I had to split this chapter up so that I could update in time, sorry if it's a bit short… enjoy!
9: Boltholes and bullets
"Where are we going, Sherlock?" John asked, pinning the detective against a wall to stop him running. They'd been racing around London for hours now, without a word of explanation from Sherlock. They were currently in a cramped alleyway, which was devoid of any life apart from perhaps a few rats. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and shoved against John.
"Mycroft has sent the known boltholes of the gang. We're simply searching every one," Sherlock said in his 'don't be obvious' voice.
"Every single one in one night?" John hissed, thinking of Hamish.
"Hamish will be fine, John. Now hurry, we're outside the next bolthole," Sherlock said, twisting out of John's grip and darting towards a wooden door that John hadn't noticed before. John followed, his hand clutching the gun that Sherlock had thrown at him earlier. He hated not having his gun with him when perusing criminals. Sherlock slammed his shoulder against the door, as he had so many other times this evening, and uncharacteristically stumbled into the room. John reached to catch his arm, but Sherlock regained his balance in an almost feline movement and bent down to examine what had tripped him.
"The boots are still caked in fresh, damp mud. Someone is here, or has just left" Sherlock snapped, ignoring John's amused smirk. It was a dark, dingy building with pipes snaking along the ceiling and dust adorning the floorboards. John clicked the safety off his gun, before beginning to scan the room for any signs of danger. Sherlock cast his calculating gaze upon the room, before nodding.
"This is the bolthole. Get ready for a confrontation" Sherlock warned, before sprinting towards a door on the opposite side of the room. John followed, feeling guilty for the adrenaline filling his veins that only a case could ignite.
They burst into the room, to see a singular figure bent over a crate. The man froze, and dropped the package on the floor, his eyes darting between the pair of them. John raised his gun, aiming it at the man's forehead. The man lifted his hands in surrender, but the murderous look in his eyes remained.
"Member of the Cohors, I presume?" Sherlock asked, his voice cutting. The man nodded- he had a vaguely Hispanic look about him, and was tall and toned. To be taken seriously.
"Prefiere hablar en español?" Sherlock said, the Spanish words rolling off his tongue. John often pondered just many languages Sherlock could speak- the man often muttered to himself in different languages, and was prone to singing in Italian in the shower.
"No, I don't think your friend can understand Spanish," the man snarled, his voice heavily accented. John felt incredibly stupid, but admittedly had forgotten most of his education in languages. He instead focused on how the man had referred to him, to try and regain the upper-hand.
"Husband, actually," John corrected. Sherlock shot him a look that was half adoring and half disbelieving, before they both turned back to the man. His eyebrows were raised, but he didn't comment.
"You killed Maria and Darrel Swan?" Sherlock inquired, although he probably could tell by his shoelaces or something ludicrous like that.
"Why would I tell you?" the man said. He hadn't moved an inch, but his eyes were darting around the room. John noticed his hand twitching, and frowned. Something was wrong.
"Because you appear to have a gun trained on you," Sherlock said, stalking towards the murderer. The man laughed, not trying to dart of out the detective's way, and looked at him with a crazed look in his eye.
"Well, I'm not the only one," he spat. John registered the red dot fixed on Sherlock's back, and lowered his gun. This was dangerous to the point of life threatening. And they could no longer play games with criminals, not now that they had two lives depending on them.
Sherlock didn't react to the gun aimed at his back, but John saw the look in his eyes- terror and panic were clouding the usual coldness of his blue-green irises, and John hated it.
"Drop the gun, or your husband gets it, Dr Watson" the man sneered. John set his gun on the floor, never breaking eye contact with the man.
"You know who we are?" Sherlock said, his voice still remarkably calm.
"We know Mycroft Holmes, so we know you, Mr Holmes, as you are his only weakness. Therefore, we know of John Watson, although we didn't know of the…nature of your relationship. That's a useful thing to know," the gang member said, no longer restrained by the threat of a gun. Sherlock nodded, and then fixed John with a look, which usually meant 'get over here'. John crossed to his husband's side, and Sherlock began to interrogate the man further.
"So Maria Swan left the Cohors because of her pregnancy, but you killed her, because she knew too much?"
"She knew of some top secret plans, which if leaked could bring down our whole operation," the man supplemented. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, and began to tap it. Morse code John realised.
I need to get a confession. Two minutes.
"Stop touching," the man said suddenly, realising what was going on. Reluctantly, John wrenched out of Sherlock's grasp, thinking of the sniper.
"These plans, did they-"
"What were you saying to each other," the man interrupted, eyes narrowed. John's mind went blank and he shifted from one foot to the other, trying to think of a cover story.
"That's none of your concern," Sherlock said coolly. The man stared at them for a few seconds, before muttering something in Spanish. And then the gun fired. Sherlock crumpled to the floor, red leaking from his leg. The sniper and the Spanish gang members ceased to exist, and even know John knew it was distraction, he still raced to Sherlock's side. The fool's face was crumpled in pain, but he still grabbed John's shirt.
"They're getting away," he groaned. John lifted Sherlock so that he was leaning on John's knees, and placed one hand behind his head while punching 999 into his phone with the other.
"Yeah, like I'd fucking leave you here to die of blood loss," John hissed, his teeth gritted. Sherlock didn't bother arguing while John shouted directions down the phone, thankfully.
"Okay, I'm going to stop the bleeding-" John began to shift Sherlock back onto the floor, but the detective clung tighter to John's shirt.
"It's just a graze John," he protested. John cast his medically trained eye on the Sherlock- he was beginning to shake, whether from coldness, shock, or from the fact that he hadn't eaten for twelve hours, John couldn't tell. John gave in, and hugged the detective tighter.
"You cold?" he whispered in the idiot's ear.
"Slightly," Sherlock said, his lips blue. John shrugged off his coat, and draped it over his husband. What was another vital thing to do? John's mind was always clouded when Sherlock was involved.
"Don't pass out. Tell me about ash," John said, checking his watch. When would the ambulance get here? The wound didn't look deep but John would never forgive himself if Sherlock…
Sirens eventually interrupted Sherlock's half hearted monologue. The paramedics raced in, and lifted Sherlock on onto a stretcher, leaving John kneeling in Sherlock's blood, not quite sure why he was so shaken up. Sherlock would live- the bullet didn't puncture any organs, and it didn't hit any bone. So why couldn't he breathe as he followed the gurney, any why was he having trouble thinking about anything but the pain on Sherlock's face?
"Are you of direct relation?" the paramedic asked him, as he climbed into the ambulance.
"Husband," John whispered, his eyes fixed on Sherlock- his eyes barely open, and dark curls splayed around his head like a halo. John reached for his hand, and didn't let go for the whole journey.
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"Daddy isn't going to be very alert, Hamish, so don't expect a response from him," John told the toddler, as they stood in the lift on the way to Sherlock's hospital room. John had hated collecting Hamish from Sarah's with the news that Sherlock was unconscious in hospital, since Hamish had burst into tears, and although Sarah was sympathetic, she also shot him a look that implied "I told you so". They'd gone straight to the hospital- John had only left to fetch Hamish- and John had met Mycroft in the waiting room, armed with his umbrella and an oddly shaken expression. Mycroft hadn't said a word during the journey to the room, but as they exited the lift, and grabbed John's arm.
"John… I was hoping that this wouldn't be necessary for decades to come, but alas, fate has intervened. I think you should consider stopping freelance detective work," Mycroft said quietly, looking pointedly at Hamish.
"Mycroft, the cases are his life… I can't ask him to…" John said, exhausted from the night's events. Mycroft gave him a cold stare, and looked towards Sherlock's room.
"A few years ago, I never would have suggested it. But he has you and Hamish and the baby, and he's going to have to choose, John. I'm afraid you'll have to be firm with him," he said, before disappearing into the room. Hamish burrowed into John's neck, still sniffing.
"Is daddy going to die?" he whispered, not looking at John. John tightened his grip on his son, wishing he could stop his fear, and despising Sherlock for putting such a young child through this.
"Of course not, Hamish. Don't be silly," John reassured him, staring vacantly past Hamish's head. He didn't know what to feel anymore.
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