simply entering the room again won't do. So he follows the signs to the cafeteria and buys John tea and a croissant. John loves them but hardly ever indulges himself.
When Sherlock enters, he notices that John has moved his chair into the far left corner of the room, right next to the window; presumably to give the doctors and nurses some room to operate.
Sherlock places the cup and the small paper bag with the pastry on the table next to John's chair and takes a seat in the second chair. He inhales the smell of disinfectant, laced with Alpha pheromones and his body relaxes for a fraction.
"She's malnourished and dehydrated," John explains after an endless stretch of silence. "The X-ray shows a few healed fractures from years of abuse and they're keeping her sedated for the withdrawal from the heat catalysts."
Sherlock swallows around the lump in his throat. John is hurting and he longs to soothe his Alpha but John's body language is dismissive; he clearly wouldn't welcome any contact.
"Do you need anything?" Sherlock asks instead.
John doesn't meet his eyes. "I need to be alone with my sister."
Sherlock nods even though John probably can't see him, then rises. "That's tea and a croissant. You should eat."
It is a strange reversal of their usual roles, he muses, and he believes he sees the corners of John's mouth twitch before he turns and leaves the room.
He makes his way to the cafeteria to get himself some tea. A newspaper catches his attention - the front page sports a large picture of John, carrying his jacket-clad sister out of the Den, all underneath the headline "CAPTAIN WATSON SAVES LONG-LOST SISTER - PROSTITUTION RING EXPOSED!"
Brilliant. Utterly brilliant.
The media attention does nothing to improve Sherlock's mood and as it turns out, matters are about to become even worse for in the later morning hours, Homi Bhabha himself appears to visit John and to hold a press conference.
Sherlock keeps his distance at both, watching Bhabha talk about traditionalist inclinations gone too far, about criminals that refuse Omegas their basic human rights this society fought so hard for, about how the government would show no mercy and persecute according to the newly established laws, how the brave actions of Captain Watson and his comrades saved over forty Omegas who will now receive medical as well as psychiatric attention.
Sherlock doubts Harry Watson will ever be the same again. If she has indeed been a slave for over twenty years as Greg suggested, she will have internalised the principles of slavery far too deeply as to transition back into society within a short period of time. If she manages to do so at all.
He wants to point this out to John yet somehow he fears John might be angered by this simple fact.
"Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock turns towards a young Omega - mid-twenties, spent her life in slavery, freed after the Fall, enjoys her freedom, cat-owner - and raises an eyebrow.
"The Minister would like a word with you."
Intrigued, Sherlock nods and follows the blonde woman. Bhabha meets him in an empty conference room with a pained smile.
"Mr Holmes, I'm sorry we meet again under such dire circumstances."
"Prime Minister." Sherlock shakes the proffered hand only because Bhabha took his side and has been a loyal friend of John's for the past years.
"I've already spoken to John; I do hope his sister makes a fast recovery."
"Considering the circumstances that hope is rather optimistic."
Bhabha huffs. "True, but who are we if we can't believe that tomorrow will bring a better world?"
Sherlock has no answer to this platitude.
"I'm afraid I have another piece of information, Mr Holmes." Bhabha sighs and Sherlock can tell that something grave has transpired, though nothing prepares him for the Prime Minister's next words. "As it appears, your brother has escaped from Belmarsh prison."
Sherlock splutters embarrassingly for a brief moment. "How?"
"We are not yet certain though we suspect he had quite a lot of help from the inside."
"Do you want me to investigate?"
Bhabha shakes his head. "No; at least not until our own resources fail to produce results. Yet if Mycroft Holmes tries to contact you, do inform us immediately."
"I doubt he will since I am the reason he was in custody in the first place," Sherlock points out, "though I will tell you in case he chooses to come forward."
"Thank you," Bhabha says and it sounds sincere. Well, as sincere as a politician can be. "But now I must depart; John's discovery has caused a minor uproar in the Omega community as to why the government failed to expose the Den of Inequity sooner."
Sherlock nods and watches the Prime Minister disappear with the blonde Omega. A glance at the clock on the wall tells him it is past noon, so Sherlock picks up a sandwich from the cafeteria as an excuse to visit John again.
The Alpha looks more amenable to his presence already and takes the food immediately.
"Bhabha sought me out," Sherlock tells him, earning a questioning look. "It would seem that Mycroft has escaped from prison."
"What? Why? How?" John tenses, food forgotten in his hand. "Will he try to take revenge?"
"I highly doubt it. Mycroft has never been one to hold petty grudges."
"You brought down his empire. I bet he wouldn't call that petty."
Sherlock snorts, chest warming up at the sound of something akin to their usual banter. "No, he will either have left the country by now or won't until the government stops suspecting him at airports. He has powerful contacts in Europe, from before the civil war. He won't be found unless he wants that to happen."
John considers him for a moment, then seems to decide to take his statement at face value.
"How long will you be staying here?" Sherlock asks tentatively.
"As long as it takes."
"For her to wake?"
"Yes."
Instead of explaining how utterly sentimental that is since Harry is in a medically-induced coma, Sherlock says, "You'll need clothes. Your laptop. Perhaps a book. I'll fetch them."
John's eyes narrow in surprise but other than that, the Alpha doesn't react so Sherlock leaves for 221B Baker Street.
Outside the hospital, he is accosted by the press, the reporters following him to their flat even though he refuses to comment. He grabs what he knows to be John's favourite and most comfortable clothes, his laptop, its charger as well as the one to his phone and the stack of books from John's nightstand, then repeats the tedious process of fighting his way through reporters one more time.
When he opens the door to Harry Watson's room, he finds Greg sitting in the chair next to John, speaking in hushed tones.
"I brought the things you needed." Sherlock is stating the obvious but he has no idea what else to do. The entire situation is beyond him; John's behaviour is completely unsettling at a much more biological level, upsetting the Omega inside Sherlock.
"Just put them down somewhere," John orders, briefly glancing his way and then resolutely focussing his eyes back on his unconscious sister.
Greg sighs and gets to his feet. "Good luck, mate. Come on Sherlock, I'll walk you out."
Sherlock follows willingly. Perhaps Greg has a better grasp on the situation.
"I'm lost," he opens once the DI has closed the door behind them. "I can't deduce what he needs me to do so he can forgive me."
Greg looks dubious. "Are you saying you were wrong?"
"No. Though I might have been selfish."
"You should apologise."
"Will that make him forgive me?"
"Won't hurt."
"Greg." Their eyes meet and the DI's eyes grow soft around the edges.
"Alright, I'll throw you a bone. In my opinion, just keep doing what you're doing. Be there. Apologise. Bring him tea and food. Show him you care."
"He knows I care."
"Does he?"
"I'm sure he told you."
Greg sighs heavily. "I'm guessing he has doubts after what happened. Good luck."
Without any other explanation, the DI leaves Sherlock alone with his thoughts.
xXx
Mycroft is a man with many contacts. He always kept an open mind about those he associated with and while his colleagues shied away from more violent contemporaries, Mycroft opted to pursue even them.
A wise decision, as it turns out when he is a fugitive and a criminal in the eyes of the government.
He seeks out Nikolai Luzhin shortly after he escapes prison and slides into the black limousine parked outside Nikolai's boss' favourite restaurant.
"Sir, this is not a taxi, I will have to ask you to leave," Nikolai tells him in his heavy Russian accent.
"Dobry wetschir," Mycroft greets him and their eyes would meet in the rearview mirror if both of them weren't wearing sunglasses.
"Mr Holmes." The driver inclines his head.
"I need to call in a favour," Mycroft tells him in Russian. He always knew being friendly with the Russian mafia would pay off one day.
Indeed, not even an hour later he is sitting at a table with Sergei Mikhailov, leader of this particular group of criminals. Mikhailov, a tall, muscular man with deep lines from years of living in the shadows and too much cocaine, is an Alpha, just like his partner, Boris Yakov Arshavin, who looks marginally healthier despite the large scar splitting the right side of his face.
It is not uncommon for two Alphas to enter a relationship in Traditionalist circles where Omegas are considered nothing more than slaves to breed. This particular brand of traditionalism never held much appeal for Mycroft who knows that Omegas are much more than birth machines, yet he would never dream of engaging men like Mikhailov or Arshavin in political conversations.
"We knew you'd be coming," Mikhailov explains. "Kapov's friend is also our friend."
"Do you know why this friend has an interest in helping me?"
Arshavin smiles with too many teeth. "He has direct orders from the Kreml, Mr Holmes."
Mycroft raises an eloquent eyebrow, although he is sure that his Russian is good enough that he has not misunderstood the man.
"Moscow is interested in your services, Mr Holmes. They are prepared to give you political asylum and offer you a job."
"That is awfully generous of them. What might the catch be?"
"Don't forget, Mr Holmes," Mikhailov cuts in, "that you and the Russian Prime Minister shared a cordial relationship before the Reformists took over."
Cordial. Well, not quite the word Mycroft would have chosen but then Mikhailov doesn't quite share his vernacular. It is true, however, that under Mycroft's rule the British Empire and the Russian Union were working well together, not only politically but mostly economically speaking.
"I assume there is already a plan in place?"
"Of course. You will be taken to the Russian Embassy in London as soon as it is deemed safe. Our organisation will provide you with everything you need in the meantime."
"That is very generous, Mr Mikhailov."
"Please, call me Mikhas. All my friends do."
Mycroft resists the urge to snort. They are hardly friends - Mycroft simply allowed Mikhailov's "business" to continue as long as they kept their fingers off government properties. Taking down the mob would have been more trouble than it would have been worth.
"Thank you then, Mikhas."
"Can we do anything else for you, Mr Holmes?" Arshavin asks.
"My assistant, Anthea. She has been sentenced to twenty years in prison after the civil war. If I am indeed to rebuild my career abroad, she will be of tremendous help."
Mikhas raises his glass, smiling broadly. "Consider it done."
They clink glasses and Mycroft is unsure whether to be relieved or worried.
xXx
It takes a lot out of his pride to do as Greg suggested but the need to win John back overrides everything else. Sherlock brings him tea and supper without any superfluous comment, sleeps in the chairs of the waiting room again, then decided to apologise the next morning.
Sherlock enters the room with yet another cup of tea and two croissants this time. John only spares him a brief glance, nothing more, so Sherlock doesn't sit down.
He draws in a deep breath, readying himself. "I should have come with you and helped you find your sister, John. Insisting on working on the case was selfish and inconsiderate of me."
No answer, not even a nod. Sherlock leaves, glad for the books he brought for himself the day before. He brings John lunch as well and it goes much as this morning.
When he enters the room in the evening, though, John deigns him with a longer look, gesturing him to take a seat. Silence falls over them, enveloping them for a long time.
"I was sixteen when she disappeared, she was twelve," John says suddenly and Sherlock feels inexplicably grateful for the sound of his voice. "My parents weren't worried, said she probably eloped with some Alpha but I didn't believe it. Harry and I told each other everything. I spent two years looking for her but it was all in vain. One informant even stabbed me for asking too many questions. Eventually, I gave up, joined the army. I gave up on her, Sherlock. I'm afraid she will never forgive me for that. And I couldn't begrudge her if she stayed angry with me for the rest of her life."
Sherlock can't respond – he has never been the one supposed to comfort another person in distress. He stays, though, offering his presence and hopes it suffices.
John doesn't say more, never asks him to leave, so Sherlock stays until the following morning, dozing a bit in the night but mostly watching over John who wakes when the nurse enters to check on Harry's progress.
xXx
It takes John a few moments to gather his wits. The strain of the past days has dulled his senses and reflexes, though when the nurse addresses him he is again fully alert.
"The drugs are clearing out of her system nicely, Captain," she informs him. "We might be able to wake her in two or three days."
He nods his thanks, then watches her leave. His eyes land on Sherlock who is still sitting in the second chair.
"What are you still doing here?" John can't help asking. "I'm sure there are more important things that require your attention, aren't there? An experiment, perhaps? A case?" He can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Sherlock has surprised him, if he is completely honest, though. Bringing him tea, being there… The detective makes it hard for John to be angry with him.
"You're more important, John," he replies, sounding so sincere that John almost believes him.
"Are you sure you're not simply saying that because you deduced it's what I want to hear?"
Sherlock looks upset suddenly, pained even. "No. These past days… I've missed you. I didn't want to miss you but the ache wouldn't go away. I –" suddenly, Sherlock jumps to his feet and starts pacing,"- damn it, John, I have no idea what I'm talking about! I've never experienced so many emotions at once and I can't find a way to detach myself from them! It's frustrating!"
John watches the outburst, his expression blank, curious where Sherlock is going with this. A large part of him wants to believe that Sherlock is not just saying what John wants to hear so he'll forgive him, that Sherlock is completely honest with his feelings for once.
"I…" Sherlock begins yet starts over. "Insisting on finishing the case was selfish. I was blind to your needs when I should have been supportive."
Sherlock's tone suggests he has reached the end of his deliberations and locks eyes with John. He has never seen the detective look so lost before, perhaps except for one day inside the Resistance headquarters which seems like a lifetime ago. The thought takes John back to the beginning, to his first impressions of the man he has grown to love.
"I doubt it's in your nature to be supportive, Sherlock."
"I can be. For you."
John can't stand the look in Sherlock's eyes anymore. He knows that if he stays, he will crumble underneath that stare; if he stays, he will fold, forgive Sherlock and take him back and nothing will have changed.
"Supportive isn't good enough. I need some air." He rises abruptly, aiming to pass by Sherlock but once he does, there is a hand on his wrist, stopping him. John turns to find blue eyes looking down at him desperately, raw with emotion.
"Don't go, John! I love you, don't go!" It comes out in a rush and John's widening eyes must have tipped Sherlock off to what just escaped his lips.
John watches as an array of feelings flicker across Sherlock's face - surprise, confusion, resolution - and then the Omega squares his shoulders and looks straight at him, gaze unwavering.
"Yes. I love you. I thought you knew, that it was obvious, but apparently I need to say it out loud for it to become real. I love you, John." A brief pause. "And I'm sorry."
It must have taken everything in Sherlock to express these sentiments, and to say he is sorry atop everything else. John knows deep inside that he is being sincere - this is not some form of manipulation. Sherlock isn't saying these things because he wants John's forgiveness. Sherlock is saying it because it is true.
John can't do anything but kiss him, deep and desperate, laden with emotion and Sherlock melts against him, grabs his shoulders and gives himself over to John with every cell of his body.
The Alpha inside of him purrs when he reunites with his Omega after such a long time apart. Almost the longest time they spent apart ever since they met, actually.
John would love to claim Sherlock right here and now but he remembers they are in a public place, so he steers Sherlock through the room and pulls him into his lap on one of the chairs.
Sherlock rests his head on John's shoulder and inhales deeply, baring his neck in the process and John accepts the invitation. He bites down hard and relishes the shudder that goes through Sherlock's body.
They stay there, scenting each other, basking in each other's presence, for what feels like forever and despite his sister's tragedy, John is happy with his arms wrapped around Sherlock.
It doesn't take more than half an hour before their mixing scents are enough to drive them mad with need.
"Let's take a break," John decides and Sherlock hums as a way of answering.
They have barely shut the door to 221B when they devour each other, ripping their shirts off, both starved for contact. John runs his hands across planes of pale skin, plays with Sherlock's nipples and teasingly cups his erection through his pants.
"Knot me, John," Sherlock growls which goes straight to John's already aching cock, then proceeds to shed the rest of their clothes as they climb the stairs to their bedroom.
"I want to taste you first," John says and pushes Sherlock face first onto the bed. He is on him immediately, mouthing Sherlock's pulse point for a moment while grinding his cock into the cleft of Sherlock's arse. His cock twitches when he feels the lubrication against his glans.
John shuffles lower and traces Sherlock's spine with his tongue, leaving behind a wet trail. His hands cup firm cheeks and pull them apart, revealing the puckered and shiny hole. John laps at it teasingly for a second before dipping his tongue inside, revelling in the taste of Sherlock. He presses his lips against the perineum eagerly, sucking lightly.
Sherlock moans, pushing back, trying to fuck himself on John's tongue but hands on his cheeks stop him as John drinks in the scent and the taste of Sherlock's body. He is aware that he spills slick everywhere, not managing to swallow everything. It's dirty and primal and John can't get enough.
"Please," Sherlock gasps, arching his back, grinding his erection into the mattress. "Take me, John, take me now!"
John was never able to resist it when Sherlock begs, so he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with his cock, thrusting in in one brutal motion. His knot is already swelling without John fighting it and he shoves in harder, making Sherlock feel it against his arse.
"Yes, knot me," he gasps, bearing down so wantonly that John can't deny him.
He is fully sheathed after a few more thrusts, then pushes Sherlock down into the mattress, covering his slim body with his own more muscular one. Sherlock moans appreciatively, unable to move underneath John's weight.
John moves his hips shallowly, careful to keep the knot inside Sherlock's hole. It's torturously slow but it burns so good after days without touching each other.
He bites Sherlock's neck, then licks the bruises, sucks on his pulse point and keeps up his rhythm until Sherlock clenches around his knot, finding release. John inhales the smell of the content Omega underneath him and his orgasm claims him moments after Sherlock's did.
He collapses onto Sherlock, rolling them to their side, keeping their bodies knotted together.
John wraps his arms around his partner, kissing his shoulder and then nuzzling his neck from behind.
"I love you, too," John murmurs and revels how Sherlock leans back into his body, how things between them are good again.
xXx
Even though he would never admit to it, Mycroft is rather impressed when not even twenty-four hours after his conversation with Mikhas the door to his momentary safe house opens and Nikolai enters. Anthea, still tall and beautiful but with more prominent cheekbones and dulled hair, follows in his wake.
They don't hug or indulge in any other form of overly sentimental social rituals. She nods, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He nods back, sure that his eyes betray him, showing how glad he is to know his best soldier at his side again.
"We have to move you to another house," Nikolai explains in Russian. "We can't be too careful."
"I travel lightly nowadays," Mycroft jokes and swiftly follows the driver out into the cool night air.
xXx
When John visits the still comatose Harry on her fifth day in hospital, the doctor asks to see him.
"We will wake her from the coma tomorrow morning. It's essential you are there as a member of her family. We will also have a therapist ready so we can make the transition as smooth as possible for her."
John nods, both looking forward to and dreading Harry's awakening at the same time. He has no idea what to expect. Will she even realise it is real and not simply another hallucination?
Sherlock accompanies him the following morning, yet chooses to wait outside. He has been conducting experiments these past few days but then John didn't spend all his time with Harry either.
It will take a while for Harry to wake after they reversed the coma, John is aware of that, so he settles into the chair he considers his and waits.
Harry wakes slowly, blinking her eyes open which dart across the room, clearly confused.
"Hello Harry," John says as softly as possible. "You're in a hospital. You're safe. I'm really John, your brother. I'm here."
Harry turns towards him and considers him for long, torturous seconds. Her gaze is clearer; obviously the drugs are out of her system by now. John hopes that will make it easier.
"John?" she croaks and he moves closer, sitting on the edge of the mattress and takes her hand into his own.
"Yes, it's me."
She blinks at him, then screws up her face in disbelief. Her gaze flickers from him to the room at large, taking in the situation.
"You're in a hospital. You have been here for six days already. They needed to flush the drugs out of your system."
"No more drugs?" Harry asks faintly.
"No. No more."
Harry processes the news, swallows, thinks. It takes a lot out of John to merely sit without fidgeting as he is incredibly nervous.
"How old are you?" Harry asks out of the blue.
"Thirty-eight. You're thirty-four."
A pained sound rises in Harry's throat, high-pitched and dreadful, as she realises the extent of what John's answer entails and she starts shaking all over her body, her breath coming faster.
"Harry, listen to me, it will be alright, you hear me? You're safe now; no one can hurt you," John tries to calm her down but it is no use. He has seen many panic attacks in his life but seldom one as severe as this.
He presses the emergency button and moments later, a nurse bursts into the room - Bhabha probably ensured there would always be someone near. John barks out orders and the Beta obeys immediately, even though John has no jurisdiction.
Only when Harry is sedated does John notice Sherlock's presence in the room.
"Panic attack when she realised how much time has passed," John explains and flings himself into the chair.
"What do you need?" Sherlock asks and John shoots him a grateful look.
"Stay."
Sherlock nods and pulls up a second chair.
xXx
John reduces the hours he volunteers at the clinic and the SIS allows him to cut back his hours as well, so he can spend a lot of time with his sister over the next few weeks.
It's a slow process. Harry still panics quickly, even though the therapist clearly helps. John does what he can, telling Harry about the changes the world has undergone, about the Fall, about his role in everything. About Sherlock.
They tackle this in little bites; too much information upsets Harry but John has soon figured out where her limits are.
Five days after Harry woke up, Sherlock has his first new case. Well, the first new case he deemed interesting enough to take on. John tags along to the crime scene, if just to spend more time with his partner, yet he ends up being rather helpful when the victim seems to have been shot by a sniper from considerable distance.
It's the middle of the night and Sherlock sends him home while he wants to seek out different members of the homeless network. John has no doubt that Sherlock will spend most of the night working on the case and not in John's bed, which is why he doesn't wait up.
John is surprised when he wakes a while later to Sherlock slipping in under the covers.
"Sherlock?"
"Go back to sleep. I solved it - jealous ex-lover with military training. Lestrade has been informed."
John pulls Sherlock closer, half on top of him like always and Sherlock buries his head in the crook of John's neck. As always.
"Tell me all about it tomorrow," John mumbles, kissing Sherlock's hair and drifting off again, a warm feeling in his chest.
xXx
Mycroft and Anthea both perk up when they hear footsteps.
It is much too late for anyone to seek shelter underneath this particular bridge, especially since one homeless woman has already made herself at home on the bench near the water.
Mycroft strains his ears - he hears voices, but he is too far away to make out anything specific except that the new arrival is male and that the homeless woman answers him. He won't draw nearer; the risk of the man discovering him is far too great and he won't be thwarted so close to the end of their game of hide and seek.
For the past week and a half, Anthea and he have been constantly moving, aided by Mikhas and his organisation, thus avoiding detection.
The man leaves abruptly and everything is quiet again for several minutes. The buzz of Mycroft's disposable phone almost startles him.
Everything is in place.
He glances at the text. "It's time," he tells Anthea and they emerge from their hiding place, passing the homeless woman who is either feigning sleep or snoring genuinely and loudly.
The sleek black car of Nikolai awaits them. Anthea hold his door open and slips in after he has entered the car.
"Ready, Mr Holmes?" Nikolai asks in Russian.
Mycroft nods, feeling the gravity of the situation weigh on him. Never one for sentimentality, the sensation is rather uncomfortable.
"Take us to the Russian Embassy."
xXx
End Notes: So there, no one needs to kill me… Everything's alright! Well, as alright as things can be with Mycroft seeking political asylum with the Russians. *shudders*
Also, thank you all so much for the positive feedback! It really means a lot :)
