A/N I don't even know what this is supposed to be.
Thanks to Hummingbird1759, starrysummernights, Rain Hamish Holmes, 666BloodyHell666, Wavewizard19878, linguisticRenegade, Song of Grey Lemons, and ThisDayWillPass
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XCVII. Safety First
"Wait," John interrupts, reaching forward and laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he makes to sprint out the door. The detective tosses him an irritated glare, but his tone remains adamant, his resolve anything but wavered by Sherlock's obvious annoyance. "You don't have a gun."
"I won't need one," he insists rapidly. "It'll be quick work, they're idiots—but they're fast," he adds as John clings to his coat, refusing to let him go. "And I'm about to lose them." He gives a quick jerk, dislodging the fabric from the doctor's grip, and starts outside.
John sighs, frustrated, and hesitates for only a moment before hurrying ups again, his feet pounding on the stairs and his breath tight in his chest. There's no way that he's going to let Sherlock go without any sort of protection—he's come close to losing him too many times. He's not going to stand for the risk again.
His room is dark, but he makes it to his bedside table swiftly, pulling it out to reveal the dark gleam of the gun lying within. He grabs onto it without hesitation, and the metal is surprisingly cold, sending light chills down his fingers. There are memories in this weapon, memories of the battlefield, and, suddenly, he doesn't want Sherlock to be in possession of it. Almost as if it'll poison him, or connect him too fully to Afghanistan. He hesitates, knowing that the detective must be nearing the door by now, that he'll have a taxi soon if John doesn't hurry.
You can't let him go without the gun, idiot. It's too dangerous. You know it is.
So much for a day off, he recognizes tiredly, only allowing himself another three seconds of pause before snatching his jacket from its position draped over his bedpost and pulling it over his shoulders, tucking the gun underneath it. Dashing down the stairs, he wonders vaguely if he'll ever be able to let Sherlock go somewhere on his own. Surely he's capable; he did survive on his own for years before John arrived. But the doctor can't help but feel some obligation to protect him. He's just so stupid, really, so careless and impulsive… he says he plots things out carefully, says that he always plans and makes sure to be careful, but John really has trouble believing that sometimes.
Well, most of the time.
It's misting outside, not quite rain but certainly far from sun, and John pulls his jacket a bit tighter, making sure to cover the bulk of the gun with his folded arms. He steps quickly, managing to catch up with Sherlock's much longer stride, even though the detective is already halfway down the block.
"What are you doing here?" he snaps, scowling. "I told you, I'm not taking the gun—"
"No, but I am. And I'm coming with you."
Sherlock spends about half an instant debating whether or not to object, then rolls his eyes and picks up his face, leaving John to scamper after him, barely suppressing a grin.