Fic: In His Hands
Title: In His Hands
Characters: John/Sherlock, Moriarty
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~750
Spoilers: TGG
Summary: Sherlock relives those fateful events at the pool. A post TGG ficlet
I will burn the heart out of you.
The words still ring through Sherlock’s head, like an ever present church bell. The smell of the pool, that’s there too, along with a semtex-wrapped John. The gun is heavy in his hands, keeping him anchored to this place. Moriarty’s smirking in front of him, all too aware of the power he has now. Just shoot him, Sherlock thinks. Take his heart before he kills yours. But he doesn’t shoot, he never shoots. The fear grips him and he’s unable to pull the trigger. But then Moriarty leaves and Sherlock rushes at John, ripping the ticking coat off him like a proper mad man. Sherlock knows what he must look like, the panic and fear clearly written all over his face. He doesn’t care, can’t care because it’s John. His John, with explosives strapped to his chest and he could’ve died. The simple yet brutal fact hits him anew. Sherlock can feel the internal terror rising up again and he can’t contain it and….
You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.
John’s voice breaks through the cacophony. Sherlock can breath again and he looks over at John, who’s leaning against the tiled wall. He wants to rush at him again, pull him close, and never ever let him go. He wants to feel John breathing against him, to feel the blood in his veins, his body pressed closed to his friend’s. He wants this, needs it in fact. All he can manage though is They’d do little else and a glowing smile. John returns it and for a brief moment, Sherlock truly believes that everything will be alright.
It won’t be.
It never is, no matter how many times Sherlock’s replayed the scenario over and over in his head. Moriarty returns, like always, and there Sherlock stands, with the gun in his hand and John by his side. His eyes flicker down to the doctor and he nods. He knows now and prepares himself for it. Breathing deeply, with the grace of a musician and the calm of a soldier, Sherlock pulls the trigger.
He can feel John slam into him as soon as the bullet left the gun. He always did have incredible timing, Shelock thought as they both hit the water of the pool. John’s twisted his body around Sherlock’s and because of this, John takes the brute of the chunk of wall that’s fallen after them. He can see as the blood starts to pour out of John’s head, turning the clear water dark all around them. Sherlock’s body is screaming as his world completely collapses around him.
He wakes with a start, breathing heavy and his eyes scanning the room. John’s still there, in the hospital room bed, with the white-on-beige colour scheme and it’s awful wallpaper. He can’t care about that now though. Rubbing a hand over his face, Sherlock unfurls himself from the visitor’s chair. John’s asleep, curled onto his side with his back toward Sherlock. Very quietly and as quickly as he can, the detective puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Still breathing, good. Sherlock lets out the breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding in. His hand lingers there, unable to move away. His eyes move to John’s head, which has been wrapped tight with gauze and bandages. It stands out, even against the white pillows, a sharp reminder of what John did. Sherlock can feel something inside himself expand and it’s threatening to swallow him whole. His breath catches and he shuts his eyes, completely unable to keep them open.
“Sherlock”
John’s voice is weak, but sure. Sherlock instinctively removes his hand and mentally chides himself for waking him. He turns back to resume his lookout from a respectable distance when he hears it again.
“Sherlock, just get over here.”
He stops and turns back toward the bed. John’s eyes are still closed but he’s scooted over, leaving a portion of the bed empty. Sherlock sees it, recognizes it and suddenly, it’s all so perfectly clear. It’s been here all along, really. They’ve just been a bit slow to getting there. He smiles as lays down next to his flatmate, friend, savior and slides an arm around his waist. John sighs and leans back into Sherlock. They fit together remarkably well this way. Just like every other way he muses, as John drifts off again. Sherlock lies there, breathing contentedly, with his heart wrapped safely in his hands.
Originally posted here
Characters: John/Sherlock, Moriarty
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~750
Spoilers: TGG
Summary: Sherlock relives those fateful events at the pool. A post TGG ficlet
I will burn the heart out of you.
The words still ring through Sherlock’s head, like an ever present church bell. The smell of the pool, that’s there too, along with a semtex-wrapped John. The gun is heavy in his hands, keeping him anchored to this place. Moriarty’s smirking in front of him, all too aware of the power he has now. Just shoot him, Sherlock thinks. Take his heart before he kills yours. But he doesn’t shoot, he never shoots. The fear grips him and he’s unable to pull the trigger. But then Moriarty leaves and Sherlock rushes at John, ripping the ticking coat off him like a proper mad man. Sherlock knows what he must look like, the panic and fear clearly written all over his face. He doesn’t care, can’t care because it’s John. His John, with explosives strapped to his chest and he could’ve died. The simple yet brutal fact hits him anew. Sherlock can feel the internal terror rising up again and he can’t contain it and….
You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.
John’s voice breaks through the cacophony. Sherlock can breath again and he looks over at John, who’s leaning against the tiled wall. He wants to rush at him again, pull him close, and never ever let him go. He wants to feel John breathing against him, to feel the blood in his veins, his body pressed closed to his friend’s. He wants this, needs it in fact. All he can manage though is They’d do little else and a glowing smile. John returns it and for a brief moment, Sherlock truly believes that everything will be alright.
It won’t be.
It never is, no matter how many times Sherlock’s replayed the scenario over and over in his head. Moriarty returns, like always, and there Sherlock stands, with the gun in his hand and John by his side. His eyes flicker down to the doctor and he nods. He knows now and prepares himself for it. Breathing deeply, with the grace of a musician and the calm of a soldier, Sherlock pulls the trigger.
He can feel John slam into him as soon as the bullet left the gun. He always did have incredible timing, Shelock thought as they both hit the water of the pool. John’s twisted his body around Sherlock’s and because of this, John takes the brute of the chunk of wall that’s fallen after them. He can see as the blood starts to pour out of John’s head, turning the clear water dark all around them. Sherlock’s body is screaming as his world completely collapses around him.
He wakes with a start, breathing heavy and his eyes scanning the room. John’s still there, in the hospital room bed, with the white-on-beige colour scheme and it’s awful wallpaper. He can’t care about that now though. Rubbing a hand over his face, Sherlock unfurls himself from the visitor’s chair. John’s asleep, curled onto his side with his back toward Sherlock. Very quietly and as quickly as he can, the detective puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Still breathing, good. Sherlock lets out the breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding in. His hand lingers there, unable to move away. His eyes move to John’s head, which has been wrapped tight with gauze and bandages. It stands out, even against the white pillows, a sharp reminder of what John did. Sherlock can feel something inside himself expand and it’s threatening to swallow him whole. His breath catches and he shuts his eyes, completely unable to keep them open.
“Sherlock”
John’s voice is weak, but sure. Sherlock instinctively removes his hand and mentally chides himself for waking him. He turns back to resume his lookout from a respectable distance when he hears it again.
“Sherlock, just get over here.”
He stops and turns back toward the bed. John’s eyes are still closed but he’s scooted over, leaving a portion of the bed empty. Sherlock sees it, recognizes it and suddenly, it’s all so perfectly clear. It’s been here all along, really. They’ve just been a bit slow to getting there. He smiles as lays down next to his flatmate, friend, savior and slides an arm around his waist. John sighs and leans back into Sherlock. They fit together remarkably well this way. Just like every other way he muses, as John drifts off again. Sherlock lies there, breathing contentedly, with his heart wrapped safely in his hands.
Originally posted here