Author's Note: This fic was quite out of my comfort zone, as far as it's not something I'm used to writing, and it's been one of the most fun to write so far. A million thanks to Becca (Ao3's LlamaWithAPen) for beta-ing it!
Prompt from user Etmire T: So like, the building is surrounded while both of them are in the bathroom and everyone is held hostage and they don't think anyone knows they're in there. And it's like: Wait what are you doing don't go out there are you crazy?
Trapped
It starts like this:
John has spent his Friday night at an art gallery, at the recommendation of a colleague who has informed him that their current exhibit is spectacular. To someone who is artistically-minded, like his colleague, it probably is, and John can appreciate the aesthetic of it, but he has decided that he's seen enough of the artwork now and is ready to go home for the evening. There is no one at home waiting for him, but John does not mind curling up and watching a movie until he falls asleep. With any luck, falling asleep watching a movie might help him avoid lying awake in bed and thinking about the war, which will only lead to nightmares.
He uses the restroom before he leaves. There is one other man in the restroom – tall, well-dressed, and looking much more suited to the art gallery than John does. The man does not appear to be using the bathroom, but is apparently examining the small, frosted glass window that allows a small amount of natural light into the room. He is taking a photo of it on his phone. John does not understand why, though he does not particularly care. John has met stranger people.
As John washes his hands, there is a fraction of a second where he and the stranger make eye contact through the mirror. It's awkward. John looks away, turns off the tap, and looks around for paper towel or a hand dryer.
Then, outside of the bathroom, two gunshots ring out.
OoO
Like many soldiers, John struggled to readjust to civilian life. His therapist diagnosed him with mild post-traumatic stress disorder, and John did not feel she was wrong to do so. He knew the symptoms, he fit the criteria. His sleep was disrupted and haunted by nightmares, he avoided memories of the war as much as possible, and he was much more hypervigilant than he was before. He had a much greater startle reflex.
This startle reflex manifested itself once when he was walking down the street. He was trying to save money on cab fares, and he was in need of some sort of exercise. At that time, he had had a limp, a phantom pain in his leg, and he had to walk with a cane. He knows now that that limp was psychosomatic – several months of physical therapy had finally proven to him that, once his fight-or-flight response was activated, the distraction took his mind off the pain and the limp went away. At the time, however, he had thought it to have a real, physical cause, and it did limit the amount of exercise he was capable of doing. Walking was the best he could do.
Besides, John had been out of milk, so he could not lock himself in his flat all day (at least, not if he wanted his tea to taste pleasant).
He had been lost in thought, as he walked. He had barely been aware of what was going on around him, of the cars or the people or the occasional pigeon.
Then, beside him, a car had backfired.
John had reacted automatically, instantly. He was on the ground before he had fully processed what had happened, as though he was ducking for cover. It only took him a second to realise his mistake, to notice the looks on the faces of the people around him – some confused, some pitying. The pity was the worst.
John had gotten to his feet and gone home without milk.
OoO
John's reaction to the sound of gunfire is just as it had been to the car backfiring. He drops to the floor, as though to get out of the line of fire – even though he does not know where the line of fire is. This time, his mind does not immediately correct his mistake, does not immediately make him realise that the sound was not a gunshot but instead a car, or something on the television. There is no mistake this time – that was gunfire. It's further supported by the way the stranger in the bathroom has also dropped to the floor, and by the sound of screams that follow the gunshots – followed immediately by a male voice yelling, "Everyone on the floor!"
John's gaze meets the bright eyes of the other man in the bathroom, and they hold eye contact for only a matter of seconds before they both come to the same idea. They stumble to their feet and rush to the wall by the bathroom door – if anyone should open that door, then, for a moment, the door will hide them both from the person's line of sight.
The stranger is closer to the door than John is, and he takes advantage of it, pressing his ear to the wood to listen to whatever is taking place outside. John tries to hear what he can through the wall, but the best he can make out is muffled talking. The screams and yells that followed the gunshots have been silenced – a man's voice is now all John can hear. John wishes he could make out the words, but he is unsuccessful. Whoever is speaking is not close enough to the bathroom to be heard.
As minutes tick by, it becomes clear that the person who is speaking is not coming any closer to the bathroom. There is no sound of footsteps, and the sound of his voice is not increasing in volume. Whoever is out there has their attention focused on the other people in the art gallery. They don't know that John and this stranger are occupying the bathroom. No one knows that they are in here.
The thought is equal parts reassuring and terrifying.
When the man pulls his ear away from the door, John turns to him, wondering if he has managed to pick up more than John has. "What's going on?" John hisses, making sure not to speak any louder than is absolutely necessary. "Robbery?"
The man gives him a look that says that that comment was incredibly stupid. "Would you rob an art gallery while there are still people inside?" he asks.
"I wouldn't rob an art gallery at all."
The man rolls his eyes. "Well, if you did, you'd have a tough time getting out with a piece of art." He looks towards the door, and then says, apparently more to himself than to John, "It doesn't make sense. They should have come after closing hours. What need do they have for hostages?"
Hostages. The word makes John feel sick. It's bad enough being in here, not knowing what is going on outside the door, not knowing how long it will take for someone to find them – and what will happen when they do. John can only imagine how it must feel for the people out there.
Numbness tingles at the tips of John's fingers. He's all too familiar with the sensation. He takes a deep breath, clenches and unclenches his hands a few times, and then looks towards the other man. By this point, the other man has pulled his fingers out of his pocket. His fingers are flying over the phone screen.
"Who are you texting?" John hisses.
"The British Government," the man says shortly.
John thinks it's not time for jokes.
After a moment, the man finishes typing. He stares at his screen, and then a clearly frustrated expression crosses his face. He looks almost as though he's considering hurtling his phone at the wall. "No reception," he says.
The man pockets his phone and then walks to the wall. John steps out of his way, wondering if he has come up with a plan, but when the man reaches the wall, he makes a sharp turn and walks back in the opposite direction. He's pacing. John follows him with his gaze, watching the tight expression on the man's face.
"What's your name?" he asks after a moment, softly.
"Sherlock," the man replies. "Why?"
"Sherlock," John repeats. "I'm John."
The man – Sherlock – stops pacing for a moment so that he can turn and frown at John. "Not really the time for introductions, don't you think?" he says.
John shrugs. "I was just hoping to take your mind off this," he says quietly.
"You think I'm panicked. I'm not panicked. I'm thinking."
"I wouldn't blame you for panicking."
"You seem to have that covered."
John clenches his hands again and looks away.
After a moment, the man walks to the far side of the bathroom, and he pulls his phone out of his pocket again. John watches as he stands on his toes and holds his phone in the air, trying to find a signal. John opens his mouth to ask if it's working; however, then a sound from outside gets his attention. It's not the same man's voice, this time. It's a woman's voice, yelling, "Get your hands off of me!"
John has to do something. He has to. He cannot just sit here and do nothing, not when there are people out there being hurt, not when he has military training and medical expertise and is probably much better equipped than anyone out there to actually do something. He has to help.
He manages to do no more than take half a step towards the door before Sherlock grabs his arm, stopping him from moving any further. "You'll be shot the moment you step outside," he says.
"I have to help," John replies.
"You won't be much help dead. There's a fine line between bravery and stupidity. Do please resist the urge to cross it."
John purses his lips, looking towards the doorway, but as much as he wants to go out there and do something, he knows the man is right. Good intentions won't impede the flight of a bullet.
Sherlock releases John's arm after a moment, once he's decided that John is not going to do something stupid like try to go out there. He steps past John to press his ear to the door, listening. John listens too – he hasn't heard the woman scream again, but he has no way of knowing if that means that she is not being harmed or if it means that she has been silenced in some other way. When Sherlock pulls his ear away from the door, John gives him a questioning look, but the man replies with a slight shake of his head.
"I can hear talking, but I can't make out words," he says. "Male, mid-to-late thirties. One voice, but they are pausing frequently as if to give someone time to respond, which suggests they're making a phone call."
"Negotiating with the police?" John suggests, thinking of live coverage of hostage situations that he's seen on television in the past.
"It's a possibility. By now they would have set up a perimeter."
The police having set up a perimeter should be of some comfort. It is not. John knows the police cannot just storm the building, not without risking innocent people's lives. Hostage situations can last for hours. John isn't sure he can handle being stuck in here for hours, not knowing what's going on outside that door.
"What do they want?" he says, squeezing his eyes shut tight and rubbing them for a moment. "Why an art gallery, of all places?"
Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. "Public enough location to get people's attention, valuable artwork inside on top of the hostages, and there is only one door that needs to be guarded."
"But... it's an art gallery," John says. He ignores the look that the man gives him, and continues, "I mean, surely an ideal place would have more hostages. There weren't even ten people out there when I was out earlier. It doesn't give them much to negotiate with."
Sherlock frowns at that, narrowing his eyes in thought.
John looks towards the door and lets out a sigh. "Maybe they didn't think this through," he says.
"No, it's not that it wasn't well thought out," Sherlock says, apparently not realising that John was not being serious. "They organised this. They gathered resources, organised a time and a place, planned it, developed contingency plans based on any possible turn of events – this is not a spontaneous crime. At some point, they decided on a location, so they must have acknowledged that there would only be a few people here."
"Then why are they here?"
"Why indeed," Sherlock echoes. He no longer seems to be talking to John as much as he is talking to himself. "Few hostages, numerous security cameras, minimal cash on the premi-"
His voice trails off, and then his eyes widen, fixating on something over John's head. For a moment, John is convinced that there is someone, or something, behind him, but when he looks over his shoulder, there is nothing there but the bathroom wall.
"What is it?" he asks, looking back at Sherlock. The man's gaze snaps suddenly onto John's eyes as he speaks.
"Where's the nearest bank?" he demands.
John blinks. "Pardon?"
Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh. "Try not to be an idiot for five minutes. Where's the bank? It's hardly a complicated question."
John chooses not to frustrate the man any more by pointing out that it wasn't the question itself that caught him off guard. Instead, he thinks for a moment, before answering, "A few streets away."
The man's eyes go bright at the words, as though he has just had an epiphany. Seconds later, his phone is out of his pocket and he is frantically typing away.
"What?" John hisses. "What is it?"
The man answers with another question. "What happens during hostage situations?"
John frowns. "What kind of a question is that?"
Sherlock looks up from his phone only for long enough to give John an unimpressed look, before lowering his gaze to his phone again. "What happens with the police?" he clarifies.
(The new question clarifies nothing.)
"I don't know," John says after a pause. "They set up a perimeter, obviously. Try to negotiate?"
"Yes!" Sherlock says, as though John is finally getting it. (John is not). When John does not say another word, however, Sherlock continues, "They focus their attention on the hostage situation. They surround the building, putting as many of their available officers on the job as possible they can ensure the safety of the hostages. Which means..."
The other shoe drops. "Which means," John finishes, "that there are less officers available to deal with anything else that happens at the same time."
"Exactly. If you wanted to limit Scotland Yard's resources, a hostage situation would be the best way to do it. Which means that, if someone tries to rob a bank, they are going to have a much higher probability of success than they would usually."
John squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, thinking. "It's not like all the police in London are here, though," he says. "There are still going to be people who could respond to a security alarm going off."
"Absolutely," Sherlock says. "However, those people will not be in the immediate vicinity. In the time it takes for them to get from their location to the bank, they could be too late. And, of course, that's assuming that the thieves haven't worked out a way to get past the alarm system. The hostage situation here will limit the number of people paying attention to anything else."
It sounds more like an elaborate crime novel than anything that could really happen in John's life. However, Sherlock seems so convinced that this is the case, and in a strange, convoluted sort of way, it makes sense.
Sherlock hisses in frustration after a moment, lifting his phone into the air. "I still can't get any reception," he says.
John looks around, first at the door, and then at the small window on the opposite side of the room. It's far too small to climb through, but maybe they can get someone's attention from outside. They need some way of letting someone know what's going on, before it's too late. Who knows how long they have before the perpetrators find what they want? And – an even more sickening thought – what will happen to the hostages once they are no longer needed for this ploy?
Sherlock seems to have the same idea: they need to do something. However, his ideas turn out to be just a little bit more extreme than the idea of getting someone's attention through the window.
"We have to go out there," he says.
John stares. "Excuse me?" he hisses. "Are you crazy? What happened to the fine line between bravery and stupidity?"
Sherlock does not comment on that. "You can stay here if you want," he says, "but I'm going out there. Lestrade's team is useless without me."
John wonders who in the world Lestrade is, but that's a question that can wait. "You'll get yourself killed if you go out there," he says.
"Not if I have a plan. My question is, are you coming or are you hiding in here?"
A sick feeling twists in the pit of John's stomach, and the numbness returns to his fingers. He swallows past the lump in his throat. "Fine," he says. "What's the plan?"
The man frowns, narrowing his brow in thought, and John is not reassured at all by the idea that the man's plan is not yet fully-formed. After a moment, Sherlock asks, "Have you had any experience in hand-to-hand combat?"
John thinks of schoolyard fights with bullies, of mandatory fitness training routines, of sparring with people just for the sake of improving one's strength. Yes, John has had experience in hand-to-hand combat. Aloud, he replies, "A bit."
"Good," Sherlock says, and then he puts his hands on John's shoulders, pushing him back to that same spot by the door where they had both hidden earlier – the spot that would give them a few extra seconds of hiding, should anyone come inside.
John lets himself be man-handled, but only because he has no real idea of what's going on. When Sherlock has guided him back to the spot, he moves to the toilet stall furthest from the door and steps inside. He closes the door very quietly and turns the lock, and a second later, John sees the man's head poke up over the top of the stall. He must have climbed onto the toilet lid. He grabs the top of the stall and, with impressive upper-body strength, he hoists himself up and over into the other stall. He makes as little noise as possible as he lands, and then he steps out through the open door, leaving the door to the stall beside him shut and locked.
He turns to face John and mouths the word, 'Ready?'
No, John thinks, because he has absolutely no idea what he's supposed to be ready for.
John nods his head.
Sherlock turns towards the open stall from which he had just exited, grabs the open door, and then slams it shut, loud.
He does not wait a second before he ducks to John's side, taking his place in their chosen hiding space by the bathroom door. It's not a moment too soon. Seconds later, the bathroom door opens, slowly, and someone steps inside to investigate the noise.
That someone is carrying a gun. It's the first thing John sees coming through the door, followed by the person holding it – a man dressed in black. John cannot see the man's face from his position. The man does not check behind the bathroom door and does not see John and Sherlock. His gun, and his gaze, are both pointed towards the closed bathroom door, as he takes slow, quiet steps towards it.
Beside him, Sherlock bides his time until the right second, and then he takes two quick strides to the man. In almost the same movement, he grabs the man's shoulder with his left hand, and when the man turns, Sherlock uses his right to grab the barrel of the gun, shoving it out of the way before he can get shot.
There's no look of shock on the stranger's face, and it takes John a second to realise that this is because he is wearing an expressionless mask. It flattens out the man's features, giving his face an emptiness that looks alien. It seems to throw Sherlock for a moment too, to see something that doesn't even look human, and the masked man uses the split second of shock to kick Sherlock's legs out from underneath him.
From there, it's a flurry of movement, too quick to follow. Sherlock doesn't let himself stay on the floor for long – he rolls out of the way before he can get shot, leaps to his feet, and immediately goes back to trying to disarm the man. If it were just the two of them, Sherlock surely wouldn't stand a chance – he's fast on his feet, but unlike the masked man, he is unarmed.
However, Sherlock does have one advantage – he's not alone. Between the two of them, they actually stand a chance. The masked man's attention is occupied by Sherlock, and it gives John a chance to come up behind him. He grabs the man's arm, ducks the instinctual punch that the man throws as he turns around, and follows it by grabbing the man's wrist so that he cannot immediately point his gun at John either. Sherlock catches on quickly, and goes to grab the gun out of the man's hand.
The masked man is not to be beaten so easily. He's taller than John is, and he takes advantage of it, aiming a kick at John's abdomen that knocks John backwards and frees the man's wrist. He immediately turns to point his gun at Sherlock, but Sherlock is fast too, ducking out of the way and then following with a fist to the man's solar plexus. It gives John the time he needs to get back on his feet, come up behind the man, and aim one hard, sharp kick at the place just beneath the man's knees.
The masked man's legs buckle at the kick, and Sherlock takes advantage of the moment to snatch the gun out of the man's hand. In almost the same movement, he uses the butt of the gun to whack the man over the head, and the masked man's body slumps to the floor. Immediately, Sherlock points his newly-acquired gun at the man's head in a wordless warning against getting up, but it's not necessary. Now that the masked man is down, he does not move.
They both wait a few seconds, then John exchanges glances with Sherlock, before taking a step towards the fallen body. He reaches down, wary of the possibility that the man might get up at any moment, but when there continues to be no movement, he presses two fingers to the pulse point at the man's neck.
"He's alive," he says after a beat. "Unconscious."
"Good," says Sherlock. "One less thing to worry about. It's safe to assume that there's someone else out there, otherwise this one wouldn't have left the hostages alone."
John nods his head in agreement, and then he holds out his hand for the gun. When Sherlock does not immediately hand it over, John gives him a look. "Trust me. I was a soldier, and I can guarantee I'm a better shot than you are."
"What makes you think I'm not a good shot?"
"Anyone with as much experience as I've had would not be holding the gun like that."
Sherlock looks down at his hands, and then passes the gun to John. John checks that it's loaded (it is) before he looks up.
"What's the plan?" he asks.
Sherlock thinks for a moment, and then says, "Don't get shot."
"Wonderful," John sighs. He glances towards the door, and tries to tell himself that this is nothing, that he's been in an active war zone and so he has definitely had more dangerous experiences than this. Then he thinks that at least in Afghanistan he had some idea of what to expect. In many ways, this feels far more terrifying.
And at the same time, John feels more alive than he has in a long while.
Sherlock steps past him to get to the door, taking a moment to listen. John can't hear what's going on outside. He has no idea what they are about to walk into.
Sherlock glances towards him, and John nods his head once, lifting the gun in his hands and pointing it towards the door. Sherlock waits until he's ready, and then pulls it open.
There is no time for hesitation or uncertainty, and there is absolutely no time to show fear. Being the one with the gun, John steps out first, and he doesn't step out carefully. He storms out the door with his gun raised and an expression on his face that says he will shoot if he needs to. There is one other masked man – the only one standing, near all the hostages who are sitting with their backs to the wall. He turns at the sound of the bathroom door, undoubtedly expecting to see his partner in crime step out after investigating the noise from earlier. By the time he realises that the people emerging from the bathroom are not on his side, he is too late. He goes to raise his gun, but John is already holding one ready.
"Don't," he says sharply. "Don't."
It's hard to read the man from body language alone, with his face hidden by a mask, but John can tell from the tension in his shoulders that he is stressed, agitated, because his night is not going to plan. However, he does not immediately pull the trigger, apparently recognising that he will get shot if he tries anything.
Sherlock takes advantage of the masked man's compliance, immediately moving to the hostages, telling them to get up, get out. Many of them are already doing that without being asked – they were on their feet the moment John came out with a gun. Others take a bit more coaxing before they move, shock and fear keeping them all but pinned to the floor.
John doesn't watch Sherlock, keeping his eyes, and his gun, fixed on the masked man. The masked man is still holding the gun in his hands, and John worries that, in his agitation, he might try to take a risk. John does not want him holding the gun for any longer than is necessary. "Put it down," he says. "Slowly."
The man hesitates for two seconds, and John, in response, takes a step closer. "I said," he repeats, his voice low, calm, and steady, "put it down."
There is nothing in John's tone that says he is not completely willing to shoot if push comes to shove. He doesn't want to – there are risks, because people could get caught in the crossfire, and because there are police outside, but John will disregard all of that if his options are shoot or be shot (or, shoot or let someone else be shot). The masked man seems to see this in John's eyes. Slowly, he crouches down, and he puts the gun on the ground.
"Now kick it over," John says, because he's not taking any chances.
The man does, and John catches it with his foot before it can slide out of reach. He keeps one hand on his own gun, keeping it pointed towards the masked man, and at the same time, he crouches down to take the gun from the floor.
The masked man sees his chance and takes it. He dives at John, the movement so sudden and unexpected that John is caught off guard. The man collides with him and knocks him off his feet. John only just manages to kick the man's gun away so that he cannot grab for it, but the man instead goes for the one in John's hand. He's pinning John to the floor, keeping him there, and with one hand, he grabs John's wrist, to stop John from aiming the gun and taking a shot.
John will not let himself be overpowered, not easily. He might not be able to use his gun, or his arms, but he instead tries to use his legs, tries to kick and buck his hips until he can push the man off of him. He manages, but the man shifts his body in a way so that they don't simply switch positions but keep rolling, so that John ends up pinned to the floor once again, and this time, the man is twisting John's wrist in a way that hurts, trying to point the gun towards John's chin.
John is vaguely aware of people shouting, but he cannot focus on any of it. His attention is solely on the masked figure on top of him, and the gun that he is struggling to regain control of. It's a battle that he is losing. He can feel pain in his wrist, with the way the man is twisting it, giving him no choice but to loosen his hold so that the gun can be pried from his fingers.
Then, suddenly, the body above him jerks away, all but flying off of John's body. The gun slides across the floor. For a moment, John doesn't understand what has happened, but then he looks around. Police have swarmed the building, ushering hostages out the door. Two are on the masked figure, forcing his arms behind his back to cuff them. John realises that they Tasered him.
John closes his eyes for a moment and wills his heart rate to slow.
An officer reaches down to offer a hand, which John takes, getting carefully to his feet. His hands are perfectly steady. They don't shake at all.
"Are you hurt?" the officer asks. She needs to shout to be heard over the commotion of the room.
In response, John shakes his head, and then glances over his shoulder towards the bathroom. "There's another one in there," he says, jerking his head towards the masked man. "One of them."
The officer grabs the attention of one of her co-workers, gesturing towards the bathroom, and John decides that the man in the bathroom can be left to their competent hands. He lets himself be ushered out of the building.
Outside, a police perimeter has been set up. Blue and red lights flash against the outside of the building. The small gathering of hostages is outnumbered by the police. Some of them are giving statements. One or two have orange blankets draped over their shoulders.
"John!" someone says, and John looks towards the source of the voice, who turns out to be none other than the man that John himself was looking for. Sherlock rushes over. Behind him, there is a police officer with greying hair, yelling, "Sherlock, I'm not done with you yet!"
Sherlock is apparently ignoring said officer. He reaches John, and asks, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," John says. "All things considered, he didn't really know how to fight." Which is a lie, in truth – the man had been able to pin John to the floor and keep him from getting up, and had very nearly taken the gun from John's hands. John is lucky the police came in when they did. He continues, "Did you tell the police about the bank?"
Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket in response. "Turns out my texts started going through the moment we left the bathroom. Which is fortunate, because if they had been any later, they wouldn't have been able to apprehend the robbers before they got away."
"So they got them?"
Sherlock nods. "They intercepted the getaway car before it could get away."
Behind Sherlock, the greying officer has reached their side. "Sherlock," he says. "I'm still waiting on that explanation."
"You can have my statement in the morning," Sherlock says. "Or, better yet, you can pretend I wasn't here. That only benefits you more, Lestrade – you can take full credit for working out the plan and arresting the criminals."
The man – Lestrade – crosses his arms over his chest. "Your statement isn't what I'm talking about. There's no way that you were here before the hostage situation just by chance."
"That was rather coincidental, wasn't it?"
"Sherlock."
Sherlock looks away, looking more like a child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar than a fully-grown adult being interrogated by a policeman. John clears his throat awkwardly.
"I'll get out of your way," he starts.
"No," Sherlock says quickly.
John frowns, wondering why Sherlock seems to want him to hang around. Lestrade frowns too, perhaps for the same reason. He looks between Sherlock and John.
"Who's this?" he asks Sherlock finally.
"John," Sherlock supplies. "He's a large part of the reason why all your hostages came out unscathed."
Lestrade raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?" he says, and then he turns towards John. "I am going to need a statement from you as well, obviously."
Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh at the word 'statement'.
"He's exaggerating, really," John says, glancing over at Sherlock before looking back at Lestrade. "I mean, I didn't really do anything remarkable."
"Sherlock is the most dramatic person I know, but he's also not one to exaggerate other people's actions. His own actions, yes, but if he says you're in any way responsible for saving all these people, then I'd take his word on it. So, thank you."
John ducks his head, but he smiles.
After a moment, Lestrade catches sight of something over John's shoulder – when John follows his gaze, he sees that a couple of the other officers are struggling with one of the masked men (who is no longer masked). Now that John can see his face, he is surprised at how young the man is. What did they all hope to gain from this? Did they really think it would work?
He thinks about how Sherlock had been the one to realise what their plan was, and was the reason that it had been foiled. Maybe it would have worked, if Sherlock hadn't been around.
"Excuse me," Lestrade says, stepping past John so that he can go and deal with the perpetrator. John watches him go, and then lets his eyes wander around the small crowd of people. He can hardly believe the last hour or so was real. It's not the kind of thing that happens in his life. Nothing happens in his life, not anymore.
"Chinese," Sherlock says, drawing John's attention back to him.
"Hm?"
"There's a Chinese restaurant on the corner that stays open until two. Are you hungry?"
John frowns, and glances over his shoulder at where Lestrade is talking to some of the other officers. "Don't we need to give statements?"
"I'm sure our dear Lestrade has enough to keep him busy for the moment being. If we're lucky, he might forget we're here at all."
John frowns.
After a moment of silence, Sherlock says, "Our statements can wait. Besides, we can just claim that we're both in shock."
John raises his eyebrows at the suggestion, and it strikes him how absolutely insane this past hour has been. Since returning from Afghanistan, he's been making his way through a life that has seemed repetitive and boring and dull. After the thrill of Afghanistan, civilian life seemed so mundane, so wrong. And yet, this past hour has made him feel like he was back in Afghanistan again – the situation was completely different, but it gave him that same sense of excitement, sense of meaning, like he was doing something important.
And it's so ridiculous in contrast to the past several months that he can't help but smile.
"What?" Sherlock asks.
John shakes his head. "Nothing. Just thinking about how insane today has been. Things like this don't happen to me."
Sherlock looks John up and down, and a smile grows over his face. "No? This is just another day in my life. Danger tends to follow me." He pauses for a beat, and then adds, "Maybe that means you should stick with me. If danger is what you're looking for."
It's the kind of sentence that would make any normal human being run for the hills.
John, instead, smiles. "You know, I think that might be just what the doctor ordered."