OKAY I'M UPDATING UPDATING UPDATING!
Aha, reviews...
Well, I already have the first half of this story planned out in my head. Loosely, but planned out. So hopefully it's decent.
Thanks for sticking around, or thanks for popping in, and thanks for your reviews! I love you guys...
Sherlock's eyes are clenched shut as he hears that dull thud. They both fall, John and him, and hit the concrete hard. There's another noise as something else hits the floor and a voice calls in the distance.
"Sherlock! John!"
Something's wrong. Well, something didn't go as planned. His eyes flash open to see John gazing at him, bewildered. Sherlock looks down at his torso. No blood, no bullet. Nothing. His doctor grabs him by the lapel and pulls him up. The detective sees those dark brown eyes flash and he knows he's in for it later.
"Sherlock-John!" It's Lestrade now, calling their names, almost as if they're one. They both turn towards the detective inspector, each a tad shocked to see him. Sherlock can see that his doctor is feeling numb, and for a moment he does too. Moriarty's corpse lies on the ground before them. "Are you boys all right?"
Long musician's fingers feel that spot on his torso subconsciously for a moment as he looks back and forth between John and Lestrade. "Yes... um... nice work, Lestrade," he murmurs. I'd almost forgotten you'd come, he thinks, disgusted with himself. Sherlock shakes his head, embarrassed that he seems to be losing his edge. At least when John is in danger.
The detective inspector chuckles. "I might have expected a thank you, but then again I know you too well, Sherlock. Your welcome," he says, just as John says thank you. Sirens are sounding in the distance, and soon enough the factory is going to be swarming. For the next few minutes the trio stands in mutual silence, John glaring every couple seconds at Sherlock. The detective is back to his usual self, standing stock-still, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in his (pretty much) omnipresent frown. His wall has been put up, standing tall and oppressing between him and the other two. John and Greg don't make an attempt to get through to him - no one can. Not while he's like this.
John reaches wildly for his coat out of nowhere, making Lestrade jump. Sherlock doesn't respond, but watches out of the corner of his eye as the doctor unzips the coat and pulls something familiar out of its confines. The detective turns now, head tilted as he waits. John unfolds the fabric and holds it up. "Almost forgot," he says so softly it's almost a whisper, and Sherlock takes his long coat softly from his grasp. The detective pulls it on and turns up the collar, breathing it in - along with John's scent and warmth - oblivious to its mild dampness. He shoves his pale hands into the pockets, content for the moment.
"Well well well," Anderson suddenly calls from the gloom. A dark silhouette is slowly forming into a human being, sharply outlined by Donovan's flashlight behind him. "John, I see you found your boyfriend."
Sherlock glances over in time to see the doctor's brow furrow heavily. There's fire in his eyes as he looks to the bastard, but his tone is tame. "He's not my boyfriend," he says, and for a moment the detective feels... odd (?). But John gazes up at him, and beneath all the anger (wherever that came from) is a tender look. 'Yet', he can practically hear John think as the very corner of his lips twitch upwards. Sherlock is smiling to himself as he walks past the crowd and towards the lessening rain. He would rather explain everything outside, and leave this place behind him. He offers a passing glance at Moriarty's body as he makes his way out. The consulting criminal smiles at him out of the corner of his eye.
He stops in his tracks, backtracks a few paces, and kneels next to the body. No smile. Just shocked eyes and a surprised "o" for a mouth. An ugly bullet hole gapes at him somewhere around Moriarty's heart. His skin is already starting to pale. Satisfyed, Sherlock stands and strides for the door, yet he can't shake that cold feeling. He hears Lestrade and John begin to follow after him and he sighs. No chance of relaxation tonight.
"What the hell was that!" John demands as soon as the door is closed safely behind them.
Sherlock ignores him for the most part, taking his time to hang up his coat and pace around the flat. "What the hell was what?" he asks calmly, in the very way that gets on the doctor's nerves the most.
He watches as John's face slowly changes from pale to red. "That move back there! At the factory!"
The detective tilts his head.
John is reaching his last nerve, the taller man can tell, but he would rather have John get everything out now. "When you jumped in front of me to take that bullet! What the hell was that!"
"John-"
"Oh don't 'John' me! You were going to kill yourself-!"
"To save you!" Sherlock suddenly yells, frustrated and fried - it's been a long night for both of them.
"Save me-? Jesus, Sherlock! Sometimes I can't bloody believe you-!"
Sherlock grits his teeth and crosses the space between them, skin practically burning in a chemical reaction of emotions. "What did you expect me to do? Just let you die? Oh John, you really need to use that brain of yours, I know you have one."
"Well you didn't have to be such an idiot like that!" John spits out after a moment, still furious.
A chuckle leaves Sherlock's lips, and the doctor looks confused for a moment. "Oh, John. I'm an idiot? Can't you see-?" He shakes his head suddenly, cutting himself off. He turns away now, still smiling wryly. "Have you forgotten everything that's occured between us?" the detective asks, voice dangerously soft.
He sees John's jaw tense, those intriguing brown eyes narrow. "I see, so I go through all that, then you just get shot and die right in front of me when I can't do anything about it?"
The dark haired man has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. "You moron. You could have moved on. In time," he adds as the other man gives him a murderous look. "But me - John, you have no idea..."
"Oh, I have no idea about what?"
Another chuckle escapes him. "John, can't you see how much you mean to me?"
His body is betraying him yet again. Sherlock can hear his voice break, almost a whisper. Images of John's death and life without him flash before his eyes - just as they had when Moriarty took him - making his throat tighten and his mouth dry. At the mere thought of what he would possibly do (no matter what he tries to tell himself to make him believe he would be fine, he knows he wouldn't last, not really) if such an event occurred, tears gather in his eyes, but he doesn't let them fall. He can't.
John is instantly at his side, a gentle hand cupping his face. Sherlock frowns and wants to turn away, but he can't. Instead he lets his doctor turn his face so they're eye to eye. Soft, sad grey meets tender brown. An apology then. The shorter man pulls the detective down just enough to touch their lips. It's soft and chaste, but Sherlock feels his heart race.
As they pull away, John looks dismal. Sherlock feels distressed for a moment before his doctor meets his eyes again.
"I didn't say before, Sherlock... I don't know why, but I didn't..."
"Didn't say what?"
John offers a mild smile. "I love you Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock swears his heart sings, despite the anatomical impossibility. He lets himself be pulled down for another tame kiss, but when they draw back this time, brown eyes flick and soft lips grin mischievously.
"Y' know, Mrs Hudson still isn't home..." John hints, and Sherlock can't lead him upstairs fast enough.
Hahaha, yay! You have no idea how happy I am that this is finished! Thank you for reading lovelies! Stick around for the short epilogue! You don't have to, but if you want (grin). Haha, I'm excited now, because I can finally start these three other stories that I have in mind!
Keep in touch, if convenient. If not, keep in touch anyway.
Ciao, loves.
-MS