"Why do they keep putting this blanket on me," Sherlock wondered aloud as Lestrade quickly appeared by his side.
"It's for shock," he commented absently, leaning against the ambulance.
Sherlock raised a brown eyebrow, clearly angered by the helpfulness of the cops. "I'm not in shock!"
"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs. Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies I suppose. One of them might have been following him, but we've got nothing to go on."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that."
"Ok, give me?
Sherlock closed his eyes and said, very patiently, "The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a handgun. A kill shot like that over that distance from that sort of weapon, you're looking for a crack shot but not just a marksman, his hands mustn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger so obviously has a strong moral principle. You're looking for someone probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel..."
He was in the zone, and it was easy to know who had shot the bullet, and somehow, subconsciously, his eyes traveled over to the shooter. Watson was standing behind the police tape, looking, for all the world, like a kid who had got caught stealing from the cookie jar.
And when he finally realized the fact that Watson was the one who saved him, Sherlock clammed up. If the police knew that his flat mate had been the one to shoot the cabbie to his death, Watson would be thrown in the slammer for a long time. And that was something even the hard headed, psychotic detective didn't want to fathom. He had grown accustomed to the man being his partner on crime investigations, and he didn't feel like losing Watson now because of his big mouth.
"Actually, you know what? Ignore me."
"Sorry?"
"Ignore all of that. It's just the, uh, shock talking." Sherlock picked himself off of the back of the ambulance. He had to, no needed, to go see how Watson was after what had happened in the school.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"I just need to, uh, talk about the rent —"
"But I still have questions for you," Lestrade pestered, knowing that Sherlock wasn't going to answer them in anyway.
"Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket."
"Sherlock!"
And with a quiet carefulness, Sherlock avoided answering the DI's questions by sideling up next to Watson, the man who had saved him.
Watson looked at the detective and then at the ground. With all that had happened, Sherlock had to give the guy some props. He wasn't in shock from killing a man, and if you got down to it, he looked like he had just woke up from a nice, peaceful sleep. "Sergeant Donovan was just explaining everything. Two pills, it's a dreadful business, isn't it? Just dreadful."
Sherlock smirked, looking at the ground. "Good shot," he murmured quietly.
"Yes, yes must've been from that window."
"You'd know. Need to get the powder burns out of your hands. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case. Are you alright?"
Watson stared incredulously at Sherlock. "Yes, of course I'm alright." Was the unfriendable guy actually opening up for someone? At the thought, something memorable fluttered in his chest, some sort of new feeling.
"Well you have just killed a man."
"Yes I know…"Watson paused a moment, finally looking at the detective. "Yes that's true isn't it? But he wasn't a very nice man."
They both began walking away from the crime scene to talk privately. Both needed something to do to get their minds off of the night.
"No. No, he wasn't, really, was he?"
"Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie."
"That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here."
"Stop it!" Watson said, pivoting on his heel. "We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it."
"Well, you're the one who shot him."
"Keep your voice down." Watson turned to some detectives that passed by them. Both looked at the pair like they were crazy. "Sorry, it's just erm…nerves, I think."
Watson began walking again, deep in thought. If he hadn't come up to save Sherlock, then what would have happened? Would he have figured out some amazing plan to trick the cabbie into thinking he had took the pill, without really taking it?
"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you," Watson said into the night air. He didn't want to believe it, but what other choice did he have?
The look on Sherlock's face wasn't pretty as he answered. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."
"No, you didn't. That's how you get your kicks, isn't it- you risk your life to prove you're clever?"
"Why would I do that?" Sherlock sound actually content as he moved closer to his partner in crime, knowing that the guy wasn't leaving him in the near future. "I've got you to keep me in check, so why in the world would I want to lose that?"
Watson was speechless. When he found his voice, he meant to shout, but he choked on the word as it came out. "Because," he managed. "You're an idiot."
A blush crept up Sherlock's neck at the comment. "Dinner?" he asked quickly to hide it.
"Starving."