I just wanted to thank everybody again for all your lovely reviews. They make my day!

Okay, carry on my wayward sons. (Sorrynotsorry for that SPN reference.)

Chapter 11 – Smokers and Earthquakes

Living with Sherlock Holmes has its perks.

You have the British Government practically at your beck and call (no matter how much said Government may deny this at times). You have a sweet landlady that cooks occasionally and helps tidy the flat when you're busy chasing your flatmate around London. You get free food at a fabulous Italian restaurant. You get to go behind the caution tape at crime scenes. You get virtually unlimited access to the lab and morgue in Bart's.

Yes, living with Sherlock Holmes definitely has its perks.

But fuck, this is definitely not one of them.

"Sherlock," I voice warningly.

We're standing practically back-to-back, surrounded by three unsavory individuals with extremely big-ass guns. I have a sneaky suspicion that the Browning at the small of my back isn't going to help us much right now, but I don't trust Sherlock not to do something stupid, so I shoot him a warning look to go with the warning tone in my voice. He lightly rolls his eyes—rolls his fucking eyeballs—and raises his arms in surrender. Probably more for my benefit than our captors'.

Honestly, I'm not sure how this turn of events happened. We'd been investigating a very routine missing persons case (Sherlock had complained about the dullness of it), when Sherlock had suddenly stopped in front of me, causing a small collision between us as I ran into his back. I couldn't really get irritated at him for his abrupt halt because the man did have a gun pointed at his chest at the time.

"Congratulations," Sherlock, back in the present, says with a smirk, "you got us."

"Yes, but fortunately," the apparent leader of the trio says with a wicked grin, "we don't need you two alive. Our boss would like to remain missing."

A cloth is shoved in front of my face before I can protest. Sherlock's cut off exclamation of my name is the last thing I hear before complete darkness sweeps me away.

I have a rather dull name. John. So many people have the name John. It's not a special name. It's not very memorable. I would have liked to have a better name if my mother had let me choose.

"John!"

There's an earthquake somewhere. Bit odd, that.

"John, wake up!"

The earthquake increases until my eyes blink open and I'm looking straight up at the ceiling of a car. I tilt my gaze, head still fuzzy from whatever we'd been drugged with.

"What is it?" I mumble, groaning and placing a hand against my head as I sit up.

We're in the back of a Land Rover, parked in a large garage as far as I can tell. Sherlock has already clambered up front and is messing with the doors frantically.

"They jammed the locks. I can't get the doors open," he says, moving to the passenger side.

I blink away some of the fog and look out the window. Multiple cars, all engines running, in an enclosed garage.

Shit.

My hand automatically reaches for my gun, but the bastards had taken it. Phones too, I realize. My pockets are empty.

"Sherlock…" I start, not really knowing how that sentence was supposed to end.

The detective is still moving about madly. "I'm going to get you out of this, John."

My heart clenches because I know he means it. If it were between my life and his, he'd choose me. He'd always choose me.

How could I have been so blind.

There's no way to tell how long we've been here. Precious minutes are ticking away as carbon monoxide slowly fills the inside of the garage, and something from my days at uni flickers through my mind.

Smokers are at higher risk of carbon monoxide poisoning.

My eyes latch onto Sherlock.

He's so vibrant, moving about the small confines of the vehicle in search of escape. So beautiful. So alive. I don't want to watch the life drain from him this way.

The drug had made my limbs heavy, but I still join the search of a way to get out. Sherlock, too, looks as though his arms and legs are weaker than usual. He kicks at a window, but there's not enough force behind it.

"Together?" I ask.

He nods and we brace ourselves to kick against the windshield.

I count down and we slam our feet into the window. Nothing. We try again with the same results. Sherlock kicks it a few more times before sitting up.

With a frustrated cry, he slams his fist against the driver's side window with too much strength for his fragile bones. He lets out a pained sound and cradles the arm to his chest. Daft bugger probably broke his own wrist out of anger.

Sherlock's breathing is much more labored than I'd like it to be as I reach out and gently pull the injured arm towards me. I cradle it because reality has set in and this is precious. "Sherlock, it's okay."

His brow furrows briefly before smoothing again. He knows, too.

He moves to shift positions and clasps a hand against his head. "Dizzy." Some invisible thing snaps as he slumps into the seat, nearly boneless. Resigned.

I lightly rest a finger against his pulse point, noting the rapid beating that reflects my own.

He blinks up at me slowly before gripping my jacket above my shoulder. "John, I'm so sorry. So sorry."

Shaking my head, I lightly stroke the thin skin over the blue veins of his wrist. His hand is much larger than mine, and so very pale. He's paler right this moment than I've ever seen him.

I tug his legs until his feet rest against the floor before reclining the seat he's in. He deserves to be comfortable. I watch as he takes a breath, each one bringing him closer and closer to his last.

Nonononono.

I hate this. Not because I'm probably about to die as well, but because I have to watch him die again. This time, there is no faking. I can feel my mind start to thicken with heavier confusion, but I try to fight it as Sherlock stares up at me with his clear, clear eyes. I brush my fingers against a cheekbone, trying to ingrain it into my mind so hopefully I can recall it in whatever afterlife there is.

An unwanted chuckle slips out. What a stupid way to die. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sherlock's fingers tangle in the cuff of my jacket and hold.

I'm praying to a God I long ago stopped talking to when the garage door opens and blessed sunlight floods through.

The hospital makes us stay.

I'm not sure how long, because I'm honestly too worried about Sherlock to pay attention to trivial things such as time. He has the more severe case of poisoning between us.

I don't get to see him until much later, when he's hooked up to oxygen in a bed with a hospital gown that makes him look small, fragile, and childlike. The beepbeepbeep of his heart calms my nerves slightly.

He's going to be okay.

It's what they've been telling me for the past several…hours? minutes? days? I hadn't believed a word, not even Mycroft's. Not until I could see him myself. And he is okay.

He looks at me as I enter the room. "Lestrade's timing is most advantageous."

I choke out a laugh that gets cut off by the tears of relief fighting to escape my eyes.

Mycroft sends a car to collect us.

The ride home is inexplicably tense. Neither one of us says one thing, but I can feel the agitation radiating from the lithe man beside me. His right hand is in a splint, the sling abandoned as soon as we left the hospital.

"You should keep the sling, Sherlock," I'd said.

His only response was to glare and toss the thing in a rubbish bin.

It makes me sad, being so emotionally distant after nearly dying with the berk sitting beside me.

He's sitting low, knees resting lightly against the seat in front of him. His injured arm is cradled against his chest, and he looks so very breakable that my throat aches. He's made of a deceptive form of glass—seemingly strong, and for the most part is, but one tap in the wrong place could make him shatter.

He seems off. His gaze is lackluster as he stares out the window when the car pulls to a stop in front of the flat. I thank the driver and climb out behind Sherlock, digging in my pocket for keys even as the front door sweeps open.

"Oh, boys." Mrs. Hudson's voice is unsteady as she pulls us both into a hug.

"We're fine, Mrs. Hudson," I reassure.

Sherlock remains silent, but returns our landlady's hug.

"Oh, Sherlock, your wrist," she mourns, lightly cupping the injured appendage in her delicate hands.

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says flatly.

The sweet woman and I look at him for a moment, concerned. His tone… It just…it's not right.

She looks directly at me. "You take care of him, John." Her voice is vehement.

Of course I'll take care of him. Of course. How the hell could I not? I probably couldn't stop taking care of him if I tried.

Instead of saying all that, I simply nod.

She holds us for a few more moments before letting us go with two gentle kisses on each of our cheeks.

I'm tired. He's tired. The stars even seem tired as they wink weakly through the window. The toll from recent events suddenly weighs very heavily on my shoulders as we take the stairs slowly, Sherlock behind me. Once we reach the door to 221B, I can practically hear my bed calling my name. I swing the door open and step inside.

In a moment too fast for my exhausted mind to comprehend, Sherlock has me slammed against the door with his good arm, effectively shutting it with the use of my body weight.

"Sherl…?" I let the word die on my lips, looking up where his face is barely a breath away.

The expression there is so opposite from the passive one he's been wearing for the past hour, I nearly gasp.

His hand is gripping almost painfully into the lapel of my jacket. "You almost died," he hisses. "You almost died again." He shakes me roughly. "You almost died right in front of me, you bastard!" he whispers fiercely, spitting out the last word.

"You would have gone first, you daft wanker!" I grit out, because this is too much. Today has been too much. This past week has been too much. One too many times of almost losing him. "You and your fucking smoking habits! You were going to make me watch you die again!"

There's a moment. A silent one, both of us barely breathing. I can see in his eyes everything that's roiling deep in my stomach. Anger, frustration, despair, confusion, fear, pain.

And then, because I desperately need to, I kiss him.

Sorry for the angst again. xD

Reviews greatly appreciated. :) -C