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“You don’t need to protect me.”
Jim arched a brow as he looked up at the taller man standing just next to him. The tall man that was gasping hard breaths against the pain in his chest from where he had rather recently been shot by one Mary Watson. The tall man who was grabbing the alley wall behind his clever little lure for his ‘not-assassin’ best friend’s wife.
“Darling, if I don’t, who will? Your little mutt, Watson, isn’t here to play doctor when you fall down and scratch yourself.” Jim paused as he waited for the panting detective to gather his wits once more.
Sherlock had called him. Of course the world’s greatest detective had known Jim wasn’t dead, but they knew his status of undead needed to be saved for their end game. The game against a much larger, common, enemy. An enemy who had dared to visit Sherlock in the hospital. No, not Mary. Charles Augustus Magnussen.
Sherlock had called Moriarty right afterwards…or as soon as he could after the pain medications wore off. He’d called to ask for ‘help with John.’ But Jim could read between the lines…because Sherlock never actually called anyone. He preferred to text.
“Don’t argue with me, Sherlock…especially not when I helped sneak you out of the hospital.” Jim tutted softly as Sherlock held his chest painfully.
Sherlock scoffed and scowled, grumbling something about being a wanker. Moriarty just grinned to himself and gently took Sherlock by the elbow to help him along. “Just…make sure she finds the place…and doesn’t kill John or–”
“Yourself. I know, Sherlock, I know…we’ve been over this. I’ve got everything under control…you’re safe.” Jim assured as he helped the detective into place. “Try not to miss me too much, Sherlock…” Jim winked as he turned on his heel, “Call me.”