Afghanistan had made John a very light, discerning sleeper. He could tell the difference between the normal sounds of the flat from something out of the ordinary. This was the ladder. John disentangled himself from a still sleeping Sherlock, wished he had brought his gun from upstairs, and creeped into the sitting room. The intruder was standing over the desk when John rushed behind him and placed the man in a choke hold. He struggled and sputtered as John increased pressure while trying to decide if he was going to break his neck or not. But John lost that option when the man swung his left elbow into Johns stitches dropping him to the floor. Sherlock had heard the commotion and had rushed to the sitting room just in time to catch the man before he made the stairs. Sherlock ducked a blow and swung up into the mans jaw, staggering him backwards. He smacked his head on the table on the way down, knocking him out. Sherlock flipped on the lights to find John on the floor in a hep, bleeding.
"You need hospital." Sherlock was kneeling on the floor in front of John.
"For what a doctor? I'll be fine. You can patch me up." Sherlock nodded and helped John walk to the sofa.
John, looked down at the man on the floor.
"That's not him." Said John.
"No it's not." Sherlock kicked at the mans leg as he walked past to get the first aid kit from the loo.
"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson, yelled up the steps.
"Call the police Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock called back down. There was no need to say send an ambulance or tell them to hurry, because a call from 221b Baker St. meant all that anyway.
Sherlock came back and sat on the table in front of John, with the kit open on the table next to him. He pulled Johns t-shirt gently over his head and just looked at him for a moment. Head tilted to the side, eyes a bit glassy, he placed his palm flat on Johns chest and closed his eyes letting his hand travel across his warm skin. John watched Sherlock become in that moment what he was sure was going to be a very sexual creature, in the near future, but not right now. John grabbed his wrist, hard. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his lips barely parted, his breathing just a little erratic. John felt his cock jump. Christ Sherlock was going to be a handful.
"Bleeding." John cast his eyes down to the busted stitches. Sherlock's eyes roamed a little farther, but then came back to the task at hand. John had to admit that Sherlock was excellent at suturing, his violinist fingers where nimble and delicate. John wished for all the world that the man had been more heavily handed, because the light touches on his skin, Sherlock's curls falling forward and brushing his chest, coupled with all that pale naked skin so close. John was using every single day of military training he'd ever had to keep from getting a raging hard on.
"John, you're sweating. Is it infected? It doesn't look infected."
John huffed and blew his breath, eyes closed.
"It's not infected. Are you done?" John opened his eyes.
"I'd say so, yes." Sherlock stood up, his cock inches away from Johns face. John closed his eyes.
"Move! You great bloody git!" John shoved Sherlock aside. And thank god that's when Scotland Yard arrived.
"What took you so long?" John sounded like a man suffering.
Sherlock gave John a puzzled look.
Lestrade, two other officers and two EMTs pushed into the space.
"Oi. What's all this then?" Lestrade, looked at the man on the floor as one EMT, checked him over the other tried to get at Johns wound but he waved him away.
"I think he's something of a spy" Sherlock went to the desk where the man had been looking. "He was getting the lay of the flat, and making certain he had the right place." John watched as one of the officers couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock's bottom as he moved about.
"Sherlock. Go put some clothes on." John was using that tone that made everyone in the room stand a little straighter. Sherlock spoke not a word and was gone. Lestrade was impressed. John stood up put his shirt back on and waited. Sherlock came back out fully dressed in his Schofield and Smith midnight blue suit and tailored shirt to match. John wasn't sure this was much better considering the way the officer was still eyeing Sherlock's every move. In the mean time, the intruder came to. Lestrade, let Sherlock, question the man and he confirmed what Sherlock had thought. He'd been hired by the butcher as Sherlock had taken to calling him, he was told to come to this address, make certain that at least John lived there and then report back to the butcher. The intruder claimed to have no other connection to the man.
"John, you know I need to go to the meeting point." Sherlock was putting on his coat as he spoke.
"Absolutely not."
"John you're being unreasonable." Sherlock almost stomped his foot.
"If you think I'm going to let you go after this...this butcher on your own you're madder then I thought." John was tired and his side hurt and just wanted Sherlock to take off that damn perfect suit of his and come back to bed. But John, knew better. And in truth, he also knew he was being unreasonable. "I'm coming with you."
"No!" Both Sherlock and Lestrade spoke and looked appalled at the idea.
"Look, John, I'll keep him safe. Won't let him out of my sight."
"We're running out of time." He may not have said the words but Sherlock's eyes where pleading.
"Fine. But you do exactly as Lestrade says." Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes by way of answer, and darted for the stairs. He re emerged just as quickly, grabbing John by his shoulders and pressed kiss to his lips. Only to turn and rush back out.
John, smiled. Lestrade, stood slack jawed. The other two officers exchanged looks of confusion.
"Well don't just stand there. Go after him!" John, ordered the officers.
"Finally." Lestrade grinned, as hit the stairs.
"Piss off." John called after good naturally.