A/N: I like longer chapters, I really do. (Sigh.) Part 25, still ongoing. -csf
As soon as the gun's aim had left his older brother, Sherlock sprung into action.
In an instant, John and Sherlock crossed gazes, and having telepathically agreed on some course of action, they launched it in unison. Sherlock shot the walls to the side of the two men, provoking a cloud of fine bone dust to erupt from the bundled mummies. At the same time John was taking the momentary distraction to run past Sherlock – collecting something from the long coat's pocket, under the still outstretched arm and hot gun wielding hand – and as the enemy guns were trailed on him John dived on the floor, rolling on himself. A couple of bullets narrowly missed him, as Sherlock was already shooting back at the two men, as John's backup. The enemies were backing up to the chamber's entrance as John was getting up by the torn mummies' wrappings and collecting a shining, yet dusty, object. The warm, yellowish light in the catacombs multiplied to the hundreds the glittery undertones of multiple precious stones mounted on gold that embellished the calcium white coldness of a skeleton's hand. The Hand of Atlantis.
John didn't get nearly enough time to study or admire it, as the first bullet strained past his way. The receding enemies were now returning, more motivated than ever, as they saw their end goal out in the open.
Greed. It was all about material gain, in the end. Somehow those men had known of that treasure, and believed themselves entitled to it. They had come to the Holmes mansion to pilfer and were ready to kill for their gain. John briefly wondered how he had come back from a far away war only to find the same despicable human trait right so close to home.
John turned around in a flash as he saw that gun's aim straight at his head by the corner of his eye. He saw the beginning of the movement of the trigger being pressed. Something inside him – the soldier in him, Sherlock would defend – took over. His own arm shifted minutely so his aim was perfectly aligned. No unnecessary heroic movements or dramatic flair. Just a tiny adjustment from his waist area and a slight pressure on the trigger. Then a silent suspension of time, as he waited to know if had managed to beat the odds, to fire first, to stop himself being killed. His breath caught, as the pessimist portion of his brain prepared him for the unbearable pain of getting shot, his shoulder flinched knowingly in perfect recollection of past events etched into his memory forever and John shut his eyes instinctively.
John didn't think himself a coward. It was inevitably human, though, to close one's eyes to an impending bullet, as he stole himself against the incoming pain. A pain that never came.
The first enemy toppled over, instead, wriggling on the floor.
His accomplice turned around and ran from the catacombs in strategic retreat. Sherlock fired his gun – a bit revengefully perhaps, given the sheer exaggeration of a fully discharged chamber that way, ending after the thieves' leader had got out of sight through the wooden door, now marred with bullet holes.
Sherrinford was shocked; Sherlock must have got that gun from the house. There had been guns hidden in the house, despite Sherrinford's own negative opinion on them. That was certainly Mycroft's doing. If course he'd side with Sherlock on that, against their elder brother. Sherrinford was a pacifist, and proud of it. Sherlock... Well, Sherlock had a trigger-happy best friend, according to all evidence, and wasn't afraid to join him.
Back to some level of sense, Sherlock had taken John's outstretched gun, offered in substitution of his empty one – for John was sure to have counted the bullets out of the chamber in the back of his mind – and ran to the door to find the escaped criminal.
John pulled himself together with evident effort and moved over to the now unconscious criminal, bleeding on the ground. John checked his vitals in easy efficiency and wrapped an improvised bandage around the wound to stop the bleeding. It was all he could do for the time being, with no first aid kit on hand.
Sherlock came back hurriedly, still catching his breath, stopping short by the entrance and seeking to cross gazes with John. The doctor looked up and the question about the other man's condition died before it came out. John lowered his gaze and slowed his movements. He knew there had been more traps, not triggered, in that stretch outside the door. A man running away in haste had stood little chance.
'Sherlock', the older Holmes called out, looking very pale. Both detective and doctor looked at the thin man and, seeing him so pale and worn, hurried over to him.
'Deep breaths', John directed with an understanding expression. 'That's it, you're doing fine.'
'I'm alright, I wasn't hurt', he gasped as he felt nausea and weakness catching up with him.
'I know. It's just shock. Have a seat, you'll feel better in no time', the doctor promised him, kindly.
Sherlock was looking all around them, which confused John. As far as the doctor knew, Sherlock could be looking for a blanket, or some other comfort for his brother as easily as he could be solving some other archaic case in his mind already.
'I'm not a hero', Sherrinford confessed, to all evidence.
'I wouldn't quite say that', John supportively eased him, after he death-stared a ready-answer Sherlock into silence. The detective just rolled his eyes, looking upset to have his easy comeback being preempted so insightfully.
'Thanks, John', Sherrinford appreciated, right before he contorted himself to the other side and dry heaved, nauseated. John decided to let Sherrinford handle that one by himself and accepted Sherlock's company to explore the confinements of the catacombs in more detail.