A response to Guest on Chapter 12: I'm glad it was pretty good, but I'm sorry that it felt too similar to canon for you. This is most likely the only other chapter that will contain canon cases or dialogue. I hope this update and the following original ones will make up for the lull in creativity.
"I hope you don't mind," a voice chimes. My mind registers it as the cabbie's. "The keys were right in your coat, and you did give me your address."
Trying to steady myself, I can't even seem to lift my head up. My knees suddenly buckle and I keel over on the carpet, holding in the sick building in my throat. I can feel the foreboding presence of him behind me, his shadow falling over my back.
"I figured, you know, people like to die at home, and I'm sure your fan will just love this little show," he says, the smirk evident in his tone. Groggily, I turn my head to see him standing there like you'd stand waiting for the tube: hands in your pockets, expression blank.
"I'm surprised you even made it this long, though," he comments. "You were only out for ten minutes." I can hear his smile again. "I'm impressed."
"But you're still weak from the drugs." I feel the shift of his weight as he steps closer, and a jolt of fear shoots through me. It's futile to try to get away, though, because I know he's right. "Practically weak as a kitten."
Suddenly, I feel his mouth beside my neck, and I want so badly to jump away, but my body doesn't respond to my fight-or-flight response. "I could do anything I wanted to you." My breath hitches as he comes up behind me, bent over at his waist. He must know what his proximity is doing to me: my whole body is trembling.
"Hopefully you still have some game left in you, for me and your fan." My body flinches away from his hand on my shoulder. "Wouldn't want him to be disappointed."
Then, a painfully loud, familiar noise trills through the air, and I know someone has shot him. Fortunately, he doesn't crumple forward onto me. Over the slight ring in my ears, I hear him gasping for air, slamming into the floor.
Though relieved, I need to at least know my "fan's" name. Otherwise this little dance would be pointless, and I don't want nothing for just enduring his predatory circling.
"What...what..is their name?" I rasp out, finally gaining a hold on the ground. Determined, I get one foot flat onto the floor and try pushing myself up. "My fan: what's their name?"
He heaves as I finally manage to haul myself upright, standing slouched over his form. "Why...would I tell you?" he coughs, covering his mouth with his shaking hands.
"I know about...your kids," I say lowly, and he freezes in an instant, obviously surprised by this revelation. "I might not have you for...long, but I. Have. Them." Although I wouldn't actually harm children, he needn't know that.
He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat: it sounds suspiciously like a whine. "How?" he exhales, head rolling to the left. I growl, now having the upper hand, pressing the heel of my shoe to his shoulder. I finally see fear in his eyes.
"The...name!" I shout as loudly as I can with the drugs still in my system. He shakes his head again in denial, but I press and I press until he screams. "The name!"
"Moriarty!"
Satisfied, I pull my foot away, watching his face contort in a minute show of agony. I scan the flat slowly, moving clumsily to the window with the gunshot in it. Across the way, I see nothing, but I have a certain ex-army doctor in mind.
And then, the Met pull up, and I don't think I've ever been this relieved to see those blasted idiots.
Although I've already taken it off five times within as many minutes, I will not admit to actually being comforted by this ridiculous blanket. But, if I'm being honest, it's nice to have something protecting me from everything else.
"So," Lestrade drawls, and I can already tell this is a conversation I don't feel like having. "About John Watson..." I pull a face at the visible pity in his eyes and quickly avert my gaze.
"He's none of your concern, Greg," I grate out. "You weren't even supposed to know his name." The way he sets his shoulders and steps back tells me he knows now is not the time to test my limits. Using his first name is always a sure way to alert him of the danger zone he's entering. "And don't you have a shooter to find?"
Lestrade looks a mix of amused and incredulous. "But we both know who it is, don't we?" Without thought, my eyes roam to where John stands by a Met car, idly wringing his hands. Even before Lestrade and Mycroft met each other, I always thought he was one of the more competent detectives.
"Let's try to avoid the court case." At the DI's disapproving look, I smirk. "I'm sure my brother dear can manage." Wrapping the shock blanket around myself with a certain finality, I start walking over to where the doctor stands.
"Why didn't you wait?"
John looks startled, almost as if he expected a different question. For a moment, it seems as if he's going to try to deny knowing what I'm even talking about, but then his face morphs into something...else. "He started...touching you."
I frown. "You think I couldn't have handled myself?" I question, earning a flinch from my counterpart. "Do you know how many times that's happened before?" I don't want him to feel bad, but the words just keep spilling out. "Some people have actually gone further-"
"Don't." Now is when I realize how close he looks to vomitting. My eyes focus on his trembling hands before zoning out to look at his face. "Don't make me feel guilty about this, Sherlock. He was about to do that to you," he snarls. "His coffin will not, could not, rest on my conscience."
I remain quiet, because that's obviously what he wants. He doesn't want an argument, and frankly, I don't want to argue with him. Instead, I turn to see Mycroft walking over to the DI with that ridiculous brolly of his hung on his arm. And of course, he saw what happened in the flat. He always has had cameras.
"Fine," I acquiesce, turning on my heel. My hands find their way to my pockets as I stand still with bated breath, waiting for...something able to mend my mistake. Once I realize that something could be me, I pivot to look at his face. "Dinner?"
His face softens slightly. Then he smiles. "Starving."
"Too bad the game had to end prematurely."
John glances up at me with disbelief written all over his face. "He almost-," he stops himself, taking a deep breath. "You wanted "The Game" to continue just to stimulate your brain?" He shakes his head with a mirthless laugh. It sounds broken and...sad.
"My body is only transport," I recite, catching the melancholy in his eyes before he blinks it away. "I told you just that at dinner." He smiles slightly at this, seemingly pleased at the shift in subject.
"Please, can we just forget that happened," he huffs goodnaturedly, taking a bite of his order of risotto. "That part is definitely not going on the blog. Can't have my army mates knowing 'Three Continents Watson' got rejected," he jokes.
"Three Continents Watson?" I echo, a whisper lost in my glass of white wine. He doesn't seem to hear, so I instead compose myself and say louder,"Please refrain from overly romanticising things."
He chuckles, genuinely and happily and lightly. I haven't known him long, but I would describe his laugh as easy. Not in the sense that it's easy to make him laugh, but it's easy to listen to. Easy on the ears, but heavy on the heart. My heart, at least.
God, now I sound like a poetic sap.
"You might not like the first entry, then," the doctor smiles, popping another bite into his mouth. "Actually, you know what? Just don't read any of the blog entries." With a grin, he continues,"They're cheesy and cliché and romantic and the writing is, ha, God awful."
A smile blooms on my face, and I find that it's genuine, almost startlingly so. "I'm sure it's not that bad." And I mean it. With every fiber of my being, I actually think that whatever corny, terrible post he writes will always be amazing. He could type out a schmaltzy haiku about me, and I would feel ecstatic.
"You're just sparing my feelings," he replies, and I can't help but snort.
"John," I say, my tone almost scolding. "Trust me when I say I don't spare anyone's feelings." Although the statement holds true in this moment, I have a suspicion that I will quickly start sparing John's feelings.
He laughs. "Oh, I don't doubt it." For some reason, his admittance makes me feel...guilty; terrible. I know what type of person I am, but when John brings it to my attention, I feel a bit...not good.
Instead of burdening the happy-go-lucky, caring, glorious saint beside me, I smile in a way that I hope reaches my eyes. "Oh, shove it and eat your noodles," I say, then he just laughs and does exactly that.
This is dreadful. Worse than dreadful.
John Watson has been living with me for little more than a week, but he's already managed to make a home in my heart, fill my mind with his presence. His God awful jumpers and amazing tea and witty humor and care for my health and love for Gladstone: damn it all.
On Sunday, he made me scrambled eggs for breakfast. Then he looked at me like I was the best thing in the world, and I'm sure I almost had another panic attack. Then Thursday afternoon came around and he spewed superlatives at me like he was paid to, and I was surprised when I remembered he wasn't.
John Watson isn't paid to like me. He's not paid to be nice to me, to compliment me, to care for me. He does all that on his free will, and that's what hurts the most.
I can never shake him now.
A/N: So...how long has it been? I don't know, but hopefully you guys haven't lost interest in this. I know I haven't, even though my lack of updates would say otherwise. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and I look forward to any form of feedback available.