Traffic Lights for the Colour Blind (John/Sherlock, PG-13
Title: Traffic Lights for the Colour Blind
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~9,400
Warnings: mentions the idea of suicide as well as brainwashing
Summary: In which it's not the war John is missing, Sherlock needs to find new ways to hang on to his flatmate, and Moriarty tries to get himself a pet of his own. Features also: guns, tea, the reason Sherlock Holmes won't take the tube, cell phones, a budgie, and one obnoxious older brother.
Notes: It takes a village: Many thanks to spacedmonkey for being my London map and to jimandblair for Brit-picking and additional advice. Thanks also to halina_renata for her beta, and especially to kisa_hawklin for once again making sure I won't embarrass myself. Written for thisissirius for the 221b_slash_fest.
ETA: Thanks to the wonderful pandarus (and cybel, of course), you can now download Traffic Lights as podfic! (Audiobook link here)
~~~
Traffic Lights for the Colour Blind
Red.
~~~
He dreams of Afghanistan every single night. Fresh mountain wind and rotting blood, the cries of steppe eagles and bursts of gunfire that tear ragged holes into the darkness. Men bleeding out under his hands. Long days of absolute boredom. That last gunfight, the bullet tearing into his shoulder, the smell of dirt, the fever, the conviction that he was going to die. The pain, god. So much pain. His voice hoarse from screaming.
He jerks awake, not with a shout on his lips but with his breathing ragged, his lungs aching, and his eyes stinging with tears as his heart pounds in his aching throat.
~~~
It's always been there; a tiny cog at the very base of his skull, out of alignment, ticking antipodal to the rational parts of his brain. Tick - climb the tree; the rotting branches will hold this one last time. Tock - push the pedal all the way down; that curve isn't as narrow as it looks. Tick - the ice will hold. Tock - the parachute will open. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Tick.
Go to war. You'll be fine.
~~~
Mycroft Holmes thought he got it, that first time they met, but he hadn't. In his own way, he'd been as wrong about John as his - so well-meaning, so pretty - therapist. John doesn't blame them; it's as easy to mistake his… condition… for thrill-seeking as it is to diagnose it as PTSD. And Mycroft had been closer to figuring it out than anyone, ever, at least until John spent more than five minutes in the presence of the other Holmes brother.
Sherlock gets it. He uses it, wielding John like a precision tool for purposes that sometimes make sense and sometimes don't. He keeps John's life from slipping into tedium, into routine, even if it's just by making John drive halfway across London just to pull Sherlock's mobile out of his pocket. He distracts John, continuously, which is more than anyone else has ever managed, or even tried to do.
John doesn't delude himself that this is because Sherlock likes him. Sherlock is flattered by him, and possibly even finds him somewhat interesting, but he couldn't care less about what happens to John on a personal level. And that's fine. John doesn't want a friend, doesn't need friends. Friends are work and work is boring and boring is bad. Even John can recognise that.
Sherlock is anything but boring.
John loves him a little for that.
~~~
The best thing is that they don't talk about it. Sherlock has this habit of presenting his deductions to a speechless audience like an artist unveiling a masterpiece, but John's inner landscape is already known to both of them. Sherlock's insights are unlikely to stun and awe and so he keeps them to himself, with the implied understanding that he knows that John knows that Sherlock knows ad infinitum.
It's working rather well for them.
"Have you ever been on a stakeout?" Sherlock asks, tapping away at his phone.
"I can't say that I have." John turns a page of his book, his eyes on paragraphs he doesn't read. Sitting around for hours watching for something that might or might not happen doesn't sound very appealing. Then again, it doesn't exactly sound like something Sherlock would do, either.
"Things can go wrong in a variety of ways," Sherlock confirms without looking up, his voice sounding almost a little enticing. "Violence, death… One would be advised to bring a gun."
John hums and turns another page. He knows that Sherlock knows that John is interested; hell, Sherlock can probably see John's skin flush from clear across the room, but that doesn't mean John can't play a little hard to get every once in a while.
Sherlock's phone beeps.
"Yes," Sherlock breathes at whatever text he's received. He jumps to his feet. "Are you coming?" When John purses his lips, he adds, "We might get shot at."
Yes, definitely enticing.
John sighs and gets up. "I don't know why I keep doing this."
Sherlock scoffs. "Yes, you do."
Yes, he does.
~~~
They take the tube exactly once, on a late Saturday morning.
Sherlock has an Oyster card - of course he does; skipping madly to and fro across London is far too expensive in a taxi - and he steps onto the escalator leading down with positive glee. John, who still needs his cane sometimes despite Sherlock's best efforts to adrenaline the phantom pains right out of him, is simply glad they didn't step on at Camden. He doesn't think he could handle that staircase today, not with the way his leg is not-quite-cramping.
They have a few minutes to wait for the next train, so Sherlock settles in to people-watch. His voice is a low murmur on John's left side, pointing out flaws and personal histories and extra-marital affairs in a detached, almost clinical monologue that doesn't invite John's participation, even as it demands his attention. He obliges Sherlock - of course he does - but he loses the thread for a moment when the train comes.
It's not that the noise makes it impossible to hear Sherlock any longer. It might have been, but John stops being Sherlock's audience the moment he hears the tell-tale singing of the tracks. The train is about to rush into the station, and just like always, John can't help but think what would happen if he were to take a few steps forward right now. Just like always, his feet stay rooted to the spot, but when he looks up, Sherlock is watching him sharply, frowning.
They switch to taxis after that.
~~~
"Go left!"
John doesn't pause, running into the left-side alley as Sherlock dashes off to the right. They've been chasing their suspect for several minutes now, a small-time thief turned accidental murderer, and the adrenaline is pounding through John's body with every running step. It's exhilarating, almost as much as the knowledge that Rosin, the thief, is armed.
So much could happen if he doesn't pay attention. So much could go wrong even if he does.
John rounds another corner and instinct has him jerk to the side almost before he registers the dull gleam of streetlights reflecting off the black polymer of Rosin's Glock. The first shot misses but he stumbles, carried forward by momentum and the second bullet clips his left arm. He spares a moment to be grateful that Rosin's an atrocious marksman - John would never miss at this distance - then he has his own gun out and unceremoniously clocks Rosin over the head with it. The man goes down without so much as a whimper.
John stands over him, panting, and pokes his trigger finger at his arm. The bullet has barely grazed him; a few stitches and maybe a scar, but his jacket is ruined. "Damn it."
He hears Sherlock before he sees him skid around the corner. Sherlock's eyes widen just a little as he takes in Rosin crumpled on the ground, the hole in John's jacket, and the blood on John's finger. He looks as if he's just realised, for the first time, that getting shot at will occasionally lead to injury.
"It's fine," John says. He feels strangely nervous. "I'm fine."
"Of course you are," Sherlock snaps, "it's just a graze."
And just like that, for no reason John can pinpoint, the nervousness tumbles into disappointment. He doesn't dwell on it; examining the feeling might lead him to any of the reasons he's staying with Sherlock, and they'll be all better off if he leaves those alone.
But the disappointment is still there when he goes to bed that night, a hard lump at the base of his throat that feels like it might have a hollow point and a copper jacket.
He doesn't sleep at all.
~~~
Over the next few weeks, John nearly dies four times. Sherlock sends him up drain pipes and down bridge columns, has him describe the inside of ventilation shafts and the wiring of car bombs. He shows a casual disregard for John's general well-being that would make anyone else sputter in protest.
John has never been so aware that each step could be his last; that every time he locks the door to their flat behind him he might not come back. Even Afghanistan had long stretches of boredom. If Sherlock gets bored, things explode. John has never felt more alive.
He's never felt more alone, either.
~~~
And then Moriarty has him strapped to enough Semtex to take out half the street and the unsteady lights of several cheap Solware laser sights trained on him and suddenly, his premature death isn't just likely, it's imminent.
John waits for the rush of anticipation - the one he's used to feeling, the one he always feels - but instead all that hits him is a queasiness so strong that it makes him stagger. John's quest for… for that has always been a solitary pursuit, but now Sherlock is standing right next to him. It feels wrong. John was never supposed to take anybody with him, least of all Sherlock, who is so desperately, destructively brilliant he should outlive the stars.
"People have died," Sherlock says, and John wonders if the point is made on his behalf, because of what he said earlier. Sherlock doesn't care.
"That's what people do!" Moriarty shoots back, and yes, yes it is.
John has a chance to be useful to Sherlock, once and for all, and maybe then his aimless life will have meant something. Maybe then everything will, finally, be fine.
"Sherlock, run!" he shouts, grabbing Moriarty from behind, and that's it, there it is, the anticipation he's been waiting for. Any second now, he's going to die, but so is Moriarty. John has probably spent too much time with Sherlock, but he figures that if he has to take someone along with him, it should be a criminal mastermind. There are worse ways to go.
He's probably contemplated at least half of them.
But it doesn't work out that way. Of course it doesn't; even in the tale of his own life, John Watson isn't the hero.
The exhaustion from the emotional up and down of the past few hours is enough to drive a man to his knees, and so John sinks against one of the changing stalls once Moriarty is gone, trying to catch his breath as Sherlock paces out his frustration. He's vaguely angry at Sherlock, but for what, he isn't sure. Ruining his exit? Not shooting Moriarty when he had the chance? Setting up this whole ridiculous meeting in the first place?
"That thing that you did, that you offered to do," Sherlock says, and even in the pallid light of the pool, his face looks far too colourless, "that was… good."
Then why didn't you let me, John wants to ask. Between his getting the jump on Moriarty and the red dot appearing on Sherlock's forehead, there was more than enough time for Sherlock to get out of there. John knows that Sherlock has become used to having him around, but choosing to stand with John rather than saving himself is just idiotic. John is nothing special, after all.
He makes some quip he's forgotten almost before it's out of his mouth. Sherlock replies, and they both huff out a tired laugh that's probably less than genuine.
And then Moriarty is back and things explode, and John has enough time for two thoughts before the blast wave knocks him out. The first one is, I wanted it to be on my terms.
The second is, simply, Sherlock.
~~~
He comes to briefly with a ton of rubble pressing down on him, Sherlock's hand warm on his left shoulder blade, Sherlock's steady breathing overloud in his ears. He passes out again before he can figure out why he's smiling.
~~~
John spends several days in hospital. His right collarbone is broken, he's suffering from a blast lung, and his concussion is almost as spectacular as the rest of his internal injuries, never mind the bruises. Sarah comes to visit - not telling him about her date with that new nurse at the clinic until the third time, thank god - as does Mike, and Harry, and Murray and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, even Mycroft.
John tries to follow that conversation - something about elections? The responsibilities of family? - but there's a black umbrella that's constantly twirled left and right, left and right, and it's distracting, and eventually Mycroft takes pity on him and starts telling the story of Sherlock's first violin. Apparently, the poor thing got dragged everywhere and ended up a lost cause after one-too-many occasions of being dropped into the bathwater. It's a funny story. John chuckles, Mycroft looks pleased with himself, and the whole encounter is so bizarre that John doesn't even try to ask what Mycroft is doing in his hospital room when his brother can't be arsed to show up even once.
They're bloody tossers, the both of them. John honestly doesn't know why he even bothers.
~~~
He's still short of breath when he drags his feet up the thirteenth step to their flat. His right arm is in a sling and his head aches abominably, but that's nothing compared to the weariness he's feeling. He hasn't seen Sherlock in over a week and isn't looking forward to seeing him now. There's a difference between knowing, intellectually, that Sherlock doesn't give a damn, and having it demonstrated so comprehensively. Except Sherlock had sounded honestly worried when he'd asked if John was alright, but then he hadn't shown up at the hospital, but that look on his face, there at the pool…
It's confusing, and John hates being confused.
Maybe he should just move out.
The door to their living room opens before he can gather his scattered thoughts, and there is Sherlock, poking his head around the frame as if to check what's taking John so long. A large bruise stretches out over the right side of Sherlock's face, painting his cheekbone a dull violet before fading into yellows and greens, but otherwise he looks just like always. Good. He looks good.
"Ah, John." Sherlock opens the door wider and waves John inside. "Good."
As if nothing at all had happened. As if they last saw each other this morning at breakfast. John takes a breath, then lets it out slowly as he walks into the living room. Sherlock Holmes, he reminds himself, is shit at social interaction. That doesn't stop him from gritting his teeth as he sinks into his chair, because there's piss-poor people skills, and then there's ignoring your flatmate for over a week.
"Sherlock," he starts, not even sure what he's going to say, but Sherlock holds up his hand in a clear 'stop' gesture, eyes flicking over John's face.
"You're annoyed," he says, frowning. Then his face clears. "Ah. The hospital."
John sighs. He's getting used to being an open book, but he's probably going to need a while yet before he's used to being read and analysed within the space of a second. "Very good," he says, giving the words an ironic spin.
Sherlock ignores it. "I don't do bedside visits," he declares, because naturally it's all about him. "And you hardly expect me to leave Moriarty to the police, do you?"
Well. He does have a point there.
"Did you catch him?" John asks. He thinks he can see the answer in the bags under Sherlock's eyes, in the pallor of his skin, but he's been wrong before.
"Not yet." Sherlock waves his hand again like it doesn't matter. Like it doesn't bug the hell out of him that Moriarty got away. "He'll be back."
"Saying hi by blowing up half of London," John mutters. "Or me."
Sherlock takes a sharp breath. "About that." He pauses, and John expects another awkward moment of 'thank you for nearly dying.' What he gets, instead, nearly makes his own breath stop.
"That thing. That you almost did." Sherlock stares at him, pale eyes in a paler face, the bruise stark against his skin. "You can't do that again."
John blinks back, stunned. "Why?" he manages, his throat so dry his voice feels like grit against sandpaper.
"It's distracting. I don't need distractions, John." Sherlock is still staring at him, and John is getting the distinct impression that he's missing an important part of the conversation. Frustration flickers across Sherlock's face. "God, you people and your tiny- I mean that my patience with your self-destructive streak has run out," he snaps.
John feels the colour drain from his face. They're not talking about this. They've never talked about this. "I don't know what you're -" he says, weakly, but Sherlock interrupts him.
"Oh, stop it. You've been looking for ways to kill yourself since you were old enough to be left outside without supervision." He tilts his head. "It's interesting. I can't figure out the reason. There were no tragic deaths in your family, nothing to cause…" He breaks himself off. "In any case, this stops now. No more death-defying acts, no more," he gestures vaguely, "telling me to run while you… No more."
At some point during this little speech, John's mouth has dropped open. He closes it, swallows. "Why?" he asks faintly.
"I won't allow it," Sherlock says, as if that makes perfect sense, as if… as if that's a reason for anything. John watches, speechless, as Sherlock rubs a hand through his hair and turns his curls into a tangled mess. "You can't… I'm not…" He huffs. "You're my assistant. I've spent too much time on you for you to throw yourself in front of the next bus."
"But that's not it at all," John says, his heart pounding so hard he thinks his brain is going to explode from the resonance, "is it?"
"No." Sherlock smiles faintly. "But let's work with that for now."
John nods, because he can't think of anything else to do.
"Alright," he says. "Let's."
~~~
Amber.
~~~
Four months after he almost caught Jim Moriarty - never has an 'almost' stung this much - an anonymous comment appears on Sherlock's website. Well, as anonymous as a comment can get when the sender is being so blatantly obvious.
Very nice to meet you. Loved your pet. Thinking of getting one for myself. xoxo
If Sherlock were the type to roll his eyes, now would be a perfect moment to indulge. Apart from being far too fond of meaningless chatter, Moriarty has somehow become convinced that he is funny.
He is not.
If that's supposed to be menacing, you'll have to try harder. SH
Not a minute later, he gets his reply. Sherlock wonders if Moriarty's afternoon is as boring as his own.
Just a friendly heads-up. See you soon. xoxo
Sherlock leans back and stares at the laptop screen, fingertips steepled against his lips.
See you soon.
"Can't wait," he says, and smiles.
~~~
John comes home later than usual the next day. That in itself is unremarkable - for an introvert, John runs into old acquaintances with astounding frequency - but the faint bruise forming on the right side of his jaw is not. Eight millimetres too far to the left for an instant knock-out; whoever had hit him had been good, but not good enough. The scrapes on John's knuckles and his self-satisfied expression make it perfectly clear who won that fight. Again, unremarkable. John may have been an army doctor, but he is still a military man.
"Trouble?" Sherlock asks nevertheless. John gets so very cross when he feels he's being ignored. It's tedious, but Sherlock has learned that the occasional preventive measure takes less effort than working around John's subsequent sulk.
"Kidnapping attempt," John says casually. "Did you know Moriarty's back?"
Sherlock has to smile at that. "He left a comment on my website."
"You could have told me." John's voice is calm; he can't have been in any real danger. He wouldn't be, this early in the game.
"Please. You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself." Now that John has given up on his ridiculous death wish - under orders, granted, but a solution doesn't have to be elegant to work - he is finally allowing his combat training to serve him as intended. The difference is… noteworthy.
"Not the point," John says, and Sherlock refrains from arguing that this is, in fact, the point exactly.
"Was our dear Jim there, then?" he asks instead.
"No." John drops into his beloved armchair. "But the method was the same as last time." He inspects his knuckles, frowning. "Like I'm going to fall for the same thing twice."
"Hardly," Sherlock agrees. He watches John for a moment, noting with amusement John's pleased little smile at the compliment. John has a good idea of his own skills, but he's always open to flattery. They're similar in that regard. Sherlock tilts his head. "Dinner?"
John meets his gaze. "I could go for a bite."
"French?"
John looks back impassively. Sherlock sighs.
"Italian, then," he offers.
John's lips twitch. "With a candle on the table?"
"Doubtless."
"Fine."
Of course it's fine. Everything is always fine in John Watson's world. Occasionally, Sherlock wonders what it must be like to continuously deny oneself that way.
Not today. Today, Moriarty is back, and he's made his first playful move.
The game is on.
~~~
Moriarty's target is obvious, of course. He had promised, rather melodramatically, to burn the heart out of Sherlock, and rightly observed that Sherlock's infrequent attempts at humanity have a single, common, cause.
Sherlock almost feels sorry for John. It can't be comfortable to be the means through which Moriarty is attempting to get to Sherlock. At the same time, he should be flattered to have the attention of someone so indisputably brilliant.
Sherlock certainly is.
~~~
"You were never in any real danger," Sherlock tells John a week later.
"Could have fooled me," John snaps, enraged and dishevelled, blood on his clothes and under his fingernails. "Especially when the bomb went off five rows behind me."
Seventeen people died in an explosion in the tube at Charing Cross today. Seventeen people John Watson couldn't save, although Sherlock knows he tried. Seventeen steps to their living room. Connection? Possible. Unlikely.
"If he wanted to hurt you," Sherlock points out, "you'd be considerably less healthy." John hasn't escaped entirely unscathed, of course. His left wrist is sprained, he's lost his left canine, and doubtless multiple bruises are forming all over his body. But this badly-staged drama was just another overture, another test to gauge Sherlock's reaction. He doesn't care about the nameless dead and John is in reasonably good condition. Why should he react at all?
"People have died," John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off.
"And you'll note that you aren't one of them." He waves a hand dismissively. "Moriarty is simply trying to see what I will do."
John purses his lips. His hands are clenched into fists, Sherlock notes. What must it be like, to be so emotional? "And what are you doing, Sherlock?" It's a challenge, and not one Sherlock intends on taking up.
"Nothing."
"Nothing," John repeats flatly. "You're doing nothing."
"That's what I said." Sherlock's own tone of voice is growing curter. He has little patience for deliberate obtuseness, and John's is beginning to wear on his nerves.
"You can't just -"
"And what would you expect me to do? He hasn't given me any clues, any… hints. Should I be running around London like a headless chicken; is that what you want me to do, John?" Sherlock scowls at the stubborn expression on John's face. "The game hasn't even started yet. These are just… opening moves. He's setting the b-"
John holds up his hand. It's the left one, white bandage wrapped around a discoloured wrist, and it's shaking so hard the words get stuck in Sherlock's throat. Not nerves. Anger. Rage.
"This isn't a game, Sherlock," he says. Sherlock has never heard him sound like that. "And if you won't stop it, I will."
"Really." Sherlock scoffs, his voice dripping with derision as he watches John pick up his jacket, the one that was never replaced. The one with the hole in it that Mrs. Hudson patched over with more care than skill. "And how, exactly, are you going to -"
The door slams behind John hard enough to bounce open again. He's down the steps faster than Sherlock can think of something suitable to say; not that it matters. John will be back.
He'll always be back.
~~~
If Sherlock did relationships - which he doesn't; other people's emotions are far too messy and inconsistent to subject himself to - John might, with a little more training, be an adequate partner. He'd have to learn that the mind is an infinitely more preferable sexual organ than the body, of course, and his expectations of Sherlock would have to stop being so unreasonable. Sherlock is no hero, nor has he any wish to be. He is brilliant, and frequently bored, and criminals are interesting. Outside of social convention. Much like Sherlock.
But if John would simply accept Sherlock as the highly functioning sociopath he is, Sherlock's… attachment… to him might become less of an aberration. More logical.
Less inexplicable.
Sherlock has no idea why John's high - but realistic - regard of him has become something to strive for. It irks him, this useless connection to a man who is, in far too many ways, as boring and mundane as everyone else. Irks, confuses, and fascinates all the same. Here is a living, breathing thing that belongs to Sherlock in a way that nothing and no one else has ever done. Sherlock's violin didn't come to him of its own volition; John did, and he chooses to stay again and again. It's his one extraordinary quality, and although Sherlock loathes to admit it, he values it highly.
Which is possibly why, when Moriarty finally moves in earnest, Sherlock finds himself reacting rather more possessively than any of them could have anticipated.
~~~
John isn't back that night, or the next morning. This isn't unusual; John often spends the night at a friend's when he runs out of patience with Sherlock. Not at Sarah's, now that she has a boyfriend, but Mike is always a possibility, as is that Murray fellow Sherlock still hasn't been introduced to. He strongly suspects this is because John doesn't want Sherlock to know he's bisexual, as if it weren't obvious from a dozen other clues. So John's absence isn't anything to worry about, yet Sherlock still does.
The knowledge that his worry is unreasonable only serves to make it more annoying.
John isn't back at noon, either, but then he wouldn't be. He's on shift at the clinic until two o'clock. Besides, Sherlock has better things to occupy his time than wonder about John Watson's whereabouts. Things like updating his website, sorting his case files, and working on a reagent that will immediately separate blood stains by blood type, eliminating the tedious wait for unreliable lab work.
This keeps him busy until four. John still isn't back.
Sherlock sighs. He is well-aware that every once in a while, he is prone to sulking, but honestly, John isn't much better. Sherlock would just wait it out, but a niggling part of his brain keeps pointing out that John's actions can be rather rash, especially when he thinks he's protecting someone. The dead cabbie and his lunge for Moriarty are two perfect examples. John didn't take his gun when he left, but perhaps Sherlock should make sure that John isn't doing something ill-advised.
He sends a text.
We're out of milk. When will you be home? SH
Fifteen minutes pass. Sherlock drums his fingers on the table and stares at his phone. It lies still and dark, mocking him with its silence.
John, if you are able to reply, I suggest you do so before I have Lestrade track you down. SH
Nothing. There is always the possibility of a dead battery, of course… but no, John is always very careful about recharging his phone. Moreover, he won't have forgotten it anywhere. He is either ignoring Sherlock, or…
"Or nothing," Sherlock snaps at the skull on the mantelpiece. "The game hasn't started yet." Jaw clenched, he snatches up his phone and jabs out another message.
Please. SH
There. That should do it. John has proven several times that he's susceptible to what he perceives as Sherlock's more vulnerable moments. Playing on that may be manipulative, but it works.
Why doesn't it work?
Sherlock hesitates. There is bound to be a perfectly logical reason for John's lack of reply. He wasn't home last night; he didn't take the battery charger. His phone is dead. One simple way to find out.
The ringtone sounds alien in Sherlock's ear. Phone calls hold no appeal for him. Too many distractions in the background noises, the crackle of the connection. Too easy to miss a lie when all he has to work with is a subject's voice. John's phone rings five times before a cool female voice informs Sherlock that he may leave a message.
Five rings. Working phone. No John.
"It's not Moriarty," Sherlock tells the skull. "That would be premature." The skull grins at him, challenging his opinion as it always does. "I didn't miss anything this time," Sherlock insists. "Actually taking John would make no sense this early in the game."
The skull gazes back at him from empty sockets. It's a bit like John, Sherlock muses, or possibly John is a bit like the skull: steadfast and loyal, unchangeable. Well, John is changeable, of course, but -
Sherlock freezes. Changeable.
Moriarty has changed the game.
He grabs his laptop and opens his website. There's a new message on his forum, posted an hour ago.
Picked up a stray and took him home. Have you lost your little dog? xoxo
Sherlock stares at the message, fingers flexing uselessly as he reads the words again and again, refusing to let the implication sink in. Moriarty is talking about someone else. He's picked some poor sod off the street and is now in the process of turning him into his toy, no doubt with a variety of drugs and considerable pain. Moriarty's next message confirms at least part of this hypothesis.
Thinking of starting my own Project MKULTRA. But where to get a doctor to assist me? Oh, wait… thought of one. xoxo
"Damn it!" Sherlock doesn't swipe the laptop off the table, but it's a near thing. Moriarty has John. Moriarty has… put his hands… on John… again.
"Alright, you want to play?" Sherlock asks the monitor. His lips are stretched into a smile he doesn't recognise. "Let's play."
~~~
John's phone is modern enough to have GPS. Tracking it down isn't hard; Sherlock can choose from a dozen websites dedicated to exactly that purpose. He finds the phone in Dorset Square, half-buried at the base of one of the ridiculously inconsistent park benches. Traces of dried dew on the display prove that it has lain there since the night before.
John is nowhere in sight.
Sherlock picks up the phone and scrolls through the menu. Three unopened texts and a missed call from him. A fourth unopened text sent through a website twenty minutes ago.
Did someone slip his collar? Come play with me. Just like old times. xoxo
Sherlock turns around to look for a clue, somebody watching him, anything. But there's nothing, just boring people moving through their boring lives without thought, without direction.
John is gone, and nobody cares.
~~~
Sherlock cares. The experience is as unfamiliar as it is disturbing. He needs something to ground him. Someone, perhaps. He needs John.
He truly is lost without his blogger.
~~~
Sherlock knows that he occasionally misses things, but he's always been great under pressure. And yet it takes him almost five minutes - pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and demanding himself to think, think - to realise that he has played this game before, and successfully at that. It's only a tiny step from there to remembering how Moriarty had engaged him.
The pink phone lies in a kitchen drawer, exactly where Sherlock left it after he'd nicked it from Lestrade. As he expected, there's a new picture, showing blue sky, the edges of two roofs, and half a window. No text, but then Sherlock doesn't need one. Wherever Moriarty is holding John - torturing him, that niggling part of his brain throws in; Sherlock tells it to shut up - this is the view. A challenge. Come play with me.
No countdown this time, no elaborate set-ups, no one listening in. No one to keep Sherlock from cheating.
He prints copies of the picture until he's out of ink and then drops off the stack and a hundred quid at the nearest homeless shelter. Again, not the most elegant solution, but the fastest. Sherlock is a little pressed for time right now.
He spends the next hour lying on the sofa, calm and unworried. He's so calm and unworried that his head starts to ache, although that might be from the way his jaw keeps clenching. He could do with a tea, but no one's there to make it. He could do with his laptop, but it's on the other side of the room and no one's there to fetch it for him.
He could do with being pestered into watching a film. John has brought a whole stack of DVDs to torment him with.
Sherlock grits his teeth and banishes all thoughts of John. He is calm and unworried. Besides, Moriarty's not going to kill John without an audience. That would be too boring.
Sherlock doesn't glance at the skull, so no one can point out that the rules may change again.
One hour and three minutes after Sherlock dropped off the pictures, someone knocks on the front door. A grey-bearded man of around forty years age sways in Sherlock's direction as he opens it, stinking of alcohol and waving a collection tin. Sherlock drops in a coin and takes the slip of paper that has been folded around the rim. The tramp totters off, and Sherlock smiles at the address in his hands. Smithfields. The meat markets. Two minutes from St. Bart's, the hospital where he first met John. Right across the street from St. Bart's, the church, where only a few months ago some overly dramatic flick had been shot, featuring a sleuth and his trusty sidekick. Coincidence? Possibly. Sherlock doubts it.
"My turn," he says, and goes to fetch John's gun.
The meat markets are a busy place. Plenty of noise to drown out a shot.
~~~
Sherlock has never believed in revenge. The concept itself is overly emotional and relies on a personal interpretation of right and wrong rather than a fixed code of justice. It's highly fallible and therefore, as motivators go, never to be trusted.
If Moriarty has damaged John in any way, Sherlock will break every single bone in his body before he shoots him.
That's not revenge. It's the only viable course of action.
~~~
Moriarty's hide-out is on Lindsey Street, opposite the West Market. Sherlock's lock picks make short work of a side entrance. The building is a sprawling Victorian monstrosity. He'll need some time to find John in this maze.
He's perfectly aware he's walking into a trap. Moriarty won't kill him, though; not yet. Again, far too boring.
The first obstacle is a series of motion sensors. Sherlock sees them because he is looking for them. It's easy enough to calculate the blind spots and cross the hall unnoticed. Of course, someone is already waiting for him at the other end. Unoriginal.
Sherlock creeps up to the corner. The range of the motion sensors ends several steps behind him. Room to manoeuvre if he has to. His fingers clench around the gun in his hand. He pulls in a breath, takes a step forward -
And finds himself on the ground, nose bleeding, a knee pressing down on his chest and a gun digging into the soft skin of his throat. His own gun is lying just out of his reach.
"Sherlock!"
He blinks up at John's surprised face. His mind, for once, is utterly blank. His mouth opens, closes again. His eyes move out of habit, skipping across John's features, his body, cataloguing without express permission. John looks tired and bruised, but that can be chalked up to the tube incident and a simple lack of sleep. He's still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but they're no dirtier than before, and undamaged. But the text message on John's phone… Ah. Not aimed at Sherlock; aimed at John. Moriarty never had John in the first place.
The relief is so staggering that it takes away what remains of Sherlock's breath.
John's gaping down at him, the gun in his hand clearly forgotten. "What are you doing here?" he asks, completely bewildered. "Are you crazy? There are goons all over the place!"
And somehow, the truth just slips out. "I thought he had you."
The sentence comes out softer than Sherlock meant it to - he's still strangely out of breath - and the effect it has on John is… remarkable. There's a moment of confusion, but realisation spreads across John's face even as he opens his mouth, presumably to ask for clarification. Sherlock stares at John, and John's expression is not unlike the one he wore four months ago, when Sherlock told him to stop looking for ways to die, open and amazed and just a little disbelieving.
"Will you get off me then?" Sherlock asks gently.
John blinks. "Oh, sorry, yes," he says, pulling the gun away and finally taking his weight off Sherlock's chest. He stands and tucks his gun into the waistband at his back. "Sorry."
Sherlock flicks him a brief smile, then he snatches his gun and gets to his feet. He feels… elated. Considering the lack of drugs in his system, this is unexpected. He tilts his head at the door that is likeliest to lead further into the building. "Shall we?"
John's lips twitch. "By all means," he says politely.
And off they are, Sherlock rushing ahead while John covers his back. Just like always.
Just like it should be.
~~~
They have plenty of time to compare their stories while they make their way through Moriarty's increasingly ridiculous - honestly, a poison gas bubblegum machine? - trap. Sherlock, of course, found his way to the meat markets by having his spy network analyse the picture Moriarty had sent to the pink phone. But he has to admit that John's presence has him stumped, especially after working under the - false - assumption that Moriarty's kidnapping victim was, in fact, John.
"I went to Mycroft," John says guilelessly as they walk through a room that holds nothing but them and a dead budgie. He seems honestly surprised when Sherlock stops to scowl at him. "What?"
"Mycroft, John?" The mere idea of asking Mycroft for help in any matter is wrong in every conceivable way.
"Yes, Mycroft." Now John is scowling right back at him. "Look, if Moriarty knew where to place that bomb, he had to be watching me. There was nobody there; I paid attention. That leaves the cameras." He shrugs. "If anyone besides Mycroft was playing around with the CCTV, I figured he'd know. It's his toy."
"But he didn't know," Sherlock says, triumphantly. If Mycroft had known, Moriarty's access would have been shut down faster than he could say 'Semtex.'
"But he found out," John counters, "and tracked the connection for me."
Sherlock almost smiles. John has always shown a remarkable aptitude for using the available resources; a skill that also solves the mystery of the phone in the park. But John is clearly annoyed at having to explain himself and Sherlock likes to annoy John, so he says, "Did he make you throw away your sister's phone as well?"
"It has GPS," John says, now sounding thoroughly exasperated. "Remember the pink lady? I didn't want Moriarty to find me, so I got rid of it."
"And went to Mycroft."
"Yes." John pinches the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. "Is this really the time?"
Sherlock opens his mouth to point out that, according to popular belief, there is no time like the present.
That is, of course, when the budgie explodes.
~~~
"Well, well, well," Moriarty says, bouncing into the room like a puppy on speed. "Looks like the dead bird catches the worms." He looks pleased with the pun. Next to Sherlock, John groans.
They're both tied to wooden garden chairs; a third man sits slumped over to Sherlock's left. Moriarty's pet-to-be, undoubtedly. The explosion didn't have enough force to do any physical damage, but it was distracting enough to allow Moriarty's men to get the drop on them. Sherlock is still a little miffed at that.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I want?" Moriarty rocks a little on his feet, hands folded behind his back. Five men are standing casually around the room, hands on their guns, but Moriarty ignores them.
"Chaos, destruction," Sherlock says offhandedly. "Who cares about the details?"
Moriarty beams. "You do."
Well, yes, but only if they're interesting. Boring details hold no appeal at all, and neither do scenarios that require John getting hurt to be in any way remarkable. John is under orders not to die, but Sherlock doesn't expect Moriarty to honour that.
In any case, the point is a moot one. Sherlock may have rushed - however unnecessarily - to John's aid, but that doesn't mean he came unprepared. What Moriarty doesn't seem to have realised is that Sherlock, for all that he abhors anyone slowing him down, doesn't work alone. He has John as his assistant. He has Scotland Yard and the homeless network; he has sprayers, pawnbrokers and thieves; customs officers, accountants and hackers. Moriarty might not be aware of it, but if Sherlock wanted to, he could shut down sixty-one percent of Moriarty's global operations by failing to send a simple text message to an unlisted number within the next half-hour. As hostages go, it's almost as valuable as John.
Sherlock has always known that the fight between Moriarty and him was never going to be won by whoever was the smartest, although the game has been fun. In the end, the battle between Good and Evil is all about who has the better resources.
Sherlock isn't going to lose.
"What do you want?" John asks suddenly. Moriarty twitches, much worse at hiding his surprise than Sherlock. "Not that it matters, you know."
Irritation flickers across Moriarty's face, but he doesn't look away from Sherlock. Doesn't stop smiling. "Are you letting your pet do the talking now? How very 21st century of you."
"I'm training to be a vegetarian, too," Sherlock says. He wishes he had something to occupy his hands, to stop his palms from sweating. What are you doing, John?
"Good, very good. Very healthy." Moriarty's smile twists into something less pleasant. "Why doesn't it matter what I want, Doctor Watson?"
The answer, however, doesn't come from John. "Because I doubt your plans involve a lengthy prison sentence," Mycroft says pleasantly, just as a dozen black-clad men with machine guns swarm into the room. Moriarty's minions drop their guns and raise their hands. Moriarty's expression slips into one of outraged surprise. Sherlock suspects that his own expression looks much the same. He snaps his mouth shut before he can do anything so asinine as to ask his brother what he is doing here. The answer is obvious, after all; John and Mycroft must have planned this. What better way to distract Moriarty than by John sneaking into his hide-out? Sherlock's presence must have been a welcome bonus.
He's half-tempted to congratulate John on his artifice, but between being kept out of the loop and Mycroft ruining the entire game, Sherlock isn't feeling very generous right now.
"Not that we're going to do anything that official," Mycroft adds. "I'm afraid you're simply going to… disappear."
He smiles his benign smile, the one that always got Sherlock's blood boiling. The effect on Moriarty seems to be similar.
"Cheating!" he squawks, turning from Mycroft to Sherlock. "You cheated!"
"Actually, I did," John says, a world of satisfaction in his voice. "You know how it is with pets. They never stick to the rules."
Moriarty howls, but before he can do anything drastic, one of Mycroft's men has him in handcuffs and is pushing him out the door. Moriarty's protests echo down the hall as Mycroft twirls his umbrella, still smiling.
"Efficient as always, I see," Sherlock says. It's not a compliment, and Mycroft knows it.
"No need to say thank you," he replies, nodding to another two of his men, who lower their weapons and move to the chairs.
"I wasn't going to." Sherlock is aware that he's sulking, but Mycroft always brings out the worst in him. Besides, Moriarty was perfectly right: that was cheating. Mycroft's minions untie John and Sherlock before they carefully remove Moriarty's pet-to-be from the premises.
"Indeed." Mycroft nods and turns to John. "John, I trust you find our performance adequate?"
"Oh, yes. Very much." John rubs his wrist, glances at Sherlock, and clears his throat. "Thank you."
"On the contrary. Thank you. That was highly invigorating." Mycroft winks - winks - and turns to leave. "But do try not to repeat this exercise any time soon. I expect it should get tiring very fast."
"Right," John says, and with a last wave over his shoulder, Mycroft is gone.
Sherlock turns to John. "Honestly, John. Mycroft?" That's just insulting.
John snorts. Then he starts to giggle. Sherlock watches him for a moment, his own mouth tilted into a smile, and feels a peculiar warmth spreading through his chest.
"Did you," John asks, laughing, "did you see Moriarty's face?"
Sherlock has to laugh as well because, alright, that was pretty funny. They stand like that, giggling like a pair of schoolboys, until John catches his breath and reaches for Sherlock's arm.
Then they go home.
~~~
Green.
~~~
It takes John several weeks to get used to being glad he's alive. Not because he doesn't like the feeling; he does. It's like something inside him has finally settled. That tiny, rebellious cog has finally slotted into place, or else it has fallen off altogether. When John rides in a taxi these days, he's actually watching the houses they pass by, instead of wondering if a lorry's going to slam into the passenger side and kill him instantly.
It's just so odd to think that it's Sherlock he has to thank for that; a self-proclaimed sociopath who likes to pretend he doesn't care about anyone, which is clearly a lie. Sherlock cares plenty. He just has a very strange way of showing it, mixing abuse and compliments until his signals are harder to read than a traffic light in the blazing sun. John's getting better at it, but he still gets lost sometimes.
He'll have time to figure it out, though. Now that Moriarty's gone, they have all the time in the world.
~~~
For some reason, the season for viral gastroenteritis seems to be two months early this year, so John spends most of the second half of September at the clinic, prescribing Loperamide and telling people to re-hydrate with electrolytic drinks rather than tea. The hours are insane; it's like all of London got sick at the same time. Two of the other doctors have caught a stomach bug as well, so when John staggers into the tube every night, he can barely manage to keep his eyes open long enough not to miss his stop.
It's wonderful to be home, but John is aching all over, and he just wants to have a good cup of tea and then fall into his own bed. Sleep is a luxury that John plans to indulge in as much as he can.
He's been sipping at his tea for all of two minutes before he has to admit that something's wrong. Sherlock wasn't lounging about on the sofa or in his armchair when John got home, which in itself is enough to cause a brief moment of alarm. Sherlock doesn't have a case at the moment, and they've lived together long enough by now that John has learned to remove his gun from the flat whenever Sherlock seems to slip into the darker kind of boredom. But Sherlock was personable, even smiling, when John warily stepped into the living room, so John just gave him a relieved smile in return and ambled straight into the kitchen.
But Sherlock won't stop moving. While the kettle was on, Sherlock picked up and put down what must have been every single test-tube he owns. While John was making the tea, Sherlock ran his fingers over every windowsill, frowning at his fingers as if the dust affronted him. And now that John's sitting down in his armchair, Sherlock keeps flopping down on the sofa, sitting up, and pacing around the coffee table only to flop down again and begin the whole performance anew.
It's unnerving, the way Sherlock can't seem to keep still. Unnerving, and oddly enough, a little bit endearing.
"Something wrong?" John asks finally. Sherlock stops with his hand in his hair, halfway between the sofa and the second armchair. He looks puzzled for a moment, as if he hadn't noticed his own manic energy.
"What? No. No, of course not." He takes a breath and flashes John a thoroughly unconvincing smile. "Tired?"
"Yes," John says, and watches as Sherlock nods, and twitches, and drums his fingers on his leg before he walks over to the sofa and sits down with his hands folded on his knees. Thirteen seconds pass, then Sherlock's up again, poking at the curtains and peering out of the window like someone might be waiting on the street below. "Sherlock."
"Hmm?" Sherlock turns, and John can't take it anymore. Sherlock doesn't look lost, not exactly, but the expression on his face is more helpless than John's ever seen before. Well, he's seen it once, a few weeks ago.
I thought he had you.
John sighs. Honestly, he's been waiting for something like this, but he'd hoped he might have a little more time. There's this… this thing between them they never talk about, the one that goes by unacknowledged. From what John can tell - and he's good at reading people; has to be - Sherlock might be ready to acknowledge it now. He just doesn't seem to know how to go about it, and that's… reassuring, actually.
John takes a short breath. Maybe he is ready to acknowledge the thing, too. He can at least try.
He stands up, carefully places his cup on the mantelpiece, and brushes his hands on his legs. He takes a fortifying breath, and another, and walks over to where Sherlock is watching him, puzzled, like John is something to be figured out. John clears his throat, searching for the right words to explain what he's about to do. Then he gives up, shakes his head, and reaches out.
Sherlock jerks a little when John's left hand comes to rest on his upper arm, but he doesn't react when John's right hand slips around the back of his neck. John decides to take this as promising, and when he pulls, Sherlock leans down willingly enough.
And then they're kissing. Just like that.
Sherlock barely kisses back at first. His lips are moving, but cautiously, hesitant, as if he's not sure what this is about but is prepared to try it. John smiles a little and keeps at it, slow and unhurried. They've got time. Sherlock's hand sneaks around John's waist, and John's heart belatedly realises that something earth-shattering is going on and abruptly stumbles from walk into gallop like a startled horse. John lets out a startled breath, and it's as if that's a signal of some kind. Sherlock makes a small noise in the back of his throat and the hand on John's waist tightens suddenly, and they're kissing, really kissing, with Sherlock's other hand tangling into John's hair and John's fingers clutching at the back of Sherlock's neck. It's messy and breathless and glorious, like few things in John's life have ever been.
Sherlock kisses like he talks when he's just found that last, vital clue to a case: self-assured and delighted and too fast for anyone to follow. John lets himself be carried away for a while, caught up in the rapid flicks of Sherlock's tongue and the way Sherlock uses his hold on John's hair to tilt John's head whichever way suits him best. Then John starts to slow them down, coaxing Sherlock into something softer, something that is closer to dancing than to combat. He gets Sherlock's tongue to tangle, not stab, until each slide is a caress of its own. Sherlock makes another noise, this one intrigued, and now it's his head that moves to find the best angle, his turn to follow John's cues.
John loves it.
He doesn't know how long they keep standing there, their lips locked and their bodies crushed together in a way that, oddly, isn't sexual at all. It's only when he sways on his feet and realises that Sherlock's hands are all that keep him upright that John remembers how tired he is.
He pulls back and tugs at Sherlock's arm. "Come on."
Sherlock trails after him for a few steps, before he realises that John is pulling them to the stairs that lead to his bedroom. He stops. "I don't -"
"I know," John says, pulling him back into movement. Sherlock doesn't do sex. It's something they'll have to talk about at some point, but for now John is tired and aching and sex is about the last thing he wants. "Cuddling's okay, though, right?"
Sherlock seems to contemplate this as they make their way up the stairs. "Cuddling is… fine," he says, a little dubiously. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but something John can work with. If Sherlock's not fine with cuddling… well, they'll deal with that if they have to.
His room is warm, so John strips down to his underpants and lies down on top of the blanket. After a brief pause, Sherlock does the same, although he keeps on his undershirt. He's wearing silk boxers, John notes, intrigued. John's not allowed to touch, though, and that's fine. He'd like to, but he's not one to go where he's unwelcome. They lie there, staring at each other, and the whole thing is about to turn incredibly awkward when Sherlock suddenly smiles and leans forward.
Kissing Sherlock, John decides, is very nice. Kissing Sherlock in John's bed is very, very nice. Kissing and kissing and kissing, slow and comfortable and with his eyes closed, with nowhere pressing to be, with Sherlock's fingers back in his hair and Sherlock's toes nudging against his own, might quickly become his favourite thing. He hums happily at the thought.
Sherlock's lips pull into a smile, and then Sherlock is kissing his cheek, his temple. His eyebrow, god help him. "Are we going to talk about this?"
"Mmm," John says sleepily. He should ask Sherlock if he's staying. He should move, too. The room's not going to stay this warm, and they're going to need to get under the blanket. If Sherlock's staying.
He yawns.
"Later, then," Sherlock says, that smile still in his voice. John thinks he nods, maybe. Sherlock's lips are soft and a bit unpredictable; addictive. Nice. John nips at them, Sherlock's laugh a quiet huff against his nose, and John smiles.
When he falls asleep, there are no nightmares.
~~~
Additional Notes: The budgie is a running gag Siri and I have been ping-ponging between us for almost three years now. The title is a (very, very oblique, I grant) reference to that time we rode through London and I asked what those odd things covering some of the traffic lights were called (blinds, natch). I didn't get an answer then, but had instead explained to me such wondrous English words as "tree" and "lor-ry". *g*
ETA: If you like, you can read the sequel now: The Sky for the Reaching
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~9,400
Warnings: mentions the idea of suicide as well as brainwashing
Summary: In which it's not the war John is missing, Sherlock needs to find new ways to hang on to his flatmate, and Moriarty tries to get himself a pet of his own. Features also: guns, tea, the reason Sherlock Holmes won't take the tube, cell phones, a budgie, and one obnoxious older brother.
Notes: It takes a village: Many thanks to spacedmonkey for being my London map and to jimandblair for Brit-picking and additional advice. Thanks also to halina_renata for her beta, and especially to kisa_hawklin for once again making sure I won't embarrass myself. Written for thisissirius for the 221b_slash_fest.
ETA: Thanks to the wonderful pandarus (and cybel, of course), you can now download Traffic Lights as podfic! (Audiobook link here)
~~~
Traffic Lights for the Colour Blind
Red.
~~~
He dreams of Afghanistan every single night. Fresh mountain wind and rotting blood, the cries of steppe eagles and bursts of gunfire that tear ragged holes into the darkness. Men bleeding out under his hands. Long days of absolute boredom. That last gunfight, the bullet tearing into his shoulder, the smell of dirt, the fever, the conviction that he was going to die. The pain, god. So much pain. His voice hoarse from screaming.
He jerks awake, not with a shout on his lips but with his breathing ragged, his lungs aching, and his eyes stinging with tears as his heart pounds in his aching throat.
~~~
It's always been there; a tiny cog at the very base of his skull, out of alignment, ticking antipodal to the rational parts of his brain. Tick - climb the tree; the rotting branches will hold this one last time. Tock - push the pedal all the way down; that curve isn't as narrow as it looks. Tick - the ice will hold. Tock - the parachute will open. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Tick.
Go to war. You'll be fine.
~~~
Mycroft Holmes thought he got it, that first time they met, but he hadn't. In his own way, he'd been as wrong about John as his - so well-meaning, so pretty - therapist. John doesn't blame them; it's as easy to mistake his… condition… for thrill-seeking as it is to diagnose it as PTSD. And Mycroft had been closer to figuring it out than anyone, ever, at least until John spent more than five minutes in the presence of the other Holmes brother.
Sherlock gets it. He uses it, wielding John like a precision tool for purposes that sometimes make sense and sometimes don't. He keeps John's life from slipping into tedium, into routine, even if it's just by making John drive halfway across London just to pull Sherlock's mobile out of his pocket. He distracts John, continuously, which is more than anyone else has ever managed, or even tried to do.
John doesn't delude himself that this is because Sherlock likes him. Sherlock is flattered by him, and possibly even finds him somewhat interesting, but he couldn't care less about what happens to John on a personal level. And that's fine. John doesn't want a friend, doesn't need friends. Friends are work and work is boring and boring is bad. Even John can recognise that.
Sherlock is anything but boring.
John loves him a little for that.
~~~
The best thing is that they don't talk about it. Sherlock has this habit of presenting his deductions to a speechless audience like an artist unveiling a masterpiece, but John's inner landscape is already known to both of them. Sherlock's insights are unlikely to stun and awe and so he keeps them to himself, with the implied understanding that he knows that John knows that Sherlock knows ad infinitum.
It's working rather well for them.
"Have you ever been on a stakeout?" Sherlock asks, tapping away at his phone.
"I can't say that I have." John turns a page of his book, his eyes on paragraphs he doesn't read. Sitting around for hours watching for something that might or might not happen doesn't sound very appealing. Then again, it doesn't exactly sound like something Sherlock would do, either.
"Things can go wrong in a variety of ways," Sherlock confirms without looking up, his voice sounding almost a little enticing. "Violence, death… One would be advised to bring a gun."
John hums and turns another page. He knows that Sherlock knows that John is interested; hell, Sherlock can probably see John's skin flush from clear across the room, but that doesn't mean John can't play a little hard to get every once in a while.
Sherlock's phone beeps.
"Yes," Sherlock breathes at whatever text he's received. He jumps to his feet. "Are you coming?" When John purses his lips, he adds, "We might get shot at."
Yes, definitely enticing.
John sighs and gets up. "I don't know why I keep doing this."
Sherlock scoffs. "Yes, you do."
Yes, he does.
~~~
They take the tube exactly once, on a late Saturday morning.
Sherlock has an Oyster card - of course he does; skipping madly to and fro across London is far too expensive in a taxi - and he steps onto the escalator leading down with positive glee. John, who still needs his cane sometimes despite Sherlock's best efforts to adrenaline the phantom pains right out of him, is simply glad they didn't step on at Camden. He doesn't think he could handle that staircase today, not with the way his leg is not-quite-cramping.
They have a few minutes to wait for the next train, so Sherlock settles in to people-watch. His voice is a low murmur on John's left side, pointing out flaws and personal histories and extra-marital affairs in a detached, almost clinical monologue that doesn't invite John's participation, even as it demands his attention. He obliges Sherlock - of course he does - but he loses the thread for a moment when the train comes.
It's not that the noise makes it impossible to hear Sherlock any longer. It might have been, but John stops being Sherlock's audience the moment he hears the tell-tale singing of the tracks. The train is about to rush into the station, and just like always, John can't help but think what would happen if he were to take a few steps forward right now. Just like always, his feet stay rooted to the spot, but when he looks up, Sherlock is watching him sharply, frowning.
They switch to taxis after that.
~~~
"Go left!"
John doesn't pause, running into the left-side alley as Sherlock dashes off to the right. They've been chasing their suspect for several minutes now, a small-time thief turned accidental murderer, and the adrenaline is pounding through John's body with every running step. It's exhilarating, almost as much as the knowledge that Rosin, the thief, is armed.
So much could happen if he doesn't pay attention. So much could go wrong even if he does.
John rounds another corner and instinct has him jerk to the side almost before he registers the dull gleam of streetlights reflecting off the black polymer of Rosin's Glock. The first shot misses but he stumbles, carried forward by momentum and the second bullet clips his left arm. He spares a moment to be grateful that Rosin's an atrocious marksman - John would never miss at this distance - then he has his own gun out and unceremoniously clocks Rosin over the head with it. The man goes down without so much as a whimper.
John stands over him, panting, and pokes his trigger finger at his arm. The bullet has barely grazed him; a few stitches and maybe a scar, but his jacket is ruined. "Damn it."
He hears Sherlock before he sees him skid around the corner. Sherlock's eyes widen just a little as he takes in Rosin crumpled on the ground, the hole in John's jacket, and the blood on John's finger. He looks as if he's just realised, for the first time, that getting shot at will occasionally lead to injury.
"It's fine," John says. He feels strangely nervous. "I'm fine."
"Of course you are," Sherlock snaps, "it's just a graze."
And just like that, for no reason John can pinpoint, the nervousness tumbles into disappointment. He doesn't dwell on it; examining the feeling might lead him to any of the reasons he's staying with Sherlock, and they'll be all better off if he leaves those alone.
But the disappointment is still there when he goes to bed that night, a hard lump at the base of his throat that feels like it might have a hollow point and a copper jacket.
He doesn't sleep at all.
~~~
Over the next few weeks, John nearly dies four times. Sherlock sends him up drain pipes and down bridge columns, has him describe the inside of ventilation shafts and the wiring of car bombs. He shows a casual disregard for John's general well-being that would make anyone else sputter in protest.
John has never been so aware that each step could be his last; that every time he locks the door to their flat behind him he might not come back. Even Afghanistan had long stretches of boredom. If Sherlock gets bored, things explode. John has never felt more alive.
He's never felt more alone, either.
~~~
And then Moriarty has him strapped to enough Semtex to take out half the street and the unsteady lights of several cheap Solware laser sights trained on him and suddenly, his premature death isn't just likely, it's imminent.
John waits for the rush of anticipation - the one he's used to feeling, the one he always feels - but instead all that hits him is a queasiness so strong that it makes him stagger. John's quest for… for that has always been a solitary pursuit, but now Sherlock is standing right next to him. It feels wrong. John was never supposed to take anybody with him, least of all Sherlock, who is so desperately, destructively brilliant he should outlive the stars.
"People have died," Sherlock says, and John wonders if the point is made on his behalf, because of what he said earlier. Sherlock doesn't care.
"That's what people do!" Moriarty shoots back, and yes, yes it is.
John has a chance to be useful to Sherlock, once and for all, and maybe then his aimless life will have meant something. Maybe then everything will, finally, be fine.
"Sherlock, run!" he shouts, grabbing Moriarty from behind, and that's it, there it is, the anticipation he's been waiting for. Any second now, he's going to die, but so is Moriarty. John has probably spent too much time with Sherlock, but he figures that if he has to take someone along with him, it should be a criminal mastermind. There are worse ways to go.
He's probably contemplated at least half of them.
But it doesn't work out that way. Of course it doesn't; even in the tale of his own life, John Watson isn't the hero.
The exhaustion from the emotional up and down of the past few hours is enough to drive a man to his knees, and so John sinks against one of the changing stalls once Moriarty is gone, trying to catch his breath as Sherlock paces out his frustration. He's vaguely angry at Sherlock, but for what, he isn't sure. Ruining his exit? Not shooting Moriarty when he had the chance? Setting up this whole ridiculous meeting in the first place?
"That thing that you did, that you offered to do," Sherlock says, and even in the pallid light of the pool, his face looks far too colourless, "that was… good."
Then why didn't you let me, John wants to ask. Between his getting the jump on Moriarty and the red dot appearing on Sherlock's forehead, there was more than enough time for Sherlock to get out of there. John knows that Sherlock has become used to having him around, but choosing to stand with John rather than saving himself is just idiotic. John is nothing special, after all.
He makes some quip he's forgotten almost before it's out of his mouth. Sherlock replies, and they both huff out a tired laugh that's probably less than genuine.
And then Moriarty is back and things explode, and John has enough time for two thoughts before the blast wave knocks him out. The first one is, I wanted it to be on my terms.
The second is, simply, Sherlock.
~~~
He comes to briefly with a ton of rubble pressing down on him, Sherlock's hand warm on his left shoulder blade, Sherlock's steady breathing overloud in his ears. He passes out again before he can figure out why he's smiling.
~~~
John spends several days in hospital. His right collarbone is broken, he's suffering from a blast lung, and his concussion is almost as spectacular as the rest of his internal injuries, never mind the bruises. Sarah comes to visit - not telling him about her date with that new nurse at the clinic until the third time, thank god - as does Mike, and Harry, and Murray and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, even Mycroft.
John tries to follow that conversation - something about elections? The responsibilities of family? - but there's a black umbrella that's constantly twirled left and right, left and right, and it's distracting, and eventually Mycroft takes pity on him and starts telling the story of Sherlock's first violin. Apparently, the poor thing got dragged everywhere and ended up a lost cause after one-too-many occasions of being dropped into the bathwater. It's a funny story. John chuckles, Mycroft looks pleased with himself, and the whole encounter is so bizarre that John doesn't even try to ask what Mycroft is doing in his hospital room when his brother can't be arsed to show up even once.
They're bloody tossers, the both of them. John honestly doesn't know why he even bothers.
~~~
He's still short of breath when he drags his feet up the thirteenth step to their flat. His right arm is in a sling and his head aches abominably, but that's nothing compared to the weariness he's feeling. He hasn't seen Sherlock in over a week and isn't looking forward to seeing him now. There's a difference between knowing, intellectually, that Sherlock doesn't give a damn, and having it demonstrated so comprehensively. Except Sherlock had sounded honestly worried when he'd asked if John was alright, but then he hadn't shown up at the hospital, but that look on his face, there at the pool…
It's confusing, and John hates being confused.
Maybe he should just move out.
The door to their living room opens before he can gather his scattered thoughts, and there is Sherlock, poking his head around the frame as if to check what's taking John so long. A large bruise stretches out over the right side of Sherlock's face, painting his cheekbone a dull violet before fading into yellows and greens, but otherwise he looks just like always. Good. He looks good.
"Ah, John." Sherlock opens the door wider and waves John inside. "Good."
As if nothing at all had happened. As if they last saw each other this morning at breakfast. John takes a breath, then lets it out slowly as he walks into the living room. Sherlock Holmes, he reminds himself, is shit at social interaction. That doesn't stop him from gritting his teeth as he sinks into his chair, because there's piss-poor people skills, and then there's ignoring your flatmate for over a week.
"Sherlock," he starts, not even sure what he's going to say, but Sherlock holds up his hand in a clear 'stop' gesture, eyes flicking over John's face.
"You're annoyed," he says, frowning. Then his face clears. "Ah. The hospital."
John sighs. He's getting used to being an open book, but he's probably going to need a while yet before he's used to being read and analysed within the space of a second. "Very good," he says, giving the words an ironic spin.
Sherlock ignores it. "I don't do bedside visits," he declares, because naturally it's all about him. "And you hardly expect me to leave Moriarty to the police, do you?"
Well. He does have a point there.
"Did you catch him?" John asks. He thinks he can see the answer in the bags under Sherlock's eyes, in the pallor of his skin, but he's been wrong before.
"Not yet." Sherlock waves his hand again like it doesn't matter. Like it doesn't bug the hell out of him that Moriarty got away. "He'll be back."
"Saying hi by blowing up half of London," John mutters. "Or me."
Sherlock takes a sharp breath. "About that." He pauses, and John expects another awkward moment of 'thank you for nearly dying.' What he gets, instead, nearly makes his own breath stop.
"That thing. That you almost did." Sherlock stares at him, pale eyes in a paler face, the bruise stark against his skin. "You can't do that again."
John blinks back, stunned. "Why?" he manages, his throat so dry his voice feels like grit against sandpaper.
"It's distracting. I don't need distractions, John." Sherlock is still staring at him, and John is getting the distinct impression that he's missing an important part of the conversation. Frustration flickers across Sherlock's face. "God, you people and your tiny- I mean that my patience with your self-destructive streak has run out," he snaps.
John feels the colour drain from his face. They're not talking about this. They've never talked about this. "I don't know what you're -" he says, weakly, but Sherlock interrupts him.
"Oh, stop it. You've been looking for ways to kill yourself since you were old enough to be left outside without supervision." He tilts his head. "It's interesting. I can't figure out the reason. There were no tragic deaths in your family, nothing to cause…" He breaks himself off. "In any case, this stops now. No more death-defying acts, no more," he gestures vaguely, "telling me to run while you… No more."
At some point during this little speech, John's mouth has dropped open. He closes it, swallows. "Why?" he asks faintly.
"I won't allow it," Sherlock says, as if that makes perfect sense, as if… as if that's a reason for anything. John watches, speechless, as Sherlock rubs a hand through his hair and turns his curls into a tangled mess. "You can't… I'm not…" He huffs. "You're my assistant. I've spent too much time on you for you to throw yourself in front of the next bus."
"But that's not it at all," John says, his heart pounding so hard he thinks his brain is going to explode from the resonance, "is it?"
"No." Sherlock smiles faintly. "But let's work with that for now."
John nods, because he can't think of anything else to do.
"Alright," he says. "Let's."
~~~
Amber.
~~~
Four months after he almost caught Jim Moriarty - never has an 'almost' stung this much - an anonymous comment appears on Sherlock's website. Well, as anonymous as a comment can get when the sender is being so blatantly obvious.
Very nice to meet you. Loved your pet. Thinking of getting one for myself. xoxo
If Sherlock were the type to roll his eyes, now would be a perfect moment to indulge. Apart from being far too fond of meaningless chatter, Moriarty has somehow become convinced that he is funny.
He is not.
If that's supposed to be menacing, you'll have to try harder. SH
Not a minute later, he gets his reply. Sherlock wonders if Moriarty's afternoon is as boring as his own.
Just a friendly heads-up. See you soon. xoxo
Sherlock leans back and stares at the laptop screen, fingertips steepled against his lips.
See you soon.
"Can't wait," he says, and smiles.
~~~
John comes home later than usual the next day. That in itself is unremarkable - for an introvert, John runs into old acquaintances with astounding frequency - but the faint bruise forming on the right side of his jaw is not. Eight millimetres too far to the left for an instant knock-out; whoever had hit him had been good, but not good enough. The scrapes on John's knuckles and his self-satisfied expression make it perfectly clear who won that fight. Again, unremarkable. John may have been an army doctor, but he is still a military man.
"Trouble?" Sherlock asks nevertheless. John gets so very cross when he feels he's being ignored. It's tedious, but Sherlock has learned that the occasional preventive measure takes less effort than working around John's subsequent sulk.
"Kidnapping attempt," John says casually. "Did you know Moriarty's back?"
Sherlock has to smile at that. "He left a comment on my website."
"You could have told me." John's voice is calm; he can't have been in any real danger. He wouldn't be, this early in the game.
"Please. You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself." Now that John has given up on his ridiculous death wish - under orders, granted, but a solution doesn't have to be elegant to work - he is finally allowing his combat training to serve him as intended. The difference is… noteworthy.
"Not the point," John says, and Sherlock refrains from arguing that this is, in fact, the point exactly.
"Was our dear Jim there, then?" he asks instead.
"No." John drops into his beloved armchair. "But the method was the same as last time." He inspects his knuckles, frowning. "Like I'm going to fall for the same thing twice."
"Hardly," Sherlock agrees. He watches John for a moment, noting with amusement John's pleased little smile at the compliment. John has a good idea of his own skills, but he's always open to flattery. They're similar in that regard. Sherlock tilts his head. "Dinner?"
John meets his gaze. "I could go for a bite."
"French?"
John looks back impassively. Sherlock sighs.
"Italian, then," he offers.
John's lips twitch. "With a candle on the table?"
"Doubtless."
"Fine."
Of course it's fine. Everything is always fine in John Watson's world. Occasionally, Sherlock wonders what it must be like to continuously deny oneself that way.
Not today. Today, Moriarty is back, and he's made his first playful move.
The game is on.
~~~
Moriarty's target is obvious, of course. He had promised, rather melodramatically, to burn the heart out of Sherlock, and rightly observed that Sherlock's infrequent attempts at humanity have a single, common, cause.
Sherlock almost feels sorry for John. It can't be comfortable to be the means through which Moriarty is attempting to get to Sherlock. At the same time, he should be flattered to have the attention of someone so indisputably brilliant.
Sherlock certainly is.
~~~
"You were never in any real danger," Sherlock tells John a week later.
"Could have fooled me," John snaps, enraged and dishevelled, blood on his clothes and under his fingernails. "Especially when the bomb went off five rows behind me."
Seventeen people died in an explosion in the tube at Charing Cross today. Seventeen people John Watson couldn't save, although Sherlock knows he tried. Seventeen steps to their living room. Connection? Possible. Unlikely.
"If he wanted to hurt you," Sherlock points out, "you'd be considerably less healthy." John hasn't escaped entirely unscathed, of course. His left wrist is sprained, he's lost his left canine, and doubtless multiple bruises are forming all over his body. But this badly-staged drama was just another overture, another test to gauge Sherlock's reaction. He doesn't care about the nameless dead and John is in reasonably good condition. Why should he react at all?
"People have died," John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off.
"And you'll note that you aren't one of them." He waves a hand dismissively. "Moriarty is simply trying to see what I will do."
John purses his lips. His hands are clenched into fists, Sherlock notes. What must it be like, to be so emotional? "And what are you doing, Sherlock?" It's a challenge, and not one Sherlock intends on taking up.
"Nothing."
"Nothing," John repeats flatly. "You're doing nothing."
"That's what I said." Sherlock's own tone of voice is growing curter. He has little patience for deliberate obtuseness, and John's is beginning to wear on his nerves.
"You can't just -"
"And what would you expect me to do? He hasn't given me any clues, any… hints. Should I be running around London like a headless chicken; is that what you want me to do, John?" Sherlock scowls at the stubborn expression on John's face. "The game hasn't even started yet. These are just… opening moves. He's setting the b-"
John holds up his hand. It's the left one, white bandage wrapped around a discoloured wrist, and it's shaking so hard the words get stuck in Sherlock's throat. Not nerves. Anger. Rage.
"This isn't a game, Sherlock," he says. Sherlock has never heard him sound like that. "And if you won't stop it, I will."
"Really." Sherlock scoffs, his voice dripping with derision as he watches John pick up his jacket, the one that was never replaced. The one with the hole in it that Mrs. Hudson patched over with more care than skill. "And how, exactly, are you going to -"
The door slams behind John hard enough to bounce open again. He's down the steps faster than Sherlock can think of something suitable to say; not that it matters. John will be back.
He'll always be back.
~~~
If Sherlock did relationships - which he doesn't; other people's emotions are far too messy and inconsistent to subject himself to - John might, with a little more training, be an adequate partner. He'd have to learn that the mind is an infinitely more preferable sexual organ than the body, of course, and his expectations of Sherlock would have to stop being so unreasonable. Sherlock is no hero, nor has he any wish to be. He is brilliant, and frequently bored, and criminals are interesting. Outside of social convention. Much like Sherlock.
But if John would simply accept Sherlock as the highly functioning sociopath he is, Sherlock's… attachment… to him might become less of an aberration. More logical.
Less inexplicable.
Sherlock has no idea why John's high - but realistic - regard of him has become something to strive for. It irks him, this useless connection to a man who is, in far too many ways, as boring and mundane as everyone else. Irks, confuses, and fascinates all the same. Here is a living, breathing thing that belongs to Sherlock in a way that nothing and no one else has ever done. Sherlock's violin didn't come to him of its own volition; John did, and he chooses to stay again and again. It's his one extraordinary quality, and although Sherlock loathes to admit it, he values it highly.
Which is possibly why, when Moriarty finally moves in earnest, Sherlock finds himself reacting rather more possessively than any of them could have anticipated.
~~~
John isn't back that night, or the next morning. This isn't unusual; John often spends the night at a friend's when he runs out of patience with Sherlock. Not at Sarah's, now that she has a boyfriend, but Mike is always a possibility, as is that Murray fellow Sherlock still hasn't been introduced to. He strongly suspects this is because John doesn't want Sherlock to know he's bisexual, as if it weren't obvious from a dozen other clues. So John's absence isn't anything to worry about, yet Sherlock still does.
The knowledge that his worry is unreasonable only serves to make it more annoying.
John isn't back at noon, either, but then he wouldn't be. He's on shift at the clinic until two o'clock. Besides, Sherlock has better things to occupy his time than wonder about John Watson's whereabouts. Things like updating his website, sorting his case files, and working on a reagent that will immediately separate blood stains by blood type, eliminating the tedious wait for unreliable lab work.
This keeps him busy until four. John still isn't back.
Sherlock sighs. He is well-aware that every once in a while, he is prone to sulking, but honestly, John isn't much better. Sherlock would just wait it out, but a niggling part of his brain keeps pointing out that John's actions can be rather rash, especially when he thinks he's protecting someone. The dead cabbie and his lunge for Moriarty are two perfect examples. John didn't take his gun when he left, but perhaps Sherlock should make sure that John isn't doing something ill-advised.
He sends a text.
We're out of milk. When will you be home? SH
Fifteen minutes pass. Sherlock drums his fingers on the table and stares at his phone. It lies still and dark, mocking him with its silence.
John, if you are able to reply, I suggest you do so before I have Lestrade track you down. SH
Nothing. There is always the possibility of a dead battery, of course… but no, John is always very careful about recharging his phone. Moreover, he won't have forgotten it anywhere. He is either ignoring Sherlock, or…
"Or nothing," Sherlock snaps at the skull on the mantelpiece. "The game hasn't started yet." Jaw clenched, he snatches up his phone and jabs out another message.
Please. SH
There. That should do it. John has proven several times that he's susceptible to what he perceives as Sherlock's more vulnerable moments. Playing on that may be manipulative, but it works.
Why doesn't it work?
Sherlock hesitates. There is bound to be a perfectly logical reason for John's lack of reply. He wasn't home last night; he didn't take the battery charger. His phone is dead. One simple way to find out.
The ringtone sounds alien in Sherlock's ear. Phone calls hold no appeal for him. Too many distractions in the background noises, the crackle of the connection. Too easy to miss a lie when all he has to work with is a subject's voice. John's phone rings five times before a cool female voice informs Sherlock that he may leave a message.
Five rings. Working phone. No John.
"It's not Moriarty," Sherlock tells the skull. "That would be premature." The skull grins at him, challenging his opinion as it always does. "I didn't miss anything this time," Sherlock insists. "Actually taking John would make no sense this early in the game."
The skull gazes back at him from empty sockets. It's a bit like John, Sherlock muses, or possibly John is a bit like the skull: steadfast and loyal, unchangeable. Well, John is changeable, of course, but -
Sherlock freezes. Changeable.
Moriarty has changed the game.
He grabs his laptop and opens his website. There's a new message on his forum, posted an hour ago.
Picked up a stray and took him home. Have you lost your little dog? xoxo
Sherlock stares at the message, fingers flexing uselessly as he reads the words again and again, refusing to let the implication sink in. Moriarty is talking about someone else. He's picked some poor sod off the street and is now in the process of turning him into his toy, no doubt with a variety of drugs and considerable pain. Moriarty's next message confirms at least part of this hypothesis.
Thinking of starting my own Project MKULTRA. But where to get a doctor to assist me? Oh, wait… thought of one. xoxo
"Damn it!" Sherlock doesn't swipe the laptop off the table, but it's a near thing. Moriarty has John. Moriarty has… put his hands… on John… again.
"Alright, you want to play?" Sherlock asks the monitor. His lips are stretched into a smile he doesn't recognise. "Let's play."
~~~
John's phone is modern enough to have GPS. Tracking it down isn't hard; Sherlock can choose from a dozen websites dedicated to exactly that purpose. He finds the phone in Dorset Square, half-buried at the base of one of the ridiculously inconsistent park benches. Traces of dried dew on the display prove that it has lain there since the night before.
John is nowhere in sight.
Sherlock picks up the phone and scrolls through the menu. Three unopened texts and a missed call from him. A fourth unopened text sent through a website twenty minutes ago.
Did someone slip his collar? Come play with me. Just like old times. xoxo
Sherlock turns around to look for a clue, somebody watching him, anything. But there's nothing, just boring people moving through their boring lives without thought, without direction.
John is gone, and nobody cares.
~~~
Sherlock cares. The experience is as unfamiliar as it is disturbing. He needs something to ground him. Someone, perhaps. He needs John.
He truly is lost without his blogger.
~~~
Sherlock knows that he occasionally misses things, but he's always been great under pressure. And yet it takes him almost five minutes - pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and demanding himself to think, think - to realise that he has played this game before, and successfully at that. It's only a tiny step from there to remembering how Moriarty had engaged him.
The pink phone lies in a kitchen drawer, exactly where Sherlock left it after he'd nicked it from Lestrade. As he expected, there's a new picture, showing blue sky, the edges of two roofs, and half a window. No text, but then Sherlock doesn't need one. Wherever Moriarty is holding John - torturing him, that niggling part of his brain throws in; Sherlock tells it to shut up - this is the view. A challenge. Come play with me.
No countdown this time, no elaborate set-ups, no one listening in. No one to keep Sherlock from cheating.
He prints copies of the picture until he's out of ink and then drops off the stack and a hundred quid at the nearest homeless shelter. Again, not the most elegant solution, but the fastest. Sherlock is a little pressed for time right now.
He spends the next hour lying on the sofa, calm and unworried. He's so calm and unworried that his head starts to ache, although that might be from the way his jaw keeps clenching. He could do with a tea, but no one's there to make it. He could do with his laptop, but it's on the other side of the room and no one's there to fetch it for him.
He could do with being pestered into watching a film. John has brought a whole stack of DVDs to torment him with.
Sherlock grits his teeth and banishes all thoughts of John. He is calm and unworried. Besides, Moriarty's not going to kill John without an audience. That would be too boring.
Sherlock doesn't glance at the skull, so no one can point out that the rules may change again.
One hour and three minutes after Sherlock dropped off the pictures, someone knocks on the front door. A grey-bearded man of around forty years age sways in Sherlock's direction as he opens it, stinking of alcohol and waving a collection tin. Sherlock drops in a coin and takes the slip of paper that has been folded around the rim. The tramp totters off, and Sherlock smiles at the address in his hands. Smithfields. The meat markets. Two minutes from St. Bart's, the hospital where he first met John. Right across the street from St. Bart's, the church, where only a few months ago some overly dramatic flick had been shot, featuring a sleuth and his trusty sidekick. Coincidence? Possibly. Sherlock doubts it.
"My turn," he says, and goes to fetch John's gun.
The meat markets are a busy place. Plenty of noise to drown out a shot.
~~~
Sherlock has never believed in revenge. The concept itself is overly emotional and relies on a personal interpretation of right and wrong rather than a fixed code of justice. It's highly fallible and therefore, as motivators go, never to be trusted.
If Moriarty has damaged John in any way, Sherlock will break every single bone in his body before he shoots him.
That's not revenge. It's the only viable course of action.
~~~
Moriarty's hide-out is on Lindsey Street, opposite the West Market. Sherlock's lock picks make short work of a side entrance. The building is a sprawling Victorian monstrosity. He'll need some time to find John in this maze.
He's perfectly aware he's walking into a trap. Moriarty won't kill him, though; not yet. Again, far too boring.
The first obstacle is a series of motion sensors. Sherlock sees them because he is looking for them. It's easy enough to calculate the blind spots and cross the hall unnoticed. Of course, someone is already waiting for him at the other end. Unoriginal.
Sherlock creeps up to the corner. The range of the motion sensors ends several steps behind him. Room to manoeuvre if he has to. His fingers clench around the gun in his hand. He pulls in a breath, takes a step forward -
And finds himself on the ground, nose bleeding, a knee pressing down on his chest and a gun digging into the soft skin of his throat. His own gun is lying just out of his reach.
"Sherlock!"
He blinks up at John's surprised face. His mind, for once, is utterly blank. His mouth opens, closes again. His eyes move out of habit, skipping across John's features, his body, cataloguing without express permission. John looks tired and bruised, but that can be chalked up to the tube incident and a simple lack of sleep. He's still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but they're no dirtier than before, and undamaged. But the text message on John's phone… Ah. Not aimed at Sherlock; aimed at John. Moriarty never had John in the first place.
The relief is so staggering that it takes away what remains of Sherlock's breath.
John's gaping down at him, the gun in his hand clearly forgotten. "What are you doing here?" he asks, completely bewildered. "Are you crazy? There are goons all over the place!"
And somehow, the truth just slips out. "I thought he had you."
The sentence comes out softer than Sherlock meant it to - he's still strangely out of breath - and the effect it has on John is… remarkable. There's a moment of confusion, but realisation spreads across John's face even as he opens his mouth, presumably to ask for clarification. Sherlock stares at John, and John's expression is not unlike the one he wore four months ago, when Sherlock told him to stop looking for ways to die, open and amazed and just a little disbelieving.
"Will you get off me then?" Sherlock asks gently.
John blinks. "Oh, sorry, yes," he says, pulling the gun away and finally taking his weight off Sherlock's chest. He stands and tucks his gun into the waistband at his back. "Sorry."
Sherlock flicks him a brief smile, then he snatches his gun and gets to his feet. He feels… elated. Considering the lack of drugs in his system, this is unexpected. He tilts his head at the door that is likeliest to lead further into the building. "Shall we?"
John's lips twitch. "By all means," he says politely.
And off they are, Sherlock rushing ahead while John covers his back. Just like always.
Just like it should be.
~~~
They have plenty of time to compare their stories while they make their way through Moriarty's increasingly ridiculous - honestly, a poison gas bubblegum machine? - trap. Sherlock, of course, found his way to the meat markets by having his spy network analyse the picture Moriarty had sent to the pink phone. But he has to admit that John's presence has him stumped, especially after working under the - false - assumption that Moriarty's kidnapping victim was, in fact, John.
"I went to Mycroft," John says guilelessly as they walk through a room that holds nothing but them and a dead budgie. He seems honestly surprised when Sherlock stops to scowl at him. "What?"
"Mycroft, John?" The mere idea of asking Mycroft for help in any matter is wrong in every conceivable way.
"Yes, Mycroft." Now John is scowling right back at him. "Look, if Moriarty knew where to place that bomb, he had to be watching me. There was nobody there; I paid attention. That leaves the cameras." He shrugs. "If anyone besides Mycroft was playing around with the CCTV, I figured he'd know. It's his toy."
"But he didn't know," Sherlock says, triumphantly. If Mycroft had known, Moriarty's access would have been shut down faster than he could say 'Semtex.'
"But he found out," John counters, "and tracked the connection for me."
Sherlock almost smiles. John has always shown a remarkable aptitude for using the available resources; a skill that also solves the mystery of the phone in the park. But John is clearly annoyed at having to explain himself and Sherlock likes to annoy John, so he says, "Did he make you throw away your sister's phone as well?"
"It has GPS," John says, now sounding thoroughly exasperated. "Remember the pink lady? I didn't want Moriarty to find me, so I got rid of it."
"And went to Mycroft."
"Yes." John pinches the bridge of his nose as if to stave off a headache. "Is this really the time?"
Sherlock opens his mouth to point out that, according to popular belief, there is no time like the present.
That is, of course, when the budgie explodes.
~~~
"Well, well, well," Moriarty says, bouncing into the room like a puppy on speed. "Looks like the dead bird catches the worms." He looks pleased with the pun. Next to Sherlock, John groans.
They're both tied to wooden garden chairs; a third man sits slumped over to Sherlock's left. Moriarty's pet-to-be, undoubtedly. The explosion didn't have enough force to do any physical damage, but it was distracting enough to allow Moriarty's men to get the drop on them. Sherlock is still a little miffed at that.
"Aren't you going to ask me what I want?" Moriarty rocks a little on his feet, hands folded behind his back. Five men are standing casually around the room, hands on their guns, but Moriarty ignores them.
"Chaos, destruction," Sherlock says offhandedly. "Who cares about the details?"
Moriarty beams. "You do."
Well, yes, but only if they're interesting. Boring details hold no appeal at all, and neither do scenarios that require John getting hurt to be in any way remarkable. John is under orders not to die, but Sherlock doesn't expect Moriarty to honour that.
In any case, the point is a moot one. Sherlock may have rushed - however unnecessarily - to John's aid, but that doesn't mean he came unprepared. What Moriarty doesn't seem to have realised is that Sherlock, for all that he abhors anyone slowing him down, doesn't work alone. He has John as his assistant. He has Scotland Yard and the homeless network; he has sprayers, pawnbrokers and thieves; customs officers, accountants and hackers. Moriarty might not be aware of it, but if Sherlock wanted to, he could shut down sixty-one percent of Moriarty's global operations by failing to send a simple text message to an unlisted number within the next half-hour. As hostages go, it's almost as valuable as John.
Sherlock has always known that the fight between Moriarty and him was never going to be won by whoever was the smartest, although the game has been fun. In the end, the battle between Good and Evil is all about who has the better resources.
Sherlock isn't going to lose.
"What do you want?" John asks suddenly. Moriarty twitches, much worse at hiding his surprise than Sherlock. "Not that it matters, you know."
Irritation flickers across Moriarty's face, but he doesn't look away from Sherlock. Doesn't stop smiling. "Are you letting your pet do the talking now? How very 21st century of you."
"I'm training to be a vegetarian, too," Sherlock says. He wishes he had something to occupy his hands, to stop his palms from sweating. What are you doing, John?
"Good, very good. Very healthy." Moriarty's smile twists into something less pleasant. "Why doesn't it matter what I want, Doctor Watson?"
The answer, however, doesn't come from John. "Because I doubt your plans involve a lengthy prison sentence," Mycroft says pleasantly, just as a dozen black-clad men with machine guns swarm into the room. Moriarty's minions drop their guns and raise their hands. Moriarty's expression slips into one of outraged surprise. Sherlock suspects that his own expression looks much the same. He snaps his mouth shut before he can do anything so asinine as to ask his brother what he is doing here. The answer is obvious, after all; John and Mycroft must have planned this. What better way to distract Moriarty than by John sneaking into his hide-out? Sherlock's presence must have been a welcome bonus.
He's half-tempted to congratulate John on his artifice, but between being kept out of the loop and Mycroft ruining the entire game, Sherlock isn't feeling very generous right now.
"Not that we're going to do anything that official," Mycroft adds. "I'm afraid you're simply going to… disappear."
He smiles his benign smile, the one that always got Sherlock's blood boiling. The effect on Moriarty seems to be similar.
"Cheating!" he squawks, turning from Mycroft to Sherlock. "You cheated!"
"Actually, I did," John says, a world of satisfaction in his voice. "You know how it is with pets. They never stick to the rules."
Moriarty howls, but before he can do anything drastic, one of Mycroft's men has him in handcuffs and is pushing him out the door. Moriarty's protests echo down the hall as Mycroft twirls his umbrella, still smiling.
"Efficient as always, I see," Sherlock says. It's not a compliment, and Mycroft knows it.
"No need to say thank you," he replies, nodding to another two of his men, who lower their weapons and move to the chairs.
"I wasn't going to." Sherlock is aware that he's sulking, but Mycroft always brings out the worst in him. Besides, Moriarty was perfectly right: that was cheating. Mycroft's minions untie John and Sherlock before they carefully remove Moriarty's pet-to-be from the premises.
"Indeed." Mycroft nods and turns to John. "John, I trust you find our performance adequate?"
"Oh, yes. Very much." John rubs his wrist, glances at Sherlock, and clears his throat. "Thank you."
"On the contrary. Thank you. That was highly invigorating." Mycroft winks - winks - and turns to leave. "But do try not to repeat this exercise any time soon. I expect it should get tiring very fast."
"Right," John says, and with a last wave over his shoulder, Mycroft is gone.
Sherlock turns to John. "Honestly, John. Mycroft?" That's just insulting.
John snorts. Then he starts to giggle. Sherlock watches him for a moment, his own mouth tilted into a smile, and feels a peculiar warmth spreading through his chest.
"Did you," John asks, laughing, "did you see Moriarty's face?"
Sherlock has to laugh as well because, alright, that was pretty funny. They stand like that, giggling like a pair of schoolboys, until John catches his breath and reaches for Sherlock's arm.
Then they go home.
~~~
Green.
~~~
It takes John several weeks to get used to being glad he's alive. Not because he doesn't like the feeling; he does. It's like something inside him has finally settled. That tiny, rebellious cog has finally slotted into place, or else it has fallen off altogether. When John rides in a taxi these days, he's actually watching the houses they pass by, instead of wondering if a lorry's going to slam into the passenger side and kill him instantly.
It's just so odd to think that it's Sherlock he has to thank for that; a self-proclaimed sociopath who likes to pretend he doesn't care about anyone, which is clearly a lie. Sherlock cares plenty. He just has a very strange way of showing it, mixing abuse and compliments until his signals are harder to read than a traffic light in the blazing sun. John's getting better at it, but he still gets lost sometimes.
He'll have time to figure it out, though. Now that Moriarty's gone, they have all the time in the world.
~~~
For some reason, the season for viral gastroenteritis seems to be two months early this year, so John spends most of the second half of September at the clinic, prescribing Loperamide and telling people to re-hydrate with electrolytic drinks rather than tea. The hours are insane; it's like all of London got sick at the same time. Two of the other doctors have caught a stomach bug as well, so when John staggers into the tube every night, he can barely manage to keep his eyes open long enough not to miss his stop.
It's wonderful to be home, but John is aching all over, and he just wants to have a good cup of tea and then fall into his own bed. Sleep is a luxury that John plans to indulge in as much as he can.
He's been sipping at his tea for all of two minutes before he has to admit that something's wrong. Sherlock wasn't lounging about on the sofa or in his armchair when John got home, which in itself is enough to cause a brief moment of alarm. Sherlock doesn't have a case at the moment, and they've lived together long enough by now that John has learned to remove his gun from the flat whenever Sherlock seems to slip into the darker kind of boredom. But Sherlock was personable, even smiling, when John warily stepped into the living room, so John just gave him a relieved smile in return and ambled straight into the kitchen.
But Sherlock won't stop moving. While the kettle was on, Sherlock picked up and put down what must have been every single test-tube he owns. While John was making the tea, Sherlock ran his fingers over every windowsill, frowning at his fingers as if the dust affronted him. And now that John's sitting down in his armchair, Sherlock keeps flopping down on the sofa, sitting up, and pacing around the coffee table only to flop down again and begin the whole performance anew.
It's unnerving, the way Sherlock can't seem to keep still. Unnerving, and oddly enough, a little bit endearing.
"Something wrong?" John asks finally. Sherlock stops with his hand in his hair, halfway between the sofa and the second armchair. He looks puzzled for a moment, as if he hadn't noticed his own manic energy.
"What? No. No, of course not." He takes a breath and flashes John a thoroughly unconvincing smile. "Tired?"
"Yes," John says, and watches as Sherlock nods, and twitches, and drums his fingers on his leg before he walks over to the sofa and sits down with his hands folded on his knees. Thirteen seconds pass, then Sherlock's up again, poking at the curtains and peering out of the window like someone might be waiting on the street below. "Sherlock."
"Hmm?" Sherlock turns, and John can't take it anymore. Sherlock doesn't look lost, not exactly, but the expression on his face is more helpless than John's ever seen before. Well, he's seen it once, a few weeks ago.
I thought he had you.
John sighs. Honestly, he's been waiting for something like this, but he'd hoped he might have a little more time. There's this… this thing between them they never talk about, the one that goes by unacknowledged. From what John can tell - and he's good at reading people; has to be - Sherlock might be ready to acknowledge it now. He just doesn't seem to know how to go about it, and that's… reassuring, actually.
John takes a short breath. Maybe he is ready to acknowledge the thing, too. He can at least try.
He stands up, carefully places his cup on the mantelpiece, and brushes his hands on his legs. He takes a fortifying breath, and another, and walks over to where Sherlock is watching him, puzzled, like John is something to be figured out. John clears his throat, searching for the right words to explain what he's about to do. Then he gives up, shakes his head, and reaches out.
Sherlock jerks a little when John's left hand comes to rest on his upper arm, but he doesn't react when John's right hand slips around the back of his neck. John decides to take this as promising, and when he pulls, Sherlock leans down willingly enough.
And then they're kissing. Just like that.
Sherlock barely kisses back at first. His lips are moving, but cautiously, hesitant, as if he's not sure what this is about but is prepared to try it. John smiles a little and keeps at it, slow and unhurried. They've got time. Sherlock's hand sneaks around John's waist, and John's heart belatedly realises that something earth-shattering is going on and abruptly stumbles from walk into gallop like a startled horse. John lets out a startled breath, and it's as if that's a signal of some kind. Sherlock makes a small noise in the back of his throat and the hand on John's waist tightens suddenly, and they're kissing, really kissing, with Sherlock's other hand tangling into John's hair and John's fingers clutching at the back of Sherlock's neck. It's messy and breathless and glorious, like few things in John's life have ever been.
Sherlock kisses like he talks when he's just found that last, vital clue to a case: self-assured and delighted and too fast for anyone to follow. John lets himself be carried away for a while, caught up in the rapid flicks of Sherlock's tongue and the way Sherlock uses his hold on John's hair to tilt John's head whichever way suits him best. Then John starts to slow them down, coaxing Sherlock into something softer, something that is closer to dancing than to combat. He gets Sherlock's tongue to tangle, not stab, until each slide is a caress of its own. Sherlock makes another noise, this one intrigued, and now it's his head that moves to find the best angle, his turn to follow John's cues.
John loves it.
He doesn't know how long they keep standing there, their lips locked and their bodies crushed together in a way that, oddly, isn't sexual at all. It's only when he sways on his feet and realises that Sherlock's hands are all that keep him upright that John remembers how tired he is.
He pulls back and tugs at Sherlock's arm. "Come on."
Sherlock trails after him for a few steps, before he realises that John is pulling them to the stairs that lead to his bedroom. He stops. "I don't -"
"I know," John says, pulling him back into movement. Sherlock doesn't do sex. It's something they'll have to talk about at some point, but for now John is tired and aching and sex is about the last thing he wants. "Cuddling's okay, though, right?"
Sherlock seems to contemplate this as they make their way up the stairs. "Cuddling is… fine," he says, a little dubiously. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but something John can work with. If Sherlock's not fine with cuddling… well, they'll deal with that if they have to.
His room is warm, so John strips down to his underpants and lies down on top of the blanket. After a brief pause, Sherlock does the same, although he keeps on his undershirt. He's wearing silk boxers, John notes, intrigued. John's not allowed to touch, though, and that's fine. He'd like to, but he's not one to go where he's unwelcome. They lie there, staring at each other, and the whole thing is about to turn incredibly awkward when Sherlock suddenly smiles and leans forward.
Kissing Sherlock, John decides, is very nice. Kissing Sherlock in John's bed is very, very nice. Kissing and kissing and kissing, slow and comfortable and with his eyes closed, with nowhere pressing to be, with Sherlock's fingers back in his hair and Sherlock's toes nudging against his own, might quickly become his favourite thing. He hums happily at the thought.
Sherlock's lips pull into a smile, and then Sherlock is kissing his cheek, his temple. His eyebrow, god help him. "Are we going to talk about this?"
"Mmm," John says sleepily. He should ask Sherlock if he's staying. He should move, too. The room's not going to stay this warm, and they're going to need to get under the blanket. If Sherlock's staying.
He yawns.
"Later, then," Sherlock says, that smile still in his voice. John thinks he nods, maybe. Sherlock's lips are soft and a bit unpredictable; addictive. Nice. John nips at them, Sherlock's laugh a quiet huff against his nose, and John smiles.
When he falls asleep, there are no nightmares.
~~~
Additional Notes: The budgie is a running gag Siri and I have been ping-ponging between us for almost three years now. The title is a (very, very oblique, I grant) reference to that time we rode through London and I asked what those odd things covering some of the traffic lights were called (blinds, natch). I didn't get an answer then, but had instead explained to me such wondrous English words as "tree" and "lor-ry". *g*
ETA: If you like, you can read the sequel now: The Sky for the Reaching