Chapter 5- Is This Forever?

John P.O.V.

Sherlock was leaning forward, and what may have seemed like a nonchalant expression to most people was actually a look filled with anxiety and… is that desire? Either way, I didn't actually believe I was about to kiss Sherlock Holmes. After all we have been through, after almost 5 years, it seems unbelievable. I have never been gay, nor had I thought much about it; haven't had sex with someone who doesn't have boobs and vagina or was attracted to one. Am I attracted to Sherlock? Well, there isn't any other explanation, is there? I had already closed my eyes and felt his surprisingly soft lips on mine, when the universe declared that now wasn't really the right time to kiss Sherlock, not yet anyway.

As Sherlock leaned forward, there was a black car stopping on the road in front of us, and the driver honked. We didn't even have to take a look to know who was waiting for us in that so familiar black car.
Sherlock straightened up and seemed annoyed, muttering something to himself with fire in his eyes. He opened the door to the back seat of the car and slipped, gracefully as always, inside. I followed him, trying not to think about what almost happened again, only moments ago. It's never a good time to mull about kisses in front of Mycroft Holmes.

"Do you always have to interrupt?" there was no need of a genius to see that Sherlock was not happy with his brother suddenly appearing from out of the blue.
"You will be thanking me for that later, Sherlock, but aside from that, I think we have some information about Moriarty, if that interests you enough." I raised an eyebrow, questioning his intentions.
"You clearly need more time, Dr. Watson, no offence. I can't let you hurt my little brother now, can I?"
I felt my face was burning with embarrassment, avoiding looking at either of the Holmes brothers.
"Keep your big nose out of my business." Sherlock was annoyed that his brother might be right. I knew he was right. I wasn't ready for this, and frankly, I owe Mycroft a lot for stopping this from really happening. Regardless, it's beyond me why he thinks that Sherlock would get hurt. It's not real for him. It is just a game. Like everything else. There was nothing sentimental for him about that kiss. I couldn't help myself from that bitter thought.
You must not think about it, just be glad it didn't happen yet.

"What do you have about Moriarty? He almost killed Mrs. Hudson today," I said quickly, before Sherlock could just storm out of the car without listening to the important part.
Mycroft looked at me with gratitude for focusing on the important subject, and took a deep breath.
"I know, such a shame, she is a wonderful woman indeed. You know, Dr. Watson, that recorded music you hear before every puzzle isn't really recorded, Moriarty played it live—"
"Not Moriarty, one of his minions I guess; why is that important?" Sherlock snapped, "I guess that the location isn't really relevant, you can notice the difference between the acoustics and the quality of the piano in both puzzles, so they change it daily. Plus, I'm quite sure that it isn't even the same person who played both those pieces. There is an enormous gap between the skill level required in each of the pieces, and it is simply not possible that someone who can play Bach's Partita that well, would play Beethoven's Sonata in such a mediocre way. So, dear brother, why is this important?" Amazing. It never stops being absolutely amazing.

"Are you done showing off?" Sherlock didn't say anything, just rolled his eyes with annoyance and Mycroft continued, "Well, the location isn't important, nor is the player; the only thing that matters is that Moriarty wants you to go after him. He will do anything to make you want to go and chase him around, and all those 'little details' are his way to catch your attention. I would bet on my life that he expected you to track that radio signal and go after him from the first second he returned."
"So what does it mean?" I asked, curious.
"It means, John, that both of you must pay attention to what is real and what isn't. What is a real fact and real evidence, and not just something he planted to catch your attention. You must be careful." I nodded and Sherlock looked bored, as if this conversation didn't concern him.

The black car pulled up outside Baker Street, and Sherlock sighed with a faked smile, "Anything else dear brother? Maybe you would like to come in for some tea and biscuits? No? Oh, too bad," he said sarcastically and opened the door. "Next time you are interfering, please make sure that what you're about to say is relevant and as yet unknown. I know it's hard, but I believe in you." Sarcasm again. Doesn't really fit Sherlock.
He opened the door and before he managed to get his leg out of the car, Mycroft yelled "Sit down Sherlock! And stop acting like a child; you are almost 40, for crying out loud!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth, like he was about to say something but figured it might be better to shut up this time. He closed the door and sighed heavily.

"Thank you." Mycroft got back to his nonchalant tone and cleared his throat. "We know how he did it. And yes, Sherlock, it is relevant. You see, the man you met on the roof was not James—for god sakes, Sherlock, let me finish!" Mycroft sighed in frustration, probably noting to himself that next time he should wait until Sherlock calm down completely before talking again.
"It wasn't James; it was his brother, George. This means that James knew you weren't really dead all along; meanwhile, he was planning his revenge. You see, as far as James is concerned, you caused the death of his brother, the only person in the world that meant something to him. He wants revenge, Sherlock, and he is not going to rest until he gets it."
"So you mean we should keep an eye on you? Keep you in custody or something? Because I really doubt it would help against Moriarty." I chocked back a bitter laugh while imagining what it would be like keeping Mycroft under observation. Mycroft was also smiling a bitter smile and he suddenly seemed tired and hurt, before forcing a cold and distant expression once again on his face.

"Of course not, Dr Watson. James wants to get his revenge on Sherlock by hurting the person Sherlock cares about the most." Both brothers now stared at each other in complete silence, having one of those usual speechless conversations that always made me feel pretty awkward and out of place. Sherlock shut his eyes in pain and Mycroft sighed, "I'm very sorry to say this, John, but you are definitely in danger. All of the others are just James's way to make it more playful and interesting, but the final intention is… well, hurting you." Everything seemed to blur. The world was spinning, and there was a cold ache in the pit of my stomach. Of course, how could I not have seen this before? The only way it is going to end is with my death. Moriarty wants me dead. Mrs. Hudson, Janine, Molly and Lestrade are just tools. Just used for Moriarty's game. Nothing more than that. He never meant to kill them, Just abuse them a bit to scare Sherlock. All he wants is to kill me.

"John, are you ok?" Sherlock's voice shifted me back to reality, he seemed paler than usual and his eyes were full of dread. I was sure I saw tears in the corner of his eyes, but that was not possible. I've seen Sherlock cry many times before, crocodile tears, nothing was real about them, but now… it seems so…emotional. No way, I can't be the reason for those real tears.
"I'm sorry John, I'm so sorry. But it's not too late; you can still run away, you can fly to Paris. Be with your wife. John, you will die." Sherlock's voice cracked and he seemed so vulnerable, more than I had ever seen him. My best friend was shivering and refusing to look at me; he was just staring out the window as if the answers to everything waited for him just outside. Probably commanding his body to relax and take control over his feelings.
Mind over matter.
I felt someone must have stabbed my heart, while I watched him wiping the tears from his cheeks.
He gave one more gaze at his brother, and Mycroft nodded slightly. It was almost unnoticeable.
"Take care, John," he murmured and opened the door. Before I could even blink, he vanished inside the building and the car drove away.

"Where the hell is he going? Where are we going?" Oh please god, I can't leave Sherlock; I don't want to leave Sherlock.
"I'm sorry, John, we are going to the airport." No. no, Please god, no. The hole inside my chest felt heavy, and I was sure I was about to throw up. I can't leave Sherlock.
"Please, Mycroft, just take me back to Baker Street, please. I need to be with Sherlock. I can't lose him again. I almost lost him yesterday, and it was hard enough. "Please, Mycroft, take me back." He looked at me with pity in his eyes and sighed.
"I'm sorry, John; It's for your own safety. You don't need to die for my brother. He wouldn't want that." The word 'with' lingered in the air. Somewhat threatening to replace the 'for'. It was clearer than ever.
"I can save him. He won't die. Let me try, Mycroft. We saved each other so many times before, we can do it again." Mycroft didn't looked at me anymore, he refused to listen.
My eyes burned with tears while I tried to hold them back. Not now, it won't help.

"Is this forever? Can you at least tell me why?" I tried to sound normal, but I could hear my voice trembling. Mycroft eyed me for a few moments, searching for more data. Finally, he nodded.
"He wants to keep you safe, that must have been clear by now. But unfortunately, there is more to that. He knows that chances are you'll die, and he won't be able to live with it. He can't watch you die knowing he could have prevented it; that you could have been safe and happy with your family. He is not strong enough, he will break down and won't be able to defend himself and even fight against Moriarty. Can you possibly imagine Sherlock just going willingly to his own death, after all he has been through for the last 3 years? That is what will happen if Moriarty kills you first. It is somehow selfish maybe, but he just proved that he isn't a sociopath after all. He will do anything to destroy Moriarty, but more than that, he will do anything in his power to protect you, John."

I couldn't breathe. I could feel the agony spreading in my body and taking me down. Sherlock wanted to give up on me, because he will die if he won't. That is what he seems to think. I wanted to be there, I wanted to help Sherlock kill the bloody life-ruining psychopath, but I can't afford myself to be a distraction. Not if it means that Sherlock would get hurt.

We pulled up outside of Heathrow airport and Mycroft broke the awkward silence of the last 40 minutes.
"Here is your ticket, I'm sure you can manage to get on the plane alone. Your flight is at 20:10, so hurry up. Your suitcase is in the trunk. Do you need help with it?"
"No, thank you. Do you have my passport?" I really didn't mean to sound so bitter.
"Oh yes, of course." He handed me my passport with an honest smile, "Take care, Dr. Watson, we'll be in touch." e I nodded briefly and opened the door, taking my suitcase and passport as well. As I looked back, the black Mercedes had already driven away and vanished, probably heading back to Little Chester Street, where Mycroft's office was.

I looked at the ticket, flight no. AM6044, Terminal 4. Seems like I'm flying to Paris.
Even inside my head I sounded bitter. There is no need to be so broken.
I walked inside the airport, gazing over the crowd of people who want to travel, see the world, be with their loved ones, just enjoying their life. I can even see that for some of them it was the first time, you can see the excitement in their eyes mixed with fear and doubt. All of them just reminded me how lonely I felt, and how it has only been an hour since I was with Sherlock. Only an hour, and I already miss him.

Text Messege
From: John Watson
To: Sherlock Holmes
I miss you. Promise me you won't die.

I deleted the 'I miss you' part, and hit the send bottom, already noticing that there are tears on my phone's screen. Let it go John, Just for a few minutes, it's ok.
I stood there for a few minutes, letting the tears come down on my face, thinking about Sherlock, about the fact that he might not be alive when I return. That I lost my chance to tell him everything I might feel about him, that I might love him in more than just a platonic way. Who am I kidding? I love him. I know I do. I always knew.
It is too late for that now, for so many reasons, but I wanted to tell him. I needed to tell him.
I would swallow my pride for you, Sherlock Holmes.

I wiped the remaining tears from my face and took a deep breath. Promising myself that I'll come up with something, I learned a lot from Sherlock, I must come up with some ideas.
I walked toward the check-in counter and greeted the young lady who smiled and took my passport.
"One way ticket to Paris, please." She gave me a slight nod and handed me the ticket, sending my suitcase to Paris in a matter of seconds.
"Terminal 4 sir, be there at 20:00 sharp, please. You can meanwhile go to the first-class lounge and relax," She smiled. "Thank you for choosing British Airways. Have a nice flight".
I started walking toward the lounge, not completely surprised that Mycroft booked me a first-class seat, and realized I hadn't eaten since about 6 AM. I had an hour before I need to be in the terminal, I might as well go to the lounge and eat something.

I entered the beautiful, very expansively-decorated lounge, grabbed a newspaper and made some tea to go along with the delicious food that was there. (Bacon and cooked eggs, with some toast. Was amazing)
When the clock showed 19:50, I figured it was time to go toward my gate, although I was relaxed and satisfied with a room full of food and tea. It even distracted me a bit from thinking about Sherlock, but it wasn't for long anyway.
I went to the bathroom first, thinking it must be better than to go on the plane.

I was washing my hands when I heard a creepy voice behind me. "Just too easy, John."
Before I had a chance to realize what was going on, the man behind me put a towel over my mouth and nose. I tried to struggle but when I recognized the strong smell of chloroform, I knew that fighting it was useless.

Within a minute I felt dizzy, and falling to the floor, I passed out. As I looked above me in those last seconds of consciousness, all I could see was the big psychopathic smile on the face of James Moriarty.