A/N: Ha…ha… um. Sorry guys. For the late update in this story. Sorry to the beta reader who I adore and appreciate and yet haven't even allowed to start beta-ing this story. Sorry for a lot of things.

Let me post this right now so my future chapters will be drama-less.

I won't be posting frequently. It's not a "maybe" or anything. Dark times ahead of me and I got stuff to deal with. I'd rather not impact my stories through my own emotions, you get me? Work sucks as usual. And I am focusing on keeping a friendship I value more than anything really at this moment (and yet spectacularly messing up haha! I can never do things right! It's great. Really.)

Paint It Black will be worked on. I adore my concept way too much to just discontinue it, unlike several other unfortunate fics. I've honestly been posting my chapters on AO3 for a while. Guiltily.

I wanted to beta this but with how spontaneous my chapters will be uttered, I fear that this will become more burdensome to the lovely individual I would never want to bother with my trifling life.

Drama aside, enjoy this fanfic, please. I'll try to be punctual.

Paint It Black

Chapter 21

JOHN POV

Being a soldier, I kind of do reckless things. Okay, maybe reckless was a little too broad. Maybe a tad precarious with a dash of adrenaline fit this certainty better, hm? Whatever it was, we did incredibly stupid things. Things like chasing bratty detectives. Things like tempting the fate of a mother hen nurse. Things like running around in the middle of the night when I have been injected with a mysterious substance along with all the other injuries I have decided to ignore. My still limping knee and 70% active shoulder included.

But I had a feeling that I needed to do this. Consequences be damned. This man appeared to be running from death himself with how frantic he was. I had been chasing him for a while now and I have noticed all the symptoms of borderline hysteria. Laughter followed his wavering stride, but it wasn't the type of laughter that you wanted to hear. God, it was absolutely mad. The type of madness that had small bits of despair mixed in one deranged concoction.

He couldn't even walk straight; however, with the wobbling of his steps did it really count as walking or some stupefied gait? His feet clattered in puddles and concrete and slapped shakily when he stumbled against the curb every so often. A few times I saw him swipe at his face and I could only presume he was crying. The way he waltzed drunkenly in his desperate haze, I could only presume what he came to Sherlock and me for was not waiting for what the detective instructed. Whatever happened from the time he left the flat to now was still a mystery, but I didn't necessarily care about that at this particular moment.

Sherlock would, admittedly, be best in this situation. Give the man a tie and he could deduce what you had for breakfast and what type of nicotine you inhaled. Right now, where spurts of pain and "emotional attachment" (as Sherlock called it) blinded me consistently, he was needed. A clear head. A rational mind to see everything in those finely tuned glasses of his.

But I couldn't just flee and retrieve the detective.

The reason for that was because I had a feeling, as stated before, that he would be dead if I left to fetch the "machine" detective. A soldier wouldn't leave this man. A captain wouldn't leave this man. I sure as hell wasn't going to let that happen either for I was a combination of those two.

In a way, Sherlock and I were responsible! Throwing him out to the wolves that seemed to be determined to end him and not only that. No, we had to place a bloody target on his back! I was pretty damn positive that seeing Sherlock and I only made their actions hastier than before. Everyone knew about Sherlock and I doubted they were an exception.

I had as much responsibility to Mr. Openshaw's safety and life as Sherlock reluctantly agreed to.

I suppose Sherlock's receding response wasn't that unexpected. I should have seen it coming. I had lived and experienced more of him in the past two weeks alone to point in this direction. He didn't hold any personal attachments to people. He was a man of his work.

My anger, in that sense, was regrettably unfounded.

Shaking my head, I panted for a moment before racing down the street again. I had kept clear of any puddles in the streets as well as wrappers that could relay my placement. God only knew how much my knee was protesting my movement. I didn't even think I could shoot (mostly because I didn't think to bring my gun like a bloody fool) with my shoulder aching as it were.

I was stupid and incredibly rash in the eyes of any witnesses. Mary will probably have me bounded to an institution for a week because of this, telling the nurse that her poor friend had followed an insane bloke to perform "perilous twenty-something-year-old escapades in order to relive his youth." I could see the straight jacket now.

Focus, John.

This was a mission. A mission was to be treated as exposed and hazardous. It required the utmost attention and nothing short of full versatility. Personal issues would cause an error. Personal thoughts will lead to missed details. Stop thinking like a greenie and concentrate on the operation at hand.

My eyes closed briefly, but when they opened the potential thoughts of the consequences were in the recesses of my mind. All I saw was the man in front of me, swaying in the direction of his plastered footsteps. Sherlock and his skills wanted to come forth, but I forced them back – with dusty effort.

Something was wrong – and if not wrong, then there was a certain oddity for sure. The quick reflex of action, the immediate result, the hasty execution. It was all placed on haste.

But why would the Ku Klux Klan need to be hasty?

There was definitely something suspiciously off about all of this. The Ku Klux Klan becoming involved in something that was a dilemma in the past and certainly not the case now. Why would they go after a man when their papers obviously would not affect them now? Their group disbanded. The South, as most of the world recounts, lost in the Civil War. Freedom and all the civil rights reigned with history.

It was clear as day and yet blind as darkness, if I were to allow some poetic speech to become a part of my confusion.

Perhaps this wasn't the Ku Klux Klan at all, but an organization that ran the group in the background. What did Sherlock say earlier? The Faded Resistance and the Saturation Sorority were both inspirations for the group, both of which were still active today, and both of which I have encountered recently.

There was no possible reason for it to be the KKK at all and it wasn't. It was their sponsors that wanted none of this to be brought up to the light. The Faded Resistance would be under more stress with the Army's renewed vigor and the Saturation Sorority might also be under strain.

And this man, poor Mr. Openshaw, was the center of it.

I didn't envy his utter misfortune, however, that did not mean I wished to abandon him in hopes of not getting involved.

Several times my mouth opened in hopes of calling out to the man. While before I refused to make any noise, I was hopeful that he would recognize my voice from what little I did speak and not scurry away. It wouldn't take much. I was certainly winded, more so since I was more out of shape than I'd like to admit, but shouting shouldn't be too much of a stretch.

If he didn't recognize my voice, however, he would run without a doubt and faster at that. If he proceeded to increase his speed I would surely lose him.

I bit my tongue as the first syllable began to form. It wasn't worth the risk. I already presumed he was hysteric. The odds of him distinguishing my voice depended on him entirely and I wasn't sure I wanted that variable. Scoffing quietly at the double-edged decision I was facing, I decided that silence would be best. It was neutral and produced the least dramatic results. Granted it limited my actions to actually help him, keeping an eye on him was a top priority.

Cobblestone slapped against the loafers I foolishly didn't change out of earlier. My entire foot ached continuously as the abuse didn't lessen with my chase.

This was ridiculous. I really should get into shape and perhaps take a jog in the morning because if my superiors saw this now, they would shake their heads in dismay. My God. Panting with arrhythmical breaths and legs screaming to stop? It wasn't nearly as painful as it was humiliating!

I blinked away the thoughts. Personal thoughts. Errors. Get that in your head.

Focus.

The lanterns above the upcoming bridge lit up the stone as the river Thames began to come into view. The reflection of the cloudless sky and the bright moon fell over the breathless water. Sadly, I couldn't take in the view to the full potential it deserved for Mr. Openshaw seemed to falter in his step at the middle of – what I would assume – Kew Bridge.

I didn't know what he was looking at but whatever he saw was something awful. If anybody were to come and find him, they would have only assumed he was paranoid or atrociously fearful at the marsh that patched the small coast along the river.

Crouching behind the nearest tree, I peered around to continue watching over the man. As my movements became idle, small thoughts filtered in listlessly.

There really was no point in going back now! For one, Sherlock would be very disappointed that I didn't make the "right" decision. Secondly, it had been more than 30 minutes and thus Mary probably already called Sherlock. This would point to the first reason if he found me returning.

Lastly, this was the climax of the chase and I was not going to leave this like this! I was as much curious of this case and the reason for this man's fear as Sherlock was.

Wails of despair cracked through the air and I blinked back to the distraught man on the bridge. Damn it. This was what I get for not focusing. I missed the entire introduction, and in most scenarios that were the most important part.

Mr. Openshaw was shaking horrendously from where he stood and his hands shook none too gently. Each hitch of breath could be heard in the quiet night with nothing more than the birds and bees to disturb. Even from where I was, I could see the hysterical panic attack that was beginning to prosper.

The next few words he spoke set a heavy weight in my stomach. Guilt, I soon realized, was this weight. The reason, I soon recalled later, was because I didn't do anything but watch as it happened.

"I don't want to die. I don't," he hiccupped and rubbed half his face with shaky hands. The tie around his neck was tugged loose and limply fell to the cobblestone. His sports jacket was crinkled and mussed, almost slipping off him entirely. The hair on his head was disheveled and the poor lighting reflected a flushed face. "I didn't mean to. I don't want to die."

Nothing seemed to add up as I watched the display. Absolutely nothing made any sense as to what happened from the moment he shakily left the flat until the very moment he stumbled in a fearful haze.

Did he run into the perpetrators? Did he happen across them? Is he running from them?

I was just about ready to fetch the man and lead him to the nearest tube when five men in very white suits with matching white-painted skin marched up. Their faces were solemn yet apprehensive. I recognized their expressions with concern. They knew why they were there and were not against any of the actions they had to exhume.

The moonlight sky shined on their silver badges that upheld the long-dead group "KKK".

As if their name wasn't enough to send waves of shivers through your spine, the way they acted was eerie. They didn't speak nor did they make any notion that they even understood what Mr. Openshaw was saying. Instead, they silently pondered the quivering man. A few of them nodded ever so slightly – or so I thought they did – and the tallest one – the leader I assumed – barely opened his mouth only to close it again.

I didn't know what any of these notions meant. I wasn't like the detective. These little movements seemed minuscule and pointless, but I made note of them for Sherlock.

The men took a collective breath and then released it gently. Even where I was crouched I could see each and everything they did. Either they aimed for a dramatic flair or they didn't necessarily know that their movements were so largely recognized.

Step by step they advanced Mr. Openshaw until the shaking man's back was bent awkwardly over the edge of the bridge. The light of the lamps presented the abject fear he felt and I could feel my lips curl into a grimace of anger.

But I was far too late. Always too late.

By the time I managed to get up from my crouched position to rush the clan, they pushed Mr. Openshaw over the edge. His screams resounded through the desolate streets before being silenced by the murky waters.

"Hey!" I all but screamed at the group. They turned swiftly to look at me, white blinding my vision briefly before they fled down the bridge and into the shadows.

I would have gone after them. I wanted to go after them. Every bone in my body was screaming to go after them and to capture them.

However, I thought of Mr. Openshaw, who was pushed over the bridge just five seconds ago and may or may not be in the process of drowning. He needed to be saved.

Looking back and forth from each path I could take, I was once again battling morality and curiosity. Of course, the good part in me would smack me upside the head with an "are you a bloody idiot?"

Mr. Openshaw needed to be rescued before he drowned. He was the sole witness and would give more information if he were alive. Capturing the KKK, or even one individual of their clan, was a slim chance. The probability of having Mr. Openshaw come out alive was greater than that even.

I knew, regrettably, what I had to do.

A few course swears were muttered on my lips as I quickly dove over the bridge after the possibly unconscious man.

The dark water hit my skin like ice and it took all my will not to gasp at the pain that ruptured most of my wounds from a week ago. My shoulder throbbed painfully and I swear some of the stitches were pulled. The cut along my neck ripped painfully from the way my neck snapped as the water slapped my body.

Pain erupted in thick pulses but I ignored it in favor of searching for Mr. Openshaw.

This in itself may have been called impossible for, as it happened to be, it was a dark night and while the moon shone brightly, it didn't help my blind searching. I knew opening my eyes would have been stupid, especially with the darkness, so all the work and faith was placed upon my hands that were double tasking between swimming and searching.

But time after time all that met them was only more water or the occasional fish or weed. My lungs were burning from the breath I still held and the pain, while numbed from the chilling waters, were only being replaced with lead and metal.

The kicking began to match that of a feeble animal begging for survival and I suspected this was from the impact tweaking my knee more than anything. My mind berated me for being utterly reckless but it was too late to really regret it. I mean, if I had actually thought about it before jumping in, I suppose taking off my jumper and sweater as well as these soaked loafers to make this easier.

But I hadn't thought it through. I immediately jumped in to save this man who may or may not already be dead.

Fingers tried to heighten their senses as my searching went from thorough to desperate. I hated acting desperate. I hated being desperate. It causes errors in everything I did. I didn't need Sherlock to assure me of that.

Occasionally, there were those few times where desperation was the key.

Feeling a brush of fabric under my fingers, I clutched on to the sports jacket and kicked up to the top. My lungs were about to force me to breathe in, whether it was water or air when we finally burst through the surface.

It took every ounce of remaining energy to push the man to shore and even then I had to crawl to reach him.

I slapped his shoulders. "Hey. Hey, mate. You okay? Come on…" I placed two fingers against his carotid artery while my other hand drifted to his radial pulse. Both came back negative and both hands immediately clasped over his chest to begin the classic tutorials of CPR.

My compressions were weak at first. I was tired. I was sore. I was pretty sure I was bleeding in several places that Mary would kill me for later. I was positive of a lot of things, but none of them bothered me nearly as much as the certainty that this man may soon die if he wasn't dead already.

Taking a deep breath, I tilted his chin up and forced air into his lungs. The action in itself caused me to briefly black out and become faint. This wasn't good. I needed to save him but how was killing myself in the process helping that?

But it was too late to go fetch someone. He needed aid now and, well, I was here now.

Doubts flitted my mind on my health when I thought I was hallucinating Sherlock's voice calling my name.

Impossible. He shouldn't have known where I was heading.

The immoral urge to laugh obnoxiously and hysterically filled me intensely at that moment that it neared madness.

Impossible? Nothing was impossible when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He could deduct anything he very well may please. He probably knew all about the Ku Klux Klan and their destination before I did!

Before the bubble of laughter could live to its merit, a second and third pair of hands begin to pull me away.

"No," I struggled against the hands as one pair left. A second later, Mary rested next to Mr. Openshaw and continued my feverish CPR.

But I was positive she would kill him. For some reason, I thought that I had to be there to save him. I was the only one who could save him. Only myself. It was why I kept struggling. It was why I ignored all the voiced remarks of my childish antics. It was why I was trying to insist every army tactic I had to energy for, which was basically none.

I was out of energy. It was obvious. That would explain why I was incredibly sore and more than a little injured with the extreme effort I placed myself in. It was explainable in a doctor's medical opinion.

The burning sensation bubbling just beneath my skin, however, was far from probable or even possible for that matter.

The feeling was emanating from Sherlock's fingers and I found myself fighting his grip even harder than before. I wanted to eradicate this feeling. I wanted it to stop.

"Stop it," I gasped and jerked my hand, but Sherlock's grip was made of iron and refused to budge. "You can't… He is… Sherlock, it hurts."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as I stared at him. I was trying to converse with him, plead with my eyes to let me go because this wasn't helping him nor myself.

"What hurts? Did you hurt yourself?" He asked in a concerned voice one could place as possible affection or worry. I wanted to laugh at the thought of such actions, but it really wouldn't have been that weird when I thought of how he was acting for the past few weeks.

Affectionate was awkward and different, but it wasn't something entirely new for the detective. At least, for myself, it wasn't new.

"No," I denied profusely, shaking my head. "No that's not what hurts."

No, what hurt was the absolute simmering under my skin. Lava was flowing in my veins thickly and perhaps severed and seared the nerves as it went. If I looked at my arm, I was almost positive in my irrational mind that I would find little flames dancing across in thick ribbons outlining my veins, arteries, and capillaries.

The pain was almost unbearable. Almost was the only word that separated the feeling of spontaneous combustion to the rash urge to amputate a limb. All I wished to do was for Sherlock to let go of me so I could help the young man, but it seemed that such wishes were going to be denied and I was going to ultimately suffer for it in the heat of some impossible reaction.

But Sherlock didn't know he was hurting me. He thought that I was the one who had injured myself in my "reckless escapade" to chase our client. As far as he knew, he was keeping me from injuring myself or throwing myself off another bloody bridge in hopes to rescue another potentially drowning man from death and the murky waters.

"You are hurting me, Sherlock. Let go. Let me go."

The reaction was instantaneous and had I not been perhaps in a mixture of irrational, adrenaline- rushed anxiety, I perhaps would have felt guilty for the pain I caused him.

However, I was far from anything concerning lucidity and a heavy sigh of relief fled my lips. I ignored the backlash across Sherlock's face as well as the fact that color had never filtered as he held me down in place. Two important factors that I should have seen but didn't.

Instead, heavy limbs dragged a stupid man over to a victim who was already in the process of being resuscitated by a greater doctor (or rather a nurse) than I. I was almost in arms reach of Mr. Openshaw when Mary must have heard my movements. I suppose when I looked back at this moment, it wasn't impossible to see why since I was drenched, breathing raggedly, and slithering through mud that emphasized every movement no matter how slow and careful I perceived them to be.

"Sherlock," she grounded out slowly, methodically, and even I knew that this voice was to be taken seriously and prioritized first. It was the voice. The one that questioned stupidity and adolescent thoughts. To combine this with Sherlock almost had bubbles of laughter emanate from my throat itself! "I told you to keep him at bay. What part of that did you not understand?"

I couldn't see Sherlock's face, but I imagined it had a certain chilled and sculpted expression of a marble statue. Apathetic and yet silently judging all it could see. "When I attempted to restrain him, he complained of pain."

Three deep breaths lifted and fell from Mary's chest. That was another bad thing for the victim of her prosecution. Three breaths usually implied that she was three seconds from lashing out.

However, I was not the victim of her lashings at this moment and took their bickering to my advantage as I continued to crawl forward. My fingers barely brushed Mr. Openshaw's hair.

"Sherlock?" Mary spoke.

"Yes?"

Mary tilted Mr. Openshaw's jaw upward and covered his nose as she filled his lungs with air. When she sat back up and began compressions once more, she continued what she was saying. "At this moment, John is another critical, irrational patient."

"And that should mean to me what exactly?" He retorted sharply.

"That, for one, you are dimmer than I thought!" Mary struck just as quickly and just as sharply. Even I flinched at the tone of her voice. But she composed herself and continued, "It should mean that you are to restrain him no matter what the circumstances may be – unless he broke a bone which he did not. He is faint, probably suffering some degree of hypothermia alone with all his other bloody injuries, and right now, he is going to need body heat primarily."

She leaned down and gave another breath. "I wouldn't be surprised if he gets a cold after this. If you don't wish him to get sick, which considering your profession and all I highly doubt that you would, then be of some use and warm him up." Before Sherlock could utter a word she added, "And preferably from someone else that isn't myself for I am far too busy reviving this man to keep him back. So, no, Sherlock you can't back out of this."

I suppose this was where my advantage ended. Between Sherlock's cold remarks and Mary's poisonous replies, my attention had been briefly diverted to make sure they didn't tear each other's throats out. I had forced my body to sit up, albeit slouched over heavily, with my hands retracted to keep me up.

When Sherlock sighed, I flickered my gaze over to his grey eyes that my sub-consciousness always filled as "blue" or "ice" for that's what they were when I could see them with color.

He must see that I didn't want to interact skin-to-skin contact. The way I was now sitting up with my arms poised to move away from any advancements made it that clear. Still, Sherlock stood and made his way slowly over to my form before crouching.

By this time I had slithered my gaze back to the man still being given CPR. At this rate, I suppose he wasn't going to live. If he did, it was going to be a miracle. Still, Mary kept at it. This was probably because she knew I would take her place if she ceased.

I heard the soft hiss of shuddering cloth as something rustled beside my form. A second later, something heavy and quite warm was draped over my shoulders. When I glanced at the fabric and thumbed the cloth, I realized that it was Sherlock's coat that had been given rather unceremoniously.

Staring at Sherlock, I was certainly amazed. It was one of the few times, since my last kidnapping, that Sherlock had done something even remotely affectionate or even caring for that matter.

But the specific detective didn't reciprocate my stare and instead watched Mary's hand placement with a scrutinized stare. For some, this would seem like he brushed me aside but I knew him more than he liked to have me know and smiled a bit – not like a school girl – at the unexpected gesture.

Click.

That little minuscule click resounded like a bullet and I turned to glare at Sherlock as the handcuffs glinted in the moonlight.

"Are you kidding me?"

Sherlock didn't meet my gaze at all as he replied. "I can't touch you, John, but as Ms. Morstan says, I can't let you out of my sight either."

I narrowed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly as a question filtered through my thoughts.

"Do you always carry hand cuffs around?"

He shrugged like that explained everything. "Only when it is necessary."

"And you find it necessary to cuff me to your hand."

Sherlock met my eyes for the briefest of moments before nodding.

Sighing, I felt the fight leave me and I slumped into the spot I was sitting at next to Sherlock even further.

"I really despise you sometimes. I do. I hate you so much."

"That's what everyone says."

I cursed myself when I heard the apathetic, chilled tone of Sherlock's voice. He was receding. I knew that voice. I had heard that voice in spurts of arguments when I would walk out to the pub while he played his violin till 3 in the morning. It was the detachment voice to hide the emotions. I really probably should have thought my words better – or at the very least changed the tone of how I said it (what even was the tone? Vengeful? Annoyed? Similar to any other bloke who abhorred the detective).

Quirking my lips, I nudged his arm with my elbow as Mary leaned in for another breath.

"Well, do they say that you are equally brilliant and sometimes incredibly selfless that I have to second guess that I am with the same guy?"

A pause and Sherlock shook his head before murmuring something so soft that I would not have heard it if I had chosen to fight for resuscitating this man's life in front of me.

"No. No, they don't."

Sorry for the out of character-ness by the way. I have to regrasp this story haha. All of my characters and Sherlock characters will be utterly awful. Just warning you for future chapters. Sorry.