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They were driving fast, wheels attacking the road. The armoured ambulance housed three. The driver Sam Jones, the unknown casualty and John Watson. The latter was battling to save a life, to stop the bleeding and give the poor sod a chance.
That's when the world started to tilt, the vehicle was falling, turning on its side.
Then the noise caught up with the motion, an explosion. The crunch of metal on rock.
It took a few minutes for the dizziness to subside. For reality to sink in.
The man mere minutes ago he had been treating, was slumped on his side, deathly white.
Johns unshaking hand reached out, feeling for a pulse that had already gone.
He tried to move, push up but the stretcher and the dead weight of a body pinned his leg.
John Watson was in trouble.
It was the worst possible time to have a flashback, but it couldn't be helped. A hallucinogenic was coursing through John's veins. A very powerful one that had been responsible for three people's deaths.
Essentially, it was a drug designed to emit such terror that the heart stops dead.
Sherlock had found those responsible, had eagerly gone to confront the killers with John at his heels.
At least John had the sense to phone Lestrade.
He knew they should wait for backup, but Sherlock had bound along so happy, so desperate to satisfy his ego that John couldn't say no.
The killers had not reacted well to the dramatic outbursts of Sherlock Holmes.
He mocked the product, claiming its effects would be useless on more superior minds.
Then guns had complicated the matter and Sherlock and John were on the back foot.
"You think it will have no effect on you Mr Holm-”
“Of course it won't, there's nothing that my mind could conjure up that would reduce me to a quivering wreck.”
Sherlock jutted his chin out, tight smile across his face.
John was silently fuming beside him, if only Sherlock could keep his mouth shut, Lestrade would be there soon and they would be saved.
“Mr Holmes, I believe you.”
Sherlock grew taller, pushing his chest out.
John wouldn’t of been surprised if he started beating it like a dominate ape.
"But what about your companion, does he have a superior mind?”
"No, no he does not” Sherlock replied, a bit too quickly for John's liking.
"How long do you think he would last…”
John noticed Sherlock was leaning towards him, curling protectively.
John had heard the threat but discarded it, Back up would be there any minute.
The man stepped forward, closer to Sherlock.
"No memories haunt you...yet.” he whispered.
John was grabbed from behind, pulled back with a jolt, and then there was the scratch, followed by a sting of fire.
He forced his elbows out, dislodging the attacker.
The room was spinning, he could make out the shape of Sherlock, though his features had blurred.
Sherlock was yelling, snarling, snapping. John just watched dumbfounded as he slid to the floor.
His eyes closed, fingers were holding his face, bony ones, clinging hard enough to break through skin.
Then there was nothing.
"Back away from him” the man waving the pistol sneered.
Sherlock snarled, baring his teeth, refusing to leave John's side.
"Back away or I shoot.”
Sherlock glared at the man, hoping the intensity would blow his head clean off.
Johns form slumped to the floor, back leaning on the wall for support.
Sherlock stood, nostrils flaring like an enraged bull.
Where the hell was Lestrade? John said he’d phoned him.
"Sam...Sam”, John was whispering through the grate, not wanting to alert anyone near by. Sam wasn't replying.
"Sam, can your hear me?”
Through the small holes in the grate John could see him, slumped over. The ambulance was on its side. Luckily it toppled over the driver's side, least distance for Sam to fall.
His leg ached, he tried to push the body off, grunting with his efforts. He had to get to Sam. Sam needed him.
He tried again, dislodging part of the weight from his throbbing leg.
Coughing from the cab made pause. His head whipped round.
Sam groaned loudly, cursing.
"Sam how you looking?” John whispered towards his friend.
There was a muffled noise from outside, a voice. John clamped his hand over his mouth, hiding the sound of his own breathing.
"John..John what happened?” Sam moaned, clicking his pent up shoulders.
"Sam don’t move, don’t say anything”, John breathed through shaking teeth.
Sam launched into a coughing fit, the sound made John's blood freeze.
"Sorry John”, Sam muttered.
Then all hell broke loose.
Guns fired, bullets peppered the vehicle. The ping and crunch of metal filled John's ears until blinding pain took over.
A bullet had pierced the grate he was against, it dug into his shoulder, exiting through the front.
He clamped his right hand over his shoulder, feeling the warmth of blood.
He bit his lip, determined not to cry out, not to alert anyone he was still alive. His eyes watered from pain and desperation.
Please god let me live.
John was muttering, over and over.
“Please god let me live.”
Each time he said it, a bit of Sherlock died.
Sherlock knew the horror John was reliving.
They'd never spoke directly about it, but Sherlock had heard him, in the room above, crying out.
Sherlock's heart stuttered when John Watson’s form relaxed, slumped into the wall behind.
His eyes had closed, the creases of pain no longer splintered his skin.
It couldn't be.
There was just no way.
It wasn’t possible that John was dead.
“Check him.”
"He looks dead to me” the accomplice muttered.
“I said, check. Him.”
There's a threat, and the man that injected John is quick to rectify it.
Sherlock continues glaring in disbelief, mouth opening and closing.
John could hear the voices again, just outside the vehicle. He couldn’t make out what they are saying but knew they were close to the door.
They’re going to check it, they’d be stupid not to.
He wills his body to relax, to take the appearance of death. He's seen many dead bodies, surely he can recreate the look himself.
He relaxed, forcing the fire in his arm to fade to a background hum. They have to believe he's dead.
The door opens, John hears the approach of somebody. They've climbed in, making their way towards him. He can't give anything away.
He feels the air current of a moving arm, the soft press of shaky fingertips to his neck.
John Watson would rather go out fighting then cowering in the corner.
The accomplice leaned in to take John's pulse.
Sherlock watched statue like, he can't move, he can't breathe.
He doesn't want to hear the words, the ones that rip John away from him forever.
Before he has time to report his findings, a fist rams into his throat with a sickening force.
The man falls backwards clutching at his throat struggling for breath, he's coughing and trying desperately to drag air down his crushed throat.
John doesn't have time to relax, he knows there's more, he heard at least three distinct set of voices earlier. He pulls his leg free, wincing at the pain.
It struggles to take his weight as he lunges for freedom.
Time starts again for Sherlock. Johns alive, alive and fighting like the stubborn bastard he is.
It's Sherlock's time, he throws himself forward, grappling with the man and the gun.
He wants to destroy this man, destroy him for hurting John.
The gun breaks free of both of their grips, clattering to the floor.
Sherlock punches fierce as he can. He's sure he's broken a bone or two, but it's worth it.
The man staggers forward, falls to the ground in an ungraceful heap.
Sherlock turns to face John, huge relieved smile on his lips.
He stills at the sound of a cocking pistol.
"John, whatever you think you're seeing, it isn't real.”
He somehow clambers out, escapes the stuffiness of the vehicle. His arm hurts, his right hand returns to clutch it, to stop the flow of blood.
The men are fighting, fighting each other.
John sees the gun, fly through the air, landing in the sand.
He grabs it.
"John, put it down.”
The gun twitches in his hand. John eyes it with curiosity.
Sherlock needs to think fast.
“221b Baker street” he says.
John frowns in reply. Eyes darting to the gun then Sherlock.
He’s bleeding heavily, he must decide what to do and quick.
The man's speaking, but it's just mumbling words he's unable to process.
He's not threatening though.
John’s a doctor, he can't shoot an unarmed man.
In fact the very idea of hurting this man makes his eyes well with tears.
If this man died, he would feel empty.
He sways on his legs, blood loss must be affecting his judgement.
John was staggering, from one foot to the other. His expression was open, trusting.
Sherlock's heart slowed at the sight.
He had stopped trying to speak, when he did, John looked even more panicked.
Sherlock's was pleading with his eyes, willing John to come out of this, to recognise him.
Then there were voices, voices coming down the stairs.
Sherlock inwardly cursed, barking orders, telling Lestrade and his team to back off.
John had spun around towards the sound. He shot a pained look at Sherlock.
The trust in his eyes had vanished. He was aiming to kill.
Sherlock weighed up Lestrades stupidity, deciding it was likely he would descend the stairs anyway.
He threw himself towards John, catching him off guard.
John fell, unable to support his own weight and the weight of the man. The sand wasn't as soft or warm as he expected.
His shoulder throbbed painfully at the contact.
The gun was slipping from his grasp. The man swiped for it, pushing it away from his reach.
It skidded smoothly across the surface.
John was pinned to the floor, the man had hold of one of his wrists, pulling it behind his back.
"Not a good idea” The man snarled.
He could speak English after all.
John tried to buck him off, to push off from the floor with his one free arm.
His shoulder ached each attempt, but he didn't want to make it easy for this man.
This man who tricked him, who stalled him. The icy eyes that had melted the edges of Johns heart.
Sherlock was pinning John as best he could. The man was thrashing and Sherlock was struggling to contain him.
In the end he wrapped both his hands around John's wrists, holding them above his head. Using his weight and force to pin him to the floor.
John screamed out a strangled cry and Sherlock had to push any guilty feelings aside.
They lay like that for awhile. John was panting on the floor beneath him.
Sherlock could see the beads of sweat on the back of his neck, could see the pulse point in John's neck galloping away.
He angled his head so he could see John's face. It looked flushed, pink stained cheeks, his blues eyes had closed.
Sherlock's senses were being invaded, and his body was reacting in an unhelpful way. His body was curled around John's.
He breathed in Johns scent, his sweat. He couldn't help but rock slightly. He had to calm John not anger him further, but John was underneath him panting and sweating, he had thought he had lost him, lost the chance of morphing their friendship into the relationship he desired.
The man had rather effectively pinned him to the floor. He stopped struggling, he needed to contain as much energy as he could before he passed out.
He tried to still his frantic heart rate, he was amazed his body hadn't spent his whole eight pints but there was no time to dwell on it.
He closed his eyes and counted to 10.
John could feel tickling breath on his neck, the natural aroma of the man infiltrated his nose, coffee, chemicals, wool? It was a comforting smell, one that reminded him of being safe, comfortable...happy?
He opened his eyes, curiously looking at the hand wrapped around his wrist.
The man's skin was unblemished, untanned, he held John's wrist, locking them to the floor, but he wasn't tightening his grip, blood was still flowing to his fingers.
Blood, how had he not lost too much, he knew the injury was serious and yet he was still alive.
The man shifted on his back. John became aware of the obvious heat, the man was aroused. Fear and anger assaulted his mind, this man was getting off on restraining him, this man might not stop at getting aroused and soon John would be too weak to stop him.
The man groaned slightly as he moved on top of John back, he needed to get him off.
The man leant forward and John snapped his eyes shut.
The kiss was on his jaw, gentle lips tingling his skin. He was momentarily stunned.
Sherlock found his head drifting towards John face. He saw John's eyes snap shut. He lay one gentle kiss to John's jaw, the closeness was intoxicating.
Sherlock had always appreciated his blogger more than most friends appreciate each other.
He had just ignored it though, no need for stupid emotions to ruin his only friendship.
Sherlock was curious why his body was having such a reaction to the situation. His world had frozen when he believed John might be dead, but to see him alive and at Sherlock's mercy was alluring. He was sure John marvelled at him in a more than just friends way...
He tentatively kissed John's jaw again, edging along till his lips were brushing the corner of John's mouth. John hadn't reacted, hasn't bucked or shouted, Sherlock was momentarily concerned he might have frozen in terror.
Sherlock angled his face leaning to his side, so he could lay a kiss directly on his mouth. John gasped at the contact.
His tongue darted out, wetting his drying lips, the sight was almost too much for Sherlock and he pushed his body against Johns again groaning.
John was confused by the situation, the tantalising kisses to his jaw were hypnotic, and.... not enough, the pain had vanished, there was only one uncomfortable area of John's body and it was pushing into the concrete floor.
Concrete floor...not sand..he couldn't feel any sand, his cheek was against the ground and it was not warmed by the sun but cooled by stone.
The haze was lifting, he wasn't in Afghanistan, he was lying on the floor of a cold cellar.
There was no wound to his shoulder hence his heart was still frantically beating.
The man aroused pushing on top of him was not an enemy. He was home, he was John's heart.
John opened his eyes, the man's face was inches from him, staring intently at his lips. Eyes dark with arousal, breathing strained. Finally the man dragged his eyes from his mouth and stared deep into John's equally dark eyes.
"Sherlock?” John breathed.
Sherlock was watching John's face for clues, there was an inner conflict raging. His eyes were repeatedly drawn to John's lips, slightly parted and frequently moistened by a tongue.
Sherlock wanted to launch at him, to claim those lips, taste that mouth, it was offering itself so willingly, but Sherlock withheld his desires and waited.
Sherlock felt John's eyes flutter open and focus, he was half afraid to look into them , he didn't want to see John look at him with no recollection again. He pulled his eyes up, away from John's lips, staring into the darkened blue.
"Sherlock?”
The relief at hearing his own name had him giggling and collapsing down on the blonde's back.
John closed the distance and caught Sherlock's lips. The kiss deepened as the passion increased, Sherlock relaxed his hand around John's wrists, he sat up, rolling John on to his back.
Sherlock arranged himself and laid his body flush on top.
They moaned in unison as their body’s grinded.
Sherlock plunged down taking John's mouth.
Claiming it, nipping his lips, sucking his tongue, John relished in the onslaught, growling in pleasure.
Sherlock thought this was the most addicting feeling he'd experienced, he wanted more, to taste more, touch more, hear more. He'd never get bored with these feelings and impulses running through his body. This was instinct, this was animal need, no logic required. His mind , his heart and body all craved this, would always crave this.
John Watson was his secret stash, his personal high, and no one other than him would have it.
Sherlock pulled up and received a frustrated moan.
"John Watson” Sherlock panted, "you are mine.”
John could only nod in his daze, desperate to continue
"As much as I want you" Sherlock provided evidence by sucking John's lips, “I need to get you checked out at the hospital first”.
Sherlock's hand rested on John's heart, it was pounding in his chest, mostly from desire but Sherlock wanted to be sure the effects of the drug had faded completely.
The straw haired man huffed his frustration. Sherlock couldn't resist leaning down and pinning John with another invasive kiss, John was more than willing to accept it, he grasped Sherlock’s hair in his hands, lightly scratching his nails on Sherlock's scalp, John felt the shiver travel through the taller man's body.
“I meant what I said” Sherlock gasped.
John leaned up, kissing the hovering pale neck. Open-mouthed kisses to Sherlock's skin, teasing with the tip of his tongue.
"John we need to stop”, he tried to sound authoritative, but it sounded more like a whine.
Sherlock got lost, kissing again, grinding again. Why had they not done this sooner? He searched for the bottom of John's jumper so he could tear it off. His brain protested, Johns safety had to come first, he rolled his head across John's.
"Enough” Sherlock pleaded.
John flopped back down to the concrete, panting.
"Stop now, continue later?” John whispered.
It took all Sherlock's restraint not to launch at him again.
He nodded down to John, he beamed up in reply.
“Continue later...kitchen, sofa, your room, my room, bathroom. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
Sherlock prayed John was talking about Sex and not the list of chores he'd pinned to the fridge.