A/N: Thank you everyone, the reviews are amazing. I hope I got the viewpoint/time differentia alright. Please review and tell me if you think I did! Or if you have anything to say at all! Or anything really (: (Ninja edit. Just realised my breakers don't show up in this format. Changed.)
He tapped his fingers against his thigh as he waited, the strong aroma of coffee waking him a little as did the thrill of the forbidden. After all he was still under a prohibition. (He had crept from their bed that morning careful, quiet. He didn't wake the doctor thankfully and the idea of returning to what had been a favourite haunt of his to get a delicious cup of elixir had been too tempting to pass up.)
He had been sorely disappointed when he turned the corner to find that 'Georges' had shut down to be replaced by a Starbucks. Only deterring him for a brief second he still crossed the road and trotted into the shop, lining up behind busy men in suits who tutted and tapped their watches and looked to him, scoffing as though he was supposed to share their lack of patience. When he finally reached the front of the queue he tried to smile at the woman.
"One cup of coffee please."
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"
He floundered, what was her problem?
"One coffee?"
Thankfully the woman took pity on him and smirked, shaking her head and leaning a little over the counter. "That's an Americano then..."
"Uh...yes. Absolutely."
"What size?"
"Size?"
"Tall, grande or venti."
Sherlock frowned and she shook her head again laughing. The man behind him sighed and coughed to indicate his anger. Sherlock stepped back a little knocking him and the man shuffled back a bit glaring at him.
"Small medium or large sir."
"Medium..."
"Okay hang on." She made his drink and pushed it across the counter towards him. Sherlock picked it up and beamed at her turning to leave. "Uh sir!"
He turned back. "Yes?"
"You haven't paid..."
"Oh..." (His drinks at Georges had been free. He had forgotten that this wasn't the same place.) He turned back embarrassed and handed over a five pound note, hoping it was enough. After all he had no gage; John always bought everything for him. The woman smiled and gave him his change and he turned to leave, licking his lips in anticipation. The men in suits watched him with raised eyebrows but he ignored them, striding out into the bitterly cold air. Snow was beginning to fall and the detective pulled his coat tighter around himself, lifting the paper cup up to take a sip.
"You are not allowed coffee."
Sherlocks smile dropped and he stared stonily ahead, lowering the cup but continuing to walk without looking towards the voice. Mycroft's car simply sped up a little so the older man was able to keep staring out of the window at his younger brother.
"Get in the car."
The door flew open in front of him and Sherlock sighed sliding into the seat next to Mycroft. The cup was taken from his hands and disappeared up front, probably to be drunk by Mycroft's driver.
Bastard.
"There, good."
"What do you want Mycroft?"
"Well, the fact that the mob is after you is a concern of mine. Not to mention I have been informed that you haven't been sleeping. I can book you an appointment with a highly regarded psychiatrist..."
"I don't need a psychiatrist Mycroft. I am fine, John is fine. We are fine."
"Oh I know that..."
Mycroft smirked smugly and Sherlock sniffed. His brother was of course still under the impression Sherlock had no idea about the engagement, and he felt very superior about it too it seemed. Well he couldn't have that.
"I expect that you are referring to our engagement."
Mycroft's smirk slipped a little but he nodded his head and looked away from his brother, a more genuine (Shudder.) smile on his face this time. "Ah, so he has already asked you."
"No."
"Surely you didn't ask him?"
"No actually. I told him we are getting married."
Mycroft was silent for a second before laughing, an odd noise that gargled at the back of his throat. "You told him, how did Doctor Watson take that?"
"He wasn't happy. He told me he had derived some sort of plan and agreed to say no for the time being so he could ask me himself."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow making a soft noise in the back of his throat and Sherlock turned to look at his brother. That look was back in his eyes, marred by a hazy sort of surprise. "Oh, I see. "
Sherlock scowled. "This is all your fault really."
"It is?"
"Yes. Apparently it is your job as my elder brother to inform of correct protocol in these things. A task you have failed marvellously at."
"Well if you will excuse me I simply did not believe it would or indeed could happen. It would've been a lesson wasted."
(Well that was rather offensive. Bloody Mycroft, he had a point though.) "Yes well. Regardless, it is your fault."
"I suppose it is."
He was looking at him in that funny way again and Sherlock looked out of the window, glaring as the buildings scrolled past him. He hated talking about things like this with Mycroft (Well, with anybody but John really.) and he was still angry about losing his coffee. They pulled up outside Baker Street, it was still early and the snow on the pavement was still fresh, still pristine bar a single set of footsteps that led away from the door of 221. It took him a moment to remember that they were his and Sherlock sighed rubbing a hand over his forehead. He really needed to sleep.
"Here."
A card was thrust under his nose and Sherlock simply ignored it, sliding out of the car and onto the pavement, not looking back. He didn't need a bloody psychiatrist.
...
Creeping back into the bed proved more difficult than leaving it and he undressed in silence, trying to warm his hands before his cold touch could wake the doctor. It was for naught it seemed because as he carefully arranged himself around the doctors back a voice piped up.
"Where have you been?"
Sherlock sighed, perhaps he could distract him. The detective sat up on his elbow and John rolled over so he was laid on his back, blinking sleepily up at his lover. Sherlock smirked and bent down pressing a soft insistent kiss to John's lips; the doctor chuckled into his mouth but pulled back when he tried to deepen the kiss.
"I have morning breath and you are trying to distract me. What is it?"
Dammit. (Although it had been tactical, he really wanted to keep kissing John now, simply because he tasted amazing and the doctor's hand was on his chest. Who could blame him. Really.)
John licked his lips and frowned. "Did you get coffee?"
He looked a little angry and Sherlock rolled backwards, the doctor sitting up glaring down at him. "No I didn't. Mycroft stole it."
"Oh, good."
John seemed to have calmed down since the night before; hours spent pacing back and forth bemoaning that they couldn't stay safe for more than a day at a time. Eventually his continued movement had begun to give Sherlock a headache so he had all but tackled the man to the bed and demanded he stay there, baiting him with promises that he would sleep, could only sleep when John was there.
The doctor relented and had fallen asleep rather quickly, leaving Sherlock to spend the night counting heartbeats and ignoring the dry ache of his eyes, the pulsing in his skull and the tightness of his limbs. Back here in bed, the warmth of John's body and the added drag of his conversation with Mycroft had somehow lulled his mind into a stupor. Enough to allow his eyes to slide shut and he felt himself beginning to fall into the arms of Morpheus, a single thought in his head before he was gone.
Please, do not let me dream.
This one was different from the others. It appeared only as a mirage of images that flashed in front of his eyes, John on the table, Sherlock unable to reach him, Mrs. Hudson crying, faster and faster until something caught his eyes and his dream seemed to pause.
It was a memory, an image that had haunted him for mere minutes before now revolved around him again and again. That foot, dropping below the edge of the car door. A shoe, the bottom three inches of a suited leg and the thinnest strip of sock.
It terrified him, it resonated with him and yet he had no idea why. There was something almost damning about it, an omen of evil, of fatality. He was reminded of the Cŵn Annwn, the hell hounds of Welsh folklore whose howls were said to signify death. He sucked in a breath and he was suddenly awake, the images gone but not forgotten, hands clasped in the sweaty sheets that wound around his legs and suffocated his chest. He fought with them in his shock and panic, kicking the quilt clear off the bed. He shook his head and rolled sideways trying to calm the pounding of his heart to find he was alone.
John was gone.
He sighed reaching out to place a hand where the doctor had been, the sheets were cold. He had gotten up hours ago then. The detective scowled at the pillow, how dare he leave him like that. His head pounded and he took a breath, his throat tickling and lungs tightening. He wheezed and began a coughing fit. Blast. Rolling back towards the window he peered out at the falling snow and cursed it. He felt too hot, ice cold sweat dripping down his brow. With a shaky hand he pushed himself up to walk to the window, resting his fevered brow to the frozen glass. It was soothing and he stood like that until he felt a little better.
After a few minutes he peeled himself from this comfort to turn around and locate some clothes, finding his suits hung in John's wardrobe. (It still made him smile.) He considered changing into a dark grey trouser and black shirt combo, but his pyjamas clung to him like a second skin and he decided to leave it. After all he had no idea if when he went downstairs he would be spending the day holed up in the flat with Mycroft security details barging in and out because John called him. Better not to bother just yet, save raising his aching arms.
He turned away, wrapping his arms around himself to tread downstairs. Forcing himself to resist the urge to cough, John didn't need to know about some silly little cold. The doctor was not there when he arrived so he headed directly for his sofa, slumping back to let the cool leather seep into his clothes.
"What's wrong with you?"
John was stood in the doorway, bags in hand. Clearly just back from the supermarket. His hair was still dusted with snow, feet clumped with it and his chin was obscured by (Sherlocks.) a large scarf, hands wrapped in leather gloves. (Also Sherlocks.) He was frowning, trotting into the kitchen and putting the shopping away methodically, the sounds of cupboard doors and the slamming down of tins of food resonated with a weak pulse of pain every moment.
Sherlock cracked open an eye to watch him, a cold clammy hand pressed backwards against his forehead in an effort to dull the ache. "Did you buy more Vaseline?"
John snorted. "God knows what you want that for."
Sherlock sighed. Well, wasn't it obvious? "It is an extremely useful commodity John, after all it is a universal lubric-"
He was interrupted by a shocking warm hand against his cheek. "Yes yes alright. Enough about the bloody Vaseline." He opened his eyes to peer up at his lover, John was frowning but no other emotion was shown on his face. (How irritating.)
"Are you still not sleeping?"
Ah, a way out. He nodded; curls bouncing as he basically rubbed his cheek against the slightly rough palm of the doctor. "Hmmm, wait a minute..."
John suddenly dropped to his knees and leant forwards, pressing his ear up to Sherlock's chest. He pulled back and looked up sternly, his eye betraying him with a tone that if vocalised would no doubt be the voice.
"You are sick again aren't you?"
It wasn't a question. John groaned and put both his hands on Sherlock's knees, holding himself there for a moment, taking a deep breath, before getting to his feet. "Really, your immune system is terrible. Although, I guess it doesn't help that you refuse to eat so much as a sandwich every couple of days."
Sherlock had stopped listening, pressing his face into John's stomach instead, the doctor's hands sliding up the back of his neck to cling to the hairs on the crown of his head. He reached up blindly hands findings John's hip and he pulled him forwards, fingers sliding over the soft fabric of his sweater as the detective inhaled lemon scented heaven, oddly soothing to his rasping throat.
They stayed like that for a few minutes before John tugged on his hair with his hand so Sherlock would look at him and he pressed his lips together, staring down at his lover in contemplation for moment. The detective just blinked up at him, hands on John's hips, thumbs skimming just under his waistband, smoothing over the hot silky skin there. The doctor sighed and leant down pressing a soft kiss to Sherlocks lips, biting gently as he pulled away.
"I wish I could do something about these nightmares..."
"It is no concern of yours."
"Of course it bloody is. I know you have spent quite a while being an island Sherlock but you have to realise that if something hurts you then it hurts me too."
He just leant back a little into the hand still cradling his head trying not to show the ache in his limbs or the pain in his chest. He definitely didn't want to hurt John.
After a moment John removed his hand and ran it through his own hair, shaking his head and turning back to the kitchen. "Go for a shower, you look terrible."
Sherlock looked down at his hands, it didn't matter to him what he looked like. (In fact the only part of his appearance he cared at all for were his suits. But that wasn't vanity, it was practical. Only well tailored suits allowed him the full range of motion he required for his work. It was logical really.)
"And before you say I know you don't care but I'd rather you didn't go around looking like you've been dragged backwards through a hedge."
He opened his mouth to argue but John was still talking, not even breathing to allow his lover room to speak.
"Besides it might help you chest a little."
He just crossed his arms, if he wasn't going to be allowed to argue than he was just going to stay there. John couldn't force him to-
"Sherlock, shower."
The voice. He was up and out of the room in a moment.
...
When he returned downstairs (In the black shirt and grey suit combo. His shower had helped somewhat and he found it less agonizing than previously presumed to dress himself. Although, he was not going to tell John that.) the doctor was wearing his coat, shoes and was standing by the window staring out.
"Going somewhere?"
John turned to him and smiled crookedly. "Well, the mob is after us. Just thought that we should finish the case as soon as possible..."
"Now?"
His head ached and his legs were leaden but dammit if his heart rate didn't flutter at the prospect of some actual work. (Not to mention that crooked smile.)
"I thought you'd want to sort it out yourself, might make you feel better, after all how dangerous can finding this guy really be?"
Somehow this had something to do with the nightmares. It was obvious by John's expression and the forced casual smile he was giving him. (He decided not to mention the 'how dangerous' comment at all. John really didn't need to know that.)
"Okay."
...
John was watching him carefully, that was obvious but Sherlock didn't mention it. The doctor was clearly planning something and as much as he really (Really.) wanted to know what it was he got the sense that it was best not to ask. He reached out a hand and the doctor on instinct put his mobile in it with a quick smile which Sherlock returned. It was nice and Sherlock grinned when he caught the cabbie's eyebrows raising in the rear view mirror, surprised at the lack of vocal communication no doubt.
He flicked through his phonebook and pressed call holding the phone up to his ear. "Irene."
"Sherlock? Oh wonderful, you have found him then?"
"I have no intention of turning him over to you or your employers."
She sighed and he could hear the disappointment in her voice. "Sherlock, they are dangerous people and I-"
The sound of a car door, a spoon falling into a coffee house mug. A impressed intake of breath.
"Ah I see commander Becker has arrived. You are welcome."
He hung up just as the smooth tones of the commander echoed through along with her flirty giggle. "Ms Adler? This way."
Sherlock smirked at his phone and sent a quick text.
"You are telling Lestrade where he is?"
"I am telling him where to meet us. Can't have him turning up with a platoon of police officers can we."
"Uh...why not?"
"The building site may be closed but that doesn't mean nobody is home John."
"Right, but wouldn't that mean we can just have them arrested there and then?"
He turned and quirked an eyebrow at his lover, watching the dawning realisation on his face. (John should've known better really.)
"You aren't seriously considering taking down the entire mob by yourself Sherlock that is mad!"
He just shrugged and turned away, a strong hand on his arm whipped him back around and his eyes met the furious gaze of his lover. Oh dear.
"No. You aren't doing this. We are just going to pick up Nico and that is it. You understand me? That is it."
Well that was no fun. "Relax, Noah won't be there right now any way and if the man the mob is so desperately searching for can mange not to be found then I'm pretty sure we can mange it."
John didn't take his hand off his arm he just squeezed it gently and closed his eyes, turning his face away a little, a long breath out of his nose before he spoke again. "Fine! Fine. But god help me if something happens to either of us I will-"He stopped taking his hand off Sherlock's arm and raising both palms up, shaking his head.
Sherlock understood. "Okay."
A stout nod and the doctor turned his face back to his own window to stare out at the passing streets, too bright white light reflecting from the snow making the air here seem colder than it was and a cough rattled in Sherlock's chest. He tried to keep it quiet but failed when he couldn't stop his throat from seizing up and he leant forwards, stomach muscle, chest, lungs aching as he gasped for breath coughing so hard that he gagged. John was leant over him after a minute rubbing soothing circles in his back and removing his (Sherlock's.) scarf to wrap it around the detective's neck, a tiny frown on his face.
...
He had the cabbie drop them off at the visitor's entrance to the national trust park. There was only one other car here, a woman who owned three dogs, a Doberman and two Jack Russell's. Sherlock leant towards the window of the beat up land rover and sniffed, his reflection in the window was flushed, he looked trussed up and snow was falling in his hair and on his shoulders, clinging to his coat, making him look like a character form some sort of stupid Christmas card.
John appeared behind him and looked in frowning and then up at his lover. "What are you looking at?"
Johns reflection was (Massively.) more attractive. His cheeks were flushed as well but in a way that highlighted the warmth of his eyes, hair slightly damp from melted snow and swept to the side, scarf less neck smooth and although his coat was buttoned to the top Sherlock could still see the slight dent in his skin of the point where his collarbones met. (It was insanely attractive and yet he couldn't tell precisely what about it was so enticing.)
"Nothing." Best not to jump on the doctor when he was about to walk into the lion's den as it were.
They trudged in the direction of the building site, the only sound the soft flutter of snow as it swirled and floated down through the gaps in the leaves above them, the path was pristine and their shoes crunched slightly on the thin crust of ice on top of the new snow. John smiled and reached out grabbing Sherlock's hand. He had a funny sort of look in his eyes and sighed into the bitterly cold air, plumes floating up to mingle in the flurry.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"John..."
"It's just nice to do something normal couples do."
Sherlock thought about it. He had no idea what normal couples did differently. "What do you mean?"
John just laughed and shook his head but didn't answer him. That left Sherlock to think about it as they walked the mile or so to the edge of the national trust property. His mind had supplied him a list of the things he knew they definitely did but it seemed to have gotten stuck on 'kissing' and the more he tried not to think about it (After all, they were about to walk into the proverbial lion's den. God damn that lion's den.) the worse it got until John stopped smiling and was looking at him oddly, tugging on his hand and calling his name.
Sherlock hadn't noticed he had been mumbling to himself in an effort to stop what was now inevitable. He turned and pushed forwards until John's back bumped into a large tree trunk on the path behind them and he carried on pressing forwards until his entire length was up against him fully. He put his hands on John's biceps and gripped tightly as he pushed his way into his mouth, hot lips against his own and John let out a surprised grunt into his mouth which only encouraged him. The doctor kissed him back for a brief moment before Sherlock was suddenly (But not unexpectedly.) gripped by the waist and spun around so he was the one being pushed up against, he was the one who was a victim of the relentless onslaught of teeth and tongue and lips and John's tea stained breath, only pulling back after Sherlock began to feel dizzy from lack of air.
His attacker smiled that crooked smile again and leant his head against the detective's shoulder. "What the hell was that?"
"I was thinking about what normal couples do..."
John just laughed breathlessly and pecked him on the lips again making an answering smile grace his own features. Sherlock sniffed and then widen his eyes, horrified. "John... if I am sick isn't it rather irresponsible to be kissing me like that."
"I wasn't the one who started it and no, I have something called an immune system so I tend not to get sick so damn easily. Not to mention if I was going to catch this particular strain I already would have."
"So ethically it is perfectly okay for me to kiss you."
"Ethically yes."
"Good to know."
...
They circled round the edge of the building site; John had let go of his hands and was crouched on his heels, peering around the small clump of trees. Sherlock was stood a few feet behind him, a thin pine hiding him from sight.
"Okay, so where is this guy then?"
His voice was barely a whisper and Sherlock fought to hear it over the now heavily falling snow. Sherlock peered out and smirked, a fresh trial of footsteps lead from the entry point of the site to what looked like a disused storage shed on the far side of the property.
"This way."
He leant down and crept slowly across the site, dodging behind piles of bricks and heavy machinery, coated in the snow that blanketed everything in a bright shining white, the sky was grey and it almost seemed like night time with the shining ground and dark sky, fierce winds buffeting the men.
They reached the low lying offices across a path from the shed and John made for it. Sherlock gripped him by the shoulder and shook his head, indicating to a pattern of large circular prints that led off into the bushes to their left.
"What? Sherlock the footsteps go that way, why are you dragging me over here... oh."
Sherlock had pulled his lover around the corner and towards a large shipping container almost completely hidden by the bushes. "You are telling me he is in there?" A hoarse whisper too close to his ear that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he fought not to think about the kiss in the forest.
"He planted those footprints, then used something large and circular to increase the surface area of his feet to make as little impression in the snow as possible. He had to hide his true hiding place if they suspected him of hiding here."
John raised both eyebrows and looked from the detective to the container. He looked impressed, Sherlock smirked. (Damn right too.)
The doctor crept forwards ad smiled gesturing for Sherlock to follow, he pulled the door open a little and frowned. The container was empty. Sherlock smirked glancing around and walked past John to the back wall, pushing lightly against a slightly dented area, it creaked and collapsed, the damp damaged walls had been hiding this hole, merely appearing to be a rusted stain rather than a different metal piece altogether.
John gasped and Sherlock crouched down, creeping through into an area that was vaguely reminiscent of the underground homeless communities. A green plastic tarp was tied as a makeshift roof sparing the floor from more snow; in fact the floor was covered with more tarp and held down by empty crates on which were piles of packets of crisps, a large selection of tins and a triplet of Dixie pans. These crates were everywhere, a small five foot square area surrounded by these makeshift shelves and a small trail leading back into the den, Sherlock followed this as John gasped behind him, only just entering the dimly lit shelter.
Ducking his head under a second lower tarp-roof he carried onwards finding large jugs of water, as if taken from a office water dispenser, stored haphazardly in a corner, a bed made of what appeared to be several of the soft foam mats like those used by woman in that program Mrs. Hudson watched (She said it was called yoga or something.) topped with a expensive looking sleeping bag, various torches, knives and bags littered the space around the bed along with a small number of books and a crumbling notebook, tiny mousey handwriting visible on the cover and on the exposed pages that hung limply out of line of the others.
A small area of to the side of this sleeping space had large stones grouped around blackened earth, paper plates littering the ground nearby and the faint aroma of baked beans indicating he hadn't long been here.
Suddenly there was a crashing sound and John yelped. Sherlock span around to see a man about Johns height, brown eyes and a side-parting, knife held to the doctors throat, panic in his eyes.
"Who are you!" He spoke with the tone of a man whose friends would describe him as embarrassingly nice. His eyes flittered around his makeshift home as if checking to see if they had stolen from his humble shelter and Sherlock lifted his hands just like John would. (The doctor must have had a reason to use it so often; it must have worked on other people.)
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"What...what do you want!"
He took a step towards them and Nico tugged on John's arms, the doctors eyes focussed entirely on Sherlock, complete trust in his eyes. (Which made his heart flutter with something a little more than adrenaline.)
"We are here to help you."
Nico narrowed is eyes and gripped John a little tighter, twisting the knife handle in his hands, sweaty palms making it slip a little before he deftly caught it again, a scratch rising pink on Johns neck.
Suddenly the detective's great mind decided now was a time to focus on Johns face intently, the quiet complacency of his eyes, the thin tight line of his mouth that betrayed him as being in the very least uncomfortable and he wondered how he felt. What it was to be in that position. He imagined himself with the cold metal slice of the knife against his throat, all too aware as a doctor of the vital fluid that flowed just beneath that pale skin, the scratch of Nico's jumper on his collarbone; exposed by the ridiculous grasp the now bug eyed man had on him. He wondered if John felt fear, if he felt panic, but his expression was as unreadable as ever and Sherlock could only derive what was fact.
The doctor trusted him to get him out of this tenuous pull.
"Look, here. I have detective inspector Lestrade on speed dial."
Sherlock flipped his phone from (Thankfully, for once.) his own pocket and handed it slowly over to the pink faced man. Nico fumbled with the buttons but scrolled down his contacts and found Lestrade blinking at the name for a moment before thrusting the phone back.
"How do I know it is him?"
"He will be arriving here at the building site in no less than ten minutes. My colleague and I will walk you safely out to him."
"Yes but how do I know."
"You are just going to have to trust him."
John had piped up, he sounded odd. His voice had a soothing quality that seemed to calm his attacker somewhat and it left Sherlock pondering whether his lover was in fact some sort of hypnotist. Nico paused and his worried eyes fell on Sherlock again, sizing him up.
"How can I?"
"I do."
"Yes but you are his cohort..."
"And I trust him enough to let him be the one to decide how I am going to survive this. I trust him."
"How is he the one who is going to decide? I am the one who is going to decide!"
His voice was becoming frantic and Sherlock put his hands behind his back, taking a step towards the bed-pile and away from his lover and the panicked man. "Yes you are. But John is trusting me to find a way to make you make the right decision."
"The right decision?"
"You are just a simple man after all, a simple man with simple pleasures who happened across something he hadn't expected and frankly wasn't ready for."
"Yes...yes. I didn't ask for this!"
"And when the time came you went to extraordinary extremes to protect yourself, to not give in to their demands. To go above and beyond that what lesser men would do."
Nico nodded his head and his hand dropped a little. It was working perfectly.
"And you laid traps and planted evidence and you did all that. You did. I mean I was amazed by the detail you put into it, the thought-"
John had again piped up but this time his voice was admiring, impressed and Sherlock began to frown. It sounded a little too believable. Nico dropped his hand entirely; his arm still wrapped around Johns shoulders, holding him to his chest. But now it was less threatening and more...familiar.
"You were?"
"Oh yes. I mean when we got to your house the detectives were completely fooled by the clothes in the closet and everything."
(Sherlock opened his mouth to argue that John was confused by that too and that is was Sherlock who had worked it out but was stopped by the electric jolt of jealousy when John smiled at Nico, his words dying in his throat.)
"Really? I was just running on adrenaline, I didn't even really think about it that much..."
"And coming here? Right into their territory? So brave."
Nico smiled back and blushed a little. He licked his lips, eyes flickering down to John's lips and Sherlock stamped forwards grabbing his lover by the arm and pulling him roughly from the other mans grasp. (He was the only one allowed to look at John's lips. The sooner he got that ring on John's finger the better.)
John looked up at him in shock and then rolled his eyes at the expression on his face. Nico yelped and toppled backwards in shock, crumpling over one of his makeshift shelves. John pulled his arm from Sherlocks vice like grip and bent down over the other man, gently patting him down and the detective could feel his cheeks heating up but memory of the stern glance he had received as the doctor stepped away from him stopped the blushing man from reaching out to grab him again. (It had hurt but he was too proud to let it show. After all he knew he was jealous and he knew it wasn't rational because the doctor was endlessly loyal but to see John's hands on someone else made him angry. Very angry.)
John helped Nico to his feet, softly questioning him to see if he had hit his head or landed on his elbows or something else irrelevant. Sherlock turned away because he didn't want to watch that and was struck by a wave if dizziness that made him stumble a little. He managed to play it off though and elegantly flopped onto the makeshift bed, pulling out his phone to instruct Lestrade where to find them, ignoring the odd looks he was receiving from the other men in the shelter.
His chest still hurt and he pretended to scroll through texts on his phone as he calculated the various aches and pains that forced him to grit his teeth (After all he refused to negate his usual flamboyant movements simply because he hadn't slept properly for a while or he had a fucking cold. His body would not get the best of him. He wouldn't let it.)
After a moment John started a quiet conversation with Nico and Sherlock just tuned them out. He was still feeling a bit dizzy and was trying to take quiet deep breaths so John wouldn't notice.
"Why are you puffing like a bloody suffocating fish?"
Ah Lestrade. A man of such verbosity. Sherlock glared up at the inspector and sat forwards on the bed, not saying anything just making sure to purse his lips in the way he knew irritated the officer. Lestrade rolled his eyes and turned back to what must have been a previous conversation.
"Right, so you are all coming with me then. I will send the boys around to pick up what is left of your things here and Donovan can coordinate the raid thanks to your information."
Gustav was nodding and smiling with a dazed expression on his face, eyes flickering between the inspector and the doctor. John's hands were on his arm and the doctor was grinning, encouraging little blinks and nods only exasperating Sherlocks headache. The detective scowled and Lestrade glanced between the other men raising his eyebrows at the doctor who just continued to look at him without a reaction.
After an (What he supposed was.) awkward moment the detective gestured for Nico and John to lead out, which they did.
Together.
...
Sherlock made a point of not even looking when he followed, not glancing John's way when he slipped into the backseat with Nico leaving him to sit up front with Lestrade, alone. Not even when John said his name and Lestrade looked across to him, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. He was angry, jealous and wasn't quite sure how to react. So he decided not to react at all.
Sherlock had been listening to his conversation but had also been staring out of the window at the now near empty streets, a stark contrast to the other cars, buses, bikes and vans that surrounded them wherever they went, beeping horns and moving at a snails pace on the frozen roads. He was sweating again, his pale reflection in the window made the dark bags under his eyes even more prominent and he grumbled under his breath, watching himself crouch in his seat. He knew Lestrade was still staring at him and was probably speaking but his eyes had caught on something several cars ahead of them and he blinked.
Oh.
He deftly unclasped his seatbelt and twisted forwards to peer down the road, making sure he hadn't merely imagined what he had seen. But no, he was sure.
Sherlock reached out and pushed his door open, leaping out into the bitterly cold air, his legs wavering only for a moment on the slippery roads and his spell of dizziness before he was off, sprinting down the road. When he reached the black limo, five cars ahead, he skidded to a halt just outside the back doors and looked up to see (Brilliantly.) John panting heavily and staring at him over the roof with an expression that perfectly conveyed his annoyance, confusion and surprise without detracting from his patient sigh and the almost bored roll of his eyes.
"Well?"
Sherlock beamed and ducked own yanking the door open to slide into the car, expensive leather seats soft as he planted himself next to the surprised occupant. John appeared a second later, his gun taken from his waistband as he glanced inside and joined them on the seat, the browning now held to the occupants head.
"Gentlemen."
Sherlock looked at him, really looked, and sighed. (He was disappointed in himself really he should've known.) The man was of indeterminate age, probably something around 40 but could be 10 years either way, brown hair that stuck straight up and that odd smile that didn't leave his face, a face framed by enormous horn rimmed glasses.
"Oh."
It seemed that this man remembered them just as John realised who he was and began to lower his gun that is until Sherlock coughed indicating that would be a bad idea.
"Noah."
Noah turned to face him and that unmovable smile reached his eyes, only slightly. Clearly they had not met some lackey that day on the building site, no; they had been in the presence of the boss. The big cheese. The man feared by seemingly every one and who was now staring at him like he was some sort of gun wielding maniac.(That was John actually. Expect for the maniac bit...collectively perhaps Noah was right.)
"Not interested in the architecture then."
"No. Much less the architecture than the architect."
"You have found him?"
"That is irrelevant right now."
John nodded, frowning and butted in instead. "We know you have put some sort of hit out on us."
"A hit?"
"Yes, and to be honest you should hire some new people because they have obviously failed quite badly seeing as we are both still here so-"
Something wasn't right. "John."
"You should just give up now because-"
Something really really wasn't right because Noah's smile didn't falter but his eyebrows lowered by a fraction and his hands jerked on his knees. "John!"
The doctor stopped talking (Finally.) and Noah raised his eyebrows at the angry glares they shared. "He didn't put a hit out on us."
"He didn't." It was more a statement than a question. John put the gun down and Noah placed his hands in front of himself tilting his head at the detective.
"I did no such thing. I don't know who you gentlemen are but if you are interested in procuring some sort of protection-"
"We don't need protection. Not from you at least."
John seemed irritated, but he couldn't have been nearly as angry as Sherlock who had turned away from the other men to stare down at his hands. He had gotten it wrong. It wasn't the mob at all.
There was still somebody trying to kill them.
Bugger.
Suddenly the door to Sherlock's side was thrust open and Lestrade's annoyed face appeared much too close to Sherlock's, eyes widening and his mouth actually dropped open. (He looked positively idiotic.)
"Ah, you must be the inimitable inspector Lestrade."
He wasn't at a loss for long and the detective snapped his jaw shut, nodding and frowning in Noah's direction. "I am. This way then."
He took a step back and flung a arm out, chin to chest, to let Sherlock scoot out, standing to find three fluorescent jacketed police officers picking their way through the cars, clearly only just called by the DI to arrest Noah.
The mob boss stood up behind him and turned to Lestrade. "Okay. Oh, are these for me? Excellent. Am I walking or..."
"Luckily the station is just around the corner. Not too far."
"Good. Thank you inspector."
Lestrade nodded and Noah wandered off towards the surprised faces of the three officers, waving a hand and smiling (Or not.) at them.
"When exactly were you going to mention that to me?"
"It wasn't definite until I actually got into the car with him."
"That doesn't mean you can just go storming off after-"
He didn't get to hear the rest of the rant because the world went black and he was on the floor, cold seeping through the fabric of his trousers. It took a moment but John appeared from the limo and crouched over him looking deeply into his eyes and frowning as Lestrade bent over them both.
"Sherlock?"
"John."
Well, at least he had his undivided attention again. The doctor reached out and lifted his eyelids with his thumb, shining a torch (Which he appeared to have pulled from nowhere.)into his eyes, his other hand resting on the detectives collarbone and skimming up and down his ribs. He did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time checking people for injuries, all part of his job of course.
"No injuries?"
"No."
"Right, well better get you up then."
Strong hands around his arms and he was lifted to his feet, the doctor dusting him down and tilting his head with a frown, fingers digging through his damp hair. "No bumps, do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Confused at all?"
Sherlock wasn't listening anymore, Johns hands were moving in slight circles and Sherlocks eyelids were sliding closed and John sighed somewhere in front of him.
"Is he okay?"
"I think so...like I said, he hasn't been sleeping..."
"You should probably take him back to Baker Street."
"Yeah, are you going to be alright-"
"Despite what your worse half thinks I am competent enough to deal with this."
He could almost hear John's smile, taking a tiny step forwards to lean his chest against his shorter lover's shoulder, the doctors hand sliding from his skull to basically loop around Sherlock's waist. He inhaled deeply, the cold air mixing with a hint of the doctor shampoo and he opened his eyes again to se Lestrade giving him an almost concerned look.
"You sure he is okay?"
"Yes. Don't worry."
"I'm not worried."
John snorted and Sherlock frowned. Did Lestrade worry about him? He was straying dangerously into actual father status now but before he could comment on this frankly bizarre display John had begun to walk forwards, pushing Sherlock away from the limo door and to the side of the street, police seemingly everywhere giving them confused glances as he was propelled backwards.
He felt shaky and more tired than he had in hours. His limbs were completely leaden, vision swimming ahead of him as a cough rattled in his chest and John's smile had faded almost instantly, arms under the detective's armpit as he rushed them back to Baker Street.
...
He wasn't sure how they got there, or how he managed to get upstairs and onto the sofa but John was bustling around the kitchen, talking quality on the phone and Sherlock was lying strewn on his back a hideous hand knitted grey blanket thrown over him and he was so very very tired.
But he couldn't sleep. It just simply didn't happen. He listened to the quiet noises of John's bare feet against the floor, his whispered conversation. The smell of that lemon-scented antibacterial spray his lover seemed to covet and the soft flutter of snow only served to torment him. His eyelids were closed but he didn't sleep he just lay there and let his chest rattle weakly, his stomach felt empty and for a moment he considered asking John to make him a sandwich. (John would surely have a heart attack.)
But he didn't and Sherlock spent the time thinking about who could be trying to kill them and getting only one answer. He sniffed, his nose running on the blanket as he curled his toes into the soft fabric. John pattered up to him some time later, pressing a kiss to his forehead and sighing.
"Bed time."
Sherlock bobbed his head a little to indicate he would be coming too and John pattered away leaving him alone in the slightly too cold flat.
He watched the light fade outside the window and moved around his limited space, wrapping the blankets around his shoulder as he rested his bare feet on the ice cold floorboards, trying to cough into his hand so John wouldn't hear.
He didn't like the tiny frown John always got when he was worried about Sherlock. It made his chest hurt and his chest already hurt and he couldn't sleep. (Not to mention it made him uncomfortable because he didn't what to do to make it stop.)
He groaned rubbing the balls of his hands against his eyes, pressing until little white stars lined with blue and red exploded behind his vision and for a moment he thought he could only dream of those stars. He wasn't sure how long he had been but there was a thumping on the stairs and John appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a (Rather too large. Possibly Sherlock's.) green sweater and blue pyjama pants, hands on hips, chin jutted out. He licked his lips and fixed Sherlock with a disapproving glare.
"You didn't come to bed."
"You didn't go to sleep."
Well, if they were going to be pointing out the obvious.
"You didn't come to bed."
"But you didn't go to sleep."
"Stop trying to distract me. Why are you still down here?"
"I was only going to be a minute!"
John didn't say anything he just stared, and stared...and stared. In fact for a full five minutes he did nothing at all, he just kept that steady disapproving gaze on the detective until he felt he was going insane and he leapt from the sofa to pace back and forth, hands clasped behind his back.
"It's these blasted nightmares!"
His voice was too loud in the tiny space (and oddly, dare he say it, emotional.)and John seemed much too calm as he turned and sat primly on the sofa, posture indicating Sherlock was supposed to join him and after another minutes furious pacing he did. Their thighs brushed and John reached out a hand to put it on Sherlock's knee. It was oddly comforting, helping only a little with the squirming uncomfortable thing in his chest which stopped him from sleeping and made him panic when John wasn't there and haunted his every waking hour until he was sure he was mad with it.
"Well, good thing I booked you that appointment then."
What.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about a therapist."