Sherlock had rushed ahead of John in his usual fashion of impatience and long legs and had been caught off his game by the man they where after. The murderer in question was a particularly nasty fellow who liked to cut and carve up his victims until they bleed out, and had showed absolutely no conscience up to this point and promised to continued in this same vain. Sherlock's great strides ate up the distance between he and the killer, but the man spun sharply and swang his heavy bag of tools into the darkness and smashed them into the side of Sherlock's head, the pain barely had a chance to resister before Sherlock was out cold. John rounded the corner seconds later, his eyes locked with the criminal standing over Sherlock, before they darted to the pron figure of his friend on the ground, he looked back up at the man with a murderous sneer.
"You son of a bitch!" John advanced on the killer with two thoughts in mind. One he was going to beat this man within an inch of his miserable life, and two he wished he'd picked up his gun back at the first tousle he'd had with this madman. But all thoughts quieted as John, grabbed the man and muscle memory took over, pummeling him in the face and gut, staggering him backwards, the mans arms failed with his bag still in hand, he righted himself, swinging the bag wildly at John causing him to jump back, dodging the blow, but the killer was quick and pressed his advantage and stepped in close to John. John saw the knife flash in the moon light but it was too late. He felt the blade sink into his abdomen with blinding ice hot pain. John howled and pushed his assailant off him before he could withdraw the blade, and watched the man run off into the night. John fell to his knees holding the blade handle, willing himself not to vomit from pain. John looked down at the blood pouring from the wound.
"Bit not good." John slumped to the side and winced in pain, darkness creeping onto his field of vision.
Sherlock woak slowly at first, but the throb in his temple and the harsh damp pavement against his face sent tendrils of recognition screaming through every pore of his body. John! John had been...where? Behind him? Yes. But...that would mean...
"John." Sherlock got slowly to his hands and knees, his world spinning as he did so, trying to focus on reaching the crumpled figure a few feet in front of him. Sherlock took a deep breath and righted himself, keeping his head hung low as he staggered toward John. He sunk back down next to him and felt a sickening horror when the full sight of John became clear. Blood ran from Johns body in slow black rivulet, glistening in the moon light, and darkening his jeans to a velvet black color. Sherlock was gripped by a fear and pain the likes of which he'd never known. He whispered as if speaking too loudly may cause further damage.
"John?" His voice sounded strange to him, far off and stricken. No answer. Deep shaken breath. "John please."
"Please...what?...Please...get the milk?" Johns voice was hushed and barely audible, but to Sherlock's ears it was a chorus of angels, he almost laughed with joy.
"Don't die. Lestrade, will be here any second." As if on cue, the blaring of serine could be heard growing louder in the distance.
"Trying...not...to. Hard." John's eyes drifted open then closed again. Sherlock tried to keep the panic out of his voice as tears clouded his vision and he ached to have the ugly blade out of his perfectly flawed beautiful solider. He wondered briefly when he had decided it was acceptable to think things like that about John outside of his mind palace. Sherlock, pushed the thought aside.
"John you must try with all your strength not to die. I have..." Sherlock wasn't sure where he was going with this, he just knew he would say or do anything to keep John alive. "A secret...yes I have a secret to tell you which I obviously can not do, if you insist on dying." Sherlock sounded far more cavalier then he felt. What he felt was new, and not the least bit new and interesting, no, this was terrifying. Sherlock's body trimbled, his chest felt like lead, and the tears where dangerously close. He wanted John, no needed John, to fix this. And the only way he could do that was to live.
"Secret." That was the last word Sherlock heard from Johns lips as he fell over completely and was engulfed by emergency personnel. Sherlock looked on in paralyzed anguish, his view completely obstructed yet unwavering, lest he miss the slightest glimpse of John.
"Sherlock, get up." Lestrade, grabbed his upper arm and pulled him to his feet with ease. "Come on then, you'll ride to hospital with me." Lestrade, tried to guide Sherlock's path, but he pulled away just enough.
"No. I need John. No. That's not right. Wrong. John. John needs me. I have to go...go with them." Sherlock turned toward the ambulance where John was being loaded, a confused frown crossed his face. The gears of his mind had ground to a halt. Frozen, by this feeling, that was spreading from his chest, and now corrupting his mind.
"Sherlock, the EMT's need room to do their job. I'll get you there. I promise."
Lestrade, spoke in a tone, Sherlock recognized from long ago. It was the voice of reason, the same calm reassuring tones that had convinced a young junkie that perhaps this world still held some surprises. He had been right then, Sherlock trusted him to be right now.
Lestrade, pulled into the ambulance bay just as the EMTs, where wheeling John around the corner.
The wait was short but agonizing. Sherlock normally looked at death with a clinical detachment, seeing it for the first time so clearly as personal and deeply meaningful was crippling.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" A tall doctor called out into the waiting room, both Sherlock and Lestrade, stood as the man came toward them. "And this must be Sherlock Holmes, the great detective." The doctor was chipper Sherlock thought as he looked on in confusion at the mans proffered hand. Obviously this was the doctor who had worked on John, and equally obvious to Sherlock was the fact that he had very little regard for his patients. Lestrade took the doctors hand before things could get awkward and asked after John.
"So how's our patient?" Lestrade, asked with as much calm as he could, with Sherlock standing at his side practically vibrating with outrage at this mans causal air and worry over Johns condition.
"Yes, yes of course. Nicked liver, quite a bit of blood loss." Sherlock swayed noticeably on his feet at the words. Lestrade put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Is he alive?!" Sherlock yelled in the doctors face, completely out of patience.
"Well yes of course. Keeps mumbling something or other about secrets." After hearing this news Sherlock wasn't going to wait another second. He pushed pass the doctor and headed for recovery. Lestrade followed knowing he would have to explain the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes as he passed. Sherlock opened the door slowly and was pleasantly surprised by what he saw. John was peaceful, his color was normal and he was breathing on his own, making small sounds that Sherlock couldn't make out from across the room. Sherlock closed the distance and rested a hand on Johns bicep leaning in to hear the whispered words.
"Sherrrrlock. Sherlock. Secret." Well this was a turn up. At the time Sherlock would have sold his soul to the devil (if he believed in that sort of thing) if it would have kept John alive. Out of desperation and suddenly confronted with the possibility of losing John, Sherlock had thought of the one thing he wanted John desperately to know, his secret. But now it looked like John would be fine, and there was no need for silly confessions. Plus statistically speaking it was highly unlikely that John, would even remember the conversation due to the extreme trauma of the whole situation. Well fingers crossed anyway, Sherlock thought.
"Sherlock, if you try to pick me up I swear..." John narrowed his eyes at the man who was bent over about to scoop him up.
"What? I was trying to I don't know...help."
"Don't." There was no question that Captain John Watson, did not need any help pain or no pain. Sherlock nodded and let John led the way, carful to stay well back, so as not to crowd him, and in case he stumbled. Once John was settled on the couch, Sherlock brought tea, which he'd made himself. John did not let this go unnoticed
"Look at you." John cooed. Sherlock gave a mock curtsy, before sitting down the tray and serving.
"Sit with me." Is what John said. What he wanted to say was that he'd missed Sherlock and just wanted him close for awhile.
"If you like." Sherlock said in a voice that was more warm and soothing then the tea, as he settled in next to John. Sherlock had angled the telly toward the sofa, and they watched a "Black Mirror" marathon until John fell asleep against Sherlock's shoulder. John's measured breathing was calming Sherlock looked down on Johns face for a monument before resting his own dark curls against the blond head and felt his heart ached. This man. This remarkable person. Sherlock couldn't help but think "What a piece of work is man." This John Hamish Watson. Sherlock whispered his secret into Johns soft sun bleached hair.
"I'm yours. All and forever." Sherlock let his eyes drift closed and he walked with John hand in hand in the garden of his mind palace.
Lestrade's voice, broke through Sherlock's mind palace walls, bringing him sharply back to Barker St. John blinked awake and held his head up as well.
"Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson told me to let myself up, so here I am." He stopped just inside the door and waited for John and Sherlock to right themselves.
"You didn't text me. You came right here from the station house. Something's wrong. With John?" Sherlock ripped the paper from Greg's hand before he could truly offer it to him.
"Well I thought you'd want to see it, so you could you know...deduce it or something."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You don't deduce an inanimate object. You extrapolate data." Sherlock shook his head woefully as he read. The data he found there made his throat tighten.
~Mr. Holmes, I enjoyed my time with your doctor so much. I think I'd like to see him again. Would you mind?~
Sherlock's blood ran cold, he felt tears sting his eyes and herd his heart pounding in his ears. John, saw the moment Sherlock's eyes went blank and struggled quickly up off the sofa to his side.
"Sherlock. Right here. Look at me." Johns voice pulled him back.
"John." Sherlock said his name like a gift. He turned on Lestrade, practically manic. "When did this arrive?"
"Hour ago. Got here as fast as I could. Look, I get it. It's troubling. But it's not as if he knows where to find him." Lestrade, saw the need to reason with Sherlock.
By this time John had taken the letter and read it himself.
"John, you're going to Mycroft's." Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket. "His home is a fortress. You'll be safe there."
"Sherlock, put your mobile away."
"I can't keep you safe here!" Sherlock's voice was frantic and he paced back and forth like a caged panther.
"Stop." Johns tone said there was no room for disobedience. Sherlock's feet stopped as if they where controlled by the sound of Johns voice alone. Lestrade, could say he was there the moment the tide turned between John and Sherlock. When things changed to something more. Well that was until.
"Lestrade, could you give us a minute." This was not a question.
"Yeah, I'll just..." Lestrade, let the words trail off as he went down the stairs. John came to stand in front of Sherlock, in his personal space, John took Sherlock's hand and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. Sherlock's breath jerked and he closed his eyes.
"Look at me. You don't keep me safe. We. Keep each other safe. Now if you want to go to Mycroft's, fine, we'll go. We. Will. Go. Understood?" John tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.
"John this man, this butcher, he creeps in under cover of darkness, drugs his victims while they sleep and then dissects them while their still alive." Sherlock was on the verge of tears, the image of these thing happening to John clear in his mind.
"We'll think of something yeah."
With that said John reached a hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck guiding him down to meet his lips, in what was little more then warmth and texture pressed together for the space of what was no more then three second. John walked away as if this happened everyday. Sherlock blinked after Johns retreating back. He was simply made of questions.
"I know. We'll talk later, right now I need a pain pill." John said without looking back.
John sat the empty glass down and walked slowly back to the sitting room he was in pain, but they needed to talk. If not about the kiss, then at least about the case. Sherlock was still standing by the sofa right where he'd left him.
"Come on then." John gestured towards Sherlock's chair as he took his own. Sherlock sat down and tried to compose himself. He cleared his throat.
"So, that was..." Sherlock began, but John, cut in.
"Sherlock. I don't see any reason for us to leave Baker St. plus it would leave Mrs. Hudson, unprotected" Sherlock raised an eyebrow brow, understanding that they where obviously putting that conversation on the back burner.
"Irrelevant. He doesn't hunt woman. He prefers men." Sherlock some how managed to resist the urge to say that it seemed John did as well.
"So he's just as likely to come after you as he is me."
"No. He's...like an animal that's tasted blood. He's had you, so to speak. And he wants more. To finish what he started." Sherlock seemed to have trouble explaining the whole thing as if it where distasteful. "John, won't you just..."
"No. I've told you how this works. We go. Or we stay. Up to you."
"Fine. But you're not going to like the solution. If we stay, we stay together." Sherlock couldn't believe what his was suggesting, but it had to be done if John refused to leave.
"That's what I said." John had a confused furrowed brow.
"Same room. Safety in numbers and all." Sherlock said quickly and looked away. John, smiled.
"And here I thought the kiss had you rattled." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut, his lips a thin line. He tried again.
"We should make sleeping arrangements." Sherlock tried to sound matter of fact.
"Good. Yours, and I sleep on the right. I'll be in the loo if you need me."
John, went through his night time routine as usual, when he was done he headed for Sherlock's room, a room he'd been in countless times, but tonight it felt different. The room seemed ethereal as if all the secrets luxuries of the room breathed their air into it and anyone who entered. To look at it things seemed rather simple, but John knew the posh secrets of this space. The bed itself was large, overly so for just one person, it was also garishly expensive, John had ripped the sheets off one day for to launder to revile a beautiful blue and white cheeked Hastens Vividus. John had later learned it had been a gift from a Swedish client that was close to the royal family. The bedding was raw silk, and cashmere (as was Sherlock's favorite blue scarf, which was why the man himself smelled of it almost constantly) the periodic table of elements was actually hand drawn by some scientists. The scroll above his bed was some thousand year old thing from one Japanese dynasty or another given to him by a member of the Yakuza. There where other bits and bobs too, a trinket that may or may not have been Faberge, a pair of spectacles that belonged to Albeit Einstein, an original copy of "Faust" by Goethe, the list went on and on. But none more valuable then the occupant himself. At least not for John anyway. He treasured Sherlock above all else, and he was bone tired of fighting it. That's why John, had thrown caution to the wind and kisses him. Their lives where for the most part dangerous and unpredictable. If any moment could be their last then the ones in between needed to be lived to the fullest. On cue, Sherlock walked in from the bathroom door. Blue silk clung to his damp skin, his wet curls now perfect individual ringlets. John had to turn away from the sight of him, because he was pretty sure that if he didn't he was going to attack him. Instead John climbed into bed and cut off his light. John watched as Sherlock pulled on a pair of pants and nothing else, God this was going to be a long night. John prayed that the killer would show up. Sherlock cut off his light. As soon as it was dark he spoke.
"John?" The question clear in his tone.
"Sherlock this doesn't have to be complicated."
"Alright." He sounded unsure. He settled his body next to John but not quit touching.
"Do you know why I kissed you?" John was straight forward.
Sherlock gave it some thought and answered honestly.
"No."
"Because you needed me to." Sherlock sucked in a shocked little breath, and John could almost see the look of indignation on his face. "How did it feel when I kissed you?"
"I don't know." Sherlock answered quickly in a high pitch tone.
"Described it." John went on.
"I can't."
"Try." Sherlock brushed up against Johns side and started to move away. John grabbed his wrist under the covers and held him there.
"It felt...quiet." Sherlock seemed to surprise himself.
"So your saying, that your mind felt quiet."
"Yes."
"What dose it normally feel like?" John was driving home his point.
"Chaos." Sherlock said sadly.
"That's why I kissed you."
"You are the silence in the mayhem."
"If you let me be, yes." John, turned his head and kissed Sherlock's temple. "Now sleep."
"Yes John." Sherlock rolled to his side and rested his mostly naked body against John. Jesus this was going to be a long night.