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In some detached part of his mind, he thought of how much the rhythm of the windshield wipers sounded like frantic heartbeats, mirroring his own as he stared out the window of the cab, watching raindrops chase each other across the glass pane. Something was wrong; he just knew it. Sherlock had rushed out of the flat only two hours earlier, shouting something about their case behind him as he flew down the stairs, deep blue scarf trailing him like a cape.
Heroes don’t exist John…and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.
The words echoed back in John’s head like the remnants of footfalls down seventeen steps…down, and down. Until there was nothing left but his flatmate’s voice, every word the man had ever spoken reverberating off the inside of his skull. The low monotone he used whenever explaining his deductions, your haircut, the way you hold yourself says ‘military’, the self-satisfied sigh as he stared at his audience’s shocked expressions, the police don’t consult amateurs, the warm, almost affectionate tone he seemed to reserve only for John, got your breath back?
Ready when you are.
And it was true. He had always been ready, ready to follow Sherlock wherever his brain led them, ready to assist him whenever possible--it was nice to know that someone as brilliant as this man needed someone as mundane as him-- ready to gun down anyone who thought of threatening him, or take the bullet himself if he couldn’t.
Ah, the bravery of the soldier…
The thought of bullets drew his gaze to the gun barely concealed in the waistband of his Levi’s, the one he had snatched from the desk drawer before sprinting out the door, forgetting to grab a coat even though it was pouring rain outside, entering the cab soaked to the bone and shivering, stuttering out the address between chattering teeth. One word, that’s all it had been. The sound of the cell phone vibrating against the countertop had pulled him out of his armchair reluctantly, steps quickening as the rattling continued. Call then, not text. He pushed aside the…whatever that was in the Petri dish and snatched his phone up, glancing at the blue LCD screen.
Sherlock
Sherlock never called. He pressed the blinking “CALL” button, a precognitive sense of dread spreading through him as he pressed the phone to his ear.
“John.”
The voice was unmistakably Sherlock’s, the deep baritone rumbling through his ears. But there was something wrong; it was too soft, hushed, as if he didn’t want to be heard. Suddenly, the voice was cut off; a choking gasp sounded from the other end of the line, then-silence. Horrible, shattering, gut-freezing silence, and John was whirling around, his mind focused on the words Sherlock had shouted out behind him before he ran off into the rain.
"I’ll be at the docks, John! Might be a while."
Heroes don’t exist John…and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.
The words echoed back in John’s head like the remnants of footfalls down seventeen steps…down, and down. Until there was nothing left but his flatmate’s voice, every word the man had ever spoken reverberating off the inside of his skull. The low monotone he used whenever explaining his deductions, your haircut, the way you hold yourself says ‘military’, the self-satisfied sigh as he stared at his audience’s shocked expressions, the police don’t consult amateurs, the warm, almost affectionate tone he seemed to reserve only for John, got your breath back?
Ready when you are.
And it was true. He had always been ready, ready to follow Sherlock wherever his brain led them, ready to assist him whenever possible--it was nice to know that someone as brilliant as this man needed someone as mundane as him-- ready to gun down anyone who thought of threatening him, or take the bullet himself if he couldn’t.
Ah, the bravery of the soldier…
The thought of bullets drew his gaze to the gun barely concealed in the waistband of his Levi’s, the one he had snatched from the desk drawer before sprinting out the door, forgetting to grab a coat even though it was pouring rain outside, entering the cab soaked to the bone and shivering, stuttering out the address between chattering teeth. One word, that’s all it had been. The sound of the cell phone vibrating against the countertop had pulled him out of his armchair reluctantly, steps quickening as the rattling continued. Call then, not text. He pushed aside the…whatever that was in the Petri dish and snatched his phone up, glancing at the blue LCD screen.
Sherlock
Sherlock never called. He pressed the blinking “CALL” button, a precognitive sense of dread spreading through him as he pressed the phone to his ear.
“John.”
The voice was unmistakably Sherlock’s, the deep baritone rumbling through his ears. But there was something wrong; it was too soft, hushed, as if he didn’t want to be heard. Suddenly, the voice was cut off; a choking gasp sounded from the other end of the line, then-silence. Horrible, shattering, gut-freezing silence, and John was whirling around, his mind focused on the words Sherlock had shouted out behind him before he ran off into the rain.
"I’ll be at the docks, John! Might be a while."