This chapter is super angsty and sad, it also contains Finny! Enjoy!
It wasn't meant to be a hard case, just go in, get the evidence and get out. What both Sherlock and John had not counted on, was them getting caught.
"So you thought you two could just waltz in here and back out, huh," the stupid man asked. He punched Sherlock across the jaw and John in the stomach. The detective ignored the pain in his chest when he saw John double over. Instead he focused on the idiot drug smuggler in front of him, "You should know that nothing gets past, Phil Billark," The idiot man said and he pulled out a gun. The two huge men holding Sherlock and John tightened their grip as Billark approached the Soldier.
Sherlock stiffened when the drug smuggler pressed the gun against his lover's temple and held it there mockingly. "Oh, what's a matter Mister Holmes, does this bother you?"
Sherlock struggled with himself to remain stoic and totally void of all the fear he felt. Billark cocked the gun and smiled at the detective. Sherlock felt his stomach drop and his heart jump into his throat. Ignoring his mind to remain calm he struggled against the gorilla man that held him. John, however, remained calm, almost resigned to his fate. He stared at Sherlock, wanting to express everything he felt through that one look. Sherlock shook his head, refusing to accept what was happening in front of him. He just couldn't.
"Good by Doctor," Billark said.
He barely squeezed the trigger when there was a loud bang and he was thrown back, screaming with a bloody shoulder. There was another bang and the man holding Sherlock fell back, either dead or unconscious Sherlock could care less. All he cared about was still being held by the other huge man. He rushed forward and slammed his fist into the man's face, effectively knocking him out and breaking his nose.
John slumped forward in relief and was caught by Sherlock, who held him like a drowning man would hold a lifeline.
John chuckled breathlessly, "Thanks Sherlock, I-," but he stopped when he saw Sherlock's face.
It was stiff, emotionless and empty, but with a cold fire underneath. John could tell Sherlock was very, very angry. It was a face that he did not see very often.
He heard Lestrade call to them and demand to know what had happened, he vaguely heard Sherlock's response of, "Tomorrow," before he was being pushed into a cab and the door slammed behind him. Sherlock got into his side and sat rigidly as far from John as he could.
Sherlock refused to speak and so that left John to his own thoughts. Was it something he did to make Sherlock so angry? If so, what had he done? He tried to search through his mind to find an answer but came up with nothing. He sighed and stared out the window, waiting to get home.
When they finally reached Baker street, Sherlock practically stormed from the cab and into the building, leaving John to apologize and pay for the cab.
When John finally reached their shared living room he found Sherlock pacing the room.
"Everything alright?" He asked hesitantly.
Sherlock stopped, facing away from him, his hands clasped stiffly behind his back, "No, everything is not alright," he said it so low it was almost a whisper.
"Oh, well… What's-," But Sherlock cut him off.
"I knew I shouldn't have brought you along!," he practically shouted, "All you do is distract me! From everything!"
John took a shocked step back, "What-?"
"If you weren't there I wouldn't have gotten caught! If you weren't there I could have gotten out of that easily, but no! You just had to be there!"
John felt something in his chest squeeze painfully, "Sherlock…What are you saying?"
Sherlock turned to him finally, his eyes cold with fury, "I don't want you with me on any of my cases! Never again! I don't need you!" He shouted into John's face.
John felt like he had been stabbed. Every good memory, every good feeling that he had had with the detective shattered before his eyes. Bursting into cold flames of reality. He had known, he had always known that this would happen. One day Sherlock would grow tired of him, would get bored of him and tell him to leave. This fear haunted his thoughts and his nightmares. He had just begun to believe that it would never happen, that Sherlock would want him, maybe forever but, of course, reality. Here he was, practically shouting at John, telling him he didn't need or want him.
John felt the burn of tears in his eyes and throat. Gathering what little of his pride he had left he grabbed his coat and walked to the door.
"Where are you going," Sherlock spat.
"You don't need me," John said. He was surprised at how emotionless his own voice sounded, but there it was. The truth. He turned and closed the door gently behind him.
As he walked down the stairs and out onto the dark London street. He half expected Sherlock to come after him. Maybe it was just hope. His pride did not allow him to turn back and Sherlock's words, still bouncing in his mind, surged him forward.
He walked into the dark and silent park. It wasn't very cold, but he found himself drawing his coat tighter around himself. He sat down stiffly on an empty bench and felt the tears burn him again but he refused to let any fall, "You're a soldier goddammit," he hissed to himself.
"Is this seat taken," A voice said.
John looked up to see a tall man, around his age, with freckles and short brown hair; he also noted the man's heavy Irish accent. John shook his head and the man sat down.
"Name's Finny, you?" He said, sticking out his hand, he took it, "John."
John sat back with a sigh, "Love troubles?" Finny asked suddenly.
John turned to him, "Yeah, how'd you know?"
"It's all in the sigh mate, trust me I know how ya feel," He said clasping John on the shoulder.
John looked at him incredulously, "You have a sociopathic boyfriend."
Finny laughed, "No, but he has a wicked temper, His name's Clint. He's back home in Ireland," Finny sighed longingly.
"Why are you here then," John asked.
"A job, I'd thought I'd givin' it up years ago. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him but," he shrugged. "So what's your trouble Doctor," he asked.
John shrugged and sighed, "I donno, I guess he didn't feel like I'd hoped he felt. He told me he loved, but I guess…," he sighed again. But suddenly his eyes widened, "Wait, I didn't tell you I was a doctor," he said.
Finny sighed sadly, with a quick movement; he whipped out his gun and hit John in the neck. John fell off the bench and his head hit the pavement with a painful smack. Just before his world went dark he heard Finny say, "I'm sorry mate, I really am," and John believed him.
?
Sherlock paced the room with frustration. He glanced at the clock again, 12:30. He should be home by now, John should be home by now. He sat down and fidgeted with his hands. He knew that what he had said to John was horrible, even unforgivable and he had been trying to come up with some sort of apology, but nothing seemed good enough.
He hadn't meant what he said. He was just angry at himself, not John. He was angry that he couldn't protect John. If Lestrade hadn't come…. He shuttered to think of what could have happened.
His phone buzzed suddenly and he dove for hit, hoping it was John. When he read the message he froze. A lump forming in his throat and his stomach dropping, painfully through the floor. He dropped the phone and sprinted from 221 B, to frantic to even grab his coat or scarf.
On the floor the phones buzzed again, repeating the message.
Time to burn
