A bit shorter chapter this time. School's been crazy recently, so I haven't had as much time for this fic. I hope everyone understands.
Sometimes there are moments where you have to make a choice that would change your whole life. This was one of those moments.
John was standing on the precipice of some strangers fire escape, seeing the dark hair of his companion whipping about their face in the wind. Sherlock made an attempt to jump across, only being stopped when John dragged him back by his shoulders.
"I'll go first and help you over."
It was a strangely touching notion for Sherlock, that someone could care enough about to put themselves second after knowing him for just hours. Later he would learn that John is like this with everyone.
He was the kind of person to love and care first and ask questions later.
Sherlock gave some kind of agreement – he must have – because seconds later Johns hand was in his and he was being helped across the ravine of an alleyway. As soon as they are safely to the other side, John let go, though his hand lingered for just an instant too long.
Had Sherlock said something anything in that moment, John would probably have given him a response somewhere along the lines of wanting to give Sherlock freedom as well as safety. Accepting a hand across a treacherous jump doesn't make him weak. Accepting that he might need help doesn't make him pathetic or stupid. It just makes him human. Humans are perhaps the strangest creatures of all. They reject help they need and push people away. And for what? Pride? Perhaps. Stupidity? Maybe.
Something told John that Sherlock was not stupid. In reality, he was a very perceptive, intelligent man. That pride of his however… John has a feeling that Sherlock's hubris would be his downfall.
Sherlock was a Bellerophon, perched on the back of a Pegasus, flying to heights he is not meant to. He had no self-preservation, no idea that he has angered Gods. Sherlock likely has enemies in high places, there is no way someone like him can get through life without accumulating a few.
Sherlock was an Icarus, edging ever closer to the sun. He didn't care that his wings are melting or that his feathers are burning away. He just wants to chase that dream. That idea of something more. The control he wants, the power, it's impossible to get without some sacrifice.
A part of John worried that when that fall happens, he will be powerless to stop it.
Still, there was no time for such introspection.
They had places to be. Criminals to chase. John needed this adrenaline, like an unmatchable high. Sherlock was fast. It took all of John's energy to keep up with him. His lungs were inhaling and exhaling forcefully with every bounding step he took.
Observation, deduction, investigation – all that stuff was never for him. But running? He could do that just fine. He had been doing it for years. It was the only thing that kept him alive in Afghanistan. The single minded focus saved him from being peppered with bullets. That focus was what kept him alive while everyone he cared about died.
With no further thought, he kept running.
They ran through theatres and abandoned factories and - at one notable point – an old woman's apartment. It all ended with them bursting out of a rundown apartment complex onto a crowded motorway. Completely out of breath, Sherlock murmured something about John finding the taxi cab for him and John immediately scans the street. Bolting out onto the street, John slammed his hands down on the hood of the car. The driver, a young tanned man, startled and slammed on the brakes.
The man stormed out the taxi, going to make some rude gestures at John, when Sherlock started rooting around the back of the car. He paused a moment, confusion written all over his face. Then he held out one suitcase, non-verbally asking John to read the luggage label.
"LA, Santa Monica. His departure was earlier today," explained John.
"This isn't our guy…"
The unmistakable stench of failure hangs in the air.
"Are you guys the police?" asked the man suddenly. The question was so abrupt that John nearly laughed.
Sherlock gives it a moment's thought and nods, pulling out a police badge. "Yes. Routine inspection. Everything's fine."
"Okay…" The man still seemed slightly unconvinced.
"Welcome to London," Sherlock stated, before storming off in the other direction. John runs after him. He could practically feel the anger radiating off Sherlock.
"You're angry."
"Furious."
"It was just a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes," assured John.
Sherlock scowled. "I don't. At least, I didn't. Not before."
John isn't sure what to say to this. The walk back to the apartment is uncomfortably quiet. Once they get back, John notices something strange. The lights are on inside. John definitely turned them off earlier.
The panicked thought teared through his mind. Were they being robbed? "I don't mean to frighten you Sherlock, but I think there's someone in our apartment. The lights are on but they definitely weren't before," he whispered.
Sherlock just sighed and trudged up the stairs. He slammed open the door. Lestrade is sitting in Sherlock's chair. His eyes greet Sherlock as he entered.
"What the fuck are you doing here Lestrade?" snarled Sherlock.
Lestrade just smiles. "You know why I'm here Sherlock…"