Here I am, back with another chapter!
*crickets chirping*
Please. Your enthusiasm is far too much. -_-
I kid, I kid.
Anyway, allow me to give a quick thanks to... *adjusts glasses and squints* DeanandSam.
...
*unintelligible fangirl noises*
Pardon my fangirl moment. I just recently got hooked on Supernatural, so... you get the point.
Ahem.
Hopefully you enjoy this chapter. A lot of these are hits and a lot of these are misses, I know. I just hope this one is a hit.
Or at least a foul.
Hey, as long as the bat touches the ball, I'm good.
Enjoy! :D
John yawned and rubbed at his eyes, trying to rid himself of the tired feeling that had set in quite a few days ago. He was absolutely knackered.
"For God's sake, John, go to bed," Sherlock sighed as he pushed past the doctor to get to the coatrack. "The yawning is beginning to irk me. And besides, I can't have you incapacitated throughout the duration of this case."
"And holding you back," John snorted.
The detective turned around to face the man.
"No, and putting yourself at risk. If you're weak, Fuller can take advantage of that if you're with me." He grabbed his scarf from a peg on the coatrack and flung it round his neck. "The last thing I need is you either injured or dead. Both circumstances would prove quite inconvenient."
John furrowed his brow at Sherlock.
"And the last thing I need is you running around on your own and potentially getting yourself killed due to your recklessness."
Sherlock finished tying his scarf.
"There really is no need to worry, John. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
The doctor's look only hardened.
"Okay, first of all: No. You're not. And second, there is absolutely a need to worry about you, Sherlock. Fuller is out to get you because he knows you're out to get him. And to make matters worse, neither the Yard nor we know where he is right now, so you aren't really safe anywhere right now. Even Baker Street is dangerous."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Why not keep me in a safe house then?"
John tightened his lips.
"Don't roll your eyes at me, you git. The danger is very real."
"I know that, John. I'm not an idiot." Sherlock grabbed his coat from another peg on the rack and shrugged it on, taking care to straighten out the collar. "I'm simply taking this as an opportunity to trap the man. It saves me the trouble of having to hunt him down."
John nodded reluctantly.
"I guess." He sighed. "Look, just be careful, alright? I don't want to get a call from Lestrade in the morning to hear that they found your body in a ditch somewhere."
Sherlock turned his head and smirked at him.
"I haven't let you down yet, have I?"
John's lips twitched a bit.
"You've come very close to doing so. But no; you haven't."
The detective patted him once on the shoulder before heading to the door.
"Don't touch the tongues on the counter, John. They have yet to defrost," Sherlock called behind him as he made his way down the stairs.
John let out a breath.
"I don't even want to know," he mumbled with a shake of his head.
Approximately forty-five minutes later, after John had showered, brushed his teeth, and slipped into his pyjamas, he was nestled under his bed covers, breathing in the comforting scent of his pillowcase with his eyes closed. He was going to sleep like a rock tonight.
John bolted upright from the mattress, his heart racing and his lungs inflating and deflating just as quickly.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.
Sherlock was dead on the ground, blood neatly pouring from the hole in his forehead…
He wiped at his sopping brow as he took another deep breath.
Red encircled the detective's head like a morbid halo…
John shook his head, ridding his mind of the horrendous images. What a nightmare that was.
He looked over at the clock on his bedside table, learning that it was only two in the morning.
So much for getting a restful night's sleep.
He rubbed his eyes, trailing his hands up to the back of his neck and massaging it. He took a moment to let his heartbeat settle, waiting until the loud whirring in his head stopped.
He cleared his throat and swung his legs over the side of the bed, thinking that a nice cup of tea would relax his nerves. Getting back to sleep in his current state would hardly be possible.
Sluggishly, John descended the stairs into the sitting room and shuffled into the kitchen, looking out for the kettle.
He paused as the hairs on his neck stood on end.
Something was off. Something was wrong.
He turned back around and cautiously stepped back into the living room, his tired eyes trying to pierce through the fuzziness in his vision as they scanned the area.
The floorboards timidly creaked beneath John's careful footsteps as he tried to sneak around.
He looked over at the window, immediately noticing the fact that it had been left wide open, letting the cold, early morning air leak into the already freezing flat.
Hurriedly, John stepped across the room over to the window and slammed it shut, firmly latching it. He gently draped the curtains in front of it, his mind still ill at ease. Why had the window been left open?
The doctor's face drained of all color when his eyes met the sight of dirt on the sill.
Someone was here.
Shit.
Before John could make another move, someone had roughly thrown a plastic Tesco bag over his head and brought an arm around his neck, firmly pulling him into a chokehold as he started to suffocate.
Don't struggle! Go limp! Go limp! His mind screamed. Play dead!
As much as he wanted to betray his instinct, he couldn't; the need for air completely turned him into an out-of-control animal.
He grabbed at the strong arm choking him, his fingernails fruitlessly scratching away at the skin as the rest of his body flailed about, knocking over the bookcase and somehow succeeding in ramming the attacker into the desk, causing a jar full of God-knows-what to tip over onto its side and roll onto the floor with a shatter.
John started to see greying round the edges of his vision as his oxygen-deprived lungs worked to keep him alive, but all in vain. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, and his attempts at defending himself became slow and tired, his limbs feeling like lead.
Just as he felt himself blacking out, he heard a gunshot, followed by the sound of his attacker crying out in pain. His limbs went slack as another gunshot echoed throughout the flat, finally sending both him and the attacker to the floor in one big heap.
The plastic bag was unceremoniously ripped from his head, allowing him to gasp for the much needed air. He felt wiry arms wrap around his torso and drag him away from the fallen man.
"John!" a deep voice called to him as cool, slender fingers felt around his neck.
John opened his eyes blearily as he drew in deep, frantic breaths, his blurry vision blocking out the features of the figure hovering above him. All he could clearly make out were black locks and pale skin; two trademark features (aside from the ever-so sharp cheekbones) that could only mean said figure was none other than Sherlock Holmes.
"Yes, of course it's me, John. Are you alright?!"
Had John said his name out loud?
He blinked furiously, finally able to make out more details as oxygen was returned to his lungs and head.
"Jesus," he groaned when he finally felt confident in working his vocal chords.
"John?" Sherlock said, his voice softening as he realized that his companion would be okay.
John struggled to sit up, relieved when he found that the detective was already one step ahead of him, the man's arms helping him into a sitting position.
"Thanks," the doctor muttered, closing his eyes as a strong wave of dizziness set in.
Sherlock wordlessly wrapped John's arm around his shoulders and aided him to his chair, gently setting him down.
"Would you like some water?" he asked.
John nodded and swallowed the thick knot that had formed in his throat.
"Please," he choked out breathlessly.
In just a few seconds, Sherlock had handed John a cold glass of tap water, kneeling beside the doctor's chair as he watched the man drink.
As John laid the now empty glass aside, Lestrade came barging through the door along with Donovan and another officer.
The inspector stared at the scene before him, noticing the body on the floor first, and then the two flat-mates nearby.
"What the hell happened? Are you two alright?" he asked, motioning for Donovan and the officer to tend to the body.
Sherlock protectively laid his hand over John's, staring intently at the doctor as he answered Lestrade's question.
"I'm fine. John, as you can probably tell, is most definitely not. Fuller nearly killed him with a plastic bag."
John, still panting, looked over at the inspector and nodded, swallowing once more.
"Christ, John," Lestrade said, stepping over to take a closer look at him. "You going to be okay?"
Sherlock growled at him.
"I imagine that he'll make a full recovery. Now, if you wouldn't mind, Inspector, do your job."
Lestrade gave him a stern look.
"And what exactly do you think I'm doing, Sherlock? John is a victim, and I need to question-"
"No, you really don't. Your primary concern should be the man bleeding to death on Mrs. Hudson's carpet. Not questioning my flat-mate on a rather self-explanatory incident."
Lestrade rolled his eyes and walked over to Donovan.
"S'no need to be rude," John said, looking firmly at the detective. "He's only tryin' to help."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he continued to assess the doctor's condition.
"And what a help he's been so far."
John sighed and closed his eyes again, his lungs still burning.
"Sherlock, what in God's name…?" the two flat-mates heard Lestrade exclaim from across the room.
"One bullet hit his thigh, the other, the base of his spine. I'm not exactly a marksman, Lestrade. My apologies," Sherlock responded without hesitation.
The inspector groaned and ushered in the paramedics who were quick in loading Fuller onto a stretcher and removing him from the premises.
"Now Sherlock-"
"Thank you, Lestrade. That will be all for now."
With one last pitying look at John, Lestrade was out the door along with a grumbling Donovan, leaving Sherlock alone with the doctor.
Sherlock handed a steaming cup of tea to John.
"Thanks," John said as he took the mug, greedily sipping at the liquid inside. "Oh, that's good."
Sherlock smiled and sat down across from the doctor in his own chair, steepling his hands beneath his chin as he observed him.
With a satisfied smack of the lips, John rested the tea on the arm of the chair.
"Okay," he said as he cleared his throat. "Explain."
Sherlock raised his eyebrow.
"Hm?"
"I know you have a good explanation for all of this. So I expect to hear it."
The detective hardened his gaze, preparing for one of his long-winded speeches.
"I knew Fuller was coming to Baker Street tonight in hopes of killing me. I figured out that he knows my name and address thanks to external sources; otherwise, why would he be looking to execute me without even having the opportunity to meet me face-to-face? He found out about me and my work, and wanted to eliminate me before I had a chance to uncover him. However, a glaring flaw in his plan was the fact that he hardly knew what I looked like and that I had a flat-mate who he could mistake for me. I exploited this weakness by forcing you to stay here and rest, therefore allowing me to hide out across the street with your Browning and call for backup while he fell for the bait. It worked quite swimmingly, aside from my nearly failing to reach you in time."
John sat with a look that seemed to mix anger, astonishment, and exhaustion.
"Well," the doctor said, irritated. "Great to know I served the role of bait quite nicely."
"Up until the point you let your guard down and almost got killed."
John looked incredulously at the man.
"And whose fault is that? If you had just told me about your little plan, I wouldn't have ended up in that situation in the first place!"
Sherlock remained quiet.
"I was a bloody idiot to think that you actually cared," John said with a humorless chuckle.
"I do," the detective said defensively.
"No. If you actually cared about me, Sherlock, you wouldn't have let me walk blindly into the death trap that you set up!" John ran a hand through his hair. "You wouldn't have let me worry over nothing."
Sherlock gave him a questioning glance.
"I had a nightmare, Sherlock," John said quietly. "A nightmare that you had been shot and killed by Fuller. And I couldn't do anything to stop it."
Sherlock let a moment pass before responding.
"That explains why you were up so early."
John huffed.
"Couldn't figure that one out on your own, could you?"
Sherlock stared at the floor.
"I'm… I'm sorry." Sherlock paused. "You were that worried about me?"
John looked tiredly at the man, having felt like they'd had this conversation over and over again.
"Of course, Sherlock. I always worry when you go out on your own. Especially when there's a killer on the loose who's specifically out to kill you."
Sherlock nodded as he comprehended this information.
"If it's any consolation," the detective said, "I truly was worried about you as well."
John laughed a bit.
"It took a plastic bag over my head to get you to that point."
Sherlock frowned and looked down at his shoes again.
"I'm sorry. I never intended for the situation to get so out of hand." He looked back up at John, his look genuinely apologetic. "Really, I am sorry. For everything."
John shrugged.
"Whatever. Look, the killer's caught, I'm alive, and you're… whatever you are right now. Back to normal, I guess."
Sherlock let out a small sigh.
"Yes. I suppose I am."
"Then things are alright." John pushed himself up from the chair. "And I forgive you. Now, I'm going to go back to bed because I'm bloody exhausted." He smiled softly. "Warn me if any bag-wielding serial killers want to come upstairs and smother me, yeah?"
Sherlock smirked halfheartedly.
"Certainly."
With a slight nod, John trudged up the stairs, and Sherlock watched him carefully as he went.
Done and done.
Now, I promise I have seen all of your recommendations. Don't think that I have forgotten about any of you or anything like that. I have lots to work with, so it might be a bit until I get to yours. Just know that I am not ignoring any of you. :)
As always, I love reviews. *many nudges and winks*