The suffocating black sack over John's head distorted his view of the bank; his breath causing it to concave into his mouth as he inhaled, heavy and deep. There was no way of construing time, but by his guess it was at least ten minutes since he had been left, still bound, by Moran and the others, after confirmation of Wilf Hudson's release had filtered through the web-cam in murmured tones.
To his right, a feminine whimper. The remaining group of hostages had been lined, facing the wall, hands behind their heads in submission to their captors. John had been the first to receive the black sack treatment, and so he was unsure as to whether they also were unable to see; or as to the current position of Moran and his cronies.
A bang; the sound of a minor explosion deflecting against the hollow walls, the suddenness of it sending a violent judder through John's frame. Fear rose in his chest.
Then, there came shouting, almost unintelligible, but their tone hinted at commands – orders. From sound alone it seemed men in heavy boots were surging forward in a stampede of testosterone, their direction of intent – the hostages.
Was Moran back? Had he, for an unknown reason, changed his mind, and returned to wreak additional pain? John's mind writhed in panic.
Perhaps the most agitating of it all; there then came the feeling of warm, gentle hands cupping John's cheeks.
He jolted at the unforeseen touch, jerking himself backwards; his heart rate spiking at the fear of further abuse from the fists of Moran.
"Hey, hey; it's OK, John, it's alright. It's me."
The sack was ripped from his head, and bright light assaulted his eyes. For a few moments, blindness overtook him, and he simply blinked furiously, willing the black spots away from his vision. And then everything became clear, as if someone was altering the focus on the lens of a camera.
Sherlock, with the smuggest grin you've ever seen, was kneeling in front of him; eyes bright and wide, inches from his own. Over his back hung a crisp orange blanket; the cut on his face was obscured by large plaster. He raised his hands once more to rest gently against John's face, tilting it from side to side to peruse the array of bruises and cuts that had built up there, assessing the damage with a soft expression.
John smirked, feeling the brush of fabric as police officer passed him to cut through the zip tie. He felt his face heat up under Sherlock's slim fingers, and the progressively smug look on Sherlock's face confirmed he felt it too. They didn't speak, but on a whim, John lent forward to let his lips brush against Sherlock's, making his intent all too clear. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, and then he returned the touch, until they kissed gently. It was quick, but heartfelt. John felt his heart swell four sizes.
"Damn, I thought I'd gotten rid of you." John chuckled dryly, his mouth caressing Sherlock's as he did so.
"You'll have to try harder than that; it would seem my brother has grown quite attached to you."
It was Mycroft, who sauntered forward. In John's kneeled position, Mycroft was nothing short of a giant; six foot one inch of tailored suit and stiff upper lip, brandishing his trademark umbrella like a weapon. Sherlock's hands slid and found rest on John's broad shoulders.
"You're the bloke from the web cam, aren't you?" John asked in sudden recognition, reluctantly pulling back from Sherlock's warm mouth.
"Mycroft Holmes," Came the condescending reply that set all of John's nerves on end. "Sherlock's brother. And you must be John Watson…Don't take this personally, but I'd imagined you taller."
Sherlock stiffened, shooting his brother a hard glare; years of familiarisation in his brother's habits had him well tuned to his quirks. Mycroft was challenging John, goading him almost. But John was more than equipped at dealing with those who thought themselves better than him.
He did, after all, have an elder sister.
"Yeah well, the best things come in small packages." A gasp, as his wrists were finally freed behind him. The police officer stood and left. "Which I think is a line I used in bed once."
Sherlock snorted once before composing himself, letting his hands drop for John to adjust his arms, both of which were stiff and protesting furiously.
"Lovely." Mycroft sniffed, lips pursed. "I'll see you get the medical attention you need. Good day." Turning on his heals, and practically radiating arrogance, he exited the building.
"I hope you don't mind me saying, but your brother is a right git."
Catching John's eye, Sherlock mirrored his smirk. "You've required some of your own skills of observation, I see."
"I learnt from the best."
For a moment, they remained unmoving, both of them lost in the moment. A paramedic slowly approached; even she was aware the two men were obviously lost in each other's arms; but she had a job to do, and her patient's care came first.
"Sir? Are you able to walk? Would you like to accompany me to the back of the ambulance please?"
John was the first to break eye contact, peering up at the lady. It was then he realised he was still on his knees, with someone whom he had only known for half a day stroking his shoulders. Using Sherlock for purchase, he rose; then cried out in a bolt of pain.
With a groan of annoyance and realisation, he flexed his tender right arm, then lifted it in an attempt to pop his left shoulder back into position. He must've dislocated it when he was first hit to the ground. Sherlock caught his hands.
"You should probably leave that to a medical professional, John." He murmured as he rose; tucking his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans to keep them under control. He was so close to running his palms all along John's toned chest.
"I am a medical professional," John raised an eyebrow, and gripped his shoulder again, hissing as it throbbed angrily.
Sherlock blinked once, then narrowed his eyes. "Army Doctor?"
"That's the one."
"Army Doctor." He nickered, grinding his teeth together. "There is always something."
John laughed good naturedly, and they both fell in step together. On a whim, Sherlock unravelled his shock blanket and draped it over both their shoulders, pressing another kiss below John's ear, who hummed appreciatively.
From the side of the building, there came a rattle, then a shuddering groan. The high pitched, bleep of an electronic device echoed delicately around the room.
Had… anyone actually deactivated Moran's bomb?
Oh God.
"EVERYBODY OUT!" Sherlock howled, his quick mind suddenly alert to the threat; the fastening beeps filling his ears. The crowd looked towards him for direction; not understanding his horror.
"The BOMB! The bomb is about to go off; can't you hea-?"
But it was too late.
The sound like a crescendo of rock fall was broken by white noise as Sherlock was flung backwards by an unimaginable force, head connecting with the hard surface of the floor beneath him. Hot flames like waves blew outwards, shrapnel like bullets in the air. Everything slowed. The wall the bomb had been attached to bucked and crumbled; levels of offices careening to the left and downwards, tumbling in a roar of screeching metal and grating brick. Smoke like thick fog spread, smothering the ground in its dusty embrace, choking any who drew breath.
Any who were lucky to be still drawing breath.
The entire building teetered and fell to the side, a toppling inferno to all who looked at it.
It was over in a matter of seconds.
A/N: This chapter summary – Sherlock and John love each other, and I cannot resist cliff hangers. I'm not even sorry. If everything turns out alright, I'm thinking of writing that date scene… oh decisions, decisions…