A/N: Oh wow guys. Thank you so much for the reviews (: This is another big one so please tell me what you think of it, or of me or what you had for dinner yesterday, anything really.
Her eyes had been on him since they entered the poky waiting room. Hideous orange walls and beech wood panelling that creaked along with the ancient floorboards as John side stepped his way in, placing himself in a old batter leather armchair opposite the one other occupant. A woman around forty wearing too tight clothing and a stuffy expression. She was rich, disapproving and clearly not in desperate need of help.
Her eyes didn't leave him as he placed himself in the seat next to John, keeping his eyes on her although in a less conspicuous way. She was judging him that much was obvious. It was what she was judging, if it was his general appearance (Untidy, pale skinned and wheezing.) or that he had come with John that he wasn't sure of. Sherlock sniffed; after all if he was going to be forced to sit here then he might as well make a game of it.
He sighed reaching out to drag his fingertips over John's palm, fingers sliding up to interlink with his lovers. John raised an eyebrow but didn't look up from his magazine. The woman shook her head and shuffled herself around to face away from them a little. Sherlock smirked. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the soft skin on the back of his lover's hand. The doctor looked up from his paper and Sherlock made sure to give his best 'I'm trying to be brave but I am not looking forward to this' smile.
It worked and John pursed his lips, eyebrows coming together a little, genuine concern (Which made him feel what almost could have been guilt. Odd.) as he squeezed the detectives hand. He didn't speak; he just licked his lips and waited for Sherlock to squeeze back before looking away.
The detective forgot what he had been doing for a second in the wake of his lovers gaze, but the outraged muttering of the woman turned him back and he grinned salaciously. It only widened when as he lowered their hands John slid his from his grasp and moved it around so his hand was on top of Sherlocks, fingers interlinking to squeeze the fleshier parts of his palm, thumb anchoring his rough palm to Sherlocks hand. Dominant of course. A ripple of the doctors fingers sent unexpected waves of at first pain and then...pleasure, tingling up his arm and he coughed in surprise, wheezing at the unexpected sensation.
John chuckled smugly and he grinned in response, licking his lips and making sure to drag his eyes slowly over John's chest and legs in those jeans, flexing his fingers and twitching an eyebrow at the doctor. (He was also wearing the red sweater, plaid shirt collar poking through the top. Now he thought about it, the doctor looked obscenely good.) This prompted the woman opposite to let out an outraged cry and she got to her feet stamping from the room.
John raised his eyebrows looking to Sherlock, he was still smiling although a little pink as though he had forgotten there were other people in the room. "What was her problem?"
He simply shrugged and the doctor's eyes narrowed. He leant towards him scrutinising his face for a moment before sighing and letting go of his hand.
"I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?"
He opened his mouth to argue when a tall thin man appeared in the doorway, eyes on a clipboard in front of him.
"Mrs. Buhampton?"
He looked up and frowned, glancing back down to his list. "Oh, I suppose she forgot to cancel. Alright no problem, Mr. Holmes then."
He looked up and right into Sherlocks eyes. The detective scowled.
Therapists.
His school had sent him to sit with an overbearingly nice, polite female therapist for two weeks. He didn't say a word up until the last day, a vastly important experiment was waiting for him in his dorm and Sherlock couldn't bear the hour spent in her company so he slowly began picking apart her life from her recent divorce to her alcoholism finishing by asking her if she was really qualified to judge him.
It had gotten him back to his experiment but led to a large donation by Mummy to the school and several different 'councillors' and doctors wanting to talk to him. All leading up to the infamous Dr. Gildenhouse. Sherlocks scowl deepened. Oh yes, Gildenhouse, how could he ever forget.
John smiled pleasantly and got to his feet, tugging his lover up with him and following the doctor back into the room.
It was modern, glass desk and cream leather chairs, floating bookshelves, a fake palm tree. It seemed odd for this doctor to work from this office and he looked up smiling politely at them.
"Ah you must be Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock ignored their polite conversation to peer at the other doctor more closely. He was as tall as Sherlock certainly, slightly fluffy blonde hair that stuck up oddly in places as if he spent much of time running his fingers through it, blue eyes, slightly weak chin. Eyebrow drawn together, wrinkle lines on his forehead and around his eyes, an expressive man then, often confused, angry and joyous. His accent was posh, posture resoundingly straight and chest puffed out slightly. Military then and Sherlock squinted imagining him into uniform.
Yes definitely.
He seemed almost forcefully polite, smiling wide in a way that must have been comforting to other people because John was grinning too and they both turned to look at him. Sherlock didn't say anything so John frowned and sat down across the desk from the doctor. A name tag on his desk.
'Phillips.'
It didn't seem right and he stopped staring to listen for a moment.
"-and of course I haven't had a chance to redecorate. Doctor Phillips left rather unexpectedly."
"Who are you?"
This made the man blink in shock but he put the clipboard down and looked at him smiling politely. "I suppose you haven't been listening. I am doctor Barrows. It is nice to meet you Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock nodded his head. Ah, so he was new. Untested, here at least.
"You are an army doctor."
"We are not here to talk about me Sherlock."
Ah, just took the use of his first name. Didn't ask. Shows he is forceful but not overly so, in charge but not bossy.
"Well, I am certainly not here to talk about me."
The doctor smiled and turned back to John who was glaring at the detective. "Thank you, I think I can take it from here."
Sherlock frowned. He had been under the impression that John was going to be staying with him, that he would have his lover to bounce off. The doctor got to his feet smiling, shaking Dr. Barrow's hand with a stout nod before turning to frown down at his lover.
"Behave Sherlock. This could actually help you."
He rolled his eyes but didn't resist when John bent down to press his lips against his forehead and then to his lips for a moment before pulling away and giving him a glance over. Something about Sherlocks crouched, defensive stance seemed to satisfy him and he was gone in a puff of lightly lemon scented air.
That left him alone with Barrows. The psychiatrist peered at him over the top of his clipboard (It appeared to be adhered to his hand. Perhaps a coping technique? Something to remind himself that he is in charge?) and sniffed. Sherlock made a point of not looking at him directly, sternly reading the tiles of the books on the shelves, the quiet breathing of the other man and the dripping of the loose washer in his adjoining bathroom the only sounds as time dragged on.
"Well, if you're not going to start... John tells me you are having trouble sleeping."
He whipped his head back around and glared at the man. "John? You knew him before now then."
"We met, briefly."
Wait...surely he wasn't insinuating what he thought he was...
"He was on a carrier jet with me. We had a rather interesting conversation on the psych of the soldier."
Oh. Of course, John had said he had kept his bisexuality secret until he met Sherlock. No need to get the sudden desire to strangle this man. No need at all.
"You get jealous a lot don't you."
The detective blinked. What was he talking about? How had he noticed that...
"I can tell by your eyes that you don't trust me Sherlock but that is not why we are here. You don't have to trust me to confide in me."
"I thought that was the whole point."
"Not necessarily. How can you truly trust a stranger on a ledge? You can still tell them why you are there and perhaps they can help you, but perhaps...perhaps they will just push you off."
"You are saying I am on a ledge."
"No. I am saying you look terrible, your partner is worried about you and that these nightmares are affecting your life in a very negative sense."
"What has John told you?"
"Only that he is concerned for your health and that you have nightmares that stop you from sleeping. It is your decision if we talk about what these nightmares involve or other concerns in your life."
"I don't want to talk about anything. I want to go home."
"Well that is not going to happen. Why don't you tell me when these nightmares started?"
He didn't reply. He had already said too much.
"Well if you don't want to talk about the nightmares why don't we start with your jealousy?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes but still didn't speak. He had caught him out once, it wasn't happening again. The other man barely paused for a response simply raising an eyebrow and reaching into the desk in front of himself.
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
Again. He did nothing. The doctor smiled and pulled out a pipe, taking his time filling the base and taking long inhales. His face was beginning to become obscured by the smoke before he waved a hand (In a practiced manner. Interesting.) to clear it, giving Sherlock a calculated look.
"Judging by your general demeanour I assume you haven't been in many relationships?"
Sherlock snorted, he clearly didn't mind making rash assumptions about people. (It was oddly appealing. But then he did remind the detective of himself. But only a little.) The doctor relaxed into his chair, puffing his pipe for moment.
"So you are bound to be unsure in a new relationship, perhaps you are frightened that your inexperience will cause John to wander? Perhaps your jealousy stems from insecurity..."
Sherlock stamped his feet on the floor, hands on knees. "I am not insecure!"
"Really? So you are completely confident about your relationship?"
"Yes. John loves me."
"Good. Then perhaps the jealousy is stemming from somewhere else?"
"Oh really? Like what?"
"A lonely childhood can lead some to cling closely to those who accept them later in life."
Did he know about Jeremy? How was that possible! Witchcraft. He narrowed his eyes. "I haven't had nightmares since I was a boy."
He was not going to talk about Jeremy, no matter what this man said. The doctor gave him a wide toothy grin and puffed on his pipe a little. "But this recent bout, they started soon after you returned from a traumatic experience?"
"It wasn't traumatic. I am fine."
"I am sure you are, but perhaps subconsciously the experience did affect you in some way and added to the stress of that is all the worry and responsibility that comes with a new relationship."
What did he mean? His dreams... they did almost always have John in them. But then there was another recurring theme...
"I dream that I... I don't know the answer."
The doctor made a noncommittal noise but his hand was flying across the paper in front of him. Sherlock looked away, his stomach lurched and he felt bile in his throat. What could he discover from those few words? What was making him frown like that? (He felt glad now that he didn't mention the man from his dreams.)
"I see, this must be very distressing for you. You are a very intelligent man and many people probably rely on your decisions, on what you know and I suppose you must be undated with work."
Sherlock bit his lip. They did rely on his brain. John did.
"That must be very stressful." (This was where he was wrong. It wasn't stressful it was...intoxicating. The more work the better.)
The doctor glanced up and he raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "Or maybe not, maybe it's the idea that you won't be able to help that is the problem not that it is too much work..."
Sherlock put his hands under his armpits and pressed his tongue over the painful lump on his lip from where he had been biting down too hard. This was becoming uncomfortable. It wasn't helping, and it didn't seem to have anything to do with his dreams.
"You miss her don't you."
The doctor blinked and looked up fixing him with a confused gaze. "Pardon?"
"You miss the woman you left behind..."
The doctor frowned and puffed on his pipe crossing and uncrossing his lags. Sherlock felt the lurching of his stomach ease and he smirked. It was obvious really; he had humoured this man for too long. Time to do what he did best.
"How did you know about Alex?"
He smiled and the doctor crossed his arms taking his pipe out of his mouth the point it at the detective after he didn't answer.
"If you don't want to talk about yourself Mr. Holmes I am happy to talk to you about me. But only if you can tell me how you know about Alex."
"Easy. You are wearing a ring but not on your ring finger, it's engraved with initials. A.R. They are not your initials."
"It could've been a parent...a grandparent? What made you think lover?"
"The technique and size of the engraving implies romantic connotations as does the manner in which you wear it, it is a newer style and judging by your looks and your approximate age your parents would be too old to have bought it for each other and so you could not have inherited it. So it must be a romantic gift given to you."
The doctor lifted his hand and peered at his ring, his lips twitching thoughtfully. "Impressive."
Oh he wasn't done yet.
"That particular style was common in the southern states; I have seen one similar on a young female. Nasty murder suicide. The ring had been a gift from her soldier fiancée..."
The doctor ducked his head, chin to chest and inhaled deeply through his nose. Ah, there it was. Something had hit home.
"She was a soldier too then?"
"We couldn't be together, different rank different specialities... it would never have even been allowed."
Sherlock frowned. There was something here he was missing...
A buzzer went off suddenly, interrupting the doctor's thoughts and he looked up, dazed blinking heavily.
"Oh right. Well. Mr. Holmes this chat was just a little introductory, same time next week I think. Hopefully next time we will get down to some work." He was yammering, sticking out his hand to shake the detectives, his calm manner slowly returning. Sherlock got to his feet.
"I am not coming back."
"You are allowed to bring drinks or snacks, anything to make you feel more at home."
The doctor smiled broadly and stood too, rounding the table to lead Sherlock out. It seemed he wasn't taking no for an answer. (He also didn't seem offended by Sherlocks deductions... not the norm but understandable. Psychiatrists had always been an introverted sort.)
John was pacing the waiting room. Glancing up and trying to appear nonchalant as he greeted the two men. "Hey, he wasn't too bad I hope..."
"Oh no. Not at all."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows glancing over Johns head to catch the other doctors' eye. He simply carried on smiling, a glint in his gaze that confused the detective. John was smiling, happy and he reached down to grab the taller man's hand, pulling him out of the office, silent and a little bit tense.
He kept flexing his fingers in Sherlocks grasp, glancing his way and back. He clearly wanted to ask about the session but Sherlock was tired, is chest hurt from the doctors smoke and his cold and so he just curled around himself in the cab, comfortable silence with no pressure to talk. This was what he liked the most about riding in a cab with John. The drivers always ignored them because they were together and so if he didn't want to talk he didn't have too, John knew when to shut up.
...
Back at the flat John had gone straight to the kitchen when they had gotten in leaving Sherlock to flop onto the sofa. His eyes drooped and he felt himself falling to sleep but maddeningly he stayed on the precipice, his mind sluggish, already half asleep and yet his body wouldn't let go and he growled under his breath. He felt a warm breeze against the hairs and his arm and forced his eyelids open to see John standing over him, frowning.
He looked worried.
Sherlock sighed letting his eyes close again.
"Still can't sleep?"
"I told you it wouldn't work."
"Give him a chance Sherlock. He is a brilliant doctor."
He just snorted and listened to Johns sock covered feet padding back across the floor, returning a few minutes later with something cold that he pushed against the detective's ribs. Sherlock held a breath in for a moment before swinging his legs over and sitting up, blinking as the doctor joined him on the sofa; two plates piled high in his hands. (Surely one of those wasn't for him.)
One of the plates had almost twice as much on it as the other and it was thrust into his hands. John, in an almost absent minded manner, forked at the salad on his own plate, blinking up at the TV screen.
Sherlock looked down at his 'meal'.
It was an extra ordinarily large serving of salad along with some sort of chicken in some strange creamy sauce. To be honest it smelt delicious but he didn't want to eat. Eating made his mind slow and if it got any slower right then it might've stopped.
"Eat."
It wasn't a request, it was an order and Sherlock pouted, hands clasping the edges of the plate. John looked at him raising an eyebrow in a way that made him uncomfortable. Like denying breaking a school rule to a head teacher when they saw you commit the act.
"You are not going to stop getting sick by magic. You need to build up an immune system and to do that your body needs energy. Eat."
He tried to look away but Johns eyes were intense, his lip set in a stern line and for a moment he considered throwing the plate across the room and diving onto his lover but...John wouldn't like that. Not one bit. Well...maybe a little bit but he definitely should...
"Sherlock!"
He shook his head trying to clear his thoughts and John tilted his head until he prodded the chicken, cutting a small piece off and placing it on his tongue, smiling sheepishly around the fork. John waited for him to chew and swallow the mouthful before his face broke into a wide grin and he nodded turning back to watch TV, his eyes flickering back to the detective every few minutes.(Again it seemed almost worth it to have John smile at him like that, to be pleased with him.)
It took him a while but he finished it, moaning lightly and sliding back in his seat as he fought to swallow the last mouthful. His stomach was stretched, his eyes dipping dangerously low as he tried to lift himself from the sofa. It was too much effort so he simply let himself slump against the cool leather, his eyes closed and he heard John chuckle, the warmth of his body moving away.
The dozing man grunted as he slid sideways and slowly tugged his legs up, tucking his knees against his chest. He could hear the sound of running water and John was whistling under his breath, clearly happy. (It was oddly comforting. The only way it could get more comforting was if-)
Suddenly he felt warm arms on him and he was gently prodded backwards, the doctor pushing up against him, back to his chest, pulling Sherlocks arms around his front so he was holding the doctor close. John sighed and he could feel his smile in the air around them, so he buried his face in the other mans neck, breathing in his scent letting it smother his other senses and finally, finally he slept.
...
He was alone; it was so dark in here. The sounds of his breathing echoed around him, the crash as he sucked in a breath. He squinted into the darkness and tried to focus on his feet. The floor was tiled, small square white tile that glinted back to him, the dark shadow of his reflection peering up at him from a million tiny faces. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and paused, he was sure he had heard... And there it was again.
A dripping noise somewhere away from him, in the darkness, drip drip drip.
He licked his lips and the darkness closed in around him, his heart thundered in his chest and he felt the urge to run begin sliding through his veins until a cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he was forced to walk towards the noise, to the steady dripping of water.
It glistened as it fell, a small puddle slowly growing drop by drop. He watched it for what felt like an eternity until he heard a soft sigh from far behind him and spinning on the spot he could only just make out the shape of man in the gloom. Or was it a man? Was it simply his eyes forming monsters where there stood nothing? Could he trust his own vision, his hearing, could he trust himself?
He couldn't be sure and he took a step back, his heels splashing in the ice cold water, soaking through his sock and into his shoe. The water was deeper then he imagined and he heard the dripping suddenly speed up, now a trickle then a stream and it was pouring out, water spreading away past his feet.
Panic gripped Sherlocks chest and he ran past the water's edge scrabbling for the side of the pool. But they were too tall and the water slid towards him and he jumped and clawed furiously at the slick smooth walls his panicked gasping only worsened by the pounding of his heart and the mad dash of his stomach as he tried to stop himself gagging on it.
But the water kept coming and he couldn't get out, peering desperately up at the edge and for a second he could've sworn he had seen a single shiny black shoe poking over the impossible tiled walls and he sucked in a breath.
A mistake because now the water was thrashing against his back and he was swept away from the walls, out in waist deep water to what he was sure was the middle of a impossibly large swimming pool. The stench of chlorine burnt his nose and his eyes wept for the sting of it and no matter how hard he tried, clawing and kicking his legs he couldn't stay on the surface, deafening roaring of a great flood filled his ears and he was thrown back and forth amongst the black waves. He couldn't breathe, the chemical water filled his mouth and his lungs burned as he gasped and groped for air, he was drowning and the stream showed no signs of slowing its rapid ascent as he pushed and thrashed his tired arms around to try and keep his head above the rising tide.
It must have covered those tiled walls by now and yet he was still stuck in the middle, battered by the waves. With a growl he set his face into a fierce glare and pushed forwards kicking with what little strength he had left until the glistening white edges winked at him in the darkness and he pushed harder and harder until he could almost close his fingers onto the edge of it.
But his strength failed and his arms became leaden and he screamed for mercy as he sank deeper into the water, the flickering image of the man, pale luminous skin, hand in pocket, sly smile and a single shining shoe as he leant just over the edge to watch Sherlock be dragged helplessly into the depths. He screamed and screamed but it was no use.
It was too late.
...
He woke with a start. He was lying on the living room floor; John crouched over him, a tear streaking down his face. Sherlock closed his eyes for a second, taking deep breaths as the doctor slumped back against the sofa, his legs thrown over the longer limbs of his lover. When he looked the doctor had his eyes closed too and was frowning, shaking his head.
It appeared his nightmares affect John more strongly than he thought.
The flat was dark but the sky outside was beginning to grow lighter, the traffic outside distant and less frequent than usual. It was early morning it seemed, they had slept for a long time. Until of course Sherlock had woken the doctor.
"You were screaming..."
His voice was barely above a whisper but it made the detectives heart pound just that much harder, his clothes damp with sweat, eyes watery with unshed tears, throat hoarse and dry. Sherlock frowned, he felt disgusting. He considered climbing to his feet, going for a shower, but then he looked back to the soldier and scooted around to lean his back against the sofa too, reaching out a hand, searching for his partners.
Johns fingers closed around his and the doctor sighed leaning his head on the taller mans shoulder.
"John I-"
"I know you don't understand it but...you were so frightened. I have never seen... It was upsetting."
Sherlock closed his mouth. (It amazed him still when his lover managed to read his mind like that. But his amazement was no match for the pain in his chest when John's voice broke at the last word.)
"I am sorry."
John shook his head and looked up at him. "It wasn't your fault."
He bit his lip; if there was something he could do to stop these phantoms he would hurry to achieve it.
"I will go back to Dr. Barrows."
John raised an eyebrow but didn't speak. It left the detective staring across the room at the fireplace, his eyes landing on his skull. It reminded him of his conversation with the psychiatrist, about his past.
"He thinks I am jealous and that it is because I have never had this before, he thinks I am insecure."
The doctor blinked at him, clearly a bit shocked. "Insecure?"
Sherlock nodded and John regarded him carefully for moment before his face broke into a tiny grin. (It was a victory, although he wasn't sure exactly what he had done to entice it. He was simply pleased that John did not agree, despite the fact Sherlock himself secretly deep down did.)
"Has he seen the size of your head! You are the most arrogant person I know!"
Sherlock laughed and John joined in shaking his head and groaning as he got awkwardly to his feet.
"Come on, I think we should wake Lestrade up, he might have a new case for you."
...
To nobody's surprise the Inspector was awake at 5.21 in the morning and was sat at his desk in his office listening to quiet jazz as he did his paperwork. That is until Sherlock Holmes burst through his door and threw himself into the (Only.) other chair, kicking his feet up onto the desk to cross them at the ankles.
Lestrade finished his sentence and sighed, carefully placing the files to his left before looking up at the doctor who tutted and shook his head, giving his lover a glare.
"You have a case for me?"
"I could've brought it around later. You didn't have to burst in here."
"Give it to me."
He stuck out a hand and the long suffering DI yanked open his top drawer. He proffered a manila folder at the practically springy detective with an exaggerated eye roll, John sighing in agreement but unable to hide the smirk that blossomed on his face. Sherlock felt rested, at least more rested than he had for a while and snatched the file towards his chest, his reawakened mind entirely focussed on the next case, the next puzzle.
Inside was a missing persons report, a collection of statements and a personal jet schematic. He trapped his top lip between his teeth as his eyes scoured the neat type, bouncing himself up and down as he balanced on the back legs of his chair, feet pressed up against the edge of Lestrade's desk. The other men were silent, watching him read, watching his mind work with reverence.
"Walter Forshaw, missing person boarded a private jet bound for Miami but didn't manage to get off..."
John put his hands on his hips and waited. (For the inevitable.)
"I'll take it."
He snapped the file shut and grinned wildly at the DI, his mind still on the statements, the report. Lestrade nodded and he heard John go for the door handle behind him, stopped by Lestrade raising a finger.
"Oh yeah. Sherlock this came for you at the front desk..."
He reached into the drawer again and pulled out an envelope. Johns arm reached over his shoulder to take it.
"We had it scanned."
He watched John slide a finger under the opening and suddenly a familiar sense of panic enveloped the detective and he launched himself from the chair.
"Stop!"
John froze instantly. "What?"
This scenario was very very familiar. It hit him then who could be trying to kill them, the sleek black cars, and the well tailored suits. It could be only one dark tormentor.
"Give that to me."
John frowned and his fingers tightened. Defiant. Idiotic. "No."
"John give me the envelope."
"No!"
Sherlock gritted his teeth and took a slow step towards his lover, trying to make him understand just by frowning at him. (John was always able to read his mind, why not now?)
"John, please."
Lestrade actually gasped at the great Sherlock Holmes begging, pleading, another man's actions but Sherlock ignored that because John was slowly handing the thin paper over to him, his fingers brushing against the doctors rougher skin and that mouth was set in a thin white line, his beautiful eyes betraying him. He was frightened. That was alarming.
Finally the paper was in his grasp and he took it over to the light, carefully using a pen to slide the lid open, pulling the gap apart. But there was no powder, no poison. Just a note.
He pulled it out and heard John slump into his chair, Lestrade's hand flying to his forehead. "What does it say?" The DI sounded tired, as tired as Sherlock felt without his adrenaline.
Sherlock flipped it over and in flowing italic writing was a single word.
Surprise!
It took him just a second to read and to look up, out of Lestrade's window to the building opposite, his eyes catching on something metal glinting against the snow topped roofs. His eyes widened and he dropped to his knees yelling out. "Duck!"
For a few minutes there was no sound and he carefully lifted his arms up off of his head to see Lestrade stood by the window barking orders into his mobile and John groggily picking himself up from where his chair had been thrown sideways by Sherlocks lunging body.
Behind him in the wall (And destroying a particularly hideous picture Lestrade had put up.) were four bullet holes, perfectly matching the four holes in the window. They were at head height, tracking Sherlocks movement downwards and he put a hand to the top of his head but there was no blood, no wound.
He had missed him by mere centimetres.
John stretched and looked around his eyes catching on the detective still curled on his heels, arm wrapped around his knees, fingers gingerly brushing through his hair.
"Sherlock, you okay?"
The detective nodded and stretched his legs, shakily getting to his feet. He gave the doctor a once over and turned to the window, striding over to peer out across the street. There was an imprint in the snow on the roof, the gun left on its stand, the door still banging as the gunman had fled.
"What the hell was that!"
"Oh just whoever is trying to kill me and Sherlock."
Lestrade paused and span slowly on his heels, phone dropping from his ear eyebrows slowly sliding down his face until his infamous 'death glare' appeared. John, to his credit, did not shrivel under the gaze; he appeared almost nonchalant if a bit irritated by the events.
"What?"
...
The taxi ride back was tense. John had gripped his hand as soon as they left Lestrade's office and hadn't let go, his thumb smoothing over and over the knuckle of Sherlocks own digit. Sherlock made a point of appearing unaffected and to be honest he was, not by the gunman at least. The attempts on his life did not scare him, Johns reaction to them did. His nightmares didn't affect him in waking but they did affect John.
He snarled at the window. The doctors face, his tear streaked cheek haunted him, the doctor was fearless in all other things, even with a gun pointed at his head but when it was Sherlock at the end of that barrel, when it was Sherlock be woken at night in terror he was frightened. It seemed inherently wrong.
John squeezed his fingers lightly y and he turned to look at the doctor. "How long until he tells Mycroft?"
Once his sibling heard of the numerous attempts and that they still didn't know who was behind them he would become...insufferable. (He had after all been under the impression that it was only the mob who was trying to kill his brother. Practical amateurs. But if it was something more than that, someone more dangerous, more ruthless. Well, his brother would be worried.)
"We might have tonight."
Something glinted in the doctors eyes and he nodded vaguely, licking his lips. "Right. So we have one night of freedom before your brother's men start crowding us?"
"If that."
The doctor looked away and he hadn't thought it possible but now the air was even more tense Johns shoulder set, his hand to his lips as he chewed on his thumbnail, eyes moving slightly as though he was thinking. Hard.
...
The book was heavy against his legs, comforting. He was curled in Johns chair an ancient tome detailing cases at the old bailey balanced on his knees as a fire crackled in the fireplace, John having disappeared out to buy groceries or something. He had left his radio on and the dulcet tones of the news reporter murmured to him from the kitchen, snow fluttering outside frosted windows. It was warm in here, he had been allowed to wear the red sweater and John had made him a pot of tea before he left, silent and dutiful.
Sherlock smiled, reaching out a hand to grasp his mug, bringing it to his lips and inhaling the steaming elixir. He had drunk almost the entire pot and was starting to wonder when the doctor would be back, when he could have more tea, more slow lingering kisses as though he hadn't wanted to leave. A far cry from that morning, from the cold of the floorboards against his skin, the pain of the panic in Johns eyes.
The front door slammed and he glanced up from the case notes of Mr. Garrow to stare out at the thickly flowing snow as he listened to a familiar beat of footsteps climbing the stairs.
"It's only me."
Ah, home at last. He listened as the doctors continued his ascent, the beat carrying him across the upper landing and into their bedroom. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and set his book on the side, downing the last of his tea and stretching his long legs slowly. His head felt better from renewed serotonin and he grinned. He had one night without his brother's interference and he knew just what he wanted to do with it. He turned to head for the bedroom himself to find the doorway blocked. He sucked in a breath as his stomach dropped and his heart rocketed to his throat.
John was leant against the doorframe, smiling a wide open happy smile, his hair swept to the side, arms and legs clad in a dark grey suit he didn't recognise. He would have definitely remembered it. Beneath that he wore a plain black shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a thin grey tie loosely tightened about his neck and ending just above his waist, thin black belt with a silver buckle and pointed black shoes to complete the outfit.
"Hey."
Sherlock opened his mouth but no sound came out, he blushed raising a hand to gesture uselessly at Johns appearance. "Uhg...uhm...uhguhu?"
John laughed a slight pink tinge to his cheeks, eyes downturned bashfully. "I was thinking, we could go out...dinner. Our last night of freedom before we are smothered by your brothers concern again."
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
John laughed, rolling his eyes up and shaking his head. He licked his lips and put his hands in his pockets looking the detective up and down.
"Yeah, I guess I am."
...
It had taken every ounce of his willpower not to jump the doctor as they trotted down deserted streets, snow coating every surface making the cars the buildings the road twinkle in the streetlight. The doctors hand was clasping his gently and they walked in silence, turning left and right until they came to a restaurant hidden halfway down an alley.
'The hole in the wall' picked out in golden paint on a faded red sign above the door and John opened it for him, letting him walk in first. It was small, only a dozen tables packed into the tiny room, the air heavily scented and thick to breathe. It was very warm in the restaurant, dimly lit with a single candlestick holding three candles each on every table. It was perfect, hidden, close and comforting. Everything Sherlock enjoyed in a restaurant.
He turned to grin at John, the doctors smile widening a fraction when he saw Sherlock was satisfied.
"Table for two, under Watson?"
The woman nodded and showed them to their table, glancing between the men with a pleasant smile. Sherlock didn't speak until they had their drinks, the doctor sipping at his, careful not to stare at his lover or demand a opinion.
(He felt his stomach flipping over and over and it was getting to him. He had to say something but John was right; he had never been on a date before. He didn't know the protocol.)
"John this is...it's...lovely."
John grinned and nodded proudly. He had said the right thing.
"Well it is our first date, I wanted to impress."
"Consider me impressed then."
John chuckled and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
It was strange, to sit in a restaurant not for surveillance, not to gather information but simply to enjoy the company of another person, of a person who was there just for him. It was strange to talk of everything but his work or the predicament they found themselves in, the constant threat of danger. It was strange to understand that movie he had watched, the sappy sentiments of music and film, to just spend time for the sake of it.
He found he enjoyed it very much and by the time they left the restaurant he was almost giddy, drunk on John's attention, on his laugh, on his eyes. The doctor had pulled him away through the silent streets, zig zagging in the opposite direction of home.
"John? Where are you taking me?"
The doctor didn't answer and he found he didn't care, his hand was warm against his palm and he could smell the spicy aftershave on his skin and he simply didn't care.
They walked for a few minutes until they reached the edge of Regents Park, John tugging his hand to encourage him to follow and they moved through the dark pathways, winding away through shining sparkling drifts. The fluttering of the snow and the crunching of their shoes were the only sounds as the couple wandered past the ice topped lake, over slippery bridges and onwards to a covered seating area on an elevated footpath.
John pulled him over to the bench and they sat together, staring out across the white blanket that stretched before them seeming as wide and expansive as the sea on a bright clear day. It was cold out here, their breath ghosting and fusing in the air before them.
Sherlock scooted sideways to leech the warmth from his lover, leaning his head against the doctor's shoulder and breathing in his scent, letting it fog his brain until all he could think of was the warmth and the comfort of John and he never wanted to leave.
But the doctor tensed and relaxed and tensed and relaxed and after a few moments he shifted away, getting to his feet. Sherlock frowned looking up at him; surely he wouldn't leave now...
John made eye contact for a second, his cheeks darkening and a nervous light shining in his eyes. And then he knew, he knew why John had brought him here. The doctor sank down onto one knee and reached into his pocket and for a second Sherlock forgot how to breathe.
Johns eyes seemed enormous in the half light, a hesitant smile on his striking face as he opened the small black box to reveal a simple silver band that winked up at him cheerfully. His heart was in his throat again and he sucked in a haggard breath.
He understood now why John had wanted to wait to enact his plan. It was...different somehow. It felt different to the simple pleasure he had felt at getting it 'right' when he told John they were getting married that day. It felt more important this way, Johns thought, his love had gone into this moment and it was as perfect as he could've imagined.
"Sherlock, will you marry me?"
John's voice was calm but wavered slightly, showing his anxiety. There was only one answer of course and he smiled all the pain, the torments of his nightmares, of his inability to protect himself and to protect John were forgotten, if only for this one moment.
"Yes."