This chapter is dedicated to SoulAlchemist9310, for your support and motivating me to get this blasted chapter posted. My best wishes are with you SoulAlchemist.
Rated M: for swearing, explicit violence, character deaths.
A/N Sorry for the delay. This chapter kicked my arse. Please note the following:
Spoiler Alert: for The Great Game.
Cliffhanger Alert: Sorry. (This time I really am a bit sorry, but I did it anyway.)
Credit-I wish to credit Ariane DeVere's fantastic transcripts for the dialogue that I used from The Great Game and (a bit) from The Hound of Baskerville. You can find these transcripts by googling Ariane DeVere and Live Journal.
All mistakes are my own. **sighs**
Chapter 52 Drawing Fire
A puzzle quickly coalesced in Sherlock's mind. John was masquerading as Christine-had been masquerading for quite some time now in fact. John had worn this disguise so that he could be the guard for Sherlock during this meeting. So much, so obvious.
Two questions remained. First, how on earth did the stupidly honorable and honest-to-a-fault John Watson manage to trick the World's Only Consulting Detective, who possessed an unmatched capacity for observation? A vital question, but perhaps one best left for later. The second and more immediate question remained; what the hell did John think he would accomplish by revealing himself now? The idiot was going to get himself killed!
The consulting detective narrowed his eyes as he glared. Those shadows might conceal the former soldier, but they wouldn't stop any bullets. This was untenable. Clearly, Sherlock needed to bring everyone's focus back to the two consultants and away from John.
Luckily and predictably, James Moriarty was already demanding everyone's attention.
"Wait," Jim shouted, who no longer pretended surprised, as his mouth gaped open in honest astonishment and confusion. "Everyone just wait," demanded the consulting criminal again, waving his hands.
But, naturally John didn't wait. Instead, he continued to foolishly taunt the armed and dangerous ex-colonel, who began to growl like a rabid animal.
"Din't cha like my little present last time, Colonel…Hey! Maybe you need a doctor!" yelled John, with absolutely no heed for his safety and clearly no concern for his lover's distress.
John's drivel was childish but effective, assuming that his goal was suicide by sniper; thought Sherlock in anger, fear and fingers of Sherlock's hand danced nervously against his leg as he tried to divine John's motives.
Why was John exposing himself now? Logically, the marksman should have remained silent and safe, or at the least, he should have begun shooting at the snipers. Surely, the former doctor and sharpshooter could have taken out one or more snipers, before Sherlock would have been shot. Really, the Sherlock's death was a foregone conclusion at this point, but there was no reason for John to have to die too. John's actions were patently irrational.
Oddly, while John Watson's actions were incomprehensible, Moriarty's crazy machinations now seemed to make sense. Moriarty simply desired the destruction of both of the Holmes brothers, to protect Moriarty's criminal enterprises and of course to punish them for interfering in the first place. As an added bonus, the genius lunatic probably wanted to kill Sherlock for stealing John Watson. Sadly, Sherlock had overestimated Moriarty's fan-boy infatuation with the World's Only Consulting Detective.
But perhaps Sherlock could still use whatever remained of Jim's fascination with himself to turn the tables on the criminal consultant?
"Jim, we need to talk," urged Sherlock, his voice low and conspiratorial.
"Wait," James repeated stupidly, ignoring Sherlock, "Johnny? Johnny Boy? I thought…" James Moriarty gasped in appalled realization. "You tricked me! You tricked me! You betrayed me!' Another gasp, "But, but why, Johnny? You love me!"
Then the criminal consultant turned on the tall brunet, "You! It was you! You tricked him. You bewitched him. You stole my Johnny!" accused Moriarty, jabbing at the taller mans chest with his finger.
Jim focused his dark, hate-filled gaze on the consulting detective.
The consulting detective still refrained shooting Jim, but only because a living Jim would be a more valuable bargaining chip. The lanky brunet began to circle Moriarty warily, waiting for a chance to grab the Irishman to hold him hostage.
"Jim, I thought we were here to discuss our…our future," said Sherlock, his voice low, intimate and urgent. "We both…get bored. So Bored. But togeth…."
His desperate suit was interrupted when a sniper roared, "WAT-SON!" A tall blond leaned forward out of the shadowed gallery, cursing and brandishing a rifle, "You bastard, cunt, scum of. …Come out here…where I can see you! Coward!"
Ah, the sniper had only just now realized that it was John hiding behind the steel girders and shadows. Given his reaction, this must be Colonel Moran. He lacked the straight posture and rugged good health that Sherlock expected from John's descriptions. This man was hunched over, and his face was thin and pinched. Despite his bluster and fury, Moriarty's sniper was ill or injured and apparently unbalanced, given his wild eyes and the spittle flying from his mouth.
But now that Moran was now out of the shadows, Sherlock decided to eliminate the sniper himself, even if the other snipers would then kill him. Sherlock raised his gun at the frothing colonel, but then James knocked the detective's hand aside. Moriarty grabbed onto Sherlock's long arm, fighting for control of the handgun.
Sherlock hadn't heard John's reply. But he couldn't miss the colonel's non-verbal answer, as Moran fired his rifle up into John's shadows.
The two grappling consultants froze, looking up to see tattered pieces of blue plastic drifting down. There was no way to determine whether John had been injured by the same round that destroyed the plastic flag.
That was unimportant. Sherlock needed to keep the Browning out of Moriarty's grasp and he needed to get Moran to stop targeting John.
"Sebas…" called Sherlock, trying to draw the sniper's attention.
"Hey, Sebby!" bellowed John, drawing Sebastian like a magnet, "Did ya miss me? I think y'did."
Sherlock wanted to tear at his hair; it was almost as if the former captain wanted Moran and the others to shoot at him. But why? Why? Why? Why?
Then Sherlock heard 'Idiot', from mind palace John's soft voice, 'I'm drawing their fire o'course. It's my plan, which is probably called S-squared, which stands for Something Stupid' Mind palace John wore shadows and shrouds, but he glowed in the dark, conducting a faint, pure light inside the now gloomy mind palace. 'I'm trying to save you, ya great git. Cause I love you,' whispered mind palace John. The colonel fired another suppressed round driving imaginary John away.
And what of his real soldier? He couldn't loose John. He couldn't live without his brilliant, blond idiot
Well, so far the real John Watson hadn't fallen from his roost; ergo, the colonel must have missed. That made two misses in less than five minutes. Apparently, the ex-colonel's poor health had compromised his once extraordinary skill as a sharpshooter.
Regrettably, while Sherlock's mind worked at light speed, it still left him distracted for several moments. Moriarty seized the advantage and had almost wrestled the gun out of Sherlock's hand. Gritting his teeth, the detective heaved his arm out of Moriarty's grasp, and the Browning flew into the lockers. The consultants stepped toward the gun as one, and then stopped, facing one another.
"Jim, this is a no-win situation for us both." Said Sherlock, as they orbited 'round one another, their eyes darting toward the fallen handgun and then back to each other. "We could leave all this. We could come to an understanding…"
Moriarty began to smile, a bipedal barracuda in a bespoke suit.
Just then, John interrupted with a bizarre chant of "Gottle o geer," over and over.
Oh dear God, John's having a relapse of his PTSD.
"Oh, we already understand one another, Sherly," said James, with an evil leer. The man really was a demon, just like John said. "I think we understand that you and your pet, are outnumbered and out gunned."
"Oh dear," taunted John. "I think…I think this is the end of a beautiful friendship," said John, which was surprisingly apt. However, John's taunt probably hadn't been directed at the consultants. He must have meant Moran or...
"Kill him," grunted Moran, aiming at the hidden marksman.
Several laser red dots were cast into the shadows, searching for their blond quarry. Sherlock's blood ran cold and time seemed to slow down. Both of which were physically impossible.
John.
Once more, Moriarty used the diversion to lunge for the Browning.
"No!" growled Sherlock, yanking the shoulder of Moriarty's finely tailored jacket, twisting and then pulling him into a headlock.
'Now!' thought Sherlock triumphantly. Now he would draw the fire away from John.
"Moran," called Sherlock, "Moran! Look! Look, I have your boss..."
"Sherlock! RUN!" screamed John, his high tenor carrying over Sherlock's baritone.
The reverberations of John's voice were subsumed in the roar from the marksman's rifle. Sherlock barely heard the clatter of the colonel's gun falling to floor.
But he saw Sebastian Moran sway and then slowly, silently topple backwards into the dark gallery.
"Sebastian!" screamed James, "No. I did not give you permission to die! No. No. No," he tore him self out of Sherlock's grasp, still repeating, "No. No. No, no, no. no, no, no…"
Before Sherlock could react, the room erupted in deafening automatic gunfire; as suppressed and unsuppressed rounds thundered and re-thundered painfully in the cavernous room.
The detective covered his ears, and Moriarty cowered still mouthing his denials, while the short, one-sided firestorm raged overhead. Metallic ricochets screamed in protest; bits of paint and rust rained down with the spent rounds.
Suddenly John's rifle fell, splashing into the water. Sherlock's heart seized in fear, and he waited breathlessly for John to follow.
But John didn't fall.
Short version, not dead.
Yet surely John must have been injured in that storm of bullets, because only an injury would have forced John to drop his firearm. Sherlock looked back at the snipers.
Their automatic fire had stopped, and now both snipers fired their pistols into the dark, where John was still ensconced.
Moriarty began tugging and flailing to escape the iron grip of the taller brunet.
"When I get out of here…" gasped Moriarty, his calm finally shattered, "I am going to hurt you. I'll hurt the people you love…"
"No, you won't!" snarled Sherlock.
The shorter man almost pulled free, but panting through gritted teeth, Sherlock seized Jim by the lapels on his Westwood suit, turning the consulting criminal so that they stood face-to-face.
Sherlock couldn't help glancing up. He blinked because John was clearly visible now. The former army sharpshooter had slid down a couple of feet, and he clung precariously to one side of a beam, obviously attempting to use the narrow girder as a shield from the other gunmen.
Jim swung his arms frantically, pummeling Sherlock's chest and arms. John fired a pistol back at the snipers, but nothing happened. His famous aim was off now too.
The detective shook the criminal like a rag doll, as Moriarty landed first one punch and then another into Sherlock's gut. The detective bent over in pain but did not release Jim.
In spite of the continuing gunfire, marksman shot again.
The second sniper fell this time. So, John's aim was not off by much.
"Nooo!" screamed James at the loss of another sniper. The criminal consultant writhing and twisting like a snake. The third sniper raked John's position with another burst of automatic fire. Sherlock's stunned ears could no longer tell the difference between rifle and handgun.
In unspoken agreement, both men looked up. John still held on, hanging half off the beam, and then he returned fire again.
The reverberations from the guns died out. But the ragged breaths of the consultants and the inchoate curses from the marksman kept each other company.
The odds had switched dramatically; Sherlock could finish this now…thanks to his John. The detective turned his attention on to the consulting madman.
"This! Ends! NOW!" snarled the consulting detective. "You will never have John." He emphasized his words with jarring shakes, rattling Jim's teeth. "You will never touch him. You will never hurt him. You will never hurt anyone…ever…again." Sherlock released a fistful of expensive suiting in order to punch James Moriarty's ugly face.
"Help me! Sebby!...Someone… help me!" squealed James. "Let go of me!" He tried to knee his assailant in the groin, at the same time as Sherlock shoved Jim backwards.
Balanced on only one leg, the consulting criminal lost his footing, and the two wrestling men fell onto the hard tile.
Sherlock was in the way.
John couldn't get clean shot.
"Sher-lock!" the ex-captain yelled. "Run! Go!"
At least, John thought that he yelled, but his mouth and throat were as dry as the dust in Qandahar. He might have only groaned or croaked. Unfortunately, his deafened ears were on hiatus, so who the hell knew?
"Get the fuck out-of-the-way, dammit!" the ex-soldier groaned/yelled impotently.
Unable to get a good grip with one sweaty hand, he slowly slid a few more inches down the beam. The blond soldier clung precariously to the side of the steel rafter, feeling a bit like a mynock*. From this altitude, the geniuses looked shrunken and he couldn't hear them at all. From this height they could have been in the throes of lovemaking or a fight to the death. John was sure it was the latter, almost sure. No...Sherlock was trying to throttle Jim...or something...anyway it was a fight and John had to get down there before Sherlock got hurt or...or something.
The former army captain rubbed his deaf, ringing ear. Then the blond remembered the Bluetooth in his left ear. John yanked it out with the barrel of his gun, leaving it to dangle from its neck clip.
Oh. That helped. Now the ex-soldier could make out the grunts and even a few random words from the men thrashing on the floor below.
Actually, the ability to hear again didn't help at all. The geniuses continued to brawl on the floor (Or they continued to make violent love, thought John's traitorously jealous mind). Meanwhile Captain Watson was still stuck twenty or thirty feet in the air, and more likely to fall to his watery death than shoot the devil Moriarty.
Stuck in limbo, and trying to stick to the side of the I-beam, he kept his gun aimed at the geniuses moving as they moved, just in case a shot opened up. After all, Sherlock might finally follow his partner's breathless orders to 'move the fuck outta the way' or Jim might break free and tried to scarper off, which would render him an easy target. Please God, let the demon make a run for it...
Remembering that they shouldn't be alone, John quickly scouted out the doorways and even the gallery for more evil henchmen; surely Moriarty had backup? And, for that matter, where the bloody hell was John's backup? Where was Clancy? Where was Oscar?
The marksman stuck his Bluetooth back in and tried vainly to raise Oscar or Lestrade. Nothing but static and the Bluetooth fell out anyway. John found himself growling now.
His gaze returned to the brawl, Moriarty was on top of Sherlock and then…then he wasn't. Sherlock had flipped them, straddling his rival. He held Jim by his shirt and tie, punching the demon-madman repeatedly.
Exhausted and at the end of his rope (if he only he had a rope, 'cause that would be useful), John gaped at the spectacle below. It was definitely a fight now and Sherlock was...a masterful, as he took down the world's most dangerous criminal single-handedly. It was more than a little bit sexy.
Fuck, Sherlock was doing John's job; the ex-soldier was the one who was supposed to fight masterfully while the detective did the brainwork. Fuck. The frustrated soldier drew in a deep breath set his tender muscles afire, and he struggled to climb back up on top of the slippery I-beam, because, he reasoned, if he got on top of the beam, and crawled back into the shadows under the roof, he might find a better angle to shoot James Moriarty. Besides, up at the top, he'd find his rope.
Yeah. The rope. Of course he had a bloody rope. It was just a couple of yards away.
John could climb up the girder. He could get the rope, and then he could climb down and…and save the day? Yeah, something like that.
He tried to throw his leg over the steel beam, and his hand slipped. He almost fell again. He clung to the side of the steel beam, and cursed his faltering body and feeble brain
Even his vision had blurred again He swiped at his face with the hand that gripped the Sig P-226. John turned back to the fight, ready, so very ready to shoot. He caught a flash of quicksilver.
Then the time warp reopened. In slow motion, John watched helplessly, as Jim flipped open a switch blade.
"Dammit! Sherlock!" shrieked John. "Get away. Get the fuck back!" Of course no one seemed to hear him, probably because of the space and temporal distortions caused by the time warp field…
DAMMIT! NEVER MIND THE TIME WARP!
John's Sig P226 wavered, back and forth, searching for an opening. He slipped further down side of the girder, one foot resting on the lip of the beam, the other foot dangling. He searched for a clear shot at fucking Moriarty, who had a knife.
"Please, God, let Sherlock live," he begged Eternity.
"Move your fuckin' arse!" he shrieked.
Moriarty's knife shimmered blue, beautiful and deadly. It matched the color of Sherlock's eyes. Jim's arm rose… … in… slow motion… AND JOHN COULDN'T SHOOT…He shot at the lockers… just to try to draw Jim's attention…away from Sherlock…but Jim was steady…and the knife slowly plunged anyway…plunged towards Sherlock's unprotected chest.
John screamed in fury, gripping his useless gun in his useless hand, which trembled with his impotence.
The knife sliced across Sherlock's blockading forearm.
Time sped up with a vengeance. The wound seemed to incensed the detective. Sherlock roared in anger and pain, ripping the knife out of James's grasp, as he pulled his arm away. Sherlock throttled the murderous fiend with both hands; blood flowed down his wrist, staining Moriarty's shirt.
Save Sherlock. That's all that mattered.
But first he had to get back on top of this narrow, slippery beam before he could get back down. His over-taxed muscles shook. The searing pain along his ribs made him clumsy. His left hand was wet and kept slipping, but he couldn't let go of his gun...
The marksman slid again and nearly fell. Gasping with relief and agony he grabbed the girder. He fumbled and his hand slipped, and with a dizzying lurch, John Watson found himself dangling by two hands, more than twenty feet over the pool, hanging over that death trap of a swimming pool…the pool where little Carl Powers died…
And dammit, but John had just dropped another gun.
Slowly, John took a deep, tearing, burning breath. The pain brought tears to his eyes. Frustration, fear for Sherlock and pent-up fury caused the tears to boil over and mix with the blood from his wound. His arms tensed and shook, as he tried to pull his heavy, unresponsive body back up.
Dammit. Where was Oscar? Where was Bill? Where was the rest of the unit? He looked down at the waiting pool and over at Captain Homes and...
Sherlock tore the knife away from Jim, and kicked it out of reach. Ignoring his bleeding arm, Sherlock tried to choke the criminal consultant to death.
He fought for John, who even now risked his own life for Sherlock. He fought for John, who loved the consulting detective when the rest of the world barely tolerated him. He fought for John because this excrement, this… this bloody worm wanted to hurt the best, the kindest, the bravest man in the world. He fought because this damned, bloody excrement dared to think he could ever touch John.
Death would be too good for this damned, bloody…damned bastard. Sherlock wished he could recall more of John's colorful expletives.
Not bloody important said his imaginary John Watson, who had returned wearing a feral grin and a black tee and tight jeans, both ripped in just the right places. Sherlock planted a matching feral grin onto his own face.
Moriarty landed an elbow against Sherlock's jaw and then wrenched the detective's hands off of his neck. The criminal consultant sucked in raspy breaths and tried to roll away. Nothing daunted, the detective grasped the smaller brunet's soiled Westwood, lifting the criminal genius up off the floor and then smashing him back down onto the tiles with a dull, satisfying thwack.
Sherlock knew John would approve. Indeed, mind palace John smiled and nodded his support. Gripping Jim's clothes, Sherlock lifted the criminal up again.
"Noo nnoo, w-w-wait," stuttered the Irish excrement, his arms flailing powerlessly. "Sher…Sherlock wwwait …W-we…c-c-can."
"No We Can't!" roared the consulting detective, slamming the consulting criminal to the floor and lifting him up again. "We will never. Ever..."
Sherlock was too angry to finish. A growl rumbled deep in his chest, and then Sherlock smashed the consulting criminal down yet again. He lifted Jim up; blood now flowed from the madman's scalp, pooling with Sherlock's blood beneath the two of them.
"W, wait. What about J-J-Johnny Boy?" choked Moriarty, "Sherly? Sh-Sherly!" hissed James from his ravaged throat, "Johnny…Boy is in big trouble! He…he's in danger!" Then, impossibly, James Moriarty grinned wickedly, even as he trembled underneath the detective. Chest heaving as he attempted to catch his breath, Sherlock hesitated.
The serpent hissed harshly again, "L-look behind you, Sherlock Holmes."
It was the oldest trick in the book.
But then again, Sherlock heard John screeching a warning about some God-rotted, sodding son of a bitch from fuckin' hell (Yes, there. Those were the very expletives that Sherlock had been looking for). More to the point, the detective heard a sound from the other side of the pool. Sherlock heard the heavy, raspy breathing of a sodding son of a bitch (male, older, long-time smoker, respirations hitching in pain…)
The detective turned to see a short, dark, grizzled man, favoring his left arm. Blood poured from the man's broken nose, staining his hideous yellow shirt. Clearly the man had been in a fight, perhaps with one of the minions? However, the grizzled man had apparently won the battle and now his right hand was quite steady, and it held a handgun, which he pointed at the battling consultants.
Sherlock flipped the nearly boneless criminal consultant in front of himself, as a human shield.
James shook a bit in fear or shock, and his head lolled back against Sherlock's shoulder, but still, the lunatic giggled. Sherlock felt his blood run cold at the sound.
Despite his suffering, James smiled beatifically in the consulting detective's embrace. Then the scarred criminal consultant nodded first at his hired man and then at John.
"Kill…him." Jim whispered harshly, smiling his benediction at his traitorous and doomed blond boyfriend. The henchman raised the gun towards the marksman, who was dangling helplessly twenty-one and a half feet above the pool. Sherlock's breath stuck in his throat even as he observed the height of his marksman and deduced his injuries.
"Say good-bye… to Johnny-Boy…Sherlock Holmes," sang Jim, his voice thick and sweet like clotted blood.
Sherlock felt numb, sick.
No.
The World's Most Desperate Consulting Detective threw the sodding Irish excrement aside like a broken puppet.
"No! No, I surrender!" cried Sherlock, offering himself to the grizzled henchman. "Take me." The detective raised his hands in submission and stepped forward. "TAKE ME!"
"Sh'lock," shouted the little marksman, still hanging from the beam. His voice pitched high and cracking, no doubt from the strain of clinging to the girder. "Idiot! Your gun! Get your fuckin' gun."
Sherlock lunged for the forgotten Browning...
The dark gunman shot John...
and the blond marksman plummeted like a fallen angel, his arms flapping like broken wings. He hit the smooth blue pool surface hard, with a clap like distant thunder, which drowned out the detective's cry.
Water fountained upwards; the marksman went under. The waves quietly marked his passing by gently splashing against the sides of the pool.
"John! No!" bellowed Sherlock, and his heart began to burn out of him.
While still in a crouch, Sherlock picked up the Browning (John's Browning); he twisted and fired at the grizzled gunman. The stocky older man looked down at his stomach, gaping in disbelief, and then he started screaming. The henchman's gun smashed to the floor. The dark, stocky man began to slump like hot wax, holding his stomach, as blood gushed over his fingers. His screams died out into harsh gurgles and then whimpers before he fell silent on the floor.
But Sherlock had already dismissed him. He stood to rush to the pool. From the corner of his eye, he saw Moriarty scuttling spider-like, toward the back exit. Extending his long arm, the consulting detective fired the Browning once more. The master criminal fell and didn't move.
Sherlock shoved his gun into his pocket (No, John's gun. And John would want his gun back. He certainly would, because John would be fine). Sherlock was halfway to the pool.
John.
Why hadn't John surfaced yet?
John.
Almost at the edge, the detective stared in horror at the murky shape of the submerged marksman. A dark plume of blood rose in a crimson cloud, which writhed in an obscene parody of the soldier-doctor. The horrific cloud blocked John's face from view.
John.
Sherlock staggered toward the pool.
John.
The curling, wine-dark cloud almost obscured John's frantically kicking legs.
John? "John! John! Over here!"
Sherlock dropped heavily to his knees, numb to the pain, and the blond soldier surfaced just out of reach, splashing clumsily.
"Sh'lock! Shlock!" yelled John before sinking back under.
John!
"Idiot!"
"John!"
Sherlock dove into the pool. He grabbed John by his shaggy, Christine-length, blond hair and yanked John's head above the water.
"Sher-lock!" yelled John, thrashing frantically and uselessly. "Sh'lock!"
"God dammit, John!" yelled Sherlock swimming to the side of the pool. "Hold…your breath, John!"
His analytical brain noted that his bloodied arm felt as if it was on fire, that John was bleeding heavily from a head wound, that John was conscious and panicky and that apparently his soldier-doctor was unable to swim worth a damn.
"John, hold still! I have you! Stop fighting me, imbecile!"
John squeaked Sherlock's name, in between inhaling water and drowning himself.
"I told you: hold still and hold your damned breath, you bloody, fucking idiot," yelled the brunet, gripping his partner with one hand and hanging onto the side of the pool with his other hand. John seemed to have stopped fighting, but now the blond was limp. At least the detective could hear John's half-choked wheezes over his own gasping breath.
"Dammit, John," gasped the detective, trying to shove John's near-dead weight out of the water. "I'm trying to get you out…can't you…"
The World's Only Consulting Detective went under, as he finally thrust the blond's torso up and onto the tiles lining the pool. Sherlock resurfaced, sputtering. He shoved his marksman further out of the water.
Finally, the drenched brunet surged upwards and dragged himself out of the water, still ignoring the blood seeping from his arm to reach for his John.
The soldier had rolled onto his back. His eyes remained tightly shut, John gasped like a fish out of water, blood trickled from his scalp above his temple, but Sherlock saw no other serious injuries.
"John!" said the detective firmly. "Are you all right?"
John hugged his arms to his chest, gasping and choking. The blonds blue eyes opened and stared upwards, unfocused.
"Are You All Right?" demanded Sherlock, becoming increasingly worried. Oh God, what if John was hurt somewhere else? He could be bleeding to death right now. The detective began struggling to loosen John's Kevlar vest.
The ex-army doctor shuddered, then rolled away and onto to his side, to repeatedly vomit up pool water.
"God, John," said the detective, hoarsely but no longer yelling. "You bloody well can't swim, can you?"
"Hmmmm…" moaned the half-drowned soldier, after being violently ill. He rolled onto his back, drawn towards Sherlock's voice; John tried to focus his unwilling eyes and tried to breathe without agony. That was enough to be going on with for now. Yeah?
Well…no.
The army captain tried to think. He was drowned, that much was clear. The damned pool that killed poor Carl Powers had now killed John Watson.
And Sherlock kept demanding…something…
But how the fuck was John supposed to answer when he was drowned? After all, dead men tell no tales. John Watson may have tried to laugh but started to cough. And damn, but that hurt.
The pain forced John to think again…and to open his eyes.
Sherlock's eyes were wild, as he tried to strip John of his vest. Poor Sherlock, thought John muzzily. Maybe if John tried really hard, maybe he could talk, even if he was already dead?
Maybe John should try really, really hard to talk to Sherlock, to make his handsome brunet feel better and to sort-of ask Sherlock nicely, not to strip John in public?
"Swimmm? No…Umm.. ummm. N-No…" said John, patting Sherlock's hand. The doctor was very proud of that he able to speak so coherently, what with being dead and all. Then the former army doctor rolled over to be sick again, which was murder on his ribs. Which confirmed his growing suspicion that he probably wasn't quite dead yet.
Afterwards, John forced himself to sit up next to Sherlock, in spite of the tearing ache. Seeing Sherlock's look of concern, John tried to force a smile but suspected that it didn't translate well, judging from Sherlock's deep frown.
Sherlock grunted eloquently and tore at the Velcro fasteners of John's body armor.
"Sher…Sherlock…Stop," muttered John.
Sherlock finally ripped the protective vest off, almost knocking the woozy ex-soldier to floor.
John muttered, "Jesus," in a confused mix of pain and relief.
Then the blond raised his brows, as the detective lifted John's sodden jumper and shirt, searching out serious wounds. The brunet sighed in relief when he found no gaping wounds, then he began cataloging the damage that was there.
Sherlock's long fingers gently ran over John's clammy skin, and he scowled at the deep red and purple bruising over John's torso. His scowl deepened when John's wheezy breaths hitched in pain.
"Yeah, I'm glad no one saw that," said John, trying to change the subject before his minor injuries became an issue (As long as John insisted that they were minor…they could be ignored, right?).
"Hmm?" asked Sherlock.
"You, ripping my clothes off, in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
Sherlock shrugged saying, "People do little else." Then he smiled at his soldier. John gave a little snort of laughter, but stopped at the sight of blood trickling down Sherlock's wrist.
"Christ! …your arm," cried John stiffening in distress.
"John, never mind my arm," spat Sherlock, yanking his arm out of the doctor's grasp. The brunet shoved the hated, heavy vest aside, the stupid vest, which had to weigh thirty pounds and which had contributed heavily to John's near drowning. Sherlock hated the vest, even if it had clearly taken a couple of shots and thus saved John's life. The thought of John shot again,made Sherlock feel a bit faint, and he forced himself to take a slow, deep breath.
John, far from alert, did not observe Sherlock's rapidly changing emotions or his near faint. The ex-soldier wiped a dirty sleeve across his forehead to get rid of the blood and water. Then, pursing his lips and squinting, the former army doctor tried once more to grab Sherlock's wounded arm again.
"John, I'm fine! Let me see your head," demanded Sherlock, as John twisted his head away and chased the brunet's arm.
At last, the RAMC captain's famous stubbornness paid off. With one hand, he caught Sherlock's injured arm, and with his other hand, he pulled and jerked at the fabric, which blocked his view of the wound.
Tired, in pain and recognizing John's do-or-die look, Sherlock gave up this fight. He didn't even protest when John ripped the seams of his tailored jacket. Of course, all of Sherlock's clothes were ruined anyway, thanks to the blood and the chlorinated water.
John tsked loudly, as he examined the long, deep laceration.
"Now…now just hold still. Yeah, jus hold still, Cap'in," ordered the doctor, who blinked and pursed his lips, considering...
"I mean, Sherlock." added John. The doctor dug through the many pockets of his cargo pants to find battle dressings. As always, he'd packed the gauze dressings in sand-proof, watertight bags, which he now ripped opened with his teeth.
John blinked and remembered that sand wasn't usually a problem in London. Irritated at his wandering mind, he scowled, deepening the furrows that he'd dug between his eyes. He gently placed the clean, dry gauze over the wound and began pressing down.
"Dammit, John, stop it!" snarled Sherlock, "You're hurting me!"
"Sorry. I'm sorry, but it's s'posed to hurt, Cap…I mean Sherlock," muttered John. "I gotta stop the bleeding, yeah? I mean, it's been bleeding a while now, and you've lost quite a bit of blood so, yeah. Cap...um, Sh'lockd, you feel dizzy?"
"Only, when you push too hard on my cut!"
"I am not pushing on it too hard. I am a doctor," said the doctor sternly. "I am an army doctor." Sherlock rolled his eyes mightily. "A captain and a surgeon. So I know the exact right amount of pressure to apply to a wound to achieve hemostasis, which we want to do, lest you develop hypovolemic hypotension or die from exsanguination."
John paused, proud to have pulled rank and used highly technical medical jargon both at the same time and while he was in pain, nauseous, and fighting off some almost-PTSD. Yes, thought John proudly, not a bad come back, not at all.
Sherlock tsked loudly and rolled his eyes to convey just how unimpressed he was, hiding the fact that he was always impressed when John went into army doctor mode.
"John, I am militantly unimpressed by your gratuitous use of multisyllabic expressions…"
"Yeah, yeah," muttered John, discouraged by Sherlock's effortless use of multisyllabus...multisyntac...big words. It wasn't fair having to compete with a big-headed genius while being in pain and...Ah, the hell with it, thought John wearily. "Right, Capt...Sherlock. You'll need evac to the field hospi…" John tailed off, and wrinkled his brow, in concentration. "to the…to a hospital, um, A and E. Yeah, an A and E. You'll need a few stitches, I'm afraid. And I'd like to see 'em run in some fluids to compensate for the bleeding…"
John trailed off again, because Sherlock had tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.
"Stop it. Stop deducing me," demanded John.
Sherlock blinked, clearly not stopping his deductive process.
"I'm fine," protested John, "I'm good." The blond refused to look back up at the detective, instead concentrating on the wound, which had responded well to the exact right amount of pressure, which a highly trained army doctor was able to exert and clearing demonstrating that he was not confused.
"You have been exposed to the extreme emotional stress of near death by drowning and in combat, plus having to witness your lover being threatened and attacked, before recovering from your recent severe trauma, let alone the PTSD you suffered from your time spent in Afghanistan," said Sherlock, who avalanched past John's protests, "In addition you have suffered some form of head trauma…"
"Shrapnel!" interjected the army doctor. "It was shrapnel!"
"…from shrapnel," agreed Sherlock, "no doubt leading to hypovolemic shock compounded by your underlying anemia secondary to previous blood loss, and then you suffered multiple, painful contusions from the bullets," John was forced to look up with a foul glare, as Sherlock flaunted his easy familiarity with medical terminology.
"On top of that," continued the force of nature, which Sherlock Holmes surely was, "You fell twenty-one and a half feet, entering the pool at an awkward angle, which I might add, very well could have killed you, in and off itself."
"Twenty-one and a half feet…how could you possibly know the exact distance? You just made that up, didn't you?" protested the army doctor. "Anyway, I didn't fall. I made a tactical decision to jump into the pool to evade the gunshot..."
"You slipped. You fell, and then you nearly drowned!"
"Nooo," said John pursing his lips, "I wasn't drowning, I was… teaching myself to…to swim."
Sherlock's eyes widened in astonishment, at John Watson's obvious yet pitiful attempts to hide the truth.
"Yeah, and I almost had it figured out," continued John. Sherlock was even more shocked when he realized that his little blond soldier actually believed his own ridiculous explanations. "In fact, I'm pretty sure that I would have figured out how to swim, if I'd only had a little more time."
"You were out of time, John," snapped the annoyed consulting detective. "We won't even discuss why you were hanging about the rafters over a swimming pool, when you cannot swim."
"For God's sake! I was trying to protect you…"
"I said; we aren't discussing it! Although I assure you we will certainly discuss it at length, at a later time."
John's brow managed to furrow even deeper, as he somehow found himself wrong-footed, when he should have been on the right side of this…this...
"No, John," said the detective, interrupting John's musings. "What we are going to discuss is your confusion…"
"I'm not confused!"
"I have laid out the proximal causes of your evident relapse."
"Nooo," persisted the doctor despite his confusion.
"You display intermittent yet persistent confusion, which typifies your expression of Post Traumatic Stress syndrome. Which leads to my wish to try a bit of an experiment on you…"
"No. No way are you experimenting on me," said the ex-army doctor decisively. Confused or not, John had no intention of becoming an experiment.
"It's not as if I were planning on dissecting you!" said the detective looking a bit hurt. "I merely suggest that you seek competent counseling with the support of a very close friend and...well, with my support, obviously," said Sherlock acerbically because he was veering into the realms of sentiment. Then he continued more briskly, "and then we should see how you respond to a prolonged period of rest, beginning immediately."
"Now wait one bloody minute! if you think that you're going to lock me up again, you are sadly mistaken, Captain Holmes!" snapped John, as he wrapped gauze tightly around Sherlock's arm to build up the pressure dressing, which would exert the exact right amount of pressure on the wound.
"And there it is. You called me Captain Holmes. Obvious confusion!" said Sherlock, incisively.
"No I didn't," said John, wrinkling his brow in confusion. "I'm fine. It's fine; it's all fine." He lowered his head and pretended to be busy checking vitals, so he obviously couldn't be confused for someone who was confused. Shite.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in concern. Perhaps he was pushing too hard? Or should he force John to see the truth?
And yet another relationship minefield looms ahead of me, thought Sherlock.
Well, Sherlock did not know exactly how to insist that his partner get the care he needed for PTSD, although Sherlock, being a genius, would obviously get his way in the end. The question was more a matter of timing and now was, perhaps, not a good time after all. No, John was injured, half-drowned (well only thirty-three point three percent drowned since John's respirations had not halted nor had he aspirated any water into his respiratory tree) but the point was that John was upset and required reassurance before the discussion about mental health care.
Fortunately, Sherlock was prepared to deal with John's emotional stress, thanks to the website, "How to be the World's Best Boyfriend". The detective leaned forward to put a reassuring hand on John's shoulder, adding a reassuring squeeze-firm but gentle- because that's what a good boyfriend did. Also, thanks to Mycroft, the detective knew that Oscar had done the same thing for John only hours ago (sans the gentle squeeze presumably, since that was Sherlock's own modification). And if Oscar had done it, then Sherlock, who was John's official boyfriend, should do it too.
"And you needn't worry," said Sherlock, verbally reassuring his boyfriend and tactfully changing the subject. "I will not ever attempt to lock you up again."
"Good, because it's wrong locking people up!"
The detective frowned a little, because John didn't lay his hand on top of Sherlock's, even though the blond had put his hand on top of Oscar's hand, according to Mycroft's report. This was a bit troubling.
"Yes, yes, I suppose it is...although it was effective in keeping you safe, in the short-term," said Sherlock, waving his hand to dismiss the whole, rather dull, morality issue and to silence the former army doctor. The waving also allowed him to pretend that he didn't care that John hadn't wanted to hold his hand. "But more to the point, John, incarceration proved to be ineffective," said the detective without remorse concerning John's recent protective custody. He continued to explain, "Obviously, you will eventually escape any attempts at incarceration, short of physical restraints. You should know me well enough by now to know that I won't waste time with ineffective procedures."
"Damn right," muttered John. "I mean...damn right I'll escape and not damn right all the other...stuff." John bit his lip. while he reexamined the pressure dressing for any bleeding. Now he wondered whether he was confused or not. And did that actually mean that he was having a relapse? Or was this just a normal reaction to the recent battle and Sherlock's injury and the problems with swimming and Sherlock being Sherlock.
"Well, now that that is sorted. Allow me to congratulate you on a rather smart effort in assuming a disguise. Clearly, it was only a matter of time before I deduced it," said the genius. "No, don't apologize."
John scowled, uncertain what the hell he was supposedly going to apologize for.
"Indeed, I feel I should apologize for taking so long to deduce that you were impersonating Christine and leaving the safe house to run around London, exposing yourself to your enemies and then coming here to bollox things up…"
"Bollox things up? I saved your bloody life!"
"The situation was not irremediable, John. Not until after you interrupted and got everyone agitated…"
'Irre...irre-mediable? It was beyond bloody irremediable, Sherlock Holmes!" snapped John even as he checked Sherlock's pulse and capillary refill. "Bloody Moran was locked and loaded. I know his tells…knew, knew his tells. He was preparing to fire…fire on you…" John's face suffused with red, and he blinked rapidly, to keep back the sudden unexpected and very unwanted tears, at the thought of how close Sherlock had been to dying tonight. Shite, maybe I am was just a tiny-bit off, thought John, probably due to the head wound and dowsing in the pool.
Sherlock froze at the sight of his boyfriend's distress. Bit not good, goading the man after you just diagnosed his incipient breakdown, accused mind palace John standing at rest with a bland smile on his face and anger in his dark blue eyes.
"Never mind, John," said Sherlock a bit awkwardly. He put his hand back on John's shoulder, gave another firm but gentle squeeze and tried to pull the smaller man closer, but John shook him off, determined to finish dressing the wound exactly right. John was also determined not to breakdown in front of his tough-as-nails captain…boyfriend…thingy
"John…"
"In fact, if you had been paying attention," continued John in spite of his traitorous voice skirling up ever so slightly. "I told you to run..."
"Don't be ridiculous, John. I had no intention of leaving you…"
"Why not? If you had run, then I would have had a clear shot at Moriarty …"
"John! It would never be possible for me to abandon you to danger, and I refuse to listen to anymore of this…this…"
"Shite?" suggested John. "I think the word you're looking for is shite."
"Shite," agreed Sherlock, as he succeeded in drawing his soldier into a one-armed hug, sighing his name softly into the wet and bloody blond hair.
Slowly, John released Sherlock's arm and carefully put his own arms around the detective's lean waist. Then he rested his head against a broad shoulder.
"Speaking of shite, I…I thought for a minute or two, that you'd been…well I thought you and Jim were flirting." said John, trying to make his voice sound light and amused. Even in his pseudo-confused state he could tell that he'd failed.
"Idiot! He meant nothing to me, John." said Sherlock kissing the top of his marksman's head.
"And then I thought they were going to shoot you. Moran intended to..," continued John, with a faraway look in his blue eyes. "That's why I had to draw their fire away from you before I could wipe them off the face of the earth for threatening you, the bloody rebel scum."
"Ah…Just as we thought," said Sherlock, ignoring the rebel scum epithet.
"We who?" asked John, honestly confused.
Sherlock declined to discuss mind palace John with real John. "I meant me, obviously. And," continued the detective quickly. "I must admit that I reciprocated the concern you obviously felt for me, which is why I couldn't just leave you."
"Yeah? Concerned?" said John, smiling a bit into Sherlock's shoulder as a long arm tightened around him. "Concerned for me?"
"No. Not concerned, actually," said Sherlock. "Truthfully, John, I was…afraid. I was afraid for you. I disliked the feeling immensely. I've always been able to keep myself distant…but….now? I'm prey to sentiment and feelings. Emotions, the grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment. I hate emotions…"
"Umm, sorry?" said John, suddenly uncertain. It was clear to John that Sherlock was generating eighty-three percent of John's confusion (John just made up the number in his head, because he could).
"Oh, don't pull away from me,!" said the irascible detective. "I do hate all these emotions clouding my judgment. And I still despise sentiment. However," Sherlock squeezed John painfully. "However, I am willing to tolerate the emotions which relate to you…but only you. Everyone else is insufferable.
John softly snorted in laughter, "Um. Okay then."
The battered lovers rested against one another, Sherlock nuzzling John's hair and John listening with his good ear to Sherlock's heart beating (a bit fast, but strong and steady). They breathed in the peace of their brief respite.
"Sherlock?" asked John finally. "Shouldn't we have had some reinforcements by now? And do you think it's wise to be fraternizing on the battlefield where anyone could see us? And don't you think we should worry that the insurgents will come back?"
Sherlock re-tightened his hold on the blond, letting up a little when John grunted in pain.
"This is not a battlefield and there are no insurgents here, John," said Sherlock sighing. "We're at the pool..."
"I knew that," said John quickly, squinting at the pool as if it had tricked him.
"And, I'll fraternize with you whenever I choose," said Sherlock, his voice dropping low and menacing.
John liked the sound of that.
"Yes, sir," said John, "But still, shouldn't the reinforcements have rendezvoused with us by now?"
"Yes, and that is indeed concerning, John," said Sherlock decisively. "Lestrade and the others must have heard the gunfire. As they have not come for us, I assume that Moriarty's men have blocked one or both exits. We have sat here far too long as it is. I suggest that we carefully attempt to leave via the front…"
"Moriarty? Moriarty? Wait, where is Moriarty?" asked John.
"He's dead, John," said Sherlock standing unsteadily. "I shot him…"
The detective's voice came to an abrupt halt when he noticed that Moriarty's body was gone. Despite his persistent dizziness, his narrowed eyes easily followed a track of blood toward the exit behind the pool.
"He's gone," said Sherlock flatly. "He…he must have crawled off when I went to rescue you. Evidently, Moriarty is not dead…"
John broke free from his lover's embrace, muttering about his mission.
"JOHN, come back here!" shouted Sherlock, reaching in vain for his soldier, who was following the trail of blood. Without slowing down, John un-holstered his gun with one hand.
"John!" yelled Sherlock, rising to take a few unsteady steps forward before stumbling.
"I got point, Captain!" shouted John, with a lopsided smile and a thumbs-up sign. "You radio in for back-up!" The blond dashed to the exit, although he hunched over slightly to protect his bruised ribs.
"John, no! It might be a trap!" Darkness nibbled at Sherlock's vision as he tried to follow his foolhardy lover. "Idiot! Don't go…"
John stupidly went through the door, letting it shut.
"John?" called Sherlock, staggering into a locker..
A gunshot rang out. Then another. The detective fell to his hands and knees; pain shot up his arm.
John.
More shots. Sherlock lost count. John had run blindly into the fire. The idiot.
No, Sherlock was the idiot for not taking better care of his lover. Sherlock should have known the confused soldier would hare off after the criminal consultant.
Time seemed to stand still for the World's Only Consulting Detective. John should have come back by now. Why hadn't John come back to him? Darkness advanced bringing fear and loss…unbearable loss. Sherlock could still taste the tang of John's blood and sweat on his tongue.
The rear of the cursed building screamed with silence and the absence of a blond soldier.
John.
John. His mind chanted his lover's name in time with his labored breaths.
John.
John.
John.
One last shot was fired. It echoed with John's name.
John?
Darkness swallowed him whole, as he prayed, 'John'.
.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
A/N
* Mynock=alien life-form that clings to the Millenium Falcon in StarWars episode 5
Okay several apologies are in order. A) I'm sorry for the excess angst. I couldn't stop myself. B) Once again, sorry for another cliffhanger. C) Finally, I'm sorry if this chapter is a bit rough, but I struggled upload this chapter, before I go on a short vacation. Please let me know if you spot glaring errors...or even if you spot subtle errors.
But hey, I have some good news too. The good news is that there are only three or four more chapters left. Wait do I hear applause and cheering? And a few catcalls?
Wow, really?
Look, I know this fic ran on way too long, but CHEERING? Cheering for the end? LOLOLOLOLOL I'll be honest. I'll be glad when this is done too. Thanks for sticking with me this long! :D
Thank you so much to everyone who has followed or favorited this fic.
Thank you especially to those of you who sent in reviews. I appreciate your compliments, critiques, comments, questions and con-crit. Thank you for the recent reviews from: Quiet Time, JC Black, 107602, dana-san, SoulAlchemist9310, meep484, Spillway Blue, kmyzbtcc, brandyfaire, freakingbored123 and EJ12212012.
Disclaimer: In this universe, I do not own the rights to Sherlock in any media or any form.
I do however claim the rights to Sherlock in at least one alternate universe that I have yet to discover. Thank you to those who have already encouraged me in this ground breaking, trans-dimensional endeavor. Your suggestions were very thoughtful, although not noticeably successful.
:D