Author's Note: Second last chapter and I have some warning here, things are going to get steamy! Little Johnlock action! Enjoy and look forward to the conclusion of this little Sherlock story.
I'll Wait for You
Case 5 – Stalker, Bruises, and Bullets
"How long did you know?" John asked calmly, sitting down in his favourite easy chair, very carefully. "I had my suspicions after the first one." He was pacing, looking excited. "Who would want to kill you that bad Sherlock, other then the obvious." He never stopped pacing, "It's too sloppy for Morarty, no it's someone else. You where right today, all the bodies have been embalmed…we've been looking in the wrong place." Fingers flying he texted Lestrade, before setting the phone down, he designed to wait. Staring a the device as if it would make it buzz sooner.
Realizing they where in for a wait, John heaved his battered body into the bathroom. Easing slowly out of his cloths, he had to check the damage. Bare to the waist he stood before the mirror, scrunching his face in sympathy. His left side, where he'd taken the impact was a massive purple, black bruise. Stretching from hip to ribcage. "Need any help?" He jumped, as the deep voice caught him by surprise. "Jesus," he looked up in the mirror seeing grey eyes all but devouring him. The doctor blinked in surprise. Sherlock almost looked like he wanted to jump him. A small bud of hope was forming in his battered chest. Maybe it was the hard knock to the head he'd taken off the car, maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the hopelessness he had long accepted when it came to this man. Whatever it was he was though, he felt suddenly nervous, giddy, and eager.
With slow delibrance he turned to the taller man, they where close enough to feel each others body heat. John closed that final distance between them, looking from wide eyes to those expressive lips that taunted him with smirks, smiles, and smug grins. With a final push lips touched, and electricity flew. It was brief, hesitant, and beautiful. John pulled away slowly, a stunned Sherlock was staring back at him. The silence was thick and heavy neither moved, and John had the sinking feeling he'd just blown the best relationship he'd ever had.
Just as he suddenly had it in his mind it was all over, he found his arms full of lanky detective pressing an enthusiastic if inexperienced kiss on him. "Whoa Sherlock," he pulled back wincing, "Easy." Sherlock backed off immediately looking almost chastised. John backtracked, "Hold on," he grabbed his arm pulling him close, "I just meant watch my ribs." He mumbled kissing his lips more firmly controlling the pace, slow, sensual. He felt the taller man buckle in the knees. He caught him setting him on the ledge of the tub as he forced open his mouth inviting his tongue to play.
Long slow moments went on and on, until need for air drove them apart. Gasping Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, the solider taking everything in. Swollen lips, looking even more kissable, and that pale, narrow face looking so young and venerable at that moment. "Is this what today's been about? Breakfast? The walk?" John asked softly, searching grey eyes. The lanky man swallowed thickly, "Yes…" he whispered. Sherlock's mind for once wasn't whirling, spinning out of control, a simple kiss from John had quitted that ceaseless turmoil. It was amazing. He was beginning to understand why some people became so enamoured with intimacy. Well not that he had any prior to experience, but he was eager to learn more. His dress pants where suddenly way to tight, and it seemed like a fantastic idea to take them off. Long fingers reached out touching the hard planes of muscle on the compact shoulder gently caressing the ever darkening bruise. Tracing taught abs, tangling in the mat of hair, before moving lower.
John was ready to die, those innocent hesitant touches where driving him mad, and he was ready to give Sherlock the ride of his life. Six months of unrequited affection threatened to spill out, to swamp him; before any of that though he had to confirm a suspicion, "Sherlock, are you…I mean to say…" He faulted, "Was that my first kiss?" Sherlock supplied looking helpful. "Yes, I never really understood people and emotions, and the need for physical contact but I am willing to learn more." John smiled sinking callused hands into soft curls, he leaned forward again kissing those lips once more. Things began heating up, the solider opening buttons on the shirt he had buttoned earlier. He fumbled one handed managing to open John's jeans, revealing his crimson boxer briefs.
Sherlock was a high thread count boxer man, but he was fast becoming a big fan of John's boxer briefs. The tighter the better. Things where heating up in the bathroom, hot and heavy. Pants where shed John was pulling Sherlock into his laps as they sat on the closed lid of the toilet. Surprised the curly headed younger man, wrapped his good arm around John feeling clothed erections grind together. He gasped shocked by the sudden spiral of pleasure that course through him. He moved his hips again testing. The feeling came again, stronger more intense. Beneath him John arched his hips, grinding again. Fisting his hand in that short hair he pulled him down kissing him again. Panting and moaning, feelings overriding any other thought the man who based himself in logic, was beyond comprehension.
John was lost in the younger man, his smell, his touch, acres of pale skin begging to be touched. He felt Sherlock shudder suddenly, "John!" he cried out, in passion and fear as his shorts grew suddenly wet. "Damit," John grunted gritting his teeth, for all his genius and knowledge that innocent response to his touch was his undoing. He pulled him close, ruining his own underwear.
They where silent then, almost lounging in the after glow, both trying to come to terms with what had just happened. "Sherlock," he began looking onto those intelligent eyes, he opened his mouth ready to pour his heart out. When the sudden blare of the consulting detective's phone stopped him, they looked at one another. John heaving a sigh smiled at him, "You need to get that yeah?" he gave him a quick kiss and he scrambled into the living room grabbing the phone. "Find him Lestrade?" Sherlock spoke briskly watching John, gingerly gathering his cloths. "Right we'll be there." Hanging up he looked to John, "There's another." The solider looked grim, "You insist on going…" Sherlock said nothing, they stood face to face, neither moving an inch, he knew too well that look. "Alright but let me change."
-#-#-#-
"Did we call in the cavalry?" Anderson yelled at them as they passed by, Captain John Watson took no heed. His head on a swivel the pair approached Lestrade standing warily over the corpse of another poor man. "You look ready for a fight John," the DI eyed him up and down, his statement truer then he knew. John was in full fatigues, including his flack jacket. His beret was perched neatly atop his head. "Not taking any chances this time," he said absently, as Sherlock began to move across the body. John was scanning out potential sniper points, attack points… darkness had set in and the new body was on the shore of the Thames further out then the others. "He'd getting sloppy in a hurry, this body is only half finished the embalming process." The detective stated matter-of-factly, Lestrade nodded consulting his notes. "We're checking into the local mortuaries see if anyone has been missing bodies, but so far all have been accounted for." The curly headed man frowned, his mind clicking into a higher gear. He was eager to be done with this case and be alone with John again, to kiss him again. Especially when he was looking so dashing, apparently Sherlock had a thing for a man in uniform.
"Really? You'd think they would notice a missing dead person…or at least the family would…" John said absently, boots poking at rocks wondering if the would be killer would plant more IED's. "You certainly have your moments John," Sherlock grinned at him, "True…" he mumbled squatting to look at something suspicious. Sherlock was already on the phone, fingers flying. Finished his inspection John came to stand beside Lestrade, falling into parade rest, his hands tucked into his bullet proof vest, a habit picked up in combat on cold nights. "He's in a good mood for someone trying to kill him," Lestrade commented, John snorted, "When is someone not trying to kill him."
"They where already buried," he crowed triumphant, he turned looking smug, "The other bodies where already buried, he took them en route to burial that's why no one is missing them." Sherlock began to pace moving away from the body, "This one though, only half completed. So someone is going to be missing him. Getting sloppy, escalating. The others where careful, meticulous…something has changed, the timeline sped up…" John who'd been listening to him as he was suddenly on high alert, senses honed in combat where screaming at him. Something was off, sharp blue eyes scanned left and right he was going to try again. But how? Some creative new method? Or was he going to go old school?
A red bead took aim on Sherlock then, a far too familiar sight for John's likening. Adrenaline flooded his system, it wasn't a conscious thought every fibre of his being screamed out to protect Sherlock. He was in front of him in an instant, the sharp ping of a ricochet followed by the thunk of it hitting him square in the chest. His breath left him in a whoosh, and something in his chest gave a sickening crack as he fell too the ground.
Utter chaos followed.
Sherlock was at his side, worried hands where on his chest checking, Lestrade was yelling to his men to find that shooter before someone else was hurt before kneeling beside John, "Are you ok?" Sherlock asked worried, Lestrade seemed to take exception yelling at the detective. "Of course he isn't you git he was just shot!" If John's chest hadn't been throbbing he would have laughed at the lunacy of all this. Run over and shot in one day. He groaned sitting up, before Sherlock could retort, "I'm fine, not the first time I've been shot, probably not the last…" he winced feeling the now mashed bullet in his vest. Lucky for him it wasn't a head shot, clearly the man was an amateur aiming for centre mass. He stood slowly, defiantly busted those abused ribs. "You're a masochist mate," Greg said sounding relieved to see the solider upright. He hadn't seen someone get shot in the chest like that up close, it had been unnerving.
"Right Lestrade, time for you to do what it is you do and go catch him." The Detective Inspector, frowned, "And just how do you suppose I go about that?" His phone dinged, "I sent you his computer IEP, trace it, and you have your man." He turned in a swirl of jacket, striding into the night, John following at a more sedate, painful pace.
-#-#-#-
"Just let me rest here a moment," John wheezed, gingerly settling on the couch. Sherlock had helped him strip to the waist, now a sporting another large ugly bruise from the bullet impact; he hurt everywhere. Taking shallow breaths, he watched amused as the man tried to administer to him still one handed. "Not really much you can do for busted ribs Shirly," he said softly, gently resting his hand on the man's leg. He was dead tired, all he wanted to do was sleep…and if Sherlock wanted to sleep with him, well that would be just dandy.
"We should wrap your chest Johnnie, see if we can stabilize it a bit." The solider grinned at the nickname, Sherlock was the only man on earth he would allow to call him that. Anyone else tried they would be picking up their teeth. "How long have you known who was trying to kill you?" John asked trying to distract him. Sherlock gave him a soft smile, as if he knew what his ploy was, humouring him anyway , "From the second body." He said nothing more, gently running long, cool fingers over John's battered chest.
"Alright I'll bite…do your thing," the younger man frowned, "It's not a 'thing' it's reason, deduction…" he stood moving to grab the laptop, "I came across this several months or so ago," he showed John the website, "Oh wow…" it was creepy photos of he and Sherlock, out walking, on crime scenes, newspaper clippings. Even experts from John's blogs, but it was all crazed ravings of a madman. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly and the other man shrugged, "No point really, some social inept loner, who fixated on me. Textbook stalker there was a good chance they would just move onto someone, or something else. Apparently it progressed, to the point where the fixation had to die."
John looked at him, "If you knew after the second body why go to the others after that?"
"I was curious how far he would push it…but I never wanted you to get hurt John." He looked at him pleading, "I forget sometimes that protective instinct of yours overrides everything else…" laughing softly he shut the laptop. "I guess we are a well matched pair then." He turned still smiling at the younger man, a hand gently taking the aristocratic fingers of his lover? Boyfriend? That episode in the bathroom seemed like some sort of pleasurable dream, brought on by his own hopeful fantasies. They sat like that for long moments, hand in hand, John wheezed quietly slowly as to not aggravate his broken ribs. The warmth of the room, and the man sitting beside him was making him drowsy. He closed his eyes, sighing, when lips pressed against his softly. He didn't open his eyes, if he opened them he would wake and Sherlock wouldn't be kissing him.
"You ok John," he whispered in his ear. Sherlock's mind had been spinning again, whirling and moving. When he looked at John though, looking battered and bruised, wounded from protecting, saving his life. Something that Sherlock had never really considered before. John was brave, trustworthy, and honest. Sherlock's had not really stood a chance. "Just fine, might have a little kip here…" He mumbled, sighing softly, he held tight to Sherlock's hand the other wrapped around his torso. Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, not wanting to move. He carefully cuddled close to him, listening to the steady breath of the other man, alive and warm beside him.
-#-#-#-
He wasn't sure what woke him, his instincts had him aware instantly, telling him not to move. Beside him Sherlock, head in his lap was awake as well. Someone else was in the flat. They where sloppy bugler, except he wasn't one, he was here for a purpose and John surmised it was to try and kill Sherlock... again. A glint of moonlight caught a knife clutched in his hand. That was it John was not getting stabbed as well.
He waited until the assailant was a foot away, coiling he sprung into action he was up off the couch like a shot. There was a grunt from the other man as John's fist connected solidly with his face. His still booted foot lashed out stomping his knee to dust. There was a cry that time, and a sudden blubbering. The knife skidded across the floor and John kicked it further, as Sherlock turned on the light. He was surprised, and little disappointed. The man weeping on the floor, holding a bleeding nose was a short, fat, and completely nondescript. John almost felt let down, after facing down Morarty "Sherlock, give Lestrade a call tell him we got the guy," he turned back to the man on the floor, "Stop your wingining, tried to kill me three times today." He mumbled grabbing Kleenex he knelt down stanching the blood flow. He had defiantly busted his nose, he felt a perverse little smile cross his face. He wanted to punch his spotty face again.
Sherlock settled nearby on the couch with a flourish, "Case solved…"
It wasn't long before Lestade, and the entire crew showed up, "Looks like he hit a brick wall." John snorted, "He ran into my first, then his knee ran into my boot." Sherlock gave his own little snort. Donavon walked by the solider for the third time, tossing him a wink before she disappeared out of the flat. Sherlock caught the motion looking from her, to the half naked John standing cross armed, at parade rest talking to Lestrade. She wasn't the only one sending looks at the well muscled, battered looking solider, others where. A wave of bitter jealously rolled through his belly. He wanted these people out now, and John completely to himself.
"Right, we got it from here, thanks guys we'll be in touch." They where gone then, silence filling the flat. "Well that turned into an eventful evening…" Sherlock mused hand moving to undo the buttons on his shirt. "Need a hand?" John asked softly moving forward to help, fingers deftly undoing the buttons. "I didn't like the way they looked at you." Sherlock burst out in anger. Blue eyes blinked in confusion, "Who?" he gestured over his shoulder, "Those, them…the yard." He was agitated, worked up. "Hey now, don't care what they're doing, just care about you," he eased the shirt over his sore shoulder, before moving to undo dress pants. There was that sudden tension again, Sherlock waiting for John to look up again pressing a kiss to slightly chapped lips.
He was a fast learner. He pulled the detective close, Sherlock winced as it jarred his healing shoulder. "Sorry," John mumbled as they kissed again. Hands wandering John having already stripped to his briefs felt long arms pull him close, only to have him gasp in pain this time. "Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, John laughed then pulling him close gingerly for a chaste kiss. "Think we'll be limited to PG Shirley," he whispered. "Spend the night with me?" Sherlock gripped his hand tightly, John smiled, a rare genuine smile that dimpled his cheeks, and made Sherlock's insides do flip flops. He followed him into the cluttered room, John had rarely been in here but the bed was large, and plush looking. Sherlock had his little peculiarities, and a ridiculously expensive sheets that where butter soft was one of them.
They settled then looking at each other on their sides, inches apart. It was someone how more intimate this moment. then anything John could think of. He laid a well worn hand on Sherlock's, watching the contrast between the two. The consulting detective entwined their fingers, also looking. John could hear the others heart thumping loudly, worried he was scared he gently kissed their joined hands. "We'll take it slow yeah?" He whispered pulling the lanky man closer, mindful of their injuries, they settled curled together. Drifting off in each others arms.