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John Watson, former army doctor, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was a little nervous.
‘On edge’ was maybe the better term for it, but he told himself that everything was going to be just fine because Sherlock doubtlessly had it all figured out. Sherlock always had everything figured out. Which meant that there was absolutely no need for concern.
Yeah, no need to worry. None at all.
John caught Sherlock’s gaze as his eyes roamed over the deep shadows that ran alongside the trees high above their heads. Sherlock winked at him then – utter, arrogant cock that he was, and the corners of John’s lips automatically curled upwards, as if that motion were imprinted into the muscles of his mouth, a reflex in his brain that just couldn’t be turned off.
He really should have gotten used to it by now.
Still staring at Sherlock, the somewhat stupefied smile frozen on his face, John’s heart fluttered in his chest and he swallowed, wondering if Sherlock was aware of the fact that he was nervous. Well, that was a kind of dumb thought to be having, right? Of course, Sherlock knew. He always knew everything about everyone.
The oh so clever detective wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead, he sat stock-still, his back a rigid straight line, as he stared off into empty space, brow furrowed, a mystifying expression on his pale, elegant features. He seemed to be deep in thought.
Chances were that Sherlock didn’t need to devise a plan anymore because he already had one. Proper genius that he was, one could safely assume he had already thought of some mind-numbingly brilliant exit strategy for them ages ago and was only going over the last few details in his mind.
Christ.
John sincerely hoped that was the case, otherwise, they would be in serious trouble.
They were sitting in a dirty, leaky rowboat, across from each other, John being the one facing the direction they were heading towards. Next to each of them respectively sat the two men that had decided to take them on this late afternoon trip on the Thames in one of the shadier parts of London. They were Billy and Charles Dickson, the two serial killers that had gone on a killing spree that had taken up John and Sherlock’s time for the past two weeks. Butchering people left and right, always in pairs - an older woman and a young man - leaving behind mutilated, bloody corpses that made quite the gruesome spectacle to behold.
The bodies were always left behind in the same manner: the women’s tongues were cut out, and their throats ripped into bloody shreds, the men’s arms and feet were cut off, lying next to the bled-out torsi in neat little slices. What had been particularly strange about the crime scenes, were the candy wrappers left behind on the victims. They were always of the same brand, there was never any DNA on them. Sherlock had been beyond excited and had thrown himself into the mystery behind the killings, pouncing onto significant cues like a bloodhound in a frenzy.
“This is at least an eight, John!” he had exclaimed enthusiastically, and John had only exchanged an exasperated look with Greg before they both turned to look after the quickly vanishing figure, his dark Belstaff coat flapping behind him dramatically.
It had turned out to be a very interesting, challenging case. Naturally, Sherlock had very quickly found the key clue that had taken them through half of London, leading them on a breadcrumb trail, new clues appearing right and left, making it almost impossible for them to catch a break in between changing sceneries.
Sherlock had been immensely thrilled about the incoming flow of information, painting a rather grisly image of their murderers. Turned out they were hunting a pair of brothers whose childhood under the hard reign of a cruel-tongued mother and a younger abusive stepfather had traumatized them, so much that they had finally lost their grip and turned to murdering people resembling their long-deceased (translate: murdered) parents.
“The candy wrappers, John, “Sherlock had mumbled excitedly on the fourth day. “They weren't allowed any sweets, that’s why they always leave them behind on the bodies, it’s out of spite!”
Sherlock was so excited about the whole affair, that he straight out refused to do anything that didn’t have anything to do with the case, especially eating and resting.
John had to threaten him with Mycroft and his dubious ways of abducting Sherlock to convince him to return home for some hastily consumed Chinese takeaway as well as at least a couple of hours sleep before they would return to their hunt at the break of dawn. Well, in reality, it had only been him who had slept. Sherlock had preferred to spend the hours at Baker Street in his mind palace or in front of his laptop, complaining about John’s tedious, silly demands for rest. He refused to admit that he had been nodding off occasionally, even when John caught him once with his head on the keypad.
The whole matter had been extremely intense and extremely exhausting.
It had also been extremely fun, and John couldn’t remember when he last had such a great time.
Ah, yeah, that would probably be the day where they had chased a cabbie throughout London and ended up eating Dim Sum in a dubious little restaurant to celebrate their first victorious case together.
Or the time they had taken on a gang of mad Chinese smugglers, even if having been abducted and almost killed next to his now-ex-girlfriend Sarah had been something he could have lived without. Then again, it had been incredibly exciting - forced to look death in the face, fighting for freedom within an inch of his life - it was in moments like these that he felt the most alive. Like a real person.
How strange.
John blinked as he realized Sherlock was studying him. He wasn’t grinning like before, instead, he seemed to be brooding, his eyes flitting over John’s face at a fast pace and John groaned inwardly. Sherlock was deducing him. Or trying to, because from that slightly frustrated tightening of his mouth he didn’t seem to reach a satisfying conclusion.
Just to surprise him, just this once, John smirked at him, and Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. However, he quickly recovered and smiled back.
“Oi. You two seem to be having much fun, “ Billy Dickson, the one next to Sherlock, piped up all of a sudden. He was sneering at them, his mouth hanging open, which gave them a good view of his rotten, broken teeth – a sight that John could have done without.
“Makes me wonder, “the man continued, and he pointed between them with the gun in his hand, “are you so much looking forward to your deaths? Are you some kind of masochists or something?”
“Yeah, I wondered that too,” said Charles, the younger brother sitting next to John. “Maybe they’re sick in the head or something. Especially that one.” He waved his gun in the direction of Sherlock’s face. “The way he was lying there with his face in our stuff, sniffing around – that was almost creepy.”
John smiled as he remembered the way Sherlock had almost lost it when they had finally found the killer’s hideout, somewhere in an abandoned warehouse in Southwark. He had been so enthusiastic about finding that telling stack of candy bars shoved into a corner that he had fallen on his knees, diving right into it with almost childish glee.
“You’re the one cutting up people so that they’re hardly even recognizable and have to be ID’ed by their teeth and yet you call us “sick in the head”. Makes me wonder how sane you are.” Sherlock was smirking his special ‘high-functioning sociopath’ smile and John bit his lip to avoid laughing out loud.
The brothers had a point though. How strange was it that they were having fun when they were about to be murdered?
They had been discovered by the two murdering siblings in the midst of Sherlock working his way through the remaining clues in their hideout. The consulting detective hadn’t even looked concerned when the brothers responsible for killing eight people in sixteen days had pointed their loaded guns on them and demanded they go with them.
“You know what?” said Charles Dickson to his brother. “I bet they’re into all kinds of sick stuff. I bet they’re faggots, shagging each other senseless with who knows what.”
“Yeah, “the other Dickson said, looking between Sherlock and John, an expression of horrified disgust on his haggard face. “You’re probably right.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh, do shut up, will you? I’m not in the mood for homophobic imbeciles tonight, alright?”
“You shut up!” Billy Dickson said angrily, as he pressed the tip of his gun to Sherlock’s head. “Or I will shoot you right here, right now!”
Sherlock opened his mouth as if to hurl more unwarranted insults at the man, but he caught John’s subtle shake of the head, his blue eyes pleading him to please keep his mouth shut – and surprisingly enough, he shut it again.
Billy seemed to have caught their silent communication as he studied them both for a little while longer, after which he lowered the gun. “Oi, so there is some sense left in that funny head of yours, ey? Good thing you’ve listened to your little loverboy here.”
Loverboy?
Oh, that brought forth some uncomfortable thoughts, thoughts that John hat tried to avoid dealing with for quite some time now. Ever since he had met the crazy man sitting in front of him now, full lips curled into a sulky frown, he found himself to be in a permanent state of … excitation. Every day he spent beside Sherlock Holmes – which was almost every day – his whole being, body and soul, was constantly forced into different states of emotions and sensations caused by that man:
There was, first of all, irritation, because no normal person could not get irritated when living with someone like Sherlock Holmes. No normal person would get used to the body parts in the fridge, the violin playing at three o’clock in the morning, the constant failure of your flatmate doing the cleaning, the shopping, or anything at all in the means of household chores, ever.
There was anger, of course, most of all because of all the brazen insults hurled at him by his arrogant tosser of a flatmate. His mind was dreadfully simple, was it nice living like that? He was always dating such boring women, did he not ever get sick of them? More often than not John found himself seething with barely controlled anger, his fists curled into fists at his side, excusing himself for a walk outside because if he didn’t he was afraid he’d just pounce on his mad-as-a-hatter flatmate and bash his head in sooner than later.
There was fondness, too, admittedly. A lot. Despite the man being impossible, despite him constantly grinding all of John’s gears with his insults and his lack of empathy, his constant nagging, and his tedious experiments cluttering or even almost blowing up their apartment, despite all that, Sherlock had somehow managed to crawl into John’s stupid heart and make himself a home there. Meaning that he had become John’s best friend. Don’t ask him how it happened, it just had. And what was even more strange was the fact that John had somehow accepted liking and maybe even enjoying living with a madman like that, as well as running around London with him to solve crimes. Somehow, inexplicably, being with Sherlock made him happy, and wasn’t that the dumbest and craziest thing ever happening to him?
Last but not least there was arousal, and that was the one that irritated John the most. He was ready to accept that he and Sherlock were best friends now but that? That could not be happening, because he was not gay, had never engaged in intimate acts of any kind with a man and why would someone like Sherlock Holmes cause him to even think about doing anything like...well, that? The man didn’t seem interested in sexual – or romantic – relationships at all. John had never seen him with anyone, man or woman, and after their first awkward conversation at Angelo’s – God, why had he started that conversation in the first place? – he hadn’t gotten any more clues as to what piqued the other man’s interest. For all he knew, Sherlock was asexual. Just not interested in anything like that. It didn’t matter. Technically.
The problem was that his body didn’t seem to be on par with that notion. As of late, it had started to respond with more than just the usual angry heat to Sherlock’s childish temper tantrums, he was starting to react … differently. And wasn’t that embarrassing? He could count himself lucky that Sherlock had yet to notice how John sometimes stepped away from him after a heated argument, turning his back quickly so that Sherlock would not see the telltale bulge in the front of his trousers. Or that he had failed to see the reason why John sometimes closed his eyes when they were shouting at each other, swallowing heavily, that it was not because he wanted to throw him out of the window - well that too, he guessed - but mostly because he wanted to pin him against the wall and snog him senseless.
He could picture it without difficulty.
He would twist his fingers into those soft, chocolate-coloured curls and yank his head back to expose that sinful pale long throat. He would then lick a trail down that beautiful quivering flesh down to the collar of his shirt, (yes that purple one), that he would rip off his body which would cause Sherlock to moan in anticipation, writhing against him in shameless invitation, helpless little pants leaving his parted plush lips, as he allowed John to run his hands down his half-naked body, disappearing into the alluring vee between his legs. His legs would fall open then, as he surrendered himself completely to John who would reach out to open the buttons of those tight trousers, they would fall to the ground and then he would ….
Okay, okay, that was enough.
John cursed himself inwardly and struggled against his restraints, forcing himself back into reality. He noticed Sherlock was looking at him curiously and he swallowed nervously, hoping that this one time, Sherlock would not be able to deduce him. He was something of a mind reader sometimes, but in this case, it would be extremely embarrassing if he found out.
Or not, because who knew if they were going to survive the night?
“Well, well, so here we are, “Billy Dickson suddenly said and both brothers stopped rowing. “This is the place. You’re going to tell us now what the police know about us. Or you’re gonna die.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, sneering at him without holding back. “Why should we do that? You’re going to kill us anyway.”
Charles leaned forward into Sherlock’s space, his face twisted into an angry snarl. “Maybe not. I could decide to just cut out your annoying little tongue, no more nonsense spilling from that filthy mouth of yours. Cut your eyes out, too, so you wouldn’t be able to identify anyone. Still seems a better alternative than to die. Your corpses rotting at the bottom of this river. Your choice, mate.”
John shifted nervously. He wished they had had more time so that Sherlock could have let him in on his plan. As it was, he was heavily dependent on Sherlock and his doubtful ability not to taunt the murderers into killing them.
He looked at Sherlock again and was met with a piercing gaze of blue-green glimmering eyes. Almost indiscernibly, Sherlock tilted his head to the right, his eyes flicking downwards. For a moment, John had no idea what he wanted to tell him.
And then he realized. Without moving a muscle in his face, he twisted his fingers a little bit, testing the boundaries of the ropes – and quickly found they were not as tight as he had thought them to be. He wriggled a little more and discovered with shock, that he would be able to free himself within seconds if he wanted to.
His eyes immediately darted back to Sherlock’s face but a warning flash in those hard pale eyes told him that he mustn’t betray their advantage.
What a clever devil. Apparently, he had managed to cut John’s ropes at some point before they had been separated in the boat. He had absolutely no idea when he had done it, how, or with what knife. But he had done it, unbelievable genius that he was.
Maybe he had managed to loosen his own bounds as well. That would be good because if he hadn’t, John would be on his own in a fight against two armed men. Or not. Sherlock was quite the capable fighter and could probably hold his own even with his hands bound behind his back. There were still the guns to consider though.
“Come on, mates, we don’t have all night, “Billy Dickson said impatiently and he nudged Sherlock’s side with his gun. “Or do you maybe want me to cut you up, slice you up real good, carve a few nice things into your skin? Would you like that?” He leaned forward into Sherlock’s space with a salacious grin on his lips and Sherlock leaned back in obvious disgust.
Billy studied him, apparently enjoying his reaction, then he leaned back and sighed.
“Alright. Doesn’t seem to me as if we’re getting somewhere.”
He switched his gun to his left hand and got out a knife of his pocket, holding it to Sherlock’s chin. “I think, I’d like to try how long I have to cut you before you begin screaming.” John tensed and waited for the signal to fight but it didn’t come.
Sherlock did not seem impressed by the knife at all. Worse even, he almost seemed bored. This seemed to enrage Billy and he pulled Sherlock forward by his scarf until their faces were only inches apart. When Sherlock still did not quiver in fear, Billy let out a furious growl, ripped the scarf off of him, and pressed the tip of his knife against Sherlock’s pale throat, drawing a few tiny drops of blood, the red a startling contrast to the white of Sherlock’s exposed skin.
Sherlock blinked and raised an eyebrow, but that was all.
John was all but ready to dispose of his bonds and jump the man. Before he could do that, however, Sherlock rolled his eyes again and spoke, his low baritone refusing to betray even a hint of fear.
“Could you stop all these silly antics?” he asked with a heavy disappointed sigh. “You’re not very original you know? I’ve encountered so many serial killers and tell you what? You’re one of the most boring ones I’ve ever met. You’re incredibly dull and predictable, you need to work on that.”
Billy howled in angry disbelief and Sherlock tutted.
“Nuh-uh. Before you go all raging tiger on me, tell me this. Did you know that your brother has recently murdered two people without you?”
Billy blinked and reeled back. “What?!”
The corner of those curvy lips curled up in devilish delight. “Hm, thought so. Well, he’s been doing it, the latest two murder are Charles’ handiwork. He didn’t even tell you about it, probably wanted to have some fun without you. He didn’t even do very well. Left behind those corpses in a much worse state than usual. Managed to decapitate the female victim when he went at her head with his knife. What do you think of that? Pretty disappointing right, such brotherly betrayal.”
Billy stared at Charles incredulously. “Is it true? Did you kill those people without me?”
Sherlock was grinning from ear to ear, watching Charles’ face for a reaction.
But to both Sherlock’s and John’s shock and astonishment, Charles grinned. “Oh, yes, yes I did. I finally decided to do it, was tired of being a coward. Sliced them up nice and good. You would have been proud of me, Billy. I wish you’d have been there to see it. But I made pictures, wait a second.”
He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a few photos he thrust into Billy’s lap. John just saw a glimpse of mutilated human faces, blood, and torn flesh before he quickly averted his eyes.
“Wow, Charles, you’ve done it!” Billy exclaimed, a mixture of pride and disbelief on his face. “You’ve finally done it, you sly fox! All on your own, I didn’t even need to be there! Wow, that cut on her mouth looks perfect. And the way you arranged his legs….seems like you’ve really paid attention:”
Charles nodded, trying to suppress his proud grin in front of his older brother, but failed. “Yeah. I did. Told you I was going to do it someday.”
“And you didn’t fail.” Billy finally looked up from the pictures and grabbed Charles’s shoulder firmly. “I’m so proud of you, little brother. This means so much to me.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise, “Charles said, and his head whipped to Sherlock, a look of utter disdain suddenly on his face.
“Are you serious?” Sherlock looked from one brother to the other in shocked disbelief. “You’re not angry at him? But he went behind your back, he put you at risk for going out on his own, he could have ruined everything for you!”
Billy’s face turned stone cold as he pointed the gun right into Sherlock’s face. “But he didn’t. He didn’t ruin it because he’s my brother, means he’s learned from the best. I always knew he had it in him.”
He turned to Charles. “I’m proud of you, Charles.”
Charles grinned and nodded, almost humbly. “Thanks, bruv.”
“But…” Sherlock’s mouth was hanging open, he still was struggling to comprehend that this was not how this was supposed to go.
“You thought I’d be angry at him, didn’t you? You thought I was going to punish him?” Billy was inches away from Sherlock’s face now, the gun pressed into the vulnerable skin of his cheek, and Sherlock frowned slightly, but didn’t say anything.
“Answer me!” Billy yelled suddenly, and Sherlock winced at the sudden loud noise so close to his ear but already his usual mask of arrogant condescendence settled on his face, and he opened his mouth with a sneer.
“No!” Billy snapped. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear another thing out of your filthy, fucking mouth.”
Sherlock’s lips tightened shut and Billy studied him for a moment, daring him to disobey and speak despite the very clear warning.
Sherlock did not and John was thankful for small mercies. Maybe they could still salvage this. Maybe Sherlock could do something with this new information at hand. Maybe they weren’t as lost as Sherlock’s panicked expression on his face a few moments ago had suggested.
But then it all went wrong.
“You know what?” Billy said and now he sounded eerily calm, almost bored. “I’m done with you. Fuck this. Fuck off.”
Without even looking at him, Billy shoved Sherlock forward almost casually. John could only watch in horror as Sherlock fell backwards over the edge of the boat, eyes wide in surprise, his hands bound behind him.
For one split second, John could only gape at the empty space where Sherlock had just sat a second ago, the horrible sound of the splash of water still ringing in his ears.
Then he sprang into action. He jabbed his elbow sideways into Charles’ face with vicious force, taking him by surprise. The motion was enough to undo his already loosened bonds completely. His hands now free, he jumped up and landed a hard punch to Charles’ temple before he could recover, thus knocking him out completely. Swiftly, he turned towards Billy who had leaned down to recover his gun but before he could point it at John, John slapped it out of his hand, where it landed in the water. With an angry howl, Billy threw himself at John, but John caught him by the arms and twisted them behind his back, using the momentum to get behind the other man. Billy struggled against him, roaring angrily, but John knew what he was doing. He snaked his arms around the taller man’s neck and pressed, cutting off his air supply in a merciless chokehold. After a few seconds, the man went slack in his arms.
Without further ado, John let go of the unconscious man, stepped to the edge of the boat, and dived into the water headfirst. Thankfully, it was only September, so the water wasn’t too cold, although it was cold enough to momentarily take his breath away.
Christ, how much time has passed already? A minute? Two?
Trying to shove the useless thoughts out of his mind, John dove deep down and frantically searched for a body floating around. With his hands bound and the heavy Belstaff on his thin frame, there was no chance that Sherlock had made it to the surface. Panic set in, when he realized that he almost couldn’t see anything in the dark, muddy water.
Come on, Sherlock, goddammit! Come on, where are you?
He whipped his head around and turned in the water, his eyes searching desperately for anything that resembled a human body.
There was nothing and John began to despair.
It couldn’t end here, not like this.
They were supposed to go out together, going out with a bang, if it had to happen at all. The two of them together, against the rest of the world.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, postmodern English heroes, solving crimes, saving lives...
His throat began to tighten, and he knew he would have to surface soon to get some oxygen into his lungs.
He would try one last time.
He dove down deeper until he reached the bottom of the Thames. He swam into what he thought was North – where Billy must have thrown Sherlock into the water. There was a slight current of course, which would have caused him to float to …. the West.
John’s eyes widened in realization and he changed course as he kicked his feet to swim quicker. After a few wide strokes, he finally recognized a dark shape in front of him. It was a body, completely still, the dark coat floating around his body eerily, like the wings of an angel, but without any energy or life within them.
With grim determination, John grabbed Sherlock’s slack form. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and his skin already had a ghostly pallor. He needed to act quickly. Because he knew that Sherlock had already been without oxygen for quite some time and it would take even more time to get him to the surface, he decided that he needed to give him something right now, or he wouldn’t make it.
Thinking on his feet, he grabbed Sherlock by the back of his head, pulled him to his own body, and pushed his lips against Sherlock’s. Only then did he raise his hand to force Sherlock’s mouth open as he desperately breathed a lungful of air into the lifeless man. It almost depleted his own level of oxygen and he forced the brief rush of panic down. He also knew that it wasn’t much, that Sherlock needed much more air, but he hadn’t any more to give. It just had to suffice for now.
He grabbed Sherlock’s long thin arms and with great effort, pulled the Belstaff off his body. It was very heavy, and he lost at least ten seconds trying to manoeuvre the thick wool around Sherlock’s bony shoulders. When it was finally off, floating away like a misshaped manta ray, John grabbed Sherlock by the waist and began to swim towards the surface.
His lungs were screaming, his body was aching with exhaustion and the threat of shock, but he gritted his teeth and fought onward. Sherlock was a lifeless weight in his arm, raven curls floating around his pale face and John could only pray that he was still alive as he, painfully slowly, moved toward the faint light coming from up above.
Finally, freaking finally, he broke through to the surface. He opened his mouth and wheezed as he gasped for air while simultaneously dragging Sherlock’s head up so that he would receive some oxygen too.
After a few more gasping gulps, John still didn’t feel very good. His head was pounding and his whole body was begging for rest, he was almost tempted to just close his eyes and go to sleep, damn it all. But then he became aware of the limp body in his arms and he renewed his efforts, forcing his aching muscles to obey his command. He needed to get Sherlock out of the water, as quickly as possible.
Resisting the urge to slap Sherlock’s cheeks to try to rouse him, he swam towards the beech which thankfully was only a few meters away. Those few strokes cost John the last remaining energy he had, and he almost cried with relief as he felt pebbles and hard mud give way underneath his wet shoes. He dragged Sherlock forward onto the damp shore, managed to quickly cut his bonds with the Swiss knife he always carried with him, then collapsed by his friend’s side.
“Come on Sherlock, “he wheezed, and he pressed his fingertips to his carotid artery as he hovered above him. But he couldn't find a pulse, and panic set in on the edge of his vision, threatening to overwhelm him completely. Ignoring the increasing ringing in his ears, he leaned over Sherlock's open mouth, desperately checking for breathing...which wasn't there.
“Dammit Sherlock!" he whispered hoarsely. "Don't do this to me!"
He began CPR. Thirty compressions to the chest, two quick breaths into the cold, stiff mouth, back to the chest.
His body fell into the routine like a machine remembering its programming. He had done this so many times. This was what he knew, this was what he could do best. Saving lives. Saving people.
And he had to save this particular life. Because there was no way he was going to cope with losing him now. There was just no way.
“Come on, Sherlock, wake up, “he murmured again before he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s once again.
From somewhere nearby he could hear loud sirens approaching quickly and he thought that was a good thing because If Sherlock were to recover, he would need to get to the hospital and fast.
He started his third round of CPR and winced as he felt a rib give way beneath his hands as he pressed down with terrifying certainty because even though he was screaming on the inside, he was completely calm on the outside. This needed to be done.
Sherlock still wasn’t waking up, however, and John’s professionalism gave way to fear.
“Wake up, you bloody bastard! You can’t leave me like this!”
Sherlock’s lifeless body moved underneath John’s frantic administrations and his white skin was like an affront to him, his blue lips an abomination.
Helpless anger took over for a moment and he slapped him in the face, hard. “Wake up, you daft git, I said wake up!”
Sherlock didn’t wake up and John instantly felt bad for slapping him.
He resumed CPR. Just when he was reaching twenty, about to give up, Sherlock’s body suddenly twitched underneath him. There was a loud intake of breath as Sherlock lurched forward then to the side as he sputtered and wheezed, small gulps of water pouring out of his mouth. John could have died with gratefulness.
“Oh thank God, there you are!” he exclaimed, and without thinking he leaned forward and pulled Sherlock into his arms, crushing him against his aching chest.
“I thought I’d lost you, you mad tosser. Don’t you ever do that to me again, you hear me?”
Sherlock was a shivering mess in his arms, and he didn’t say anything at first, still wheezing for air, his eyes wide open with confusion, his body weak in John’s vice-grip.
They lay there on the cold ground for a few minutes. After a while, they both calmed down, their breathing slowing down, their bodies going slack against each other. John could feel the adrenaline seeping out of his body, leaving his limbs heavy and useless, and he was suddenly terribly exhausted again.
“Come here, “he said quietly, and he pulled off his scarf, and gently raised Sherlock’s head to shove it underneath him. He repositioned himself on his side, pulling Sherlock close again. They laid there on their sides, turned towards each other, still trying to catch their breath. Sherlock, though as exhausted as John and in desperate need of medical attention, his eyes half-lidded, smiled.
“Told you, John. This was a good case.”
John’s eyes widened a little until he saw the playful smirk around Sherlock’s mouth.
“Pillock.” There was no severity to his insult and Sherlock’s eyes twinkled.
“You misjudged them, “John said, more seriously now. “You thought they would go at each other’s throats.”
Sherlock closed his eyes wearily. “Yes. I miscalculated. Obviously.”
“It almost cost you your life.”
Sherlock opened his eyes again. “But it didn’t. Thanks for saving my life, Doctor Watson.”
John smiled back. “Anytime.”
“Did you…uhm...” Sherlock started then, seeming, for once, uncertain. “...did you just kiss me?”
“No, you idiot, I gave you CPR.”
“Oh.”
“Now I’m kissing you.”
John leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s still cold lips. He could feel the younger man tense underneath him and for a second he thought he had made the biggest mistake of his life but before he could pull back, Sherlock sighed and kissed him back.
His lips were cold but soft, and it was the sweetest taste John could ever imagine. Sherlock opened his mouth and John cupped his face tenderly as he cautiously traced the seam of those perfectly shaped lips with his tongue, and the cold and exhaustion he had been feeling just seconds before were suddenly gone. Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach and John groaned as he resisted the urge to press Sherlock even closer.
He broke the kiss then, as they were in no shape for any serious necking right now. Which led to John staring at Sherlock and Sherlock staring at John.
“Alright?” John asked, hesitatingly.
“Hmmm.” Sherlock smiled, then he coughed violently, and John’s hand shot out at once, steading him by the shoulder. “Okay, that’s enough. Don’t speak. You need to save your energy.” His hand wandered to this face – his beautiful, almost ethereal face – and he stroked his cheekbone with his thumb.
The sirens were suddenly ear-splittingly loud.
Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked at him, apparently almost seconds from passing out. He opened his mouth to speak but John put a finger on his lips and shook his head. Sherlock closed his eyes again, giving up and John ran his hand through the damp curls as they lay there, waiting for Greg and the ambulance to finally catch up with them.
A content smile crept up John’s face as he heard someone shout their names, footsteps approaching fast.
Sherlock had been right, like always.
It had been a good case.