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I
Dr. Watson walked across the foyer, deep pile carpet cushioning his steps. It had been years since he had seen the inside of this place. He had still been in uniform then. The jeans and shooting jacket he wore today suited him much better. John saw Sherlock sitting rigidly formal on the plush, red velvet. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa, hands in his lap. A quick glance at Sherlock and he had to ask.
“Are you wearing pants?”
“No.”
They both laughed.
II
"John, stop! He's not worth it." Harriet pleaded with her brother as she hung on his arm. The other fourteen year old was significantly bigger than John, but that didn't seem to matter as he slipped out of his sister's grip and collided with the bully. As many awkward punches whistled through thin air as landed on faces and bodies. When the dust settled, the bigger boy slunk away like dog and John turned to his sister.
"He wasn't worth it, Harry. But you are."
Harriet smiled, and silently mouthed ‘thank you.’ She was too choked up to speak. John just nodded, and smiled back through angry tears, blood, and snot.
III
If he had thought about it, John would have realized that he was limping on his good leg as they entered 221 Baker street. They had just chased a cab for a dozen blocks through the heart of London. Running along roof tops? Jumping from building to building? John would have thought those days were behind him. His muscles complained with every step now, and his lungs burned. The man beside him was as spent as he was, they were both breathing hard as they leaned against the wall.
“That…” John gasped between breaths. “Was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” He laughed for the first time in months.
Sherlock began to chuckle. “And you invaded Iraq!”
John nodded, breathless with laughter, and smiled.
IV
"Do not... push me, Sherlock." John's breath hissed through flared nostrils, he worked to relax his jaw. "You may not like what happens next."
"I don't understand." Sherlock feigned, unconvincingly. "If you're going to share a flat for the rest of your lives, you should know the worst of each other, shouldn't you?"
"I can make my own deductions about Mary." John snapped. "And I'll thank you to keep your bloody long nose out; or it will be bloody, and crooked to boot." John snaked a foot out and shoved the office chair in which Sherlock was lazily spinning. Lanky arms and legs flailed and the detective managed to keep from sprawling on the floor of St. Bart's morgue. "Now, I drove here to ask you to be my best man, not to hear my fiance compared to a German car, an extinct flightless bird,” John ticked each one off on his fingers. “And a venomous marsupial, I don't care how adorable it is!"
"Just trying to make my observations more accessible, John." An expectant silence followed Sherlock's mumbled pout.
"Well?" John was quickly running out of patience with his friend.
"Hmm?"
"Best man!"
"Oh! Yes, of course I'll do, John."
"Finally!" The doctor exclaimed with an exaggerated sigh.
"But, seriously John... about her most recent relationship..." A muffled thud left John flexing his painful knuckles as Sherlock stumbled backwards, covering his face, and collapsed rather ungracefully onto his arse.
John cleared his throat, a slight twitch of his head, and held up one finger "I did warn you," he offered his best man a hand up. "And also... thank you, Sherlock."
Sherlock let his friend help him up and smiled. "It will be my honor." With his free hand, he pinched his bleeding nose. The anger faded from John's eyes, and he smiled too.
V
“Why in the bloody hell didn't that arrogant sot tell anyone he'd found the killer?" John shouted at the computer screen before dashing out of the flat. One hand automatically found the pistol tucked into his waistband as he hailed a cab with the other. John’s brow was knit with worry and frustration. Surely this man hasn’t survived this long in London behaving this way. Was he just showing off?
“Not the way to impress me.” John muttered to himself.
“Sorry?” The cabbie replied. “Where to?”
“Right...Uh….” John fumbled for his laptop which he had simply closed on the map showing Sherlock’s location. “Here.” He awkwardly forced the computer on the driver who fumbled and cursed.HeJohnWhat the hell is-”
“Just drive.” There was steel in John’s voice that hadn’t been heard since he was in the sandbox. He checked his weapon, idly wishing he had a rifle. That would be pretty conspicuous even in the seedier parts of London. City lights blinked past as minutes dragged on, feeling like hours. It was a familiar sort of edginess, not knowing what the next hour would bring. He wondered what he might be required to do, and subsequently live with. It wasn't a nice feeling, but it was familiar. John grudgingly admitted that he was more at ease than he had been since returning to London. The clinical side of his mind noted the significance of that fact but he had no time to process it as they were pulling up in front of a small college.
John flung a couple of twenty quid notes into the passenger seat and barged out of the cab. He hoped the driver was honest enough that he could retrieve his laptop when this was all done... assuming he was still on this side of the the river...
Two buildings on the lot? “Oh for- I don't have time-” John took a deep breath and blew out forcefully. “Ok,” he said, reorienting. “I can do this…” He started making observations. “Uhh… alright… after hours… both doors closed… cars? No cars… Come on, John!” He took a slow breath and unconsciously held his hands out, palms up, as he had thousands of times after scrubbing in for surgery. “Calm down.” He opened his eyes. “Cleaners.” He pointed to the building on the right. “Witnesses.” With that he ran headlong into the other hall.
Room by room John kicked in doors with rather less regard for the institute of higher education than you might expect from a doctor. After just a few intense minutes John's heart was pounding from the exertion and the muscles in his legs were burning. This is why we traded out pointmen in Iraq he thought, massaging his thigh.
Another busted door. Another empty room. John cursed under his breath. He glimpsed movement through the window and saw Sherlock hold something up to the light. Two windows and a grassy throughway separated him from his friend, and there was no doubt in Watson's mind that this was the end game. His legs were trembling, but his hands were steady. He drew and fired. No hesitation. After all, beating the end game was his job. He kept his weapon trained on the threat until the man fell. Quick and clean.
John smiled.