A/N
I keep forgetting to add this, but Guess what guys? I don't own Sherlock or the characters involved.
Many thanks again to my RP partner, MTCrazy17, for her talented John/Sebastian dialogue. (No more talking for Sebby, though, I suppose.)
John threw himself to the floor as the words rang in his ears. No sooner had he ducked did he hear a shot ring out, followed by the sound of tearing flesh and cracking ribs; the bullet made its nest in Sebastian's chest, right in his heart. The man blinked before crashing to the floor in a puddle of his own blood.
The soldier stayed down, taking a moment to let all his panic out. He closed his eyes and let a captive breath rush past his lips. A shake began to erupt throughout his being, starting in his hands and traveling inward to his core. Tears stung his eyes as he tried to comprehend the situation; he felt like a five-year-old on their first day of school, confused and upset over being left alone by their mother. John curled his knees against his chest as he silently sobbed into the ground. His head ached and pounded with every breath and movement; Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. The name ran through his mind rapidly as he attempted to calm himself down.
Within seconds, a pair of feet could be heard clattering down the stairs. John would have looked over if he didn't know who the sounds belonged to. He stayed rolled in a ball, deeply breathing until a pair of slender hands pulled him up into a proper position. A wave of relief crashed over John's heart as he allowed the detective to fuss over him.
The moment "Vatican Cameos" escaped his lips, Sherlock made a beeline for the building's main entrance. He sprinted down the stairs, relieved to find John seemingly unharmed (he was folded up on the ground, though. In shock, obviously.) The detective flew to his friend's side to sit him up. He began to paw and pat at the blonde man's frame, looking for any serious injury. He seemed fine, though Sherlock was wary. John's voice had been far too shaky to have been caused by simple punches or slaps to the face; he did manage to find red fingerprints around the poor doctor's throat as well as some bruising to both arms and stomach. "Are you alright, John?"
"Sh… Sherlock…" John blinked slowly a couple times, seemingly unable to grasp the situation. His eyes were glazing over a bit – the adrenaline was finally wearing off, giving way to unconsciousness. Sherlock watched the doctor struggle to stay awake, smiling tenderly before wincing in pain. He clutched his ribs and fell forward, landing in Sherlock's arms. The detective gently pulled the beaten man closer to him, feeling John bury his bruised and tearstained face in his shoulder. "S'okay now."
"It is ok, John. It's all ok. I'm here." He tenderly ran a hand through John's coarse blonde hair. He could feel a few contusions and bumps across his scalp – minor injuries. Ice and painkillers would fix them up just fine. Sherlock felt John flinch ever so slightly as his fingers brushed a particularly large bump.
The detective couldn't help but to remember a time his mother had made a similar gesture of compassion. He'd been beaten up in third grade by a group of boys, their main motivation simply because he was more brilliant than they ever would hope to be. Stupid people always were enraged by his mind, so he'd been given many punches through the years. He did his best to recreate the comfort that had coursed through Mummy's fingers as she petted his curly locks, brushing his tears away gently as he sobbed into her lap. It was one of the last times he'd allowed himself to be so public with his emotions. "You're going to be just fine."
John nodded into Sherlock's jacket, leaving traces of tears along the lapel and shoulder. "Never did get that milk…" he murmured. The detective smiled warmly.
"Really, John? That's what you're worried about?" He let out a sigh. "Don't worry, I'll get the milk. But just this once!"
Sherlock heard John chuckle and mumble something to the effect of bullocks before he winced in pain again. Ribs must be bruised. Moran had a good sense of where to hit a foe, I'll give him that much. John interrupted the thought. "You're a lifesaver… literally."
"I'm glad I was able to get here when I did. I can only imagine what Moran would have done if I'd been even a few minutes late." Sherlock's eyes floated to the body lying feet away, bleeding profusely from a clean bullet wound. He'd be sure to ask Molly if he wouldn't be able to experiment on the body once it was in the morgue. He wouldn't let Moran slip peacefully into the grasps of death.
John's eyes followed Sherlock's. The detective watched him shudder, remembering everything that had happened. It seemed like days since he'd been kidnapped. Who would have thought the afternoon trip to Tesco would have been so dramatic? John then buried himself further into Sherlock's thin frame, hiding his eyes as he tried to comprehend everything. "Can we… Can we just go home now? Please… want to leave…" His head shook against Sherlock's shoulder as he tried to sink closer.
"Of course." A quick squeeze and the detective was helping the soldier to his feet. "I imagine the medics are going to want to give you a brief examination. Formalities, mostly, though you do have a few injuries that should be looked over. Perhaps they'll give you a nice shock blanket to complement those eyes of yours."
John gave him a stunned look before allowing himself to be led gingerly upstairs. He tried to shrug the comment off by continuing the conversation. "Anything sounds good right now… maybe a cup of tea, too." His grip on Sherlock was firm in fear of falling backwards to the ground below.
"Anything you want, we'll get." Sherlock led John out to an ambulance waiting on the curb, sitting him down on the tailgate as if he were made of glass. John sat quietly as the medics fussed about him; all the while, Sherlock kept a watchful gaze by the soldier's side, analyzing his friend's responses and body language. He was stressed, yet happy; his eyes screamed confused and tired, confirmed by the posture he held. A good night of sleep would be more than enough to cure those ailments. A shock blanket was put around the man's shoulders, prompting a smile to spread across his face as he wrapped it about himself. He still shook, but was steadily calming down. He kept a hand on Sherlock's arm throughout the exam, an assurance to himself that the man wouldn't run off and disappear.
Once the medics were satisfied with their work, a short one – been working for three hours, two cats at home, divorced with three kids, part-time gambler – turned to Sherlock and spoke. "Well, Dr. Watson here should be just fine ta head home. He has a slight head injury that isn't quite a concussion, but he'll be experiencing migraine symptoms for the next few hours. He'll be fine to sleep, no worries there. Make sure he stays offa his feet for a few days; he's got ta let those bruised ribs heal up a bit. It'd be best if he didn't sit for prolonged amounts of time either – lying down is tha best choice. Other than that, he can go home with ya now." The stout man smiled up at the detective.
"Brilliant. Can we keep the blanket as well? He seems to have taken a liking to it; and besides, red really is his color." Sherlock smiled down at John with a fish-eating grin. He placed a hand over top John's, giving it a squeeze as the medic nodded. "Thank you for your time. We'll be on our way. Afternoon." He eased the injured man up and led him down the street a bit, looking for a cab. "How are you feeling, John?"
The soldier unsteadily walked by Sherlock's side, one arm linked through the detective's for support. If he didn't have a hold on something, he would most definitely fall face-first to the cold road below. He looked up to his tall friend and grinned. "Better than a few moments ago. I'm just happy to still be alive, really. Thought he was going to kill me when I refused to surrender the phone. I really did think my time was up." He gave Sherlock's arm a light pat.
"You know I wouldn't let you get away from me so easily. No, no; that'd be too boring." He snickered, trying to calm the horrified thoughts of coming so close to having lost John forever. He let out a deep breath as he hailed a cab, helping John into his seat before climbing in. The soldier looked at Sherlock a moment before continuing his earlier statement.
"Thank you… back there… that was… um… good." John chuckled, remembering hearing something similar from Sherlock when they'd first met Moriarty. Sherlock smiled warmly at his companion.
"You're quite welcome, my dear Watson." The detective laid a hand on John's shoulder delicately, trying his best to kill the negative thoughts attempting to bombard his mind.
"Too boring. Indeed. Where would you be without your blogger, right?" John let his head rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "I feel bloody drained. Here I was, expecting a nice quiet day at the shop, but I get a war zone instead." He close his eyes in an attempt to soother his pounding headache. "Yeah… you're getting the food for a week. I'm staying away from the market." He chuckled.
Sherlock couldn't help but to smile at John's dark sense of humor. "Mrs. Hudson or I can certainly do that. And when you're good to walk about again, I'll accompany you on grocery runs until you feel comfortable going on your own." He ran his free hand though the coarse blonde hair adorning the soldier's head, being careful to avoid any bruised areas. "So is this one going on the blog as well?" Sherlock grinned.
John chuckled. "Sure. I'll put this one under 'Reasons you should take your gun everywhere.'" He tried to give another laugh, but was promptly interrupted by a yawn.
A quick laugh escaped the detective's mouth. "Or 'reasons to not frequent Tesco.' Your pick." The cab came to a halt outside 221B; Sherlock (for once) paid the cabbie and helped John out of the backseat. They strolled up the stairs slowly, ignoring a barrage of questions from Mrs. Hudson as they ascended. Once inside, Sherlock laid John out on the couch, wrapping the red shock blanket around him snugly before grabbing pillows from around the room. He wanted to make sure John was as comfortable as possible. "Still want that brew? Or would you rather sleep?"
John snuggled happily into the blanket, feeling his eyelids grow heavier with each passing second. "No tea. Maybe later… really tired. I'm just going to sleep for now." He mumbled under the cover. His hand snaked out from under the blanket, searching for Sherlock's. John didn't seem to feel all that well without knowing his friend was really there, that this wasn't all a dream. "Sherlock? Just till I fall asleep… will you stay?"
Sherlock took John's hand in his own, discreetly taking his pulse – slowed pace, his body was already putting itself into sleep mode – while ensuring the man that he'd stay. "Of course, John. I'll be here until you fall asleep. And while you dream, I'll be in my chair over there watching over you. I'll be sure to be the first thing you see when you wake, the last thing you see before you sleep." He smiled at his tired friend, stroking his face lovingly with his other hand.
"Thanks… for everything… today…" He spoke just above a soft whisper, sighing as his body gave way to sleep. John fell asleep with a genuine smile across his face, beaming from the loving gaze he'd been given by the one person he felt safest with.
Sherlock waited a few minutes before heading to his usual spot on the leather armchair. He ruffled his hair and took a deep breath, letting the details from earlier hit him full-force. He couldn't believe how close he'd been to losing everything that meant anything to him, how close he'd come to losing John.
The thoughts scattered as he heard a light snore escape John's mouth. A curt smile formed on the detective's lips; there really was no need to worry when the sleeping man gave him such peace. Sherlock then turned to a nearby book, preoccupying himself as he waited for his blogger to rouse from the deep sleep. He hoped John would be able to find peace in his dreams.