Chapter Text
“...baby, come back.”
“N- No…”
“Baby, come back…”
Abe choked and sobbed. He tried to take one final breath. Then it all stopped.
"He's gone," he told Sherlock, who still stood hunched over Slaney, ready to keep tormenting the man if he dared to show any sign that he was still alive. "He's gone."
John dragged himself closer, gritting his teeth as his chest moved. He touched Sherlock's shoulder.
"C'mon, mate. It's over."
He could feel him shake. Who knew if it was anger or shock, or fear. Probably all of them, and then some. He wasn't sure he could remember the whole spectrum of human emotion right then. He wasn't sure he wasn't shaking as well.
"Hey..."
He shook his shoulder, trying to get his attention. He was expecting the hard look of boiling anger, the same anger that led his best friend to psychologically torture Slaney as he choked on his last breaths. But Sherlock looked at him, and all he saw was fear.
And he imagined Sherlock on the floor, shot by a deranged murderer, and himself unable to move, to look back properly, to check if his best friend was dying two steps behind him.
He took a painful breath.
"Oh... God."
Something changed in Sherlock's face.
"John-"
But there were footsteps rushing up the stairs.
"Get off him," he whispered. "Get off him, now."
Sherlock did, and John pulled him as far from the body as he could. The glass shards scattered around the floor cut through his jeans. He tried to get up, but every movement sent new jolts of pain through his chest.
The heavy footsteps were getting nearer - at least three people, probably one floor down.
Sherlock got up and held out his right hand. John took it, and only after being - quite painfully - pulled to his feet noticed the blood on his other arm.
***
"Yes, thank you very much."
Sherlock waved away the nurse who had insisted the cut on his arm needed stitches. He'd only agreed to get it checked to appease John, anyway - he'd seemed rather distressed by the blood and the possibility of glass shards being lodged in the wound.
He should've looked at himself first. He had one on his face, for goodness’ sake.
But Sherlock hadn't argued.
He didn't need the added stress of worrying about him.
The police had sent them down, to the ambulances that had just arrived.
John had clung to him the entire time. He panted a lot. Held one hand to his chest.
That monster had hurt his best friend. Sherlock wanted to cry. And hug John. Preferably both.
But with the injury so fresh, and clearly painful, a hug would have hurt him. Even if nothing was broken, he couldn't hug him. Not for a while.
‘God, I can't breathe.’
Sherlock tried to steady his own breaths. It was over. Slaney was dead. John was not.
He watched from afar as the other paramedics checked the damage. The bruise was already forming. And it was gonna be a big one.
God, if he hadn't been wearing that vest... They’d never worn bulletproof vests for any case before. He hadn't worn one now. If John hadn't either, if... If…
He looked at him. Sherlock waved, once, and John looked away, back at the paramedic. Sherlock tried to decipher it. Was he just trying to double-check his position? To see if he was done with the stitches to his arm? Was he looking for comfort, for his friend? Was he... Was he scared he'd gotten closer? Uncomfortable with his presence?
He fixed his eyes on the pavement.
He'd taken it too far, with Slaney. Hadn't he?
He didn't regret it. He'd shot his best friend, he'd shot John. Out of all people... He tried to kill John.
He deserved what he got, and more.
But when he'd looked at John, right after... Had there been something in his face? Something primal, animalistic, dangerous, horrible, that made his best friend's face go from exhaustion and concern to fear. Because it had been fear.
Widened eyes, inner corners of the eyebrows raised, lips slightly parted, trembling...
It had been fear.
"Hey."
Sherlock flinched and looked up. He should've noticed him approaching.
"They said it's just bruising. No broken ribs."
John smiled. A fake smile, no doubt. He was still in pain. He was still breathing heavily. Sherlock's eyes stung.
"You said you couldn't breathe."
"Ah. You heard that?"
He didn't blink. He kept them in.
"Of course."
John pressed his lips together. Embarrassed? Resigned?
"Yeah... Yeah, I- I kinda had the wind knocked out of me for a sec." He paused. Breathed, heavily, two times. "Still do."
Sherlock nodded. He wanted- He needed to hug him. Properly.
Now his throat hurt. But still, he kept the tears in.
"Home?" he managed.
"Yeah. I'll get us a cab"
He passed him, and didn't touch his arm or shoulder like he usually did. He told himself it didn't mean anything. His injury restricted his movements.
Right?
He followed John, feeling like his throat was turning to steel.
***
John looked aimlessly out the cab window. He was so tired. His limbs seemed to have turned to stone, and his chest? It burnt and itched and made him wanna squirm but if he moved too much... Nope. Not a good idea.
It'll be fine. They gave him some painkillers, and advised to buy himself some cream. Help the skin heal faster.
Thank God it was just a bruise.
Well, a bruise and some cuts.
The cuts didn't matter. He barely felt them.
He turned his phone on and stared at Mariana's contact for a while.
Mariana 16:57 Let me know how it goes!
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
'Hey, heads up, I got shot. But I'm fine! Just slightly traumatised and in pain! Also, Sherlock tried to kill a guy! Over me getting hurt!’
Nah...
He turned his head, slowly.
Sherlock was staring out the window, almost touching the glass. It had condensed just under his nose. He'd been sitting like that for a while.
He took a deeper breath and exhaled in a clearly controlled way. John took a better look at his face. He seemed just as tired and distressed as he himself felt. He tried to reach out a hand, but he'd only moved it one inch before his body started protesting. His chest, yes, but. God, he felt so tired. Like he was one with the car seat. Like someone had flicked on the gravity for the first time and it was pulling him down like never before.
He closed his eyes and didn't open them until they arrived.
***
They shuffled into the building. Sherlock started climbing the stairs, but John hesitated in front of 221a. He should probably-
"You want to talk to Mrs Hudson?"
John thought it had been a question.
"Yeah, I- I guess I should update her on uh. Everything..."
He was out of breath again. This was stupid.
Sherlock hovered on the stairs to 221b.
"You go ahead. If- If you want to. I'll..."
He made a vague gesture towards Mariana's door. God. He was out of breath from talking. It felt like a sort of divine punishment had been served. John Watson, the ultimate waffler-
"Do you need anything?"
He was looking down at him - scanning him with those sharp, dark eyes of his. Really dark. Sometimes, when he was squinting-
"John?"
Right.
"Er. No? I... I don't think so."
Sherlock squinted. There it was! He looked like an alien. Black eyes. Ha.
"Are you sure?" He descended the stairs with some speed, then stopped abruptly. "Anything. Anything you need."
His eyes were wider now, eager, trying to take in every detail.
John looked away.
"Uh..."
He felt the slip of paper in his pocket.
"If... Uh." He took the note out and looked at the words the paramedic had scribbled. "Maybe if... I think there's a pharmacy nearby..."
"Yes, first right on Melcombe Street and to the left." He yanked the note out of his hand and headed for the door. "I'll be right back"
He slammed it behind himself before John could say another word.
He sighed and closed his eyes, but that only made him dizzy. He propped himself with one hand on Mariana's doorframe and knocked three times.
God, he was tired.
"Just a minute!" came her voice, followed by a series of coughs.
She took her time - she was still sick, after all.
John found himself contemplating if sticking his forehead to the wall was a good idea.
A key turned in the lock and the door opened.
"Hi Jo- Oh! My God! What happened to you?"
John managed a small smile.
"Ok, so, this is gonna sound worse than it actually is-"
***
They sat at the kitchen table, in 221b.
Mariana had made tea. Three mugs. Two between them, one still on the counter. John clutched his own steaming mug.
"And uh, he turned to me and. Yeah. He shot me. Which, which- If he had to shoot one of us I'm really glad it was me, cause... Mister... Brilliant... Master Detective didn't think to put a vest on. Even though I specifically told him to. But. Yeah. A-anyway Sherlock uh... I- I guess, distracted him until the MI5 shot him down - from a helicopter. And... Yeah.”
'Distracted him’. He didn't mention how his voice broke. How he kept looking between him and Abe. How lost he seemed. How he didn't know what to do.
'Please...'
That got him. That was the one word that wouldn't leave his head. He sounded - He looked so scared. So unsure, so… Unlike himself.
Why did he listen to Abe? Why did he put the gun down? Why did he turn his back on danger to look at him? He could have shot him- He could have shot him too.
Mariana sighed.
"God... This could've gone bad so easily. Not- That- You getting shot- I mean-"
"No, no, no, I get it. I get it. You're right." He sighed too, a long breath. The tea in his mug rippled. "You're right. Yeah."
They sat in silence for a while. Mariana was watching her tea with her forehead propped up on a hand. Then she looked at him, like she knew there was more. His face must've betrayed him. How could it not.
"He, uh..." He paused, not sure how to phrase it.
He thought I died. He thought I was dying.
"He didn't know I was wearing a vest."
"Sherlock?"
"Yeah.”
A pause. A slow realisation.
"Oh. Dios mío."
"Uh. Yeah."
He gripped the mug tighter, so his fingers wouldn't tremble.
He wanted to tell her.
He shouldn't.
He didn't know how to, anyway.
"It... It was. Bad."
She'll hear the recording, too.
"He thought you were dying."
She treaded carefully. Half statement, half question.
"Yeah."
She'll hear it. But she won't see his hands around Abe's neck.
"He... He- He lost it, a bit. After he knew I was fine. I- I just. I mean I knew, of course I knew he cared about me. Of course. Of course I knew. God. But..."
Mariana looked at him with the amused smile of someone watching a toddler discover their shadow.
“John…”
He nodded absentmindedly.
He didn't need to tell her. She'll probably figure out what happened, anyway.
***
Sherlock knocked two times on Mariana's door. He waited. He could hear faint voices, fainter than they would’ve been if they'd come from Mariana's apartment.
Ah.
He hurried up the stairs. The voices became recognisable. Mariana was saying something. Then John.
Two more steps and he could distinguish the words too.
"...I- I mean if I didn't know before I certainly. Do now. But. Yeah. God."
One step to the door. His arm was raised. Then, Mariana's voice.
"You should talk to him."
Sherlock froze in his tracks.
He held his breath. He needed to hear John's reply as clearly as possible.
"I will. Yeah. Not very sure how to... Breach the subject. But. I will."
Nervous to breach the subject. Therefore, the subject must be something negative.
Sherlock suspected he knew what it was. He had seen it in his eyes, already.
‘If I didn't know before, I certainly do now.’
But it was more, wasn't it? More than being afraid of him.
It wasn't a feeling.
It was a newfound certainty.
If I didn't know he was dangerous. A monster. Insane. I certainly do now.
His hand shook. He put it in his pocket. Breathed in. Now was certainly not the time to break down.
And out.
In.
And out.
Not now. Not now.
In. Out.
And he opened the door.
"Ah! Speak of the devil!"
He didn't look afraid. Not anymore, at least. Nervous.
"I mean, I was just telling Mariana about the, heh. The Big Bad Bruise."
He laughed, proud of the wordplay, then winced, then tried to hide it with another chuckle.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. He didn't know what else to say.
He stepped closer, then wordlessly placed the cream tube on the table.
"Oh. Thanks, mate."
"Yes."
John turned it around in his hands.
"How m-"
"Do you-"
John huffed a laugh - more embarrassed than amused.
"Uh. Sorry. You go first."
"Do you need anything else?"
John looked at him for a second too long. His brow was furrowed and his eyes tired.
"No..? No."
Sherlock nodded and hugged his arms, not sure how to proceed. Ask if he's sure? Hide in his room? Linger? Apologise? No, not yet. He needed the right words.
"Listen," said John, "Sit down."
Sit down. Sit down, we need to talk.
"Mari made you some tea."
Sherlock's stomach dropped.
"Um. I made everyone tea?"
For a moment he saw the white walls of his school - the tall, imposing figure of a teacher who thought herself kind for arranging a 'much needed intervention'.
"Yeah, I meant that one-" He pointed behind him. "-is for him."
"It's the same tea."
Sherlock turned slowly to where John had pointed.
His blue mug.
On their counter.
In 221b.
He took it in his hand and turned to Mariana. She patted the table in front of the empty seat.
Was this an intervention?
He didn't want her there when John tore him to pieces.
You're deranged, Sherlock. If I didn't know before...
He sat down. He didn't look at either of them. Only at the dying wisps of steam rising from his mug.
"Er, how much do I owe you?"
He was forcing himself to be cheerful. He could tell. It wasn't a very good attempt.
"Nothing."
John wiggled the tube between his fingers.
"For this."
"It's fine, Watson."
John didn't insist. He thanked him, then resumed his conversation with Mariana - telling her what happened after the police ushered them out of the room. There wasn't much to tell. Mariana asked some questions, here and there. He couldn't tell if it was genuine interest or signaling that she was paying attention.
After a while, the talking died down. There was silence for a couple seconds.
"You don't like it?" asked Mariana.
Sherlock turned his head and looked at her.
"The tea," she clarified. "You haven't touched it.
"Oh." Sherlock looked at his tea, then, almost mechanically, took a sip. "Yes. Very good. Thank you."
"Course," she replied. Then she downed the rest of her tea and got up.
She was leaving.
She didn't say why, only that she should be going. John didn't protest. He told her to take care.
Sherlock looked at her, silently begging her to stay. He didn't want to be alone with John. He didn't want him to 'breach the subject'. Not yet.
She saw him. She smiled, walked to him and put an arm around him in a half-hug. It was nice. Purposely comforting. Like she knew something of his inner turmoil.
Which didn't make sense. John had told her. Did she not believe him? Was this just an act? No. That would serve no purpose. Perhaps, as the one who told John to talk to him, she felt slightly responsible for his upcoming pain. Because while he knew his actions were those of a deranged, monstrous individual... It would hurt to hear John say it.
She was kind. Kinder than he deserved.
"Arlight," she said, breaking the half-hug. "You boys be good."
"Sí, uh, señora."
He didn't look at John but saw movement from the corner of his eye. Probably a salute. He would roll his eyes at that, usually. Now, having almost lost him, he felt unusually fond of his more aggravating side.
God, he almost lost him.
How could he be annoyed at any of his habits or gestures or jokes, when he'd almost lost him?
Mariana left.
They were alone.
John drank his tea. He did the same.
He wanted to look at John. To take in his presence, the fact that he was still alive. And he really, really wanted to hug him.
But he wouldn't want any hugs from him, would he? Not after... That.
He compromised, and looked at his hands. They were wrapped tightly around his Swindon mug. He was rotating it slightly - no more than five millimetres - every couple seconds.
He had a cut next to his pinky finger, on the right hand. From all the glass.
Sherlock wished he could've shielded him, when the windows exploded. He wished he could've done at least that. Just make sure that any broken glass or debris or stray bullets would find him instead of John. He would've taken the hits gladly.
But he was already down when the inferno of bullets had started.
He could only wait, face pressed to the floor and arms shielding his own head, and hope that nothing was gonna touch John.
He could only remind himself, over and over again, that he hadn't seen any blood, and John was still speaking, and of course John would still try to speak after being shot in the chest but while his voice had sounded strained... He didn't sound like he was dying.
He'd scrambled to him afterwards, and he was alright, he wasn't dying, he'd worn his vest, thank goodness. And some of the glass did hurt him, and he wished it would've hurt him instead, because John didn't deserve to be hurt by one more splinter, but none of the cuts were cause for concern.
The worst of it was the one above his eyebrow - that could've gone bad. It was so close to the eye, it could've...
But he'd been lucky. It probably wouldn't even scar.
Sherlock stared at the cut on his hand.
Still, it didn't make sense, did it? The placement of the wound didn't align with the trajectory of the glass shards. They would've hit his forearms - he did have some minor scratches on his forearms - not his hands.
Unless....
Sherlock recoiled at the thought.
...unless he'd hurt himself while crawling towards him. Through all that broken glass. To stop him.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
"You, uh. You alright, buddy?"
There had been very few moments in his life where he'd felt further from alright than now.
"Yes."
"Alright. Good."
Sherlock drank his tea.
John fiddled with his mug, more than before. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
No. Not yet. Not yet.
"You really should use that, Watson" He pointed to the cream. "The sooner the better, I'm sure"
John blinked.
"Er, yeah. Yeah, I will."
He didn't move. Neither of them did.
"It's just, uh. I- I don't think I wanna look at it, right now."
"I understand."
He wasn’t sure if he’d want to see it either.
Sherlock drummed his fingers on his mug.
He took one final sip.
"I finished my tea."
John turned to him.
"Oh, ok. Do you want more?"
"No."
"Alright..."
"Alright."
He got up and hurried towards his room. He made it halfway before something made him stop, turn and look back at John. He sat with his back to him, hunched, with an elbow on the table. Tired. Sherlock almost stepped towards him. For all his fear of what John was planning to tell him... He didn't want to leave him. If he could just. Find the words to apologise. For dragging him there and getting him shot and trying to kill Abe even as he was telling him to stop. For... Unleashing something he didn't even know he had in him. For not regretting what he did. He was calmer now. Considering the fact that he was already dying, he was glad he didn't kill Slaney - that would've brought on all sorts of complications. But he couldn't bring himself to regret hurting him. He tried to kill his best friend. The kindest and the funniest and the most endearingly annoying and the best person he's ever known. He tried to kill him. He wouldn't have existed anymore. His Watson.
Maybe he'd understand. If he could find the words, if he could tell him, maybe he'd understand. And of course, he wouldn't want to tag along with him anymore, not when he'd endangered his life and abused his trust like that and... Well, not after he'd witnessed… that. But maybe... Maybe he wouldn't move out. Maybe... No, he didn't deserve to be anyone's best friend after that, but... Maybe he'd still be his friend. Pal, at least. Buddy. He'd called him ‘buddy’.
He was just being friendly. John was always trying to be friendly.
He turned to him suddenly, like he'd sensed he was being watched. Sherlock turned on his heels as quickly as he could and hurried to his room.
***
He'd thought he'd gone to his room, but there had been too few steps and no door opening. So he craned his neck as much as he could and looked for what might have made his friend stop in his tracks.
He barely got a glimpse of Sherlock before he turned and practically ran to his room.
That was... Weird.
Of course ‘weird’ was par for the course with Sherlock, but... Weirder. Unusual.
He braced himself and got up, teeth gritted and everything. He saw the cream and hesitated. He should just go and use it already. He had to look at it sooner or later.
He sighed, took it and hobbled to the living room. He hesitated between his door and Sherlock's. He should really talk to him, but it had become pretty clear that Sherlock wasn't in the mood for any sort of discussions.
He just needed space. No need to worry.
He went to his room and flicked the light open.
Archie was napping on the carpet next to his bed. He raised his head lazily to look at him.
"Hi, boy."
The dog wagged his tail but made no move to get up.
He'd greeted him quite happily when he'd entered the flat with Mariana, but John had been so distracted he'd ignored him beyond two or three pats on the head.
"I almost died today, you know?"
He wondered if he would've understood. Maybe he would've thought he'd abandoned him. Like Carrie.
John chuckled to repel his thoughts.
"I, I bet you slept all day, didn't you?"
The dog huffed and resumed his nap.
"Right."
He left the cream on the table, walked to the long, thin mirror propped on his wall, breathed once to hype himself up and slowly unbuttoned his shirt.
It was... Ugly.
Big.
The size of his palm, though with how bad his whole chest hurt, he'd almost expected it to be bigger.
The point of impact was the worst. Barely an inch away from his heart. Slightly bigger than his thumbnail. Dark. Almost black. That was... A lot of blood. Under his skin. It... It shouldn't have been that dark.
He took a shaky breath. His throat felt like it was closing up.
It's fine. It's stupid. You've seen stuff like this before.
The skin around the point of impact looked fine, actually. The mass of the bruise was curling around the dark dot, threatening to engulf it but never touching it.
It looked a bit like a C.
A really thick, deformed C.
Purple. And red. And darker purple. Like a sick imitation of a galaxy.
John's chest hurt. More than before. It seemed constricted. It was. He couldn't breathe.
It's just a bruise. It's just a stupid bruise.
Just some broken capillaries. Just some blood under his skin.
Kids got bruises.
Not this big though.
Not this much... This much...
And the dot. The dark dot. That didn't even look like a bruise.
It shouldn't have been there. It was... Wrong. He wasn't supposed to see this. It wasn't supposed to be this dark. Darker than blood.
He took a step back.
All the power was draining from his body, like water spilling out through his feet.
He stumbled backwards to his bed and sat down.
It was hot. Too hot. He was burning up and when he touched his forehead it was sweaty and his whole body felt too heavy and too light at the same time.
He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. In. And out. In and out.
God, this was stupid.
It's fine. Everything's fine. It's fine, you idiot. You're fine.
He yelped when something touched his knee.
He looked at it.
"Oh. Hi."
Archie. He was standing on his hind legs, with the front paws and his chin on his knee.
John smiled and patted his head. Archie tried to lick his hands and he laughed.
And it hurt a bit - laughing. But his throat was starting to feel normal again.
He lay down after a minute. Archie waddled around the foot of the bed.
"Sorry, Arch. Not picking you up. You'll just sit on my chest."
Archie lingered for a bit then made his way to the living room. Or, more likely, to the kitchen.
John turned his head towards the door. He saw the cream tube on the table.
"Oh... Shit."
He should get up.
But God, he was tired.
He'll just rest his eyes for a bit.