Chapter Text
'O soave fanciulla, o dolce viso
Di mite circonfuso alba lunar,
In te ravviso il sogno
Ch'io vorrei sempre sognar!'
(Oh! sweet little lady! Oh, sweetest vision,
With moonlight bathing your pretty face!
The dream that I see in you is the dream I'll always dream!)
John Watson is cold. Very cold. He thought being farther south would be at least a bit warmer, but apparently Milan is determined to have an authentic white Christmas this year; brilliant for tourists, downright unpleasant for John’s poorly gloved hands. Unfortunately for John there’s a hole in his coat pocket, which he didn’t notice before, essentially allowing one hand to be toasty warm while the other slowly freezes to death. It has been said that John isn’t the only drama queen in 221b. John would argue that when you live with Sherlock Holmes for years, becoming more dramatic is the least of concerns.
One year ago, John was mentally preparing himself for Christmas dinner at the Holmes’, after having decided to take Mary back – she was the mother of his child after all, he felt it was his duty to at least try. All the while steadfastly ignoring the sour feeling in his gut, and the terror he felt seeing his best friend once again bleeding on the ground before him. John will never be able to fully articulate how relieved he felt when this time he succeeded in feeling Sherlock’s pulse beneath his fingertips (‘please, please, please, not again, please’ his heart begged). That relief had soon been replaced by instinct, and anger, when he loudly asked - demanded of the still prone Magnussen on the floor “Who shot him?!”
Even when John agreed to take Mary back, he would be lying if he were to say he was sure of the decision. He had to though, John told himself. Of course, once again Sherlock Holmes upended his world. Magnussen was killed. Moriarty returned. And yet again, Mary was proven to be not who she said she was; Sabrina Moran, long time right hand to Moriarty.
John didn’t even bother being surprised at that point.
However, finding out the baby wasn’t his turned out to be one blow too many. After that John spent a long evening with a bottle of scotch, under the uncharacteristically worried eye of Sherlock Holmes.
It was barely into the New Year, after that fateful Christmas, before the east wind bearing the name Sherlock Holmes, toppled the criminal mastermind after all; taking Sabrina Moran right along with him.
John moved back into 221b permanently. And the bottle of scotch got a lot emptier.
It didn’t escape John’s notice that whenever he bought more of the alcohol it would disappear shortly after; before he could even drink it.
The ensuing confrontation with Sherlock ended with a vague explanation of an experiment involving the density of shoe leather after being soaked in whiskey for twelve hours. John had been angry. Even more so when Sherlock eventually contacted a now post-rehab Harriette (to this day John has no idea what exactly Sherlock even said to her) and practically fled the flat (something about Molly, Bart’s lab and septicemia blood samples) when she showed up to “talk” to John.
It was difficult, and very little was actually resolved between the two of them, but after the long conversation he had with his older sister, John stopped buying alcohol. Being forcefully reminded of how the vice has nearly destroyed the lives of more than one member of his family was a good, cold dose of reality. One John admits that he needed, even if a part of him at the time didn’t want it.
When Sherlock arrived home later that same day, John apologized for getting so angry before. John is still mystified even now by how Sherlock responded; with a long look, Sherlock seemed as though he was about to speak but then changed his mind, instead nodding once and then going into the kitchen, where he proceeded to make tea for them both.
That was just one small example of how things were…different between them since everything to do with Mary/Moran and Moriarty was over.
Sherlock seemed more cautious and wary around John than he had been. Less confrontational – alcohol incident aside - which made John feel more on edge and confused. It got better as time passed, but even now John still feels something…off in their interactions. Of course it figures after everything that, as much as John may have liked it to be, things couldn’t go back to the way they were before Mary – Sabrina, before Moriarty even.
It is as though John doesn’t know how to approach Sherlock anymore, and the same appears to be true of Sherlock.
John knows there are things he should probably say to the man, things his therapist would say are needed to be said in order for them to move passed this…tension, but while John may be good at physical or anger fueled confrontation, conversations about emotions is something he finds very difficult, which is almost funny because in that way Sherlock and he are similar, albeit for different reasons. John; because exposing himself to vulnerability goes against so many instincts honed into him by the army and life in general, and Sherlock…well, Sherlock because John suspects the infuriating bastard either doesn’t know how to or just can’t.
Suffice to say, things are not “status quo” at 221b, even with the obvious attempted intervention of Mrs. Hudson “Oh boys, I know it’s difficult but you two need to sit down and have a nice long chat, before I am tempted to lock you in here and throw away the key!” John is positive she would have made good on her threat by now if she hadn’t known it would’ve been a useless endeavour against someone with the acrobatic and lock picking skills of Sherlock Holmes.
Even Greg and Mycroft have had a thing or two to say.
If his mother were still alive, John is sure she would’ve clonked their heads together and said something like ‘get your heads out of your arses already!’ She always was a colourful woman.
And maybe John would’ve said something by now if the person he needed to have the talk with wasn’t Sherlock Holmes of all people, and if John could actually pinpoint what the problem is…or maybe he just doesn’t want to acknowledge it, and hope this odd tension goes away altogether, and then they will finally be able to move on. John just wants to move on.
He is getting very good at ignoring the little voice inside his mind insisting ‘you know what the problem is John, tell him, be honest…’
What the hell do you know?
John’s inner thoughts are halted by a cold gust of wind slapping him in the face. The long coat of his best friend, walking silently beside him billows around his ankles.
John gives his wandering mind a good scolding, rolling his eyes in the process (see? This is why you can’t move on; you need to stop thinking about it all the time!). Before brushing away the past once more and focusing on the now, and how he ended up walking down some random street in Milan on Christmas Eve, in the bloody, buggering cold with Sherlock Holmes, after following the maniac when he ran out of the ‘Teatro alla Scala’, during intermission, before the final act of the fourth and last Opera, in an exhausting four day arc of Der Ring des Nibelungen. (A series of four Operas more commonly known as The Ring Cycle, as John was told by the Holmes brothers).
Life with Sherlock Holmes is certainly never boring.
When Mycroft first came to them with this random request, John was sure there would be more to it. However, so far it has turned out to be exactly what Mycroft said it would. Which has John feeling even more confused to say the least. Sherlock Holmes actually agreed to a request, put forth by his brother of all people, to escort the grandmother (Mrs. Amelia Blackhart) of an important dignatary to Milan over Christmas to see a special one time performance of Der Ring des Nibelungen (a strong desire of hers apparently).
Before John could ask why Sherlock, Mycroft had explicitly stated that it wouldn’t be just Sherlock, John must follow as well. Apparently Mrs. Blackhart, a fiercely independent woman, is also a major admirer of the two men and their exploits, even threw a celebratory party when Sherlock returned “from the dead“ (John couldn’t contain the burst of laughter at Sherlock’s expression in response to that revelation). Meaning, that she believed Reginald Blackhart (a man with influence strong enough that even a man like Mycroft Holmes must keep him pleased) her nephew, was simply being over protective in wanting to send a bodyguard with her when she left the country.
According to Mycroft she only agreed to being escorted when her nephew cautiously floated the idea of getting Sherlock Holmes to accompany her.
(“-and Dr Watson! Him too, oh those poor devils shouldn’t be parted after all that stress his horrible wife and that awful man! Morlarty? Moriarty it was yes! Those two need each other they do…” was her response to that, also according to Mycroft, to which John squirmed a little uncomfortably in his chair and Sherlock merely blinked a bit slower.)
The exact details of what happened with his now imprisoned ex-wife were never known to the press, but even Mycroft and Sherlock couldn’t dissuade all from printing at least some of the story when it was discovered. At the time John couldn’t say he was relishing the idea of possibly being in the company of an overzealous fan over Christmas, but the option was either that or to spend it with his sister, he chose the overzealous Mrs. Blackhart – who turned out to be quite an amusing old lady that reminded him of his mother .
And so, rather inexplicably, Sherlock acquiesced after a staring contest between him and his brother. A sight John is used to seeing at this point, he even managed to make himself a cuppa while he waited.
Sherlock still hasn’t told John precisely why he agreed to this in the first place, even with the uncomfortable tension in their relationship John could think of worst things than spending Christmas in Milan, but for Sherlock to agree to such a venture – with no case in sight – until now, it had been next to unheard of.
John half expected the man to toss his brother a scathing remark before storming off in all his dressing gown, petulant glory. However, no scathing remark was uttered, he agreed and Mycroft said he would have Anthea drop by later that day with their tickets and itinerary…then Sherlock walked off to his bedroom without another word, suspiciously not glancing at John even once. He didn’t come out for hours after.
Mycroft didn’t seem surprised at all, unlike John. He left with a single parting remark, with an almost sad shake of his head, uttered so quietly he might not have meant to say it out loud at all “Predictable”.
John spent the following thirty minutes going over what just transpired. As always, when it came to the Holmes’, John felt like he was missing something.
He is still no closer to figuring out what it is.
Now, John is mostly cursing himself for not having anticipated something out of the ordinary happening, everything has so far gone so spectacular ordinary in their trip; unanswered questions and slightly awkward silences aside, most often when Sherlock and John were ever in their hotel room alone. Mrs. Blackhart had been situated across the hall and would often ingratiate herself with them. Frankly John is surprised Sherlock hasn’t told her in his own special way to “shut up”, he hasn’t reined himself in completely however, and did manage to deduce everything about her from her peanut allergy to her secret affair with young woman thirty years her junior after having spent hours on a plane with her, John wasn’t surprised when she gave Sherlock nothing but an excited look and insisted he deduce her again, and once again John laughed at Sherlock’s hilarious expression.
Still, John has found himself distracted and increasingly on edge, expecting something to go wrong or some tragedy to befall them.
When Sherlock practically raced out of the Opera House nearly fifteen minutes ago without a word, to the surprise of both John and Amelia, with an apology to Mrs. Blackhart John followed him and muttered to himself “this is it”.
He didn’t expect to simply be strolling in what would be considered a romantic setting by many (John resisted the urge to kick himself for that remark, the words romantic and Sherlock Holmes hardly going together, he steadfastly ignored the memory of his best friends best man speech with a strength his former army commander would be proud of) minutes later with no apparent direction in mind. Sherlock hasn’t said anything beyond his initial response when John asked him:
“What was that?”
“There was no way I was going to sit through the entire Ring Cycle just to please Mycroft.”
Any further inquiries on John’s part were met with silence. And so, here he is, on a nearly empty street, in a city John has never visited before in his life, on Christmas Eve taking a walk with Sherlock Holmes.
Fantastic.
To say John is frustrated would be an understatement; though the cold and his underdressed state likely have something major to do with that. He could go back to the hotel, but for many reasons (some of which he doesn’t want to delve into further even in the privacy of his head) John is reluctant to leave Sherlock’s side, despite whatever the hell is going on with them lately. Also because John did notice that Sherlock has been especially…pensive today. He left their shared room at one point, to come back looking a bit tense.
Their shared room happened because Mrs. Blackhart herself procured their arrangements, and assuming they would want to share a room, she booked a comfortable suite with a single, king sized bed. John naturally asked why she would assume that, to which she replied “Why not? You two seem like the cuddling sort to me”. John’s jaw had flapped indignantly in response while she stalked off with surprising pep into her own set of rooms. Sherlock didn’t respond to her remark or give any indication that he even heard it. He then left a somewhat annoyed John in the hallway when he entered their suite ahead of him.
John didn’t even bother with the ‘not gay’ that time, there was just no point anymore, mostly because no one even believed him so why waste his breath? That’s what he told himself anyway.
This…normal, incident free “holiday”, just…isn’t normal for them. John is half-expecting a gun to go off any second.
Mostly John wishes he had worn something other than his only pair of ten year old dress gloves. Going somewhere as fancy as an Opera is not something he has done before. He might do again though – not just because he enjoyed it, which he has to admit he did to a small degree, even though Opera music is not to his taste, but mostly for the reason that John has only ever seen Sherlock so enraptured, was when he was on the scent of a really good case. So when Sherlock acted deeply annoyed by having to sit through the long series of Operas John was confused because even though Sherlock has proven to be adept at acting, there are times when John has been able to deduce himself the difference between Sherlock lying and Sherlock telling the truth. John is almost sure Sherlock was telling the truth. Why then did he look so…thoughtful through every act they’ve watched so far?
Just then Sherlock’s steps speed up. John huffs a breath, it echoes in the cold air very much mimicking smoke, and matches his pace. With a grunt John pulls off his useless dress gloves and rubs his hands together in order to keep them warm.
“Are we actually going somewhere? Or did you really fancy a stroll?” John asks, rhetorical and mostly to alter the silence as cold as the air itself.
To John’s surprise, Sherlock actually responds; deep voice perfectly matching the dark sky and deep, cold to the bone air around them.
“Here.” Sherlock stops walking at an intersection of shops, a cab passes by. John automatically does as well, looking around for something or something that must have caught Sherlock’s attention…nothing leaps to mind and Sherlock stays completely still. John frowns.
“Wha-” Turning to ask Sherlock why they’ve stopped. John abruptly halts his question when he notices Sherlock’s bare hands, the right reaching out to John with his own gloves held out in offering. John’s brow lifts in surprise. “What about you?” John’s eyes flick from the gloves to Sherlock’s face then back to his hand, already tinged red from the temperature.
To John’s further surprise, Sherlock quirks a familiar smirk.
“Didn’t you know? We heartless men are impervious to cold.” His tone is familiar in a way John hasn’t heard for a while, for a brief moment it makes John sad.
He doesn’t let on though, though he knows Sherlock must read it in his face if the slight hesitation on Sherlock’s own is anything to go by.
John shakes off his surprise with shiver.
“I thought that was Vampires. Is there something you want to tell me?”
He is still reluctant to take the gloves, for all his inner grumbling John has dealt with extreme temperatures before and he would rather not sacrifice his friend’s hands for his own.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and grasps Johns hands tightly in his own, taking advantage of John’s momentary shock to slip the gloves onto Johns hands; the warmth left behind by Sherlock’s elegant fingers nearly makes John groan in relief.
“I thought danger was something that appealed to you.” Sherlock quips, smirk still present, and crosses the street; hands now in his pockets.
John once again shakes off his surprise and jogs after Sherlock, matching his stride easily. He is warm from Sherlock’s gloves, the memory of Sherlock handling John’s own hands while he slipped on his gloves (with a surprising amount of care) lingers on John’s mind, adding its own brand of warmth. John doesn’t know how he should feel about that.
“The psychotic crime addicted flatmate is danger enough for me; I would rather not be a potential food source for your Vampiric self on top of that thanks.” John says nonchalantly.
Sherlock chuckles. John finds himself aching after hearing that sound, it feels like years since he’s heard it.
A few more moments pass in silence, the tension a bit eased by their earlier interaction however brief. John is actually beginning to enjoy himself to a degree. He moves his hands a little in the slightly too large gloves, a thoughtful expression on his face. Sherlock can be the most inconsiderate, unfriendly man John has ever met in his life…there is a paradox to the genius though, if the last year has shown John anything it is that Sherlock can be as callous and unfeeling as he can show a surprising amount of devotion and willingness to do all he can for those few he genuinely cares about.
John for the life of him does not understand why he feels the need to voice what he says next. “You know, heartless men don’t offer their gloves to their friends. So…ta.” It is true. For some reason, whatever John just said causes the air between them to freeze once more; with Sherlock right beside him John felt it when he tensed.
Fuck.
John looks up at the face of his friend. Sherlock must really be distracted by something within his own mind; otherwise John is sure he wouldn’t allow the almost pained expression that is now evident in the lines of his eyes and the frown in his mouth to show.
Sherlock stops walking, his hands curled into fists within his pockets, face blank and staring at the sidewalk in front of them.
John stops abruptly and without thinking he reaches out to his friends shoulder with concern in his touch. John doesn’t understand if it is something he said that has caused Sherlock’s change in mood or if something else has happened.
At John’s hand on his shoulder Sherlock whips around to face him, John quickly drops his hand – nearly as surprised as Sherlock seems by his action.
Sherlock is giving John an odd look he can’t decipher, he looks almost…nervous? Scared?
John shifts uncomfortably. The last time John saw Sherlock look like this was when Magnussen had just revealed his vaults were actually his mind palace…evil bastard.
“Sherlock…?” John tentatively starts. His posture stiffens and he feels genuinely worried now.
John thinks he sees one of Sherlock’s hands twitch, and his mouth open as though to speak.
“John, I am not…” He pauses, and then his gaze flickers to the ground.
John is about to repeat himself when he notices Sherlock’s eyes abruptly widen, his head lifts to look somewhere over Johns left shoulder, expression utterly changed from barely a moment before; determined, fierce, shocked.
John is about to turn around to see what the hell has caught Sherlock’s attention when the man grabs John’s hand.
“Run!” He yells. And so Sherlock does just that, speeding away and taking John right along with him.
John has no time to even think ‘what the hell’ before -
BANG!
A bullet nearly grazes John’s right shoulder.
Shit.
If this were any other time, John might be congratulating himself for having his instincts proven right; a simple stroll could never be simple where Sherlock is involved, the two of them are proven magnets for the criminally insane; a fact John has made peace with for the most part.
Soldier’s instinct and trust in the man running alongside him take over and John doesn’t even hesitate when grasping Sherlock’s hand in return; running with all the speed he can muster, eyes darting around for cover and wishing for some sort of bloody miracle that would make his gun appear in his hand.
BANG!
Another shot is fired and misses Sherlock by a scant inch.
John’s heart beat rackets up significantly more.
Whoever they are they’re not far behind them, shooting while running is not easy but they’ve gotten way too close for Johns comfort.
Were they being followed? Does this have something to do with why Sherlock left the Opera House early?
John curses, whoever this is has certainly picked a good time to shoot, so far no alley ways or suitable cover has presented itself.
For fucks sake we’re not even in bloody London and we’re being chased!
John can hear all three of their running footsteps, and the heavy breathing of Sherlock right next to him. John has experienced situations such as this too often to actually panic, but not being able to find cover and not even having the comfort of his gun is making him more anxious than usual, and severely tempted to look behind him to see if can recognize whoever is intent on killing or at least injuring them.
John has no idea where they’re going; Sherlock clearly does so maybe he has been here before. John wouldn’t be surprised.
Whatever area of the city they’re in is pretty much abandoned; a narrow street filled with commercial shops obviously shut down for the holiday, the only sounds being John’s heart pounding in his ears along with the rhythm of his running feet against the stone walk perfectly in sync with Sherlock’s; Johns hand still tightly clasped with Sherlock’s bare one.
Running. Pounding. Breathing. BANG! BANG!
Both John and Sherlock automatically tighten their hold on the other.
Shit shit shit!
Just ahead, John spots a sharp turn off. Finally!
Their pursuer is clearly in very good shape; their shots are even more wide however, running steps uneven, probably getting more desperate.
Sherlock and John narrowly avoid a large patch of ice as they swing around the corner.
If possible, it is even darker here, the buildings even more closed in.
Their gunman has yet to turn the corner.
John looks desperately around for an advantage. In the distance John thinks he can hear the sound of traffic.
And then, John spots an alley way entrance. Clearly Sherlock does too because in almost the same second John spotted it Sherlock pulls John into it. Cold darkness cloys in around them, accentuating the sound of their breathing and desperate running. Almost immediately Sherlock pulls John again behind a large dumpster bin, this time John does slip on a patch of ice.
He curses, sure he’s about to fall. Bloody perfect.
Sherlock twists his own body however and they both collapse in a heap – barely stifling pained grunts - Sherlock first, conveniently covered by the looming shadow of the large bin.
Sherlock is prone on the ground, John lying vertically on top of his body; silent, tense, trying to calm their breathing. The position has caused John to instinctively arch himself in a protective position over Sherlock (steadfastly ignoring the suggestiveness of the positions and the pain in his knee from where it slammed against the icy ground). Being the one in the easiest position to do so, John peers around the bin.
Running footsteps echo nearby, and then abruptly stop not far from the alley entrance.
John quickly glances down at Sherlock.
Those crystalline eyes might as well be glowing, but there is no immediate sign of injury that John can detect. Their faces are barely an inch a part, John gulps and nods his head in query. Are you alright?
Sherlock quirks a brow. Obviously.
John rolls his eyes at the look. Git.
The darkness makes seeing anything near pointless, but John can just see the amused smirk on Sherlock’s face. John momentarily feels a pang.
This, right here, the chase, adrenaline, blood pumping through their veins as Sherlock once put it, is – in a bizarre way – their safe zone. Any tension that existed before is gone when they’re dealing with what they know best; the calm eye at the centre of their storm.
Now is not the bloody time. John thinks to himself.
He clenches his eyes shut for a moment and listens carefully for any sign that their pursuer is still nearby.
A squeeze to his arm has him abruptly looking at Sherlock again. The man is looking at him curiously, his eyes flicker towards John’s knee.
Oh…right.
John shrugs with a forced smile, attempting to convey that he’s fine – surprised by Sherlock’s concern, though he’s not entirely sure why. Sherlock narrows his eyes momentarily but seems to accept Johns answer for now. Not much point in arguing in their present position after all.
Neither wants to risk moving and potentially alert the gunman to their current position, so the two men - lying atop the other as battlefield lovers might – listen, and wait.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Step. Step. Step.
John takes a deep breath, below him Sherlock does the same; expression utterly focused on some distant point. John can feel the taller man’s left arm move towards something in his coat.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Step. Step. Step.
They’re pacing. Why? Who the hell are they?
If whoever this is decides to enter the alley, John will be prepared to deal with them; armed or no. If they’re distracted, John may be able to take them unawares and disarm them.
Just when he is pondering that possibility Sherlock squeezes his arm again. John looks down at Sherlock to find him shaking his head – bloody mind reader – and mouthing something. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but it looks like he’s saying…no need?
John adopts a confused expression when he registers what Sherlock is saying, he shakes his head.
Why? John mouths.
Trust me, Sherlock’s lips utter silently.
John narrows his eyes briefly before forcing himself to take a deep breath to tamp down his frustration, fighting every instinct in his body to do…something, something about the person still pacing nearby, and something about the fact that he is still lying prostrate on top of Sherlock Holmes in the cold while the man below him is very obviously…warm, John has to physically stop himself from lowering himself further when he feels the cold wind nipping at his exposed neck.
John highly doubts Sherlock would take too kindly being used as a heating pad, and to be honest, John doesn’t want to consider the possibility that he might not mind at all.
After once more peering out as far as he dare, and spotting their pursuer – illuminated by a distant street light - now paused at the end of the alley way…not much taller than him and obviously a man, he has his head resting in his hands with the gun dangling somewhat precariously from them. John also thinks he can hear faint muttering but it is too quiet for him to figure out. Not that he wants to give the man ideas, but if he were him he would’ve at least come down the alleyway to check by now…John doubts he would’ve needed army training and years of living with Sherlock Holmes to tell that this man is obviously on edge, shaking, pacing frantically, amazing he was able to fire the gun in their direction at all…
John frowns and looks to Sherlock again. The Detective very obviously has his head tilted towards the gunman’s position, aside from his left hand still in his pocket and his right resting casually against Johns arm, he hasn’t moved at all…definitely waiting for something? What?
With John’s past experiences with Sherlock and being left in the dark, he is understandably irritated, but present circumstances prevent him from demanding answers and in spite of it all, John does trust the man (despite conventional wisdom) he is currently using as a cushion between him and the cold, hard ground.
In a movement that John will likely chastise himself for momentarily, John shrugs Sherlock’s hand – now seriously reddened from the cold – off his arm, Sherlock’s eyes crease together the second John does that, and then firmly presses the long fingered hand of the detective between their bodies.
Sherlock is now eyeing John with faint surprise; John meets his eyes for a moment…a long, long moment. Too long. The odd thought occurs to John that no one’s eyes should be that bright in this kind of darkness. His traitorous heart begins a staccato beat.
John inwardly curses himself and firmly squeezes his eyes shut. Oh hell, not this, not…A conversation between him and Mrs. Hudson a few weeks ago flashes in John’s mind.
John is just arriving home after a trip to the shoppes, arms full of bags, his hair wet from the spittle of London rain. Before he can even start the struggle of opening the door bearing the number ‘221b’, Mrs. Hudson opens it for him, John smiles at the woman gratefully. She smiles back.
“Ta Mrs. Hudson.” John nods and squeezes inside. Almost immediately John can hear the faint stirrings of delicate violin music from upstairs. Despite the somewhat awkward air of 221b these days, the place is still home to him and the sound of violin music is now a comfort rather than a sad reminder like it was during the years Sherlock was gone.
John is just about to pass the older woman while making his way towards the stairs, when he feels her touch at his elbow. John stops and turns to look at her, taking immediate note of the concern on her face.
Instantly alert, John puts the bags down and places his hands on her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” He asks.
Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. It just feels so…wrong to see the normally cheery old woman looking so forlorn.
“John dear, I hope you know you and Sherlock are family to me-” John nods in agreement, and wonders where she could be going with this. “- I was never blessed with children of my own, he has made many mistakes and broke both our hearts, but Sherlock is my boy in every way that matters.” Mrs. Hudson suddenly fixes fierce eyes on John. “And so are you.”
John is not one to cry, but he can’t help but be moved by her declaration. He’s not surprised necessarily; her actions – and patience - have proven how much she cares for them. With the way she treats Sherlock, it is obvious how she feels, that she would include John in that category…John simply smiles and waits for her to continue.
“I know I tease, but you can hardly blame me with the way you two always carry on, even Mrs. Turner says -” John, with his hands still on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders, feels rapidly uncomfortable with the direction she’s headed in. He misses a few of her words but he definitely catches the last sentence. “I want you to tell me something, and be honest young man.”
“I’ll try.” John’s mouth twitches into an awkward smile.
Mrs. Hudson just sighs and shakes her head, her eyes no less fierce than they were before. John’s hands slide off her shoulders when she lifts her own arms to place her hands on John’s shoulders. It reminds him of his grandmother when she would scold him for climbing the tree in her back yard for much of his pre-adolescence - which he would always fall from.
John has lived through war, both at home and abroad, the literal kind and the kind concurrent with being the friend, blogger and flatmate of Sherlock Holmes. He’s been shot, kidnapped, had bloody explosives strapped to his chest, been at the barrel end of a gun more times than he can count, and still nothing is more terrifying than Mrs. Hudson on a mission, especially where he and Sherlock are concerned.
“My dear John, I know the last years have been difficult for you, that whole business with Mary, Sherlock too-” John’s jaw automatically clenches with the memory of his now ex-wife. “- he loves you, not simply as friends so don’t even pretend otherwise.”
John freezes. “Er…what?” John says, sure he’s missed something.
Mrs. Hudson gives him a non-aggressive tap on the cheek.
“Sherlock of course! I may be an old woman, but I’ve known that boy for years, he may like to pretend otherwise but I can read him like an open book.”
John laughs awkwardly, and gives her a vague smile. Her eyes immediately narrow.
“Mrs. Hudson, I know you’d like to believe otherwise but Sherlock and I are just friends.” John has no doubt that this is true, but the continuing tension that has lasted for months now has him doubting where he stands with the man…wherever that may be, it isn’t where Mrs. Hudson is saying, it can’t be.
To John’s surprise, Mrs. Hudson sighs and nods.
“I know, I know-” She pats John’s cheek, humouring him, and then backs away. “You can’t fool me John dear. Remember that.” She says firmly with the point of her finger and makes her way back into her own flat; 221A.
The gentle click of her door startles John out of his frozen position.
“What the hell…” John’s heart is pounding faster than he’d like. He ignores this and shrugs off the bizarre conversation with Mrs. Hudson with a laugh and a smile.
Because she can’t be right, aside from interest in Irene Adler Sherlock hasn’t shown any romantic or sexual interest in anyone or anything in the entire time he’s known the man. And John certainly has never thought of him in a way besides friendship, he just…he can’t.
John Watson picks up the abandoned bags of food and makes his own way up to home. He tells himself when he thinks of home he thinks of the flat, not the man currently playing the violin with masterful skill.
He almost believes it.
The memory is there and gone as quickly as it arrived. John twitches uncomfortably. To distract his mind from it, and from what just happened with John sandwiching Sherlock’s hand between their chests, he quickly goes over the medical consequences of frostbite in his head. It is dull enough to push back the emotional eddy brought on by that particular memory.
Focus John, focus.
Just then, it sounds like the gunman is finally beginning to walk away, footsteps becoming distant and harder to hear.
At the same moment John feels a faint vibration at his side, and Sherlock suddenly has both hands on John shoulders and makes a move to push him off.
John takes the cue and jumps off, carefully avoiding the ice and ignoring the crick in his middle age bones caused by the uncomfortable position.
He helps Sherlock to stand and then gives him a pointed look.
“What the hell is going on Sherlock?” John whispers.
Sherlock shakes his head. “Not now, come on John.” Sherlock gestures towards the alley entrance. “He’s still here.”
John clenches his jaw but follows without a word. Sherlock reaches the entrance right when John does. The Detective is about to lean out when John stops him.
“You stay right there.” John’s tone brooks no argument. He may have absolute faith in Sherlock’s skill, but he also has absolute faith in Sherlock’s ability to get shot at the most inopportune times.
Johns protective instinct have him wanting to make the first move, it is possible that the man knew where Sherlock and John were all along and is now waiting for them to exit. Sherlock looks like he’s about to argue, but before the man can protest John pushes him aside. He then tenses, prepared, and peers carefully around the corner.
BANG!
“Shit!” John narrowly avoids the speeding bullet with a pounding heart and plasters himself back against the wall of the alley. “Fifty feet north of us, in a store archway.”
“I suspected as much.” Sherlock, against the wall beside him, utters.
John snorts.
“Of course you did, how so? The amount of steps you could hear while he walked away? What?”
Sherlock quirks a brow. “I believe it was the trajectory of the bullet that narrowly managed to avoid your head.”
John whips around to face him. It doesn’t take long before they burst into desperately restrained laughter; very inappropriate timing, but definitely characteristic of this duo.
“You arse.” John huffs out when he finally manages to stop himself from laughing now, of all times.
Beside him Sherlock is echoing faint undercurrents of amusement, his face alight with a smile; curly hair askew from the movements of the past several minutes.
“It has been said.”
John shakes his head in amusement and takes a deep breath.
“So, what do we do now?” John asks.
Sherlock hums.
“Wait approximately four seconds.”
John raises a brow. “Why four-”
Sherlock raises a hand to silence him, pushes away from the alley wall in preparation for…whatever it is he’s waiting for. In the dark or no, both literally and metaphorically, John does the same and really hopes Sherlock isn’t about to do something stupid.
BANG BANG!
All John registers before Sherlock leaps out of hiding is that those shots came from a different gun slightly further away.
Oh for god’s sake…
“Sherlock!” John shouts. Wind bites at his face while he frantically runs after the curly-haired maniac.
The suddenness of Sherlock and John’s appearance – along with this new gun equipped person randomly appearing into the equation - seems to have startled the gunman momentarily, just long enough for the second one to nick him in the shoulder. The man howls in pain but surprisingly doesn’t drop the gun, upon seeing the three people running towards him he speeds away in a panic. He awkwardly holds out his uninjured arm and points his gun behind him, randomly firing off shots towards all three.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
It is pure luck that they haven’t gotten shot yet, or perhaps it isn’t luck, this guy doesn’t seem all that skilled really.
As this new individual fires off another shot towards their original pursuer (which misses, unfortunately) John really hopes they actually are on their side. With that hope in mind, for now John focuses his attention entirely on the increasingly unstable man practically firing blind in their direction, and Sherlock ahead of him far too close to the gunman for John’s comfort.
John really wishes he had his own weapon right about now.
It all happens in a matter of seconds.
The gunman staggers briefly on a patch of slick ice, which causes his arm to flail wildly in Sherlock’s direction while a shot is going off. Sherlock ducks in time, but for those few seconds John’s heart twists painfully in his chest.
Not again, not again, not again
John hears the new individual yell – a woman judging by the voice – while firing off another shot, which takes advantage of the brief stumbling of the original shooter by guaranteeing a hit to the man’s leg.
Just as the man howls in unintelligible Italian, Sherlock being the closest reaches him first and crashes bodily into him. The sound of their struggling bodies hitting the pavement is nearly as loud as gunshots in the otherwise empty street.
“Fuck.” John is only a few paces behind. Out of the corner of his eye and slightly to the front he faintly sees long hair whipping around in the snow now softly falling from the sky.
Sherlock is attempting to dislodge the gun from the growling, kicking man trying to knee Sherlock in the gut, but rather than collapse from the obvious pain he must be in – the adrenaline caused by it is clearly fueling this man with unexpected strength.
Sherlock manages to get the man pinned below him. John skids to a halt in front of the two, immediately going for the two arms struggling for control of the gun. With a long since mastered move John grabs the gunman’s arm and twists it sharply while Sherlock tries to help John by holding the struggling man down with his full body weight.
Though the man cries out in further pain, Johns sees a thumb quickly press on the trigger a second too late before the man is forced to drop the gun.
BANG!
At the same moment John feels a sharp, white hot pain sting his leg and collapses backwards, he hears a scream.
“JOHN!” …Sherlock.
John has a brief flashback to when he was trapped beneath a roaring bonfire, hearing his friend call out to him in a similar manner.
John bites his lip hard, desperately trying to hold back the screaming curses that want to bubble out – fuck, fuck, buggering shit, being shot is not something I’ll ever get used to - his hands automatically go to the wound he can barely reach lying down.
Blood loss and shock are whiting out his vision in spots. It isn’t difficult however to discern Sherlock’s frantic voice. John then notices him hovering over John very closely; his bare hands look like they’re shaking as he anxiously examines John’s body.
The wound is painful, but even in his current position John can tell it is little more than a nasty graze. He’s not going to die from it at least.
“I’m alright Sherlock, I’m fine.” John insists through gritted teeth. “Here’s a pair of dress trousers I won’t be wearing again.”
Sherlock looks at him as he’s done many times in the past, when according to him John had been particularly idiotic. John almost smiles at the familiar look but Sherlock is apparently not in the mood as he resolutely ignores John and inspects the wound on John’s leg; he feels trembling fingers brush alongside his own beside the bloody area.
John can recall the amount of times he has seen Sherlock this panicked, this upset, on one hand. In a flash of revelation he realizes that they all revolved around him, John Watson being danger.
John smiles lazily, head lolling off to one side and watching Sherlock as the man moves aside the torn flaps of Johns trousers in order to better assess the injury; eyes brilliantly focused.
“You’re pretty.” John finds himself mumbling, internally slapping himself a moment later.
It’s possible he might be going into shock.
Sherlock either doesn’t hear him, and the red flush on his cheeks is most likely from the freezing air, or ignores him because a second later Sherlock appears to slump in relief.
“You’re alright, yes, you’re fine. The injury is minor, missed the femoral artery, not, not fatal.” Sherlock’s normally composed tone of voice cracks on the last word. He takes a deep, shaky breath before leaning back up into Johns view; keeping one hand – with Sherlock’s sleeve pulled up – covering Johns exposed wound.
John is trying to stay conscious, but minor or not being it hurts like hell. Though it is a consideration up to a point that it isn’t quite as bad as when he got shot through his shoulder.
John’s somewhat hazy gaze follows Sherlock as he leans in close to John’s face; those vivid eyes stare at him unblinkingly, alight with unshed tears…No, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t cry, you’re hallucinating.
For a few seconds all Sherlock does is stare and John finds he is staring back.
The thought that they are in the perfect position to kiss floats across John’s blood loss addled mind.
Then, Sherlock moves. For a brief second he thinks the man is going to kiss him, John has barely any time to register how precisely not panicked the possibility makes him feel and why before he is proven wrong in that assumption. Sherlock rests his forehead briefly against Johns, causing their noses to touch temporarily; Sherlock’s hot breath ghosts across his face.
Somehow the gesture is even more tender than a kiss could ever be, and far more than John ever expected to see from Sherlock Holmes. At the moment he can’t tell if his heart is pounding because of the lingering adrenaline or because of Sherlock’s atypical closeness.
The bubble of the moment is abruptly broken when Sherlock lifts his head away, all trace of tender concern gone from his eyes to be replaced by dark, angry fire. The sight causes John to frown.
Sherlock stands up and strides to somewhere below John’s feet and out of sight.
At the same moment John notices a woman rush over from that same direction and collapse next to John’s leg. She immediately goes for the wound with practiced efficiency, ignoring John himself for the moment.
Sherlock obviously doesn’t appear concerned about her presence and right now John is too close to losing consciousness to much care either way.
“I must say I am thrilled to finally be meeting the Dr. Watson I’ve heard so much about, bloody leg wounds and gun toting wackos aside-” The woman, John can’t make out her face but judging by her voice (American?) she sounds much younger than either he or Sherlock and far too cheery despite the present situation. John snorts to himself, it’s not like he and Sherlock have ever been much better. “-you’re lucky, no bullet and with the supplies I have I’ll be able to handle this no problem.”
He’s barely listening to her, and John is beginning to feel more of the actual pain as the shock wears off, the edges of his vision become foggier. The woman pulls something out of her coat and not long after John grits his teeth as he feels a sharp sting. Some sort of disinfect is being poured liberally onto his blood soaked leg.
He hears a feminine sigh. “That’ll have to do until we get to the clinic – Sherlock! Get over here! That asshole isn’t going anywhere and I need your help to carry John before the police get here.” The woman puts pressure on the wound after letting it bleed out for a moment and turns her attention back to John. “Proper introductions will have to wait Doctor, just relax; you’ll be fine if I and this fool have anything to say about it.” John thinks he sees her smile and gesture with her free hand in Sherlock’s direction.
John doesn’t have enough energy to respond. The last thing he hears before finally succumbing to the shock, blood loss and adrenaline crash is Sherlock; in a tone John is sure would frighten the pants off of any sane individual.
“Count your blessings, if you had killed John Watson, you would not be leaving here alive.”
The last thing he sees is Sherlock rushing back to his side.