Re: Filled: 2/?
anonymous
May 28 2011, 03:25:11 UTC
Sludge made Sherlock slide and stumble as he sprinted with a wired energy he hadn’t felt since that night at the pool, ripping a vest of explosives away from a body so inexplicably precious -
He pulled to a halt at the edge of the roof, the wind practically pushing him over as he leaned, trying to see through the flakes. There was one figure on the roof across the way, a hunched blob that was far too large be John. No. John had to be there too, he couldn’t have - (Couldn’t have made it, who could make that jump?)
Sherlock collapsed to his knees, exhausted breaths coming ragged and burning cold. Blood pounded by his ears, blocking out the rush of wind and his own disbelieving gasps. His hands were trembling; tears froze painfully to his cheeks. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t - Of course it could, the cruelly rational side of his brain cut in. John loved danger, hadn’t he just been thinking that? And Sherlock was constantly dragging him into situations where the danger was deadly. The only logical outcome was one day -
Then he saw: Someone was making their way up the fire escape that clung to the side of the other building. Sherlock scrambled on hands and knees to the very end of the roof and squinted, just able to make out the military crop of the hair. John. He must have aimed for the fire escape instead of the other roof. Idiot. (Actually, it was really rather clever, as completely suicidal stunts go. But still, idiot.) He’d been hurt, judging by the way he was favoring his left arm as he pulled himself up a ladder. But he was also making his way quickly, so not too hurt.
Sherlock backed away from the edge and pulled his knees into his chest, steadying his breathing as he watched John’s ascent. He could kill him for being so reckless. Didn’t he see that the gap was far too wide? That the run was slippery, that the wind was against him, that one mistake could have sent him hurtling to his - to his -
Death. Sherlock forced himself to think the word. John could have died.
Stupid. It was entirely stupid. A completely unacceptable risk and - Oh, look, John was subduing the murderer, though no surprise there, the man hadn’t moved since the jump; he must have broken his leg, that tended to happen when pulling stunts like - And what if John had fallen and lived, broken and screaming? Sherlock would have been drenched in his blood as he held him and rode beside him in an ambulance, would have sat twitching with anxiety and boredom by his bed for who knows how long, until Mycroft started pestering him about his health, as if that would matter with John lying there, covered in bandages or maybe unconscious -
His heart was racing again and the ice in his lungs felt like fire. And there was John, jumping up and down and waving his arms as if nothing were wrong, as if this were just another exciting lark, another mission happily completed. He didn’t get it at all, how close he’d come to making this the worst day of Sherlock’s life.
Sherlock rose and waved back, gesturing for John to call Lestrade while he made his way over to the other building the sane way. As he scrambled down the fire escape on his side of the gap he tried to form a coherent speech about unacceptable actions, but the words kept getting jumbled and he couldn’t get his hands to stop trembling and part of him just wanted to punch John for scaring him so damn much.
He pulled to a halt at the edge of the roof, the wind practically pushing him over as he leaned, trying to see through the flakes. There was one figure on the roof across the way, a hunched blob that was far too large be John. No. John had to be there too, he couldn’t have - (Couldn’t have made it, who could make that jump?)
Sherlock collapsed to his knees, exhausted breaths coming ragged and burning cold. Blood pounded by his ears, blocking out the rush of wind and his own disbelieving gasps. His hands were trembling; tears froze painfully to his cheeks. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t - Of course it could, the cruelly rational side of his brain cut in. John loved danger, hadn’t he just been thinking that? And Sherlock was constantly dragging him into situations where the danger was deadly. The only logical outcome was one day -
Then he saw: Someone was making their way up the fire escape that clung to the side of the other building. Sherlock scrambled on hands and knees to the very end of the roof and squinted, just able to make out the military crop of the hair. John. He must have aimed for the fire escape instead of the other roof. Idiot. (Actually, it was really rather clever, as completely suicidal stunts go. But still, idiot.) He’d been hurt, judging by the way he was favoring his left arm as he pulled himself up a ladder. But he was also making his way quickly, so not too hurt.
Sherlock backed away from the edge and pulled his knees into his chest, steadying his breathing as he watched John’s ascent. He could kill him for being so reckless. Didn’t he see that the gap was far too wide? That the run was slippery, that the wind was against him, that one mistake could have sent him hurtling to his - to his -
Death. Sherlock forced himself to think the word. John could have died.
Stupid. It was entirely stupid. A completely unacceptable risk and - Oh, look, John was subduing the murderer, though no surprise there, the man hadn’t moved since the jump; he must have broken his leg, that tended to happen when pulling stunts like - And what if John had fallen and lived, broken and screaming? Sherlock would have been drenched in his blood as he held him and rode beside him in an ambulance, would have sat twitching with anxiety and boredom by his bed for who knows how long, until Mycroft started pestering him about his health, as if that would matter with John lying there, covered in bandages or maybe unconscious -
His heart was racing again and the ice in his lungs felt like fire. And there was John, jumping up and down and waving his arms as if nothing were wrong, as if this were just another exciting lark, another mission happily completed. He didn’t get it at all, how close he’d come to making this the worst day of Sherlock’s life.
Sherlock rose and waved back, gesturing for John to call Lestrade while he made his way over to the other building the sane way. As he scrambled down the fire escape on his side of the gap he tried to form a coherent speech about unacceptable actions, but the words kept getting jumbled and he couldn’t get his hands to stop trembling and part of him just wanted to punch John for scaring him so damn much.
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And this: he couldn’t get his hands to stop trembling and part of him just wanted to punch John for scaring him so damn much.
Uh, just so good!
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