Thank you very much, guys, for your reviews, alerts etc. I apologize for the delay in updating this story, but I've been rather busy. Well, here it is: chapter twenty-one. Reviews are very welcome.
This chapter is betaed by TeapotInATempest. Thank you so much. All mistakes are mine.
Some of you have mentioned the occasional use of Victorian English in the ACD parts I use. I'd like to change them into more modern English. So, please, if you have suggestions considering the choice of words, please PM me. Remember, I'm not English and, therefore, I do not always see or know, how to phrase old English into new. I'd appreciate your help very much. Thanks.
Chapter twenty-one
For most of Friday morning Sherlock stood in front of the living room window with an expression of perfect happiness on his face, humming and watching the goings-on down on the street. From time to time he picked up his violin and accompanied himself on it.
The detective's unusual behaviour made John watching him suspiciously from his armchair. The moment Sherlock started humming, John laid aside his book and he hadn't taken his eyes off his friend since.
"You know, I always start worrying the moment you're this euphoric," John remarked. "Considering your mood, I'll start by assuming that yesterday's investigations proved fruitful. Is there anything else, anything at all, I should know?"
Sherlock turned towards him. "The sun is shining. We're going to have a white Christmas. You'll be with me throughout the festive season," Sherlock said, grinning. "What more can a man ask for?"
The detective's answer confirmed John's darkest presumptions. "Alright. I deduce that there definitely is something I should know, by all means. You're trying to change the subject. What have you done? I didn't sleep a wink tonight, thinking about Greg calling me any moment to tell me you'd been arrested for committing burglary."
Sherlock contorted his face into something John presumed was supposed to be an air of innocence. "Really, John. It's a no-win situation. When I am moping around the house, it isn't okay with you and when I am in high spirits, it isn't okay with you either."
"Don't believe for a second that I'm falling for that. Spit it out," John replied, unmoved. "Did you break into another house?"
"That is susceptible to various interpretations", Sherlock replied, shrugging.
"Oh, my God, please, don't tell me you broke into Jack's house?" John was growing pale in the face. "Jack has already murdered six people, if you don't mind me reminding you. We agreed not to risk our lives anymore to prove we're clever, didn't we?"
"Now you're exaggerating, John. And besides, technically I didn't break into the house because the door lock was broken anyway. One could argue about trespassing, I suppose … Well, more importantly there was a housemaid ogling me all day long while I was at work, disguised as a building worker, carrying out masons' work. She brought us food and coffee from time to time. If necessary I could have chatted her into letting me gain access to the house. Fortunately the problem did not arise, since I discovered that the door lock was broken anyway. The conversations I had with her, John … Good gracious! Sweet, sentimental stuff like your former poetry to your so called girlfriends." At the thought of it, Sherlock made a face, plunking down in his chair opposite John. "Well, by way of a change I just entered through the front door as soon as it was dark. Voila!"
Involuntarily, Sherlock's words stung John deep inside. "I don't know what to say, Sherlock. I'm speechless and usually, not even you succeed in doing that to me," John replied, frowning. "Have you thought just one minute about the girl?" John tried to not pay attention to the sting of jealousy he felt, although failing miserably. He had said "girl" but of course he meant himself as well.
"Err … yes, I did for a moment …. I know that you don't approve of it….but I can't busy myself with the odds and sods, John. The stakes could not be higher," Sherlock replied. "Moreover, I had a rival who will look after her. On that score, he seemed to be determined."
"For God's sake! We're engaged!" John exclaimed unintentionally. He had wanted to say something else entirely. Apparently it was not just his body that had decided to live a life of its own by falling in love with his best friend, unasked. Obviously something had also happened with his thoughts on their way to his speech centre and that process was out of his control – and not for the first time. He'd better get a grip on his jealousy; these kinds of emotions would only turn any possible relationship with Sherlock into a mine field unnecessarily. Aside from that, he was wise to the fact that as far as Sherlock was concerned, the end justified the means, and in a relationship with the detective foolish behaviour of this kind could be expected as an everyday occurrence.
For a moment Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. "I didn't forget about that, John. I am not and would never be unfaithful to you! I was incognito!"
The conversation, which had gotten off the subject due to John's emotional life, now trod a sensitive path, and he preferred to leave it again immediately. "Let's start again from scratch, my dear. You … got into the house of our serial killer. I definitely do not approve of it. I disagree in principal and especially, since you were on your own. But let's return to our subject. Did you find any evidence against Jack?"
Relief over John changing the subject was written all over Sherlock's face. "Nothing of particular importance. But at least I was able to verify some of my theories. There are floorboards under the carpet in the dining room which have been moved recently. I believe Jack is hiding his collection of trophies there. I'm afraid I couldn't pursue the lead any further, because the cat sent a vase of flowers flying, and I beat a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, the gardener nearly laid hold of me," Sherlock said. "The good news is that the interviews with the members of the household were far more fruitful. There are rumours of domestic violence between Iris and Jack too."
If possible, John was growing even paler. "Nearly laid hold of you?" he repeated. He had heard nothing after that.
"Yes, he nearly laid hold of me," Sherlock affirmed. "And then …"
"Nearly laid hold of you!" John interrupted, wrought up. "And you're just mentioning that casually. You will give me a heart attack one day!"
It wasn't the first time that John understood how Mycroft Holmes must have felt from time to time, worrying constantly about his brother … a task, they were sharing these days, which inevitably led to him rising in John's esteem. John wouldn't exactly rate him among his friends, but since he had no old scores to settle with Mycroft, which might have affected his judgment, the older brother's genuine concern, revealed in his eyes and actions, were obvious to John. Sherlock, of course, could not see it.
"JOHN."
"SHERLOCK," John said harshly. "No serial killer, blackmailer, consulting criminal genius or whoever is important enough, to risk your life in order to bring about his arrest!" He inhaled deeply a few times and continued in a softer tone, "Sherlock … I …," am driven completely and utterly bonkers by you …and I dread … and I admire …, "… admire …," Your defiance? Your bloody-mindedness? Your stubbornness?, "… your tenacity and your …," Boundless ardour? Zeal? Dedication?, " … energy - and just like you I want justice and truth to prevail … but not at any cost."
John was afraid he had said too much. It was always like walking on eggshells to explain these emotional issues to Sherlock, without putting too much emotion in it on one's own account. He knew that danger was part of the business, and he needed the adrenalin rush as much as Sherlock did. However, he needed Sherlock more …
The detective looked intently at John, who met his gaze and allowed Sherlock's deductions. Slowly, Sherlock bent forward and reached hesitatingly towards John.
John didn't back away from him. Partly, because they were in the middle of a discussion and he wasn't planning on letting his friend get away with it just like that, by fleeing the room just because Sherlock was making approaches to him. On the other hand he had stopped blushing, which he was thankful for, and that enabled him to sit in his armchair, seemingly unperturbed, and to tear Sherlock off a strip. Lastly, Sherlock basically was just Sherlock, and John actually wasn't surprised that the most ingenious detective had felt himself above the law once more, and gotten into mischief again.
Tentatively, even timidly, Sherlock touched John's wrist.
Although John didn't blush, his heart jumped for joy involuntarily before starting to race madly, when Sherlock started to draw circles on John's skin with his thumb.
"John …," Sherlock said calmly, "I didn't jump off St. Bart's roof to throw away my life … or our relationship. And I certainly won't do that today."
Relationship. There it was again, the keyword. They would have to talk about it. Soon. Really soon now, or John really was going to have a coronary. Unfortunately, every time the subject emerged, John felt it wasn't the right moment to discuss it.
They looked at each other in silence for a little while, just as they had done several times in the past weeks, and yet again, John could have lost himself easily in his friend's eyes.
No, it definitely wasn't the right moment. He wanted to discuss the matter at the right time, not during an argument, or a case at all. He needed Sherlock's undivided attention, the attention of his mind as well as his heart – and he had no clue whatsoever when such a moment might occur in the near future.
"Alright," John finally said. "The gardener nearly laid hold of you."
"Indeed," Sherlock affirmed and abruptly let go of John's wrist.
It wasn't hard to tell that he was gripped by the thrill of the chase. Cases came first. In some sense he really was married to his work. That wasn't about to change and John would have to accept that.
"I benefitted once more from our bustling about London, when I was forced to put on a quick burst of speed. Stamina pays off in the end after all," Sherlock continued.
"And you flirted with the girl?" John pressed him.
Sherlock shook his head. „She flirted at me. I don't do flirting, as you very well know."
John couldn't entirely agree with him, but didn't want to bring up the subject of their own flirtations, for Sherlock Holmes was deft enough at flirting when he wanted to be. That much was clear. "If you say so … So she was able to give you some information?"
"Fortunately, she told me about the domestic violence in the end. The time I was obliged to spend with her was torturous! She also provided access to the …let's say … archives of the church. There I was able to obtain Jack's data and an up-to-date photo."
"Not that as well …," John murmured, sighing.
Sherlock's triumphant smile even grew stronger, if that was possible after all. "And now, let's have a look at the photograph. Do you see anything there?"
John looked at the straight, severe face. It was not a brutal countenance, but it was prim, hard and stern, with a firm-set, thin-lipped mouth and cold eyes.
"Is it like anyone you know?" Sherlock asked with a mischievous grin.
John looked quizzically at him.
Sherlock bent forward and spread his fingers over the photograph to hide Jack's hair and chin.
"Good heavens!" John exclaimed, "Melanie King's vanished husband." On Thursday evening Greg Lestrade had given them the photograph of the man, which Valerie Downer handed over to him the day before, and there was no doubt about the identity of the man before them.
"Exactly! This picture has supplied us with one of our most obvious missing links. We have him, John, we have him, and I dare swear before tomorrow night he'll fall into our clutches … and then the circle will be complete," Sherlock remarked, satisfied.
"And what now?"
"And now it is about time to set a trap for our dear friend."
Upon hearing Sherlock's words John couldn't help but feeling the thrill of the chase too. "What are you up to?"
"We'll bring him out of his shell. This afternoon we'll go to Aldershot as planned. Greg persuaded DI Davies, the idiot, to cooperate. Otherwise he could have said good-bye to any future promotion at all. Well, the police will turn up at the clinic and open the case all over again, conducting interviews and putting Jack through the wringer. Wiggins from the Homeless Network will keep an eye on Jack until then, so our friend won't be able to get out of there with his trophy collection. Since my night's work Jack will be a little bit worried after all."
"He isn't the only one," John mumbled.
"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, absent-mindedly. In his mind's eye he probably was already busy with the performance of the task ahead.
"You want to corner him," John remarked at normal volume.
"Indeed. Jack is under enormous pressure. After this afternoon he'll be forced to react," Sherlock replied. "Don't forget to bring your revolver with you, John. Could become a messy business."
"Forgetting my revolver when I am going out with you?" John returned drily. "I'm not suicidal."
Then, he asked himself silently, when chasing a serial killer had ever been a picnic at all.
Mid-afternoon they had taken the train as planned, leaving at three from Waterloo station. As he had a week before, Sherlock had taken an immense litter of newspapers with him and treated himself to reading them silently now. Now and then he gave out some kind of grunt, suggesting that the police had either done something utterly wrong or nothing at all in the investigations he was reviewing. After they changed trains in Woking, Sherlock finally tossed the ball of papers into the luggage rack of their coach, and John dared to speak to him. Ever since John had begun trying to get to the bottom of the case and, simultaneously, to figure out their relationship, there was one thing he couldn't get out of his mind, and he wanted to bring up the subject carefully.
"Sherlock, how high would the probability have been of Jack striking again before New Year if we had not have gotten on his track so quickly?"
Sherlock suddenly stiffened, and looked out of the window uneasily. "I don't know."
"Let's recapitulate what we know. Jack murdered five years ago for the first time. Two years later he killed again. Then he struck again three weeks ago," John said. "His homicidal tendencies may be on a rise, but somehow I cannot avoid the impression that he wouldn't have killed again a mere five weeks later. Which raises the question, my dear, why you didn't tell me?"
Sherlock shifted around in his seat uncomfortably and looked at John nervously. "Well…technically it is not possible to tell when exactly a serial killer will commit another murder. However, it is hardly likely that he would have killed again before New Year. But one never knows and…err…better to be safe than sorry."
John gave him a level look. "Then, dearest, I'd love to know why I had to get engaged to you for the sake of the case, instead of pretending to be engaged. May I remind you that it is no more than four weeks ago that you considered it essential for survival to tell our families, friends and the rest of the world about this blessed event."
"Err …," Sherlock started less than convincingly and looked away from John again. Then, his face suddenly relaxed. "Why, we're here already!" he exclaimed when the train slowed down and came to a stop. In next to no time the detective made off outside.
Inwardly, John counted to ten and inhaled deeply. Judging by the look on Sherlock's face, he had been relieved to end the discussion in this, John had to admit, rather elegant way. So John had no option but to wrestle with their bags on his own again.
Unfortunately, John wasn't able to resume the subject in the taxi either, since the cabbie engaged John in conversation about rugby and Sherlock gazed silently out of the window.
When they arrived at the clinic, Sherlock dashed out of the car in record time again, leaving it to John once more, to carry the bags.
What John saw next, deepened his frowning: The detective's relief at escaping the sensitive subject of their engagement apparently extended to rushing up to Anne and Ben in front of the clinic and engaging them in a lively conversation. Not only was he playing Prince Charming again, but he still looked drop dead gorgeous. The deep baritone sound of his voice when he laughed made John's skin prickle.
John sighed and walked over to the group. When he greeted Anne and Ben, Sherlock put his hand onto John's lower back as if that were an entirely normal thing for them to do. The touch sent a tingling through John's body, not unlike an electric shock, and his stomach was apparently doing a somersault.
Sherlock's flight told John that he wasn't entirely wrong with his presumptions, and he intended to give him a good talking to as soon as the case was settled. He could kill two birds with one stone by combining this with a discussion about the nature of their relationship since Sherlock was, after all, not the romantic type. John himself would have had reservations four weeks ago about linking a declaration of love with a case review, or in this case, a proper telling off, but by now John's frustration over his undeclared love was skyrocketing to new, heady heights – and he would love nothing more than shaking the answer out of his friend unceremoniously, right now. Even his angelic patience was currently decreasing rapidly.
The late afternoon proceeded eventfully, both to Sherlock's amusement and displeasure. After afternoon tea the couples adjourned to Dr Martin's former consulting room, waiting excitedly for her replacement to lead their therapy group. Fortunately the police turned up at the agreed-on hour – once more like bulls in a china shop – to question the participants, saving John and Sherlock from another hour of emotional striptease. This time Greg Lestrade accompanied the policemen to direct the investigation into the right channels. Since the Aldershot murder was linked with the London Hotel murder by now, this gave him the ideal opportunity for joining the investigations officially. DI Davies unfortunately behaved nearly as badly as the time before, but since John and Sherlock were not to be questioned, contact was limited to a snarl as a greeting. Greg Lestrade personally questioned Jack and gave him a grilling. John assumed he was doing so on the advice of Sherlock.
The consulting detective announced he was going to use the time to refine his plan for arresting Jack, and went on an expedition on his own, while John stayed behind alone and took advantage of the moment to catch up on some sleep. During his siesta he dreamed confusing things about guns, relentless pursuits and intertwined, naked limbs. He finally woke up, feeling unrested and irritated, as the horde of policemen, signalled their departure as noisily as they had announced their arrival. When Sherlock returned, John learned that they'd meet Greg again in the early evening to set a trap for Jack and settle the case.
An hour later they went downstairs to have dinner, and John noticed Iris's absence from the table where Jack, Howard, and Grace were seated. Maintaining a low profile, John drew Sherlock's attention to the situation and the detective nodded.
Then, Sherlock eased his way towards Jack, who was standing at the buffet and dragged John along. He came to a halt next to Jack and smiled at him artificially. "Ah, that looks good, doesn't it?" he purred. "I haven't seen Iris this evening. She didn't take the whole police thing too heart too much, I hope?"
Jack looked at him coolly. "She doesn't feel very well today, I'm afraid, and went to her room."
Underneath his cool exterior unmistakably prowled something dark and sinister.
John looked at them silently, feeling uneasy.
"Ah, that's a pity," Sherlock said. "It really is an ugly story after all, of course. Fortunately John and I weren't here when the murderer killed those poor people. Messy business. And considering that one of you is the killer …" Sherlock let fall a meaningful silence and shook his head. "Well, fortunately the police are hot on the scent. I heard the murder seems to be connected with other killings in the past," he continued with an air of fake shock. "In Kent and London."
Jack's posture stiffened noticeably and little beads of sweat were dripping off his forehead. "Yes, fortunately," he said in a strained voice. Then, he returned to his table without saying another word.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth were twitching slightly at the sight of Jack's retreat and, contrary to John's expectations, he even took a small helping of shepherd's pie.
Grinning he turned towards John. "Are you coming, luv, or are you putting down roots?"
"After you, my dear," John returned with a fake smile. Nothing else remained to be done, but to help himself and follow Sherlock towards their own table. John also settled for an exceptionally small helping, since he didn't know what the evening had in store for him. And should it require his top performance, he didn't want to go hunting with a full stomach.
During dinner Sherlock continued watching Jack blatantly, and he in turn looked at Sherlock again and again. In light of their behaviour John couldn't help feeling they had become the prey instead of being the hunters.
"Sherlock, what's the point of this all?" John whispered. "He smells a rat."
"My opening move," Sherlock answered laconically. "Like I said, the ground is moving under his feet. Iris is absent and that can only mean one thing: She's at Jack's mercy. Why? Maybe he's afraid she might talk or he needs to get rid of her in order to be able to vanish again himself. Anyway, we need to hinder him from putting his plan into action. He consults his watch suspiciously often and that makes me think, John. I believe it is about time. We better go."
"What are you up to? Searching for Iris?"
"No. Jack will lead us to her. He didn't have his gun with him. I checked that during our chitchat at the buffet. He'll have to go get it and his room is the most logical location to have hidden the gun. Remember, he also kept Melanie's photograph there. He wants to have these things nearby. Come. We'll take up our station in his room and wait for him."
"Shouldn't we wait for Greg?" John objected.
"I don't want to leave it to chance. If the whole thing isn't going according to plan, I want to be there, when it happens. Greg will join us soon enough."
John knew it was pointless to argue with the detective; he took hunting Jack down personally, not only because of Victor Trevor but also because of Jack's connection with Moriarty. Therefore, he silently he packed his things together without resistance and followed his friend outside.
It turned out that Sherlock was right. They did not have to wait long after they forced entry into Jack's room and sought shelter behind the wardrobe. They crouched closer in the shadow as they heard the outer door open and shut. Then came the sharp, metallic snap of a key, and Jack was in the room. He closed the door softly behind him, took a sharp glance around him to see that all was safe, threw off his jacket, and walked up to the closet with the brisk manner of one who knows exactly what he has to do and how to do it. He pushed the doors open, pulled the unconscious Iris out of it, and dragged her heedlessly over the carpet towards the bed. Presently they heard the sound of a drawer opening, the shuffle of Jack searching through it, and the scuff as it slid back into place. Then, the sound of silencer being attached to a gun and the click as Jack cocked the revolver.
Clearly their moment had come. Silently, John cursed the fact that Greg wouldn't be on guard yet.
Sherlock touched John's wrist as a signal, and together they stole across to the other side of the room. Gently as they moved, however, the old floor must have creaked under their feet, for the head of the killer, peering anxiously round, snapped into their direction. His face turned upon them with a glare of baffled rage, which gradually softened into a rather shamefaced grin as soon as he realized that two guns were pointed at his head.
But before Sherlock or John could make another move, Jack pointed his gun at Iris' head.
"I advise you to put you weapons down or she'll die instantly. "
They didn't anticipate this move; they had expected him to level his gun at them, had prepared to shoot him if necessary.
Sherlock slowly shook his head and let his gun fall down to the floor. John did the same, albeit grudgingly.
"Good and now, you'll kick them away."
They did as he told them.
Jack moved away from Iris and levelled his weapon at them.
That had not gone according to plan at all and now, unarmed and with Jack's revolver pointed at them, they were in serious trouble.
Facing mortal danger, John was outwardly calm as ever. His hands were steady as usual. He would be able to do what needed to be done at any moment. Inwardly though, he was very worried about their situation and he thought feverishly, searching for a solution that wouldn't come to his mind. He didn't dare to look at Sherlock, beside him, afraid that a sudden movement could make Jack pull the trigger, but he knew that his friend's mind was racing a thousand times faster than his, trying to find a way out of this. Thinking about Sherlock, he unsurprisingly realised that he somehow took comfort from his mere presence, and John fervently hoped that their romance, if one could refer to it as a romance yet, wouldn't go down in history as a tragedy à la Romeo and Juliet.
"Well, well!" Jack said coolly. "You consider yourself superior to me. You think you saw through my game, I suppose, but I was warned about you from the very beginning…"
Then several things happened at the same time.
Sherlock Holmes shouted "Ryder Street" with all his might – the scales fell from John's eyes because they had found themselves in a similar situation during the Ryder Street Adventure – and dove for his weapon, while John threw himself to the floor. His own weapon unfortunately was out of reach under a nearby chair.
Jack on the other hand had fired two shots in an instant. "Jim sends his love," Jack exclaimed, laughing.
In the same moment John felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to his thigh. He started to feel lightheaded and his vision blurred. Then, he started to feel as if he was going to pass out. Far away he heard a crash and a man crying out in agony. It was a heart-piercing cry and even though the voice didn't sound like Sherlock's, worrying about his friend brought him halfway back to his senses. Through half opened eyes had a blurred vision of Jack sprawling on the floor with blood running down his face while Sherlock rummaged his clothing for weapons.
A frisson of relief ran down John's back.
"Jim apparently forgot to tell you that the flirting is over!" the detective said darkly. "Pray that John's alright."
Jack only moaned as a reply.
As John tried to get back on his feet, wobbling, Sherlock's wiry arms were instantly round him, urging him to lie back down. He quickly got a chair and propped John's legs up on it, stabilizing his blood pressure.
Had John's leg not hurt that badly, he would have pouted when Sherlock moved away and the blissful physical contact dissolved. Or he would vehemently have seized him by the collar, pulling him back downward. But his leg hurt like hell and so he just groaned.
Sherlock bent over him. "Are you alright, John? For God's sake, tell me that you are not hurt!"
There was a hint of panic in his friend's voice.
It was worth the pain to see the cold mask slipping from Sherlock's face, deeply and genuinely anxious about John's state of health, about John himself. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. It was one of those rare occasions in which John caught his friend unguarded and vulnerable, being able to see straight into his heart.
"It's nothing, Sherlock. It's a mere scratch." However, it was one that hurt like hell.
He hadn't yet finished his sentence when Sherlock had already ripped open his trousers with his pocket-knife. "Hey, these were new," John protested weakly, but Sherlock paid no attention to his remark.
"You are right," he cried with an immense sigh of relief. "It is quite superficial." Then, Sherlock's face set like stone as he glared at their prisoner, who was trying to sit up with a dazed face, handcuffed to the table leg. "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed John, you would not have got out of this room alive."
Jack appeared resigned to his fate, remaining silent. His face however was still contorted with pain.
Hearing Sherlock's words, which he didn't doubt were deadly serious, John involuntarily cringed. Then again, he couldn't help feeling proud, too, considering the fact that he had succeeded in capturing a place in Sherlock's heart. Thinking about that made him feel warm all over and he would have liked to fling his arms around Sherlock's neck and clasp him to his chest, then and there. "Would have" being the operative phrase, because in the current situation it would have been entirely inappropriate.
Instead of expressing his affection he motioned towards Iris, and Sherlock, who had relaxed somewhat, went over to the unconscious woman.
"She's drugged", he stated after having examined her and tested her reflexes.
John exhaled audibly, relieved. "Thank God."
At the same moment someone rattled the door and they could hear the muffled voices of Greg Lestrade and his officers. Sherlock quickly walked over to Jack and rummaged roughly through his clothing for the keys, the man crying out in agony again, a fact which left the detective completely cold. Then he went to the door and let the policemen in.
"For God's sake! I told you to wait for us! You cannot be left on your own for two hours," Greg Lestrade exclaimed with a hint of despair in his voice, entering the room with his subordinates.
His colleagues arrested Jack at once, while the paramedics took care of Iris.
"Unfortunately Jack didn't stick to the schedule," Sherlock replied, unmoved.
Just as Greg started to reply, his glance fell on John. "Jesus! John!"
"It's nothing, Greg," John reassured him. "Thanks to Sherlock's quick-wittedness it was a near miss."
At this point John deliberately suppressed the fact that the detective would have loved nothing better than to break their prisoner on the wheel, to quarter, and to shoot him just a moment ago. He contemplated it as a kind of Sherlock-style "declaration of love", but he had to admit that in terms of idiocy it matched his faked suicide. How a genius like him could come up with such utter rubbish again and again was beyond him.
Sherlock and John exchanged a meaningful look, which didn't evade Greg's attention, but the inspector was wise enough not to ask, since they went back a long way.
"Are you sure about that?" Greg asked, worried. "The paramedics could take a look at you in a moment."
"No, no," John dismissed the idea. "It's really nothing."
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Please, send them over, when they have taken care of Iris."
"What? Why? Sherlock, I've told you, it's just a mere scratch," John raised his voice. "You said so yourself!"
"The bullet wound won't kill you, John, but… just to make sure, I'd like to confirm the diagnosis with a doctor," the detective replied.
"I am a doctor."
"Yes, and we all know that doctors make the worst patients one can imagine," Sherlock replied, unmoved.
At this point Greg couldn't suppress his smirk and nodded to the detective. "I will. Sorry, John, but I'm not starting an argument with your fiancé. Especially not when it comes to you. Besides a check-up won't hurt you."
John smiled artificially at them both. "Well, with friends like you, who needs enemies?"
"How good that you never force me to let the casualty doctor attend to my injuries – or worse, force me to be examined in the accident and emergency department," Sherlock returned. "I never hear you object when they say I have to stay the night."
"Your health is near and dear to me, and I am perfectly able to judge the injury severity. I am a doctor," John repeated stubbornly.
"Just now, you are the patient," Sherlock replied. "And I am getting a second opinion."
John tried to sit up, supporting himself on his elbows, but the motion was frankly painful. "Please yourself," he finally said, resigning himself to Sherlock's wishes. Sighing, he lay back once more and acknowledged defeat. "You have me at your feet," he added in humorous acknowledgement of the situation and couldn't entirely choke back his laughter. Literally speaking as well as figuratively, he thought, and as humiliating the whole situation was on the one hand, John also realized a certain irony in it.
Sherlock could only watch his friend uncomprehendingly, frowning.
At the sight of Sherlock's facial expression, John couldn't help but dissolve into giggles. As the paramedics made their way to him to take care of his injury, he averted his eyes from his friend, trying to call a halt to his fit of giggles. Therefore, John only heard Sherlock whispering to the doctor a moment later, "Please be so kind as to screen him for head wounds too, will you?" which only led to John biting his lip to prevent bursting out laughing. He wondered whether the shock of being wounded or the loss of blood really made him a bit euphoric after all…
Fortunately the physician just confirmed John's own diagnosis, before cleaning and stitching up his wound, which John believed to be exorbitant and over-careful but nevertheless he didn't utter a word. Then the doctor dressed his wound and told him he needed to rest.
Sherlock answered John's look of reproach, which was meant to signal "What did I tell you?" with a shrug of his shoulders. Relief, however, was written all over his usually composed face.
While the paramedics put the finishing touches to John, Sherlock turned to the inspector again. "And Davies was called to another case?" He stated more than he asked their friend the whereabouts of the local inspector.
"He got into a scrap with me and was withdrawn from the case," Greg explained evasively. He didn't need to say more than that. Everyone present understood their quarrel was over Sherlock. The result of that argument also emphasised the essential role Sherlock played and how he deserved the status he had attained.
Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I suggest our returning to London while your officers conduct the crime scene investigations here. I'll drop John at home and meet you at the Yard afterwards to conclude the case."
John's sounds of protest were deliberately disregarded by Sherlock.
And while Sherlock's face slowly started to gleam with pleasure over the successful conclusion of the case, this time John was only able to share his joy half-heartedly. With the case closed, John now would have to find the courage to suit his actions to his thoughts and to finally address the affair of his heart.