Work Text:
For Abby.
The absence of sound was evident within the lonesome apartment -- the dead fireplace never in use save for its participation in Sherlock's hideously amazing experiments. People walked past the building without the slightest of acknowledgement that a certain consulting detective was in irrefutable love with his dearest doctor.
To Sherlock, seeing an ex-veteran who missed the flavour of war in the morgue when they had first met hadn't been much of a romantic issue. Sure, he looked deliciously warm, yet it had never crossed his mind that he would fall into an unrecoverable beating to his cold heart because of him.
It was a lovely case that evening. And, by case, its definition in this context is intended that not as what a detective thrives off for income. Case, as in situation, and situation, as John was out to the shops with his companion. John hadn't wanted let alone needed a bored Sherlock shooting up yet another wall, so he had him come with him.
Crossing aisle after aisle, John searched for not much there; simple things that Sherlock couldn't be stuffed buying during his roommate's working hours.
The taxi driver eyed the two together as if he was a matchmaker as John had seen Sherlock silently volunteering to open the door for him and take the bags. The short man delicately smiled a smile that made Sherlock display a profound smirk on his elegant face.
Their hands almost grazed in the back seat. After their hands had merely even touched, a chuckle was performed from Sherlock and a crimson red blush from John.
"You two together?" Evidently, the woman didn't have much knowledge of the duo.
"No, no," John's blush deepened, if that were even possible. The other had wished it were true.
John yearned for a rest, his body begging. It was a relief to see that the journey for a nap had started when Sherlock opened the door for him once more.
The taxi driver beamed.
As soon as a step had laid on the cold floor, another black car had made its way down the street. It's entrance had been longing for them. Reasonable enough, when Sherlock had hopped in with anticipation, John deemed it reasonable. Anthea was inside on her mobile. A single stare had made its way to the driver through the mirror, which had directed the man with the wheel to drive.
Atmospheric silence become aware in the room. There was no need for a break in it, because it was known between the two of them that answers weren't to be discovered.
To an airport they went, Mycroft's location unbeknown which had in the slightest made news to Sherlock. However, there was a possible though that he was "busy", as he liked to perceive it.
Passing security and dodging crowds, Sherlock and John were twisted into directions in such a quick succession that John was beginning to form symptoms of a headache. He was done of this nonsense, and Sherlock was starting to think so too. But, the priorities of the older brother had always overcome their own, so they tried to possess a little positivity.
In a matter of an hour were they given the chance to relax. Staff under orders from Mycorft had supplied them with their laptops, which was oddly considerate of them.
As John's therapist had recommended, writing down emotions was beneficial to assist mental difficulties. He had ignored that instruction in the past, still, there he was, describing the feeling of how adrenaline fuelled his thoughts, actions, and his curiosity for what was to come
A massive exclamation threw everyone to the ground; trembling fingers hurrying to grasp their heads in utter revolting trepidation.
"Hands down!" He bawled. The gun created cavities in the ceiling. Rough sounds triggered John into thinking he was going to die.
Sherlock immediately pushed John to the ground, as he fell with. Their two hearts begun to centre themselves into working their muscles, preparing them to flight or fight.
More men carrying guns shifted to the people before them, shoving people to the floor with an objective to find goods. Without hesitation the hosts had little power as their bodies were hugged viciously to the chests of criminals.
"Move," the man who had brought everyone to knees clamoured. He smiled and happily shot an innocent woman, its ringing now meant that she was gone, "and you will be murdered,"
"Sherlock," John rasped, tears full of epinephrine and a pure want to escape, started to quickly flow. It was a subconscious plea to have a plan, to save everyone.
"John," His eyes shut tightly so he saw yellow specks under his lids. Sherlock wanted to give him a response. The troubling truth, was that the genius didn't know what to do. Although the bad are seen in a negative way, so are their minds, howbeit these had the smarts to block every possibility of winning -- every possibility of having back their lives.
Legs were running, constantly escaping people's eyes as they injure in haste for anything worthy. An aggressive grab of John's things hadn't set either of them to attack.
Sherlock's passion for the man who in short notice became his room-mate, his best friend and more importantly his cherished love, was hanging on a filament, ready to wither. It was satisfied that the possibility of declaring itself was slim, as it was certain everyone in the room would perish. All that would be left are bodies ready to be disposed of. It needed fulfilment. An answer. Then, he could die happily knowing that John knew. That he knew Sherlock had a heart that John held a special place in it.
The man had stopped walking. His eyes widened with glory as he stepped back to see the world's smartest man on the floor, obeying orders. Sherlock had taken in his existence, that he was brushing his gun against his face in a silent threat to kill. He pushed him up by his ebony collar, his thumb brushing against the material. Licking his lips, he cocked the gun inside on his mouth. Sherlock didn't do anything.
"STOP!" John cried, his face holding worry not even a one-hundred year old man would dare carry. As soon as he stood, a man held a knife to his throat, and wrapped his arm around his belly, taking his arms with him. Not even army training could save him. John just needed his friend alive, so that when he woke up he could hear his beautiful tunes ringing, see his face scrunch when he was thinking, see him desperately run with him to catch someone. He needed his persona around him at all times, and if that meant dying for him, so be it. John would do it in a second for him.
Sherlock turned around, his jacket flying away from him, his feet twisting. Taking the gun, his defences were destroyed, his reflexes slow. Angry that the toy was taken away from him, the malefactor grappled him ferociously, taking a life-threatening hit to his stomach. Sherlock made a mistake trying to defend himself. He realised that he would be slaughtered.
And when has he ever been wrong about something big?
The offender grabbed his neck with an intent to savour his finding like a first bite, "I think, that I ought to kill you. It would be brilliant," He extended his arm with his gun for emphasis, "and I would surely never forget it." He faced the deadly bullet exit to the bottom of his chin, tapping it with empowerment.
"S . . . Sherlock . . . " John whispered, his eyes sizzling onto what he could see of Sherlock. He could see his rugged hair fizzed up, tattered, his legs almost failing to stand himself up. Sherlock faced him, his eyes holding sorrow and loss. He didn't need words to describe his pain, only a stare was all he needed.
"I'll be nice; you can have some words. I want to remember this." His boss at the front held a grin, "you too, young man." He shifted his view to John.
Seconds had past. They wanted to prepare for the last words they would every announce to each other. John let out a small cry. How could he sum up his joy of being with him, being alongside with him, and having the honour to know him, in only such a small amount of time? He could write a whole essay as to why he was such a perfect person to be around, to see brilliance in its pure form.
"I . . . " he swallowed his saliva. His brain was occupied, full of last words he could say. He wanted it to be enough so that he could pass without an urge to ask, "Sherlock, do you love me?"
"Jo -- " the tall man couldn't finish his words. It was as if he was to cry.
He stopped mid sentence. His breathing becoming erratic and his eyes shifted to the floor. Sherlock's face was red and John saw his eyes brimming with tears.
Sherlock swallowed audibly and bowed his head. His throat had troubling breathing air, his mind stopped rationalising, stopped attempting to cover up his feelings. He answered softly to the ground with his mind running full possible outcomes to John's answers, "Yes," he whispered with a croak. He looked up at his love, his plant to his soil, his mantle to his earth. "yes, I am in love with you."
John's tear sacs spilt, his eyes forming a reddish shade, "Is it bad to say, I do too?"
Sherlock then knew, that his fallacious deduction that he would never love him back, was declared false.
John closed his eyes, ready to hear a loud bang signalising his beau's death. Oh, how he wished life would live on. That they would kiss, caress, and appreciate each other. He knew that day would never come, that they would never possibly adopt and watch a child they raised together grow, that they would never snuggle without the thought that it was wrong for them too.
A loud ringing came instead.
"Thank you for participating in this lovely event. Please find the exit to your far right, as you can all leave now." The two both could recognise that voice from anywhere.
Their bodies were released from limitation. The men that had held the two of them had joined each other and walked away happy with their result. Everything was normal again, from the noise, to the hosts, to the people on the floor. Not a single person was worried, not even the woman who had allegedly got shot in the chest. Laughter could even be heard.
As soon as they were released, Sherlock turned to John with an expression of shock evident on his porcelain face. They were supposed to die, and when they both heard that voice, they knew exactly why.
"Boys," With an actual smile, Mycroft strode to the duo, "how are you? You look well." He swung his cane before placing it back down, looking at the two of them.
"B-but," John could never believe it, not even in a century.
"You needed to tell each-other, and I knew that you two would never confess it. It was about time regardless."
"Wh . . . " Sherlock said, "we were supposed to . . . "
"Now, we could never have a dead Sherlock and John, could we brother dear?"
Based off a Tumblr prompt