Seven Years of bad Sex or Something
author's note:
I am also posting this on AO3, so don't get confused^^
Chapter 1
„Seven Years of bad Sex or Something“
note: Sherlock learns about social habits - and doesn’t like it one bit
"Tell me again, why I am here," Sherlock demanded as he and John left the cab. John saw him burying his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and shooting him an accusatory glance over the roof of the car.
John heaved a sigh. They had been through this quite a few times during the last hours.
"We are here because Scotland Yard wants to celebrate the capture of those drug sellers with us."
"But there are going to be people. And they didn't do anything to begin with, it was--"
"Yes, Sherlock," John interrupted him and suppressed an impatient flicker as he looked back at Sherlock who stepped to his side in front of the restaurant in central London.
"Yes, you are the genius that did it all. Please don't tell everybody too often tonight, I want to be invited to a truly outstanding restaurant again!"
"Oh, John, please! You know how I hate exchanging pleasantries if it isn’t absolutely necessary." Sherlock's voice dripped of disdain.
"If it is just the restaurant, we could go anytime…”
"Sherlock, for the love of god!" John turned around, facing the other man and grinding his teeth.
"Now would you stop being petulant. Greg and his team did help a lot, it’s their job. Don't ever forget how they don't have to let you participate at all."
"And how much help they were", Sherlock muttered a little too loudly for John to miss.
_______________________________
Ever since John moved back into 221B Baker Street a few weeks ago after Sherlock had resurfaced from the dead, (returning to the only place John had ever called home in his head had seemed the logical thing to do) there had been a certain tension between them. They had thoroughly lost their equilibrium. John noticed time and again how hard it was to get back to their old life style after two years of him trying to move on. And failing gloriously. It had nearly shattered him to watch Sherlock step off a roof to his “death” after Moriarty’s dreadful campaign to destroy his reputation and make everyone believe Sherlock was a fraud. A thing John had never believed, not even when Sherlock told him it was true. Which it wasn’t. He didn’t know why Sherlock had told him that.
He had fled 221B and rented a room in another part of the city. During his first night out in his new flat when he had tried to calm down with whisky he realized how much life with Sherlock had truly fulfilled him and what he was going to live without now. He missed their crime solving and the outstanding amount of trust and comradeship the soldier in him had always found so appealing. He had asked for a miracle, for Sherlock not being dead but for two solid years he dragged himself from day to day, trying to cope, trying to be a normal guy with a normal life, trying to blend in and hide the pain. He met uncountable women but felt only briefly blissful.
Living with Sherlock as a flatmate had always come easy to him. John had never minded his experiments cluttering their kitchen table, his playing the violin at ungodly hours, his general annoyance with the world, his particular shade on the autistic spectrum. How he himself never ceased to be amazed by Sherlock’s direct and on-the-spot deductions. How Sherlock shared the teensy exceptions, the tiny things he didn’t get right by 100% with John only. John had idolized him greatly, there was no denying it.
He had felt happy, whole. He should have been happy now as well… only he wasn’t. He was torn between yearning to understand why Sherlock had been cruel enough to let him watch how he jumped to his “death” and feeling relieved that it had just been a fake.
John realized his thoughts had gone a little astray as was their habit lately when Sherlock was close. It was an irritating mix of restless and frustrating anger and blood swirling concern, intersected with an insecurity he hadn’t known before and this new territory terrified him greatly. He was in control most of the time now, though, after he had completely lost it when Sherlock reappeared in front of a little pub John liked to have his lunch at one day. He’d nearly broken Sherlock’s nose in the process. Once he was alone in his flat afterwards he had cried, a whole new experience for him, but it had washed most of the shock from his system. To the world punching Sherlock in his dishy face still seemed an appropriate reaction, though. A reaction John had felt strangely proud of afterwards.
It didn’t help matters that Sherlock either thought he deserved the rough treatment John showed towards him when frustration and insecurity were just too strong to hold back. Or maybe Sherlock simply didn’t care. Sometimes he would sit in their living room, though, entirely focused on something John couldn’t see, face completely blank. Or he would spend hours in his mind palace, flipping his hands through empty air and John had to move their furniture out of his way. John mused how this was connected to whatever it was that Sherlock had done while he was away. Perhaps it was just his own personal way of fighting his demons and John found that making him play the violin usually helped.
John turned his head around to Sherlock inside the revolving door when they entered the restaurant and saw his face set into stressed lines. But when grey-green-blue eyes met dark blue for the briefest moment, John believed he saw an appraising flicker across Sherlock’s face, calculating. John felt his temperature rise but the moment was gone before he could delve further into it. He stepped into the foyer where a waiter greeted them and showed them to a room in the back of the building where Lestrade was waiting for them at the door.
______________________________________
All in all it was a pleasant evening. Lestrade and his team had been able to capture a group of drug sellers that had been selling to minors, causing two deaths in the process. The case in itself would have been no more than a 4 to Sherlock, as he had pointed out to John on several occasions, and he probably wouldn't have bothered with it in the first place. But, as John was constantly reminding himself, Sherlock Holmes just couldn’t cope with boredom. Their wall was ample proof - some things just never changed.
It had been insufferably easy, giving Sherlock no reconciliation whatsoever, to judge the gangsters, who loitered around schools and parks to sell their stuff, to trap them at it and send five of them to prison. Unfortunately no one seemed to know the location of their drug lab. Furthermore, two of them were able to flee the scene of their capture without having their faces seen, giving Lestrade a sprained ankle in the process of pursuit.
John was standing with his second glass of champagne next to Molly, several detectives and Anderson, who was chattering animatedly and had just finished his fourth glass, in a corner of the room Scotland Yard had booked for the evening. He felt stupid smiling as Anderson launched into the glories of policemenship. How John should have considered taking this as a career after leaving the army. John was thankful for the distraction as Lestrade limped into their group.
Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
“John, can I have a quick word?” Lestrade staggered tipsily when he put his arm around John’s shoulders and pulled him out of the loose circle. John was nevertheless thankful and together they sauntered into the direction of the back garden. Lestrade raised his champagne glass and clinked it to the rim of John’s glass. Both smiled to each other, Lestrade bending forwards to stare into his eyes over-dramatically, and drank.
“Just wanted to thank you again,” he said but John just shook his head.
“It was nothing, just Sherlock being…”
“A genius, as usual,” Lestrade chipped in. John shrugged. There was nothing else to say on the matter. John saw Lestrade’s face taking on a very paternal expression.
“I missed him. Hell, even Anderson missed him. And you, for that matter. Police work just isn’t the same without you.”
“Yes, it feels good to be back,” John admitted and opened the door to the back garden. Lestrade followed him out and John had to grab his shoulders to steady him.
“It’s really good to see you back with Sherlock, mate, you didn’t seem yourself after… you know…”
He stopped.
John froze for a second, caught off guard by an array of increasingly complex feelings. He licked his lips before forcing them into a straight line and gave the D.I. a guarded look.
“Yeah… that sounds… weird, coming from you, Greg,” he said before clearing his throat.
“But thank you… in a way…”
Did people truly see that in them? Two parts of the same entity with the only option of fitting closely into each other? Unsound without the other part? Actually telling him to his face was a new feat, though. He knew people talked about them, they always had. But it was usually in low voices behind their backs.
Just a week ago Molly had told him the same when Sherlock had been to the morgue with him, fussing over the body of a teenager supposedly killed by adulterated drugs their suspects had sold. She had been waiting for Sherlock to go about his business and asked John to the kitchen for coffee, both knowing it would take Sherlock at least half an hour before he was satisfied with the results of Molly’s examination on the bodies. John had felt completely dumbfounded when she stated how pleased she was to see them back together. It must have been quite a struggle for her to sound careless. And, despite growing anger, John had blushed madly, his ears tingling as if Molly’s word had burned him. He had been in a rush to leave as soon as convenience and courtesy allowed.
Lestrade continued, totally oblivious to John’s inner turmoil.
“It must have come as a blow, seeing him surface again. Actually, I was so relieved. I have always wanted to know… Did you two… mmmh… talk about… your… mmmh… it all?”
John stood rooted to the spot. He didn’t know what to say. It got worse when he saw Sherlock approaching them from somewhere in the murky back garden, tight smile plastered on his face. John’s stomach suddenly clenched with anger and uncertainty despite the carefully calm surface of his face. Of course they hadn’t talked! They never had, at least not about something as meaningful as that. Terribly intimate things had always happened between them but it had been nothing he had ever questioned. Because there had never been any need to talk about it. Because with Sherlock such things as “personal space” and “boundaries” simply didn’t exist anyway. So it had always been perfectly normal. Everything had changed when Sherlock came back, though. It had forced John to acknowledge potentialities. And to feel like a coward about it.
He looked down at his feet.
“Ah, Sherlock, there you are. Enjoying yourself?”
Count on Lestrade to be completely oblivious. John clenched his fist around his glass of champagne and hoped the ever omni-observing detective hadn’t been eavesdropping.
But Sherlock gave nothing away.
“Tremendously,” John heard him answer.
“Just a bunch of “friends” celebrating an event, how lovely.”
Looking up without meeting his eyes John noticed Sherlock’s glass was still half full, the champagne presumably gone stale. He chuckled under his breath because he knew Sherlock wasn’t much of a drinker, anyway.
Lestrade proved to be a different matter.
“Such a charmer,” he said good-naturedly and obviously had to suppress a giggling fit. Then he raised his glass.
"Let’s not get this champagne go to waste,” he announced and Sherlock gave John one of his long-suffering-looks.
“Here's to you guys and your crime solving."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but raised his glass nevertheless.
“Just because it’s you, Gideon, I will forgive your drunken state,” he said and put it to his lips. But Lestrade stopped him, wide-eyed.
"Wait, you need to clink your glass to mine and look into my eyes, otherwise it's seven years of bad sex."
John, having raised his glass himself, fought a heavy giggling fit seeing Sherlock stop in his tracks and give the D.I. a sarcastic look.
"Seriously? Superstition? My, you must be more drunk then you let on."
Sherlock shook his head but Lestrade nodded emphatically.
"Yes, that's what you got to do and because it also affects me here, Sherlock, don't be the grinch. Seven years is quite a time and I just got divorced."
The D.I. raised his glass again, an expectant look in his eyes. Sherlock's lips turned into an annoyed line.
"Why would I care about a stupid saying that only serves as social kit for drunken people?" he exclaimed.
Here he goes. So Sherlock.
"And in what universe is there a connection between neglecting a bad social habit and bad sex? Ah, and don't you think three years would be enough to scare every drinker off, since we're talking about symbolism anyway? Did you know what percentage…"
"For god's sake, Sherlock, give that man what he wants,” John interrupted and raised his glass. Lestrade looked like he’d had serious trouble keeping up.
"To social kit and good humour with friends.", Lestrade said after shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. He clinked his glass to John’s, looking him full in the eyes, then turned to Sherlock with a questioning look.
Sherlock succumbed.
"To social stupidity and other stuff I don't need to understand."
Their glasses clinked, Lestrade drank happily, John smirked and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Dating
Chapter 2
"Dating”
note: John and Sherlock talk about dating and both are sharing the same opinion: the other is deluding himself
A few days after their celebration John took the tea kettle off the stove and poured water into two cups standing on the counter. It was still an hour until he scheduled to meet an old university friend along with his friend's wife and her sister, whom he was to be introduced to tonight. He was wearing his favorite shoes, a close fitting dark blue jumper and had his hair combed back nice and casual. A quick look into the mirror in the bathroom confirmed he was looking his best tonight. He felt good, everything was back to normal, him going out on a date and Sherlock staying in, doing whatever it was he did. He’d dated a lot of women, John mused, trying to ignore the certain tone these words had. It had become an integral part of his life in the last two years. He liked dating, it was fun most of the time and he usually didn't give it a second thought when it didn't work out. A casual and distracting way to spend free time and John had never thought about stopping it just because Sherlock had become the center of his every day life again. It seemed ridiculous, John told himself, to stop just because he was feeling weird about Sherlock Holmes lately.
Sherlock was lounging on the couch, for once with his own laptop, three untouched cups of tea gone cold on the coffee table, wearing his silk pajamas and nightgown. He was wiggling his toes on the small table in front of him, narrowly avoiding the teacups and a saucer with three human eyeballs, his full concentration directed at the screen of his laptop.
They had been sharing a lazy afternoon in their living room, John reading a book and Sherlock playing the violin for hours. John had felt perfectly comfortable, Sherlock’s soft music lulling him into serenity. When he had asked Sherlock what he was playing, the other had just hummed at him.
"Sherlock, I am going out," John announced when he put a fourth cup of tea next to Sherlock on the table.
"You put enough sugar into my tea?"
"Yes. Sherlock, did you listen?" John was rolling his eyes. It had become a certain routine between them these past few weeks, John telling him he'd go out on a date and Sherlock intentionally ignoring it.
"How many scoops? -- I can't believe I overlooked how human eyeballs react to high temperature on close -- John, hand me that book over there."
He extended his arm in John's general direction, making a hurrying gesture. John shook his head.
"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" he repeated, but Sherlock obviously wasn't.
"John, the book."
Sherlock became impatient, beckoning him with his hand without looking at him.
John huffed, then reached for a book lying on the kitchen table and put it in Sherlock's hand with force.
"Two scoops of sugar, three stirs, spoon is in the cup, now will you put your feet off the coffee table, the eyeballs alone are indecent enough."
“Since when has living with me ever been decent?” he heard Sherlock mutter but after a second he lifted up his feet and put them grudgingly onto the carpet.
John just hummed, feeling very pleased with himself, took his own cup from the counter. He sat down in his favorite chair, taking this morning's papers and burying himself behind them.
Sherlock kept on muttering about eyeballs, tapping manically on the keyboard of his laptop, while John tried to ignore him. When his cup was empty, he put on his jacket and left the flat. He didn’t notice how Sherlock’s eyes followed him to the door.
____________________________________
Three hours later he opened the front door of 221B Baker Street and crept into the hallway. He took off his jacket and stepped into his flat. Sherlock was still sitting on the couch, his feet back on the coffee table, toes wiggling alongside eyeballs and muttering under his breath. John took off his shoes and then collected the four teacups gone cold from the coffee table to rinse them in the kitchen sink.
"Have you eaten anything today, Sherlock?" he asked and Sherlock snapped out of his frenzy.
"Why are you taking my cups away?" he inquired indignantly, shutting down his laptop.
"Because it's all gone cold hours ago."
John fixed two new cups and when the water was boiling he added a healthy swig of rum into his own.
When he turned around, Sherlock was blocking his way.
"You were saying earlier?"
John pursed his lips.
"That was hours ago as well, I've been out on a date."
"Yes, you were and it was bad," Sherlock stated.
John huffed again.
"How do you know this time?"
"Okay now, let me deduce for you," Sherlock exclaimed, taking his own teacup and returning to the couch from where he gave John a mocking look-over that made John’s heart pound annoyingly. His brows furrowed.
Sherlock lifted his right index finger and pointed at him.
"You're wearing your favorite shoes, your hair looks good, you left with an aura of anticipation and now you're back after only a few hours with hunched shoulders and an air of gruffness, ready to spend your night with booze at home. But that’s probably too obvious.“
Sherlock sounded annoyingly self-satisfied.
“There is a small smutch of colour on your upper lip, could be mistaken for lipstick, considering the fact, that you have just been on a date. But I am sure it is nothing of that sort whatsoever. I presume it is sauce from the dessert you had. You said you were going to this ridiculously expensive Italian restaurant on Oxford Street and they serve their Panna Cotta with wildberry custard. You are a sloppy eater, John. You didn’t kiss her good-bye or the smutch would have been more of a smear, so that means her company wasn’t delightful enough. Therefor it went bad.”
Sherlock was steepling his fingers under his chin, talking very fast.
“Doesn’t seem to go well these days, you always get home before midnight.”
John could just stare at him and shake his head slightly.
Sherlock’s next words practically dripped of sarcasm.
„There really wasn't the slightest chance of you spending your night somewhere else? I still have an experiment going on."
That hurts, thank you.
John bit the insides of his mouth, averting his gaze. It still occasionally took him by surprise how Sherlock’s right-on-the-spot deduction made him feel ridiculous, cutting through him like a sharp knife through delicate tissue, instantly grasping what was wrong but offering no reconciliation. Not that John would have expected him to in the first place. Still, it stung and he was touchy these days.
John felt himself getting angry.
"When was the last time you had a good chance of spending your night someplace else in delightful company?" he muttered and flopped down into his chair, fuming.
"Why, your company is most delightful, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly and picked up his phone. John was flabbergasted. That man was really clueless sometimes.
"Mmh, Lestrade really hasn't got anything new for me. God, I am so bored. How do you cope with that every day?"
"Sherlock, you're acting the high-functioning sociopath again," John said, getting up to retrieve the bottle of rum from the kitchen drawer.
"I am not acting, I am just trying to figure out how life with an ordinary little mind would be. Ah, got it, absurdly boring", he muttered, his voice rough and dark. John rolled his eyes and chuckled under his breath, feeling only mildly annoyed now.
"You are always at war with the world, I know. But I am not playing your game today, Sherlock, so shut up."
"No, I won’t because I just don't understand why you bother with that sister of your friend's wife's. She looks so dull."
Is that why he’s so annoyed?
The potential meaning behind Sherlock’s words sank in a moment later and John’s eyebrows shot upwards.
"How do you know?"
"Googled her."
“You-- What?”
Sherlock growled.
"You told me this morning you were meeting her, it doesn’t take a genius. I don't know why you still care for dating, though. It sounds tedious. If you would have just asked me before, I could have saved you a trip into the city center and the money you spend on her for dinner. Actually, I am shocked you haven't made sure she was worth your while. Or…” Sherlock sat straight up on the couch and shook his hand dismissively, a sardonic smile on his lips.
“Or are you setting so much store into this stupid clinking of glasses, looking into each other's eyes and how bad sex cannot happen to you with that? Did you clink your glass with that woman tonight? Lots of good it did you."
Sherlock looked smug now. John couldn't believe it. He felt a faint warmth creep into his cheeks and his fingers turned sweaty. Why on earth would this impossible man go and google his date? He licked his lips.
"Sherlock, you know this is just a saying. And since when do you care how I go about dating and other … things? I thought you were above such trivialities like girlfriends, boyfriends," he shot back.
“Trivialities are not my area.”
John let out a puff of breath.
“I can imagine.”
They fell silent for a few minutes, while Sherlock busied himself with a pleat of his gown. He didn’t seem to be done yet. John was watching him out of the corners of his eyes.
“Jealous?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I said trivialities are not my area.”
John nearly laughed.
“Very subtle, Sherlock.”
Sherlock had sounded a little too defensive but then seemed to gather himself and rolled his eyes dramatically.
“You know it is totally beyond me how people regard it as desirable to engage into certain activities in order to gain physical well-being just because societal conventions dictate it’s convenient, even prestigious? And yes, listen closely, because I may under certain circumstance be inclined to think that it could be worthwhile if one is and I shudder to even say this out loud: in love with the other party involved. But then again, our culture is full of stories about questionable things people do when they are in love.”
Sherlock looked like he was giving a speech, his eyes were flashing as they always were when he was completely convinced by what he was saying.
“But engaging with anyone only mildly attractive into said activities without the excuse of love positively is a chemical defect and here we are at the beginning again. These chemical dysfunctions and defects are trivial and therefor really not my area. And I say that as a chemist. How can you properly judge situation and circumstances when impulses and hormones are chasing each other in your body and you end up losing control?”
Sherlock seemed to realize he had gotten carried away and gave John a melodramatic hand gesture that clearly emphasized his lack of sympathy for how John could actually rank these kind of carnal experiences over those of brain and intellect. John was perplexed how Sherlock could have gotten so worked up about the potentialities of dating, for god’s sake. It wasn’t like they were debating these topics on a regular basis. He didn’t even know Sherlock was interested in these kind of things. Or that he had ever though about them in the first place. It was highly unusual and John wondered exactly why they were having this conversation.
“Sherlock, calm down, I was only out dating. Having fun, not getting myself-- engaged.”
He shook his head in slight disbelieve.
“But you know, some people treat these experiences and their possibilities with casual interest?” he asked a moment later and couldn’t quite keep the mockery out of his voice. Sherlock gave him a mock-pained look.
“John, I assure you that I have indeed heard about something like that. But have you ever known me to do casual when anything important is concerned? Casual is a concept unacquainted to me. I either do something properly or I refrain from doing it at all.”
Sherlock pursed his lips, his features momentarily blank. But then he smiled mockingly and a soft glimmer appeared in his eyes.
"That naturally doesn't mean I want you to be unhappy, though. You may think I don’t know what I am talking about anyway, so if you must, go ahead and get casually involved."
He gracefully lifted a long-fingered hand to make a throwaway gesture, his eyes focused on John, who was quite flabbergasted. For a moment he wondered whether Sherlock was making fun of him while wishing deep inside him that they had had this conversation years ago.
“Okay, if you really want to play this game, first things first, Sherlock: Your definition could also apply to doing drugs. But you could say I am basically producing this argument because doing drugs touches your style of life. And second: Seriously-“
John chuckled, trying to mask his sudden interest with friendly concern, leaned towards Sherlock and put his elbows on his own knees.
“Is that Sherlock-speak for ‘I have never engaged in an intimate relationship because I have never been in love?’ You sound like you’ve rehearsed that definition of yours. Sounds a bit defensive to me, though. And rather old-fashioned.”
Sherlock didn’t have the grace to blush or look sheepish.
"If that’s what I strike you to be I won’t correct you. Still, it sounds like a tedious waste of time, chasing people to… get involved with.”
“How did you confirm that without having ever been… involved yourself?”
“By deducing you and your night’s ordeal, John.”
John licked his lips.
“Well, since we are being frank about it anyway, you didn’t rule out love as a leading factor, Sherlock. It sounds like you by any chance haven’t ruled out the possibility of getting involved yourself… at some point in your life.”
They had migrated towards each other on their respective chairs during their verbal exchange and John found himself transfixed by Sherlock’s pool of wide grey-green eyes. The other man was looking quite intently at him and John saw the corners of his mouth crook into a lopsided smile.
But then Sherlock's phone beeped and his attention instantly snapped elsewhere, leaving John at a loss, feeling feverish and in need of a good swig of his rum tea.
Picking up his phone Sherlock’s face became all business, their conversation seemingly already marked off.
"Just the thing to distract me from my night's ordeal. That was a message from my homeless' network.”
He sounded delighted.
“The two drug dealers Scotland Yard let escape were just seen driving to a storehouse in London Harbor. I'll get dressed."
And off he swept into his room only to return a minute later, shrugging into his coat.
"Come on, John! Let's go out and have the real fun!"
With these words he practically bounced out the door and John had to hurry to gulp down his tea for he felt he needed the extra amount of rum now more than ever.
Trapped
Chapter 3
“Trapped”
note: Things don’t go as smoothly as planned
When they arrived in the storehouse area that Sherlock’s homeless network had informed them about, it was just after midnight. It was dreadfully cold, even for late January and John zipped his jacket while he took in their immediate surroundings. He was still feeling weird and oddly unstable due to their exchange before that he’d been nervously pondering throughout their whole cab ride.
Sherlock had already taken off on his long legs, dark cloak billowing behind him. John cleared his throat and followed, feeling fatalistic all of a sudden. Sherlock’s head turned when he caught up with him, lips forming an expectant smile.
Behind a clay-bricked storehouse, a dark figure beckoned to them. They followed it silently down a narrow alley, between two houses looming before a waxing moon. John felt an eerie shiver sliding down his back and took out his mobile to text Lestrade. But Sherlock stopped him by putting his hand over it, shaking his head and taking the phone out of his hands. John’s brow furrowed, his fingers tingling where Sherlock had touched them.
They tiptoed to a staircase at the outer wall of the old building, and climbed the stairs silently. They reached a window which overlooked a small roof of a lower building, and had an equally small yard in between. The yard, moderately illuminated by street lamps, was closed on three sides by walls, a gateway leading off into the darkness of an alley. A transporter was parked in front of the open gateway, but no one was in sight.
Sherlock silently opened the window and got up on the ledge to lower himself onto the roof, where he crouched onto his stomach to look down into the yard. John noticed that their guide had disappeared. This was weird and left him with another eerie shiver. He followed Sherlock down to the roof and lay next to him, bumping Sherlock’s elbow in the process. Both men looked at each other and John noticed with a pang that it felt highly inappropriate, considering their current location how close they suddenly where.
“What are we doing now?” he whispered, crouching low to ensure that they couldn’t be seen from down in the yard. They heard rumbling noises from beneath them.
“We wait until the dealers show up.”
“How do you know they will? I haven’t seen anyone here so far.”
“Don’t worry, they will. See that transporter there?” Sherlock motioned to the car standing in front of the open gateway. John nodded once.
“My informant tells me they’re moving their equipment tonight, because Scotland Yard is too close. Finally Lestrade gets it right.”
“Why can’t I text him and tell him where we are? He can get his team here in 20 minutes. Give me my phone.”
The look Sherlock gave him was offended.
“And spoil all the fun?”
John didn’t get the chance at a reproach because he suddenly saw a movement from the corner of his eyes at the window which they had climbed out of a few minutes ago. A man appeared at the crossbar.
He instantly reached for his gun… and found it wasn’t there.
In an instant his world became mute and he felt his blood pressure rise. His soldier mode kicked in.
“Sherlock, someone knows we’re here…”
He saw Sherlock fidget next to him, saw how he instantly caught up, mouth drawn in a thin line. Their eyes met for the duration of a heartbeat and suddenly there was something in Sherlock’s eyes John had never seen before. Sherlock’s eyes were intense and glistening, his attention seemed to be focused entirely on him. John nervously licked his lips.
Sherlock suddenly had his phone in his hand and John saw its bluish glow turn Sherlock’s features ghostlike. His brain clicked, coming to the right solution. Sherlock saw, and tilted his head once into a curt nod.
They were still crouching on their stomachs, John lying behind Sherlock, the space between his back and his waistband terribly empty because his gun lay in the drawer at home. How could he have been so stupid to forget it?
John knew he had to force all attention on himself now. He cleared his throat and, turning to the window, made a show of scrambling noisily to his knees. It worked, and he saw the man at the window raise his gun at him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Sherlock silently dumping his phone into the gutter.
The man who had appeared at the window didn’t seem to notice. He was busy grinning viciously.
“Boss won’t like that much,” the man said, motioning for them to rise. They did, slowly, hands raised and heads high.
A second man appeared at the window, mirroring his companion in raising a gun. John swallowed heavily and found that he had positioned himself in front of Sherlock, semi-blocking him. His chest was heaving laboriously, his brain drowning out all the white noise around him as he tried to estimate their chances for escape, finding them rather limited. In just a few moments, their evening had turned from entertaining to life threatening.
Great.
Time was ticking by in slow motion. Or maybe John’s mental capabilities had accelerated. There was suddenly so much space in his head, and for a moment, he wondered if this was how Sherlock always felt. Maybe that was why the slender detective got bored so easily.
He moved first, then he looked back at Sherlock who was clambering in behind him through the window again. His dark curls were wild, his hands clenched into fists, his graceful back was straight, and his face was drawn. One of the men held a gun to his head while the other was guarding John. No one said anything.
John’s brain somehow felt unattached from his body and his anger evaporated. In stressful and threatening situations, he tended to go astonishingly focused - one of the advantages of a military schooling.
Their eyes met. Sherlock’s eyes were a green sea, his face pale in the darkness. Their hands brushed when Sherlock walked past him, sending John’s skin tingling again. Somehow, the touch of Sherlock’s skin was the one thing that felt the most real in their situation. John’s throat felt very parched all of a sudden.
They were searched for their phones and weapons before the men forcing them down the stairs at gunpoint. They walked through a door into the small building that they had been lying on top of before. John found his hands, which were raised above his head, were steady - the urge to protect Sherlock overwriting every nuance of fear he might have felt otherwise.
When Sherlock suddenly stumbled on the last step of the staircase, John took a good look at their surroundings. The front door through which they had come in earlier was too far away to make a dash, even in the unlikely case that Sherlock could equally detach himself and follow. And with the guns that he felt at the moment pointed at the back of his head, that option was fairly out of reach.
A third man stepped into his field of vision when they reached a low door under the stairs. The next moment, a fist connected with John’s jaw. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, seeing stars.
“Don’t even think about it, man,” a voice above him resounded. John felt strong hands grab his arms and jacket, hurling him back to his feet. The man guarding Sherlock had stepped closer to the tall detective, and pressed his gun onto his pale temple, forcing his head to tilt into an uncomfortable angle. John noticed that Sherlock’s hands were clenched into fists.
“Don’t move, or I swear I’ll shoot you myself,” John heard the man say to Sherlock. Their eyes met again, Sherlock’s gaze flickering to his lips. Time was still going by in slow motion, and looking at Sherlock with a gun pressed to his head, John’s mind flew back to that dreadful day when Sherlock had jumped off the roof. There had been blood everywhere, staining the pavement. Sherlock hadn’t moved, his gaze congealed, his life had been smashed out of him… and John had felt so numb and helpless… His mind wrapped around Sherlock with a bullet in his clever brain, eyes extinguished.
John’s nerves were raw. He couldn’t afford to lose Sherlock again, no matter the cost. He would do anything to keep him safe, and the inevitability of it crashed through him like lightening. He was determined, adrenaline punching through his veins. His fists clenched together, his heart went wild. No more death…
The man laughed viciously, oblivious to John’s inner turmoil.
“Lock them into the office and then see about storing the equipment,” he told the other two men before turning to Sherlock.
“I don’t know if you told the police where you are, but considering the fact that the oh-so-famously clever Sherlock Holmes works alone, you probably haven’t told anyone. So no one will come looking for you yet, but when they do, we will be gone.”
The man turned to his companions.
“Don’t shoot them, we don’t wanna attract too much attention. But we’ll make sure they don’t run.”
Having said these words, he opened the low door under the stairs, and John was shoved inside behind Sherlock. Then the door closed, plunging them into total darkness.
