I'm so glad you all are loving this story so much! :D
Anyway, here's another one-shot for you! I got this prompt from two Authors: Capybara and Zealister.
Hope you like it!
"So, what's the plan here?" John asked as he stepped out of the cab after Sherlock and shut the door.
"Get in and get out as quickly as possible. Just don't get caught."
John let out a sigh.
"I can't believe I'm spending Saturday night scouring a bloody junkyard for a pocket watch that may or may not even be there."
"Oh, you've done much worse."
"Whatever. Where am I to be stationed, then?" John asked as he zipped up his jacket to block out the cold.
"I'll take the front half. You take the back," Sherlock said, clarifying himself with a point of his finger.
John nodded.
"Alright. Do you have your gun on you?"
Sherlock shook his head, earning an eye roll from his companion.
"Christ, Sherlock. Here." John handed the detective his Browning. "Just be careful with it, alright?"
Sherlock took the weapon with some slight hesitation.
"Are you sure you won't be needing it?"
"I'd rather you have it than me."
Sherlock gave him a sort of confused look.
"Oh. Okay. Fine then," he said, almost phrasing it as a question. "Let's advance."
After entering the dark yard, the two friends split off into their designated areas, Sherlock heading into a junk shed and John heading over to a pile near the back.
John groaned when he saw the enormous piles of rubbish surrounding him. It took him back to that case involving the Black Lotus Gang, when he and Sherlock spent hours digging through bins upon bins of books to trying to solve the case. He supposed this case would be a lot similar, but a lot more time consuming.
And a lot smellier.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"You owe me, Sherlock. Big time," he mumbled as he headed over to a trash pile.
He had only been rustling through the piles for about twenty minutes when he saw something glisten behind a large piece of metal. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was the pocket watch they were looking for. And he couldn't help but sigh out of relief.
With two hands, he gripped onto the metal blocking it and began to pry it out of the way, giving him just enough room to snatch the watch and stick it in his pocket.
And that's when the whole pile came crashing to the ground on top of him.
Fortunately, he managed to dodge most of the rubble, but found his leg pinned beneath a large portion of it.
From what he could tell, it wasn't broken. Just trapped. And he knew he might need some assistance. He considered calling out to Sherlock until he heard growling. Looking straight ahead of him, he saw two ferocious-looking German Shepherds coming his way, one with a red collar and one with a black one, baring their teeth and looking to kill.
"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck," he whispered.
He knew calling for Sherlock would only draw more attention to himself, so that was out of the question. And if he started struggling to worm his way out of the wreckage, that would be just as ineffective.
But maybe less so.
God, how he wished he had saved his Browning.
With a deep breath, John started to wiggle his trapped leg through the rubble, and felt something give way. It felt like he could maybe slide it free.
The dogs were still approaching somewhat slowly, as if trying to make a game out of the whole thing. It looked like John was home-free.
Until the dogs started running.
Frantically, John tried to drag himself out of the rubble. Just as his foot slid through and he got onto his feet, he felt sharp teeth grab a hold of that very same foot, sending him back down to the ground with a crash.
"Shit!" he cried out.
He tried to kick the dog off, but found the other one with the red collar was lunging for his shin. He quickly swept his leg out of the way, kicking red collar in the head in the process. This angered the dog and caused him to go for John's face. The doctor gave a strangled cry as teeth scraped across his face.
A shot rang out.
The hound that was mauling his face fell to the ground.
Another shot.
The other dog fell.
And all was quiet.
John brought his hand up to his face. When he took it away, he found it had been covered in blood. His blood.
He moaned and went to sit up, but found that there were hands restraining his movement.
"Stay still, John. For the love of God, stay still!" a voice shouted at him.
It sounded so far away, and John could have sworn it was Sherlock who had spoken to him.
"Wha..."
"You idiot! I knew you should have kept your gun!"
The voice sounded panicked and scared. So very scared.
"John, tell me what to do."
John let out a breath.
"Right. Right, m'kay. Okay. Ow. Shit, okay. Okay. Alright. Help me up, will you?"
Those same hands supported his back and chest and helped him into a sitting position. Upon closer inspection, John realised that those hands did indeed belong to Sherlock.
"What now, John?"
"Hospital," John moaned.
Sherlock nodded and helped John stand, draping his arm around his shoulders.
"We'll get a cab," Sherlock said.
And he dragged his companion to the road.
"So yeah, the worst you'll have in terms of long-term effects is a lot of scarring," the doctor said, flipping through the sheets on his clipboard. "Let's see; broken ankle, black eye, yada yada yada..." He set the clipboard down with a loud clack. "In short, Mr. Watson, you'll be just fine. It was lucky that your friend here got to you in time, though. Those dogs are notorious for ripping people's throats out."
John sighed.
"Thanks. I'm perfectly aware of that. Can I go now?"
The doctor nodded.
"Yep. Once you get your clothes on, you and your boyfriend can head out. Just remember to keep off that ankle for a while."
John nodded.
"Yeah, I know. I'm a doctor."
"Of course. Get well, Doctor."
"And he's not my boyfriend!"
The doctor just strode out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
"Well, someone's grumpy," Sherlock said from the chair across the room.
"And you deduced that, did you?" John said, as annoyed as ever.
"Even Anderson could have made that deduction. You weren't really making any effort to conceal your irritation."
John huffed.
"Whatever. You're right, as usual."
"You made quite a mess back at the junkyard," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.
"Yeah. No shit, Sherlock," John grumbled. "Mind handing me my pants?"
Sherlock nodded and grabbed John's clothes, handing them over to the good doctor.
"Thanks," John said.
"So," Sherlock said, "How are you... you know...?"
"'Feeling'?"
"Yeah."
"Pretty shitty, and in need of a good cup of tea."
There was a moment of silence as John slipped on his pants beneath his hospital gown.
"Oh, and by the way," John said as he dug through his pocket, "Here's the watch."
He drew out a golden pocket watch and handed it to the detective.
"You found it?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.
John nodded.
"Yeah. Digging it out is what caused the rubbish pile to topple over."
Sherlock took the shiny piece of clockwork in his hand, feeling the grooves of its case graze over his skin.
John stood awkwardly as Sherlock fumbled with the watch.
"Ah, yeah, so... there you are. Now, if you don't mind helping me onto my crutches after I get my shirt on, we'll be able to get home quickly."
Sherlock nodded.
"Of course."
As soon as John slipped off the gown, Sherlock's eyes immediately locked onto John's left shoulder. The pale scar that resided there was what really stood out.
John caught Sherlock staring and cleared his throat.
"Having fun deducing?"
Sherlock's eyes shifted back over to John.
"You dug it out yourself, didn't you?"
John was momentarily caught off guard, but sighed and nodded.
"Yeah. Had to."
"Why?"
"I had to help other soldiers. Having a bullet in my arm would have made things a lot more difficult."
John rested his hands on the observation table, tightly gripping the edge.
"I mean, I could only help so many before I passed out." He looked down at the floor. "Poor Murray..." he whispered.
"'Murray'?"
"Did I say that?"
"Yes. Who was he? A fellow soldier, I presume."
John nodded.
"Yeah, he... he was a kid. Well, not really. He was twenty-two; eighteen when he enlisted. Still young, though."
"Were you two close?"
John shrugged.
"I guess you could say that. I mean, I sort of looked after him. Made sure he didn't get himself killed."
"Why him?"
"I suppose I saw a little bit of myself in him. I don't really know. He and I just really enjoyed talking to each other. We bonded. He was a good kid."
Sherlock pulled a chair up to the table and sat down.
"What happened?"
"On the field, Murray was shot. I ran out to help him. The bullet had hit the right ventricle of the heart. I knew he was a dead man, but God, I wanted to try to save him. And I did. I tried so damn hard. Another bullet hit me in the shoulder, but I didn't really notice. All I could see was blood. Murray's blood. So much of it. Christ..."
John felt an arm go around his shoulder. Looking to his side, he saw Sherlock sitting there, looking at him, his eyes soft and comforting.
Sherlock saw the confusion and alarm in John's face and he tensed up.
"Is this not okay? I'm only trying to comfort you. I've seen others do this."
John gave an amused smirk.
"No, no. It's fine. Sorry. It was just unexpected."
Sherlock nodded. He looked disapprovingly at John's face.
"Now that's making me uncomfortable. What are you doing?"
"You'll have scars."
"Yeah, well; being mauled by two giant-ass dogs will do that to you. But I'll take scarring and a fucked up ankle over a punctured jugular any day. By the way, I never thanked you."
Sherlock frowned.
"What have you to thank me for? If I hadn't taken your Browning, if we hadn't split up, if I hadn't brought you along, you wouldn't even have scars or a mangled foot in the first place."
"Don't blame yourself for every bloody thing that happens to me, Sherlock. You did nothing wrong. If you recall, I demanded that you take my Browning."
"Yes, but-"
"It's not your fault, you git. I'll take the blame for this one. I should have been more careful."
Sherlock wanted to further debate the subject, but he figured such a task was fruitless.
"Very well," he reluctantly agreed.
John smiled.
"Good. Now, if you don't mind letting me put a shirt on..."
Sherlock blushed a bit, realising that John was still quite topless.
"Oh. Right. Of course. Go ahead." And he hopped down from the table.
As John stretched to put his ruined jumper over his head, he hissed in pain.
"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock asked, slightly panicked.
"It's alright. I just think one of those things scratched me. Not a big deal."
Sherlock nodded, allowing John to finish dressing.
"Mind passing those over to me?" John asked him, gesturing to the crutches leaning against the wall.
Sherlock nodded and handed them over to John who quickly got himself adjusted and ready to go.
"Okay. Lead the way," John said. "I'm ready to get home."
"I concur," Sherlock stated as he grabbed his belongings. "How does Chinese sound tonight?"
John grinned.
"Amazing."
Sherlock smiled at his friend and opened the door.
"After you, Doctor Watson."
With a gracious nod, John hopped through the doorway and down the hall, his flatmate following behind him.
I already have so many prompts to work with, but I could always use some more! :)