Thank you so much to all that read and reviewed the last chapter - you all cheered me up no end :D
So this chapter is a bit...angsty? Maybe...
Hope you enjoy :)
11th March
It was hardly the first time he'd been called into Scotland Yard; the fact was he was a good deal more sober than that time many years ago, and a great deal more interested in the situation.
It wasn't the first time he had received looks while giving his statement. That had started on his second time turning up without a lawyer and declaring the interviewer of the day a moron.
It was however the first time he had sat in a room with Mycroft tapping his fingers on the table while every single police officer in the room knew he'd committed a crime that they were unable to pin on him.
It was fascinating to say the least.
Though that was tempered by the fact that it was Mycroft who sat next to him giving unwarranted advice every so often.
"Is that all detective?" Sherlock asked Donovan mockingly, "I do hope it's been helpful."
Donovan shook her head in wordless fury and turned to glare at Lestrade who had barely said a word throughout the entire façade. Lestrade nodded once and Donovan scrapped her chair back harshly, turning off the recorder as she stormed out of the room.
The other followed her seconds later with a last disgusted look at him.
The next crime scene would be…interesting to say the least.
There was a rising feeling of triumph as he smiled at Lestrade and next to him Mycroft sighed.
"Am I free to go?" Sherlock asked with an overly polite tone that he never directed at Lestrade.
The man opposite him slammed the file shut. "You really don't get this do you?"
"Spare me the lecture Inspector-"
"Do you think we had a problem with it? Moran was a ruthless bastard and the world is better off without him. Do you think there aren't occasions where we turn a blind eye? The problem's your bloody attitude you arrogant git!" Lestrade snapped. "The problem is that you think you can do what you want and we're too stupid to make you deal with the consequences."
Sherlock smirked and smiled, "That appears to be a very accurate deductions of the situation," he sneered.
Fury flashed in Lestrade's eyes and then a dangerous snap of triumph. "Wrong." He said very carefully and started to gather up the bagged evidence that had been pitiful at best.
"Am I to be the victim of another self-righteous lecture?" Sherlock asked mockingly.
Lestrade stood and walked to the door. "You know for years I always worried about this day. What I would do if this happened. But then something occurred to me a few months ago and I stopped worrying."
"Really?" Sherlock asked, already bored and pulling out his phone to text Mrs Hudson for the address of the friend's house she was at.
"mmm. Apologies for being late Mycroft. I was at the hospital, having a chat."
Sherlock's fingers froze mid text and he slowly looked up to where Lestrade stood, hand on the door handle.
"What did you tell John?" he asked, feeling the blood and the haughtiness drawn from him at the look on Lestrade's face.
Looking torn between triumph and guilt Lestrade flexed his hand on the handle, "I felt almost bad telling him. But then I remembered. He deserved to know and no-one made you do anything Sherlock. Anything John's feeling right now is your fault. Not mine."
Fury roared within him and Sherlock leapt out of his chair and Mycroft's grasp, emotion driving him until he was standing face to face with a determined looking Lestrade.
"He was shot three days ago." Sherlock snarled, "How dare you risk his health on a hypocritical urge to teach me a lesson?"
"Then next time don't do anything that would upset him to hear about." Lestrade yanked the door open. "You're free to go Mr Holmes."
The ride to the hospital was tense. Mycroft sensed that nothing he could say would help and Sherlock's mind kept racing over how John would react.
Hurt? Both physical and emotional definitions of the word were unacceptable. If John were angry he could hurt himself – the man was never able to remain still for long was he was in a temper. Disappointed, upset…
Yesterday John had been a lot more focussed than when he's woken up the previous day. Immediately the doctor had swooped in, ruining the moment and diagnosing John's wounds and pains in a manner that had Sherlock backing out of the room, unwilling to hinder John's recovery.
But there had been a long look that John had given him. A long sweet look that was so filled with emotion and comfort Sherlock had needed to pause against the door to the room once he'd left it.
That long sweet look was nowhere to be seen this time.
John was reclined against the pillows, a steely glint in his eyes and pain around his jaw.
"He had no right to tell you." Sherlock said closing the door softly.
"And you had no right to keep it from me," John said gruffly; the discomfort from his wound clouding his voice.
"You've barely been awake-"
John snorted and then winced, "Don't even try that one. If you wanted to tell me you would have found a way to do so."
"I didn't plan on keeping it from you forever," Sherlock replied, squaring his shoulders to John.
John shook his head and stared at the ceiling. Watching him Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to assess how much pain he was in.
It was hateful seeing him in a hospital bed like this. Images of a younger John Watson, in a mediocre hospital fevered, pained and also shot kept tugging at his imagination. A john Watson alone and scared and feeling as if his life was over due to his injury.
If that bullet had been a few inches lower they may have never met at all.
Terrifying.
"What…what's annoyed you the most?" Sherlock asked, determined to start hacking away at the problem between them and soothe the tension that was bleeding from every part of John.
John's gaze lowered in disbelief to Sherlock's face.
"I don't even know where to begin," John's voice cracked in a way that made Sherlock squirm and look away.
"Everything I did was to keep us safe-"
"Safe?" John almost laughed but caught himself with a gasp of pain. "Explain to me then, which part of you hunting Moran down was keeping us safe? Which part of returning to the flat with cocaine was helpful? Which part of you staying away from the hospital while I was in critical condition and vulnerable was you thinking of something else besides your own petty revenge? Or were you just hedging your bets and moving on to better and bigger things?"
"Moran would never have gone after you in the hospital," Sherlock snapped, ignoring the last and most moronic accusation. "It would have offended his sensibilities and ruined his plan-"
"Sure of that were you?"
"Yes."
"As sure as you were when you said they'd go after you and not me?"
Sherlock opened his mouth but no words came out. John coughed and hissed in agony.
"Relax," Sherlock stepped forward feeling useless. "Tensing up isn't-"
"Don't you dare act concerned now." John snarled.
"Act? ACT?" Sherlock gaped at him. "Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea what it was like to see you lying there? You have no idea what-"
"I have no idea?" John roared, "Coming from the man who faked his bloody suicide and made me watch?"
The heart monitor spiked.
"Get out," John looked away.
Unwilling to leave it like this Sherlock took a step forward.
"For the love of…you are doing more harm than good. Get out before you send my blood pressure through the roof. " John closed his eyes and seemed to be trying to get himself under control.
Sherlock paused and drew himself up. "That would be why it seemed pointless in coming. I could do you no good sitting and watching a door."
John drew in a slow deep breath, "It would have been nice to know that you wanted to be here for me."
"I killed for you," Sherlock hissed.
"From you, that's less impressive." John closed his eyes again.
Ava bounded over to him as he walked through the front door, "Mrs Hudson said you went to see Daddy."
He was not in the mood for this. "Yes. Go have your dinner."
But Ava shook her head, "I want to hear about Daddy," she sulked. "I want-"
Sherlock turned around and wrenched the front door open, slamming it closed behind him quickly, lest Ava dart out after him. Then he sucked in great lungful's of air as he stood, hand on the door knob, ready to tug if someone tried to open it.
"I shouldn't have told him."
Finally. Someone to scream at.
Turning Sherlock regarded Lestrade who stood in plain jeans and a jacket, clearly off duty.
"I am not having a good day." Sherlock hissed in warning.
But Lestrade nodded, "Let's talk somewhere else."
Elsewhere turned out to be by a quiet, disused area of the river bank; a popular area for body dumps.
Lestrade was truly pushing his luck today.
Sherlock slammed the car door shut as they go out and Lestrade braced folded arms on the roof of the car, keeping the car between them.
"You have really fucked this up." Lestrade said slowly.
"I-"
"You have been so angry, so utterly furious that you aren't thinking." Lestrade continued forcefully. "In what universe do you think it's a good idea to practically boast that you've gotten away with murder?"
"I haven't been boasting-"
"You have." Lestrade breathed in heavily. "You're trying to prove something according to your brother and I haven't a clue what it is, but you are getting dangerously close to being really stupid."
Sherlock drummed his fingers on the metal in irritation.
"You want to take out what happened on someone? I get that. But you are your own worst enemy Sherlock. You're making them remember; what Moriarty said; how easy it was to believe his story. You are so close to ruining yourself without Moriarty so much as lifting a finger."
"John was shot-"
"And you killed the man!" Lestrade snapped, "What more do you want? You got to do more than most people do in this situation. You got your justice, you watched him die, you exacted your revenge. Other people have to sit back and find an outlet. You've had yours."
"It does not make up for the fact that John was shot-" Sherlock started to snarl.
"What will?"
The question took Sherlock by surprise. "What?"
"What will? You've punished Moran. What else will it take?" Lestrade asked pushing himself away from the car and walking around to Sherlock. There was a determination to his step, a resigned motion to the way he held his hands at his sides.
"I am not hitting you Inspector," Sherlock yanked the door open again. "This is pointless; take me home."
Lestrade slammed it shut again and Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Fine. Good."
And then he punched Sherlock instead.
The force of it, the unexpected shock crashed him to the floor. With a disbelieving glare he touched a careful finger to his jaw and winced at the flare of numb pain.
"You should have seen that coming a million miles away." Lestrade said staring down at him and rubbing his knuckles. "And you should have understood that John's issue isn't what you did, god knows the man accepts more of you faults than an normal human being should. It's what you didn't do."
"Do not presume to give me relationship advice. Especially considering your ability with them," Sherlock hauled himself to his feet.
"Fine. I've got a suspect. His partner was shot and the kid left on her own with an old woman who ain't much of a threat to a trained assassin. Instead of checking they were alright he fell of the grid, put everyone at panic stations looking for him which meant there weren't as many watching the partner and kid and then turned up arrogantly declaring he'd fixed everything and not one bit apologetic or interested in hearing what happened while he was picking up a gun to shoot Sebastian fucking Moran in a warehouse, so far away from the partner and child that he would have been flaming useless had something have happened in retaliation."
Sherlock took a deep breath .
"You tell me what John's problem is?" Lestrade said, his voice quiet after his previous yelled rant.
"How do you not understand the situation-" Sherlock begun.
"How do you not understand?" Lestrade replied. "You haven't asked once what your brother was up to, what we were all up to that left us uncertain as to where you were."
What?
Sherlock snapped his head to Lestrade in horror.
"If you were Moriarty, what would you have done?" Lestrade took a step forward as, for the first time in their acquaintance, Sherlock stepped back. "If you got the call that John Watson had been shot, Sherlock Holmes had vanished and was last seen in severe shock while Ava Watson was at school, unprotected. What would you have done?"
Slowly terror crept in as Sherlock took another step back.
"Mycroft's people took care of the assassins."
The car was suddenly the only thing keeping him upright. Nausea leaped up and suddenly there was a horrible image of returning home, armed with cocaine to have been greeted by the sight of Ava, dead on the floor her blood mixing with John's and Mrs Hudson's…
The car failed him as he stumbled away from Lestrade.
He threw up.
Lestrade left him to it as he gasped for air, trying to stop the world from spinning.
Two miscalculations in one day.
He could have lost….
Everything.
He pulled himself to stand again and wiped at his mouth with suddenly damp, trembling hands.
"Does John know?" He asked, trying to find a centre of gravity again.
"No." Lestrade said carefully, "But he suspects I think."
Sherlock nodded and turned slowly.
"You helped. You helped keep them away."
Lestrade looked almost hurt, "Of course I did."
They stood there, staring at each other; the wind from the Thames whipping their hair and clothes and for a while the birds in the distance were all that could be heard. Lestrade's expression softened and he pulled the door open again for Sherlock before going round to the driver's door again.
Sherlock obediently walked towards the door and gripped the edge, watching as his fingers stained the metal with his sweat and prints.
"Thank you." He said to the door.
Lestrade didn't say anything and Sherlock mentally steeled himself to say the words again in case they hadn't been heard.
"Get in." Lestrade said gruffly. "Don't say it again. It's weird."
Walking back into the flat was difficult.
What had happened? How many assassins had there been? Who had been the primary target? Had they been after him?
How close had it been?
"I'm sorry," Ava said in a tiny voice from the stairs.
Turning he looked up.
Ava was sat on the top step on the top floor; her duvet bunched around her and a tired look on her face.
"You should be asleep," he said gently, stepping onto the next flight of stairs and pausing when they were eyelevel.
"I didn't mean to make you sad," Ava said biting her lip looking worried. "I wanted to…I promise I won't ask again."
It was tempting. Painfully tempting. At the moment the mention of John was a wound like no other.
Unsure of what to say, Sherlock climbed the last few steps and sat himself next to Ava, amused when she shifted to give him part of her duvet. He stared down the steps for a moment and then silent raised his arm, allowing her to snuggle into his side.
"You should never apologise for asking questions." Sherlock said eventually, squeezing her a little closer. "Ever."
"But it makes you sad." Ava whispered into his shirt.
Suddenly overcome he shook his head and pressed a fierce kiss into the top of her hair.
They sat like that for a while, Sherlock trying to get himself back under control as he teetered on the brink of some terrible emotion that he didn't dare indulge in while Ava was next to him.
"Sherlock?"
He nodded against her head, still unsure of his voice.
"Can I…?" her voice was so small and unsure it couldn't even be called a whisper.
"Ask," he managed to say, preparing himself for any and all questions about John.
"Are they coming back?" Ava asked in the same tiny voice.
"They?"
"The bad men who hurt Daddy." She asked, and this time he could hear the tremble of terror.
No.
Shaking his head against hers wasn't enough. He pulled her up onto his lap and almost folded himself around her as if to keep her safe from the entire world.
"No," he whispered firmly. "I won't let them."
Ava sniffed, "Promise?"
Sherlock nodded, "I promise."
Ava fell asleep in his lap and he put her to bed soon after. But he stayed and watched her sleep, unable to bear the idea of walking out of the room.
"How close was it?" he asked as Mycroft climbed the last step.
"You don't want to know the answer to that brother."
No, he probably didn't. "You have reports on it?"
"You can have them tomorrow."
Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes off Ava.
"You are returning to the hospital tomorrow?" Mycroft asked.
"With Ava." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the floor beside him. "She wants to see him."
"I'll arrange suitable transportation-"
Sherlock shook his head, "No."
Mycroft sighed, "Do not be stubborn-"
"I need a favour."
There was utter silence next to him. It was a pity his eyes were refusing to leave Ava because he had a feeling Mycroft would never look as taken aback again as he did at that moment.
"What?" Mycroft asked suspiciously.
"In 221c is a web. Take it down and reassemble it as it is in whatever place you deem fit for such a thing. I will explain it another day."
"Why-"
"I cannot do both." Sherlock stood as the covers slipped off Ava as she shifted. Gently he replaced them and stepped back.
"You are not seriously giving me Moriarty," Mycroft breathed.
Sherlock turned to his brother finally. "Yes. I am."
So there you are! This was originally much longer and included the hospital scene but as I'm not even a quarter into the conversation between John and Sherlock and already on 1500 words i figured i should make that scene into a seperate chapter.
Much angst abound in the next chapter and then an interlude and then I will start the second story for Rocks of Salvation...(which imaginatively will probably be called RoS 2!)
