A.N:Well, My first ever Fic! R+R and Concrit welcome!
Chapter 1
London at twilight, whizzing by on the Sherlock's coat-tails was one of the most beautiful sights John has had the pleasure of seeing every now and then on a case when they were chasing or being chased.
This night was no exception. Sherlock and John were chasing a blackmailer-turned-killer trying to extort money from financial executives. The part that had grasped Sherlock's interest was that once the killer got what he wanted, he sent a present to each victim. In a wrapped box was a frog. Not just any frog, but a Golden Poison frog aka Phyllobates terriblis. When touched, the alkaloid poison stops nerves from transmitting impulses which lead to heart failure in the victims.
John thought he was getting far too old for this running lark so he welcomed a break as the killer got away from his pursuers round the corner of the alley and out of sight into a busy road.
"Did you see…. where… he went?" John spluttered, trying to get his breath back.
"Oddly enough, no, John," Sherlock said sarcastically, "Or else I would not be here discussing where he went and in fact chasing the killer."
"Alright Sherlock! Keep your bloody pants on!"
"That's not what you were saying a few nights ago now, was it?" Sherlock said with a wry smile and a quirked eyebrow.
John smothered a laugh with a cough before taking his partner's arm and walking through the streets heading towards home, 221B Baker Street. Sherlock took out his phone and texted Lestrade of the last known location where they'd last seen the killer, instructing him to get a move or he would lose them.
"You know, John…" Sherlock said contemplatively, tucking his phone back into his pocket, "I have never thought I'd ever be content and happy. But somehow - and I would never call it fate as that is a silly notion trying to find meaning to everyday occurrences - but being here with you, solving cases with you, there is nowhere else in the world I'd ever want to be. You are the centre of mine, John."
John stopped walking, feeling overwhelmed with so many emotions; love, admiration, joy, and heartache that Sherlock never felt anything before he met John. Sherlock's declaration was a rarity. He was never into public displays of affection, but this is one that John would remember for a long time.
Sherlock turned to John with a flash of concern on his face, as if he has said something wrong. He would never pour his heart out to anyone, to be so vulnerable that anyone could smash it. But John was no ordinary person. He was his little army doctor, his idiot (sometimes), his lover, his partner, his friend.
"John, what is it? Did I say something wrong?" Sherlock asked, the concern becoming ever more apparent in his voice.
"No. Everything is just perfect," John whispered, his smile widening, his hands coming up to cup Sherlock's face.
"Then why did you stop?"
"I know that you don't believe in fate or luck, but I feel as if I am the luckiest person and the most alive I have ever been. Before you, in the months after I was invalided home from Afghanistan, those months were the darkest. I thought no-one would want me, battered and bruised with a blown up shoulder, a psychosomatic limp and the worst of nightmares. I thought that I wasn't worth caring for, but when we met for the first time, in St Bart's, I knew that I'd want to be with you, your daft experiments and your brilliant mind. Running through London with you has never made me feel more alive, wanted and a part of your life, which is why I have to do this…"
John let go of Sherlock, stepped away slightly, looking at Sherlock's puzzled and somewhat worried expression. John then took hold of Sherlock's hand, watching the detective's eyes growing wider as John knelt on his good knee.
"Sherlock, I want to spend forever with you and more, from solving cases, to keeping bees out in the country when we're old. Sherlock, will you marry me?"
For the first time since John entered his life and most probably ever, Sherlock was speechless.
"Eh, Sherlock? Please don't keep me down here on the damp pavement - although my leg and limp is psychosomatic, it still hurts!"
With that, Sherlock pulled John up, grabbed him by the waist and swung him round in circles. Once the motion had ceased, Sherlock kissed him passionately, still holding John with his feet dangling two feet off the ground.
"I think that may have been a yes?" John asked, a smile growing at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock let him down, although John still kept hold of Sherlock's waist.
"Of course it is, you idiot! If you couldn't have deduced my response at that point then there really is no hope for the you now, is there?" Sherlock exclaimed, with the widest, most genuine smile John had ever seen.
John smiled up at his now fiancé - a term, he thought, he would really need to get used to saying. "Thank you so much," John whispered, kissing his perfectly angel bowed lips.
"I think we should make a move home, as it has turned to night in the time we have been standing here," Sherlock chuckled.
"I think we'd better, there are a lot of unsavoury types around these parts," John said, taking Sherlock's arm.
"As well as my brother."
"Oi! He's not that bad! Besides you'll be asking him to be your best man."
Sherlock groaned. "He'll be an insufferable git and highly likely to hoover up the wedding cake."
"He is still your brother, Sherlock."
In a building made of steel and reinforced concrete, Mycroft watched on through CCTV as his brother's flatmate got down on one knee. Within that dead, cold exterior, Mycroft's heart leapt. He watched in anticipation at his brother's response. He saw Sherlock swing his flatmate, kissing him, then linking arms they walked toward 221B.
Well done, brother. I'm happy for you," Mycroft said under his breath, inaudible to the people around him.
As they rounded the corner onto Baker Street and passed one of Mycroft's agents, he heard John say, "…you'll be asking him to be your best man."
"He'll be an insufferable git and highly likely to hoover up the wedding cake."
"He is still your brother, Sherlock."
Mycroft chucked under his breath before getting up and returning to his office.
"Thank you, John. Sherlock? I'll get you back for that remark." Mycroft chuckled with a grin that would make the Cheshire Cat envious.
Once on Baker Street Sherlock quickened his pace, John lagging behind - still held on by their intertwining hands.
From out of nowhere, Sherlock heard the unmistakeable sound of an aluminium, baseball bat strike bone. He then felt the tug of his arm, pulling him downward. As he turned round, John hit the ground.
He saw the figure run out of sight, round the corner, but caught enough of a glimpse to know that it was the killer that they had been chasing earlier. The killer had stalked them back to Baker Street. Sherlock couldn't think about that now; his fiancé was lying on concrete unconscious outside of 221B.
"John? JOHN!" Sherlock yelled.
A mixture of disbelief, panic and adrenaline was running through Sherlock as he slumped to his knees beside John's limp and seemingly lifeless body, unresponsive to Sherlock's cries. Sherlock checked hastily for a pulse and found one barely beating beneath his fingers. There was a growing damp patch on the ground underneath John's head. Terror set in as Sherlock realised belatedly that John's life was draining away.
In that moment, two British Service agents ran towards them, checking John, then Sherlock with calm urgency. One of the agents radioed for an ambulance and the police. Within a minute or two, sirens were blaring down Baker Street.
"Sherlock! What the hell -" DI Lestrade bellowed as he lunged out the car and made a beeline for Sherlock. It was not until he got within a few feet that he saw John on the ground, fighting for his life.
"Lestrade," Sherlock finally managed to say. "It's the killer, the Golden Poison Frog killer. We chased him and he got away. He followed us and struck John on the back of the head with an aluminium baseball bat." Sherlock manages to croak out before becoming silent again.
"Oh, God. Go Sherlock, just go, he needs you there with him. I will handle everything. Go."
Sherlock clambered into back of the ambulance and sped off.
"Please don't leave me, not now." Sherlock whispered, tears dropping onto the floor as the ambulance sped into the night.
"Sir, an extremely urgent situation of the highest importance has arisen. Your brother and Doctor Watson," Anthea said.
"What is it, my dear?" Mycroft replied, sitting bolt upright in his leather chair.
"Agents have called in at Baker Street," Anthea replied, "Doctor Watson was struck over the head with a baseball bat. At the moment he is barely alive but holding on. Sherlock is in the ambulance with him."
Mycroft felt utterly sick, as if he had sustained a sucker punch to the gut. With a measured breath, he replied to Anthea. "Get them to a private hospital, the best that specialises in head trauma as soon as possible once Doctor Watson has been stabilised in A&E. In the mean time, get me over there to them NOW."