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Previously: Jim

———

Regret is the time bomb that sits in the pit of John’s stomach. Every tick of the clock reminds him of the words he can’t take back, of the apologies left unsaid and the absolute cruelty of time. Its unyielding and non-negotiable passage in a forward direction, despite how desperately John tries to claw it back.

He sits on Greg’s couch, head in hands, and feels the world rotating around him. It’s dizzying and nauseating. Constant motion when all he really wants is for it all to

just.

stop.

For a moment. For a few blissful minutes where his willpower to forget can overcome the strength of his memory, replaying the scene over and over again in his mind. Watching himself make the same mistakes. React from emotion, rather than logic. Turn and run, slink away, retreat. Hide from shame and embarrassment, dress it up as anger and sadness.

Well fuck you, then.

John groans, tasting the words like acid in his mouth. Greg is finally concerned enough to stop pretending that he isn’t watching him from the kitchen.

“John.”

The sound of his name feels wrong. Like his mind is expecting to hear it in Sherlock’s voice and can’t quite resolve the different pitch and tone. He looks up and blinks at Greg, eyes heavy.

“There’s nothing you can do. You know what he’s like.” Greg offers his hand. ”Come lie with me for a bit, put it out of your mind for a little while.”

John reaches out and allows himself to be hauled off the couch. Greg leads him towards the bedroom.

“I don’t know if I can stop thinking about it,” John admits, quietly. ”About him.”

Greg positions John so that his knees are backed up against the edge of the bed. He leaves him there and takes a few steps away to close the bedroom door.

“Well, then you underestimate my powers of distraction,” he replies with a grin.

Greg closes the distance between them, puts his hands on John’s shoulders and pushes him backwards on to the bed.

It’s not until John has his hand fisted in Greg’s hair that Sherlock even comes up again. He thinks about the unruly curls twisted between his fingers and suddenly it’s his flatmate that he sees between his legs, tongue tracking wet lines up the side of his cock. He closes his eyes and knows that he should try and shake the delusion.

But he can’t. He lays still, eyes closed, and lets himself believe that Sherlock is sucking him off. That those long, practiced fingers are stroking him closer and closer to the edge. He translates the moans that vibrate around his cock into Sherlock’s deep timbre and he matches them in kind. He bucks his hips, needing more, more. Needing to believe in his fantasy, needing Sherlock to be the one that makes him come.

Greg is emboldened by John’s reactions. He increases the tempo, strokes John a bit more roughly. He flattens his tongue against John’s cock and sucks from base to tip with steady pressure. It’s not long before Greg can hear John’s breath hitching in his chest, his moans becoming more irregular. Greg finds a good rhythm and takes John to the edge of orgasm. He pulls away in just enough time for John to spill over his hand and on to his own stomach.

“That was-” Greg starts.

“Shh,” John responds. ”Don’t say anything. Please. Just- shh…”

So Greg pulls himself up on to the bed and lays beside John, who is resting blissfully with eyes closed.

“Shh…” he whispers again. ”Not a word.”

——

Next: Sebastian

Previously: Sherlock

——

“You’re not leaving.”

John winces away as Sherlock pins him to the wall. He closes his eyes and braces for violence; ready for a punch to the face or to have his wrists clenched together. And yet somehow, the images behind his eyelids have nothing to do with Sherlock at all.

Water runs over his face, his lips. Greg’s hungry mouth is pressed to his and he tastes like smoke. John can feel his stubble growing in and it brushes roughly over his skin. They break away for a moment and both gasp for air. Then John’s hands are working at Greg’s trousers - he’s unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. He’s coming undone.

“Get off of me!” John says as he shoves Sherlock backwards. He manages to get away from the door and slides along the wall trying to put distance between them.

“I am not letting you leave this flat, John,” Sherlock replies, closing the space between them in two long strides. ”You are not going back to Lestrade.”

John clenches his teeth. He knew that Sherlock had deduced a lot about his night away from him, but he wasn’t sure how much. Now, he’s sure. He opens his mouth to spit venom at his flatmate, but someone else speaks in his place.

“Well, it’s a good thing I came up to get him, then.”

Greg.

John slides his hand into Greg’s pants and grips him. Greg’s knees nearly give out and he has to steady himself with one hand against the tiled wall and the other at John’s waist. Greg leans in and kisses him again, much more deeply this time. John works him out of his pants and presses their cocks together. With a firm grip, he stokes them both under the cascading water.

“Get. Out.” Sherlock is nearly growling. His eyes are narrowed and sharp and he is practically oozing aggression.

“Greg, I told you to wait downstairs, please,” John pleads. He’s seen Sherlock at various stages of ‘unstable’ and with Lestrade in the room, things are very likely to escalate.

“I said I’d give you fifteen minutes, and it’s been twenty. Time to go,” Greg reaches out and takes John by the arm, pulling him towards the stairway.

“Get your hands off of him.” Sherlock steps between them and wrenches them apart. Greg stumbles backwards into the door frame, but John takes the brunt of the force. He’s knocked off his feet and on to the floor. He lands with an audible ‘oof’ and Sherlock freezes in tableau.

“Yes fuck, John. Jesus.” Greg’s lips move against John’s mouth as the words tumble out. Their bodies are pressed together, with just enough room between them for John to continue stroking. Then Greg is kissing John’s neck, tasting skin and shower water, teeth scraping gently. John’s eyes are closed, the muscles in his arm tense from the effort. He’s breathing in stuttered gasps, close to the edge.

Greg collects himself and pushes past Sherlock. He’s on his knees at John’s side in the next moment.

“All right, mate?” he asks.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Just help me up.”

Greg hauls John to his feet and then looks at Sherlock. He hasn’t moved. He picks up John’s bag and moves towards the door.

“I’m taking this downstairs. I’ll see you there in just a minute.” Greg doesn’t phrase it as a question.

“Yeah, thanks.” John replies, eyes fixed on Sherlock.

John comes first, but Greg follows immediately afterwards. The water washes the evidence down the drain. When Greg meets John’s gaze, his can see his eyes are red and tired. He kisses him, once, on the side of his mouth and climbs out of the shower. He dumps his wet clothes in the sink and wraps a towel around himself. As he leaves the room, Greg pulls the door closed behind him, leaving John to a moment alone with his grief.

“You said we can’t be together,” John says. ”You said you were leaving.”

Sherlock looks at the floor.

“So what was all that about, then?” John asks.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and straightens. He shifts his position and John watches as a familiar cold demeanour settles into place. John recognizes it immediately as a suit of armour. Something to hide behind as they both unwillingly step into battle.

“We can’t be together, but you can’t be with him either,” Sherlock says.

John lets out a breathy laugh. He walks over to Sherlock, takes a fist full of his shirt and pulls him closer. He kisses Sherlock just the way he likes it best - slow, deep and long. When they break apart, John doesn’t release his grip. He hold Sherlock’s face up against his own and says:

“Well, fuck you.” His lips brush against Sherlock’s as he speaks. Sherlock breathes in his exhalations, his words.

Then, John releases his flatmate, walks out the door and leaves with Lestrade.

Greg wakes to the feeling of someone pressed up against his back. John’s skin is still warm from the shower and his hands wrap around Greg’s midsection. ”Do you want to talk abo-” he starts. He feels John shake his head against his back. Greg nods once and puts his head back down on the pillow. He’s pretty sure that wars have started over less than what happened in that shower. He knows that Sherlock won’t go down without a battle. But Greg has never felt so compelled to fight in his entire life.

Back in 221b, Sherlock touches his lips, trying to preserve the ghost of a feeling. Something feels heavy on his chest and he is being pulled in all directions.

The stairs to the second floor creak and footsteps descend slowly. Sherlock tries to snap himself out of his haze. He moves to the desk and opens a drawer, looking for John’s gun. It’s gone. He must have packed the Sig with his clothing.

“Well, well, well.” The voice precedes the man who steps into the sitting room. ”Having a little domestic?”

Moriarty.

——

Next: Sherlock

[Rare OOC Post]

I’m writing you a love letter. I want you to know that with every word you read, my heart skips a beat. Every time you smile, the sun comes out. When you cry, I cry with you. When you get angry, I try to soothe it with letters and phrases, a sachet of healing prose. I will never stop trying to seduce you, for as long as you’ll let me. The affair between writer and reader is never done. And I love you.

The first post from thedoctorisin221b was made on February 6, 2012. That would make this our one-year anniversary. Traditionally, the gift is paper. I hope you’ll take this letter in it’s place, all the same.

Appreciation is hard to convey from a distance. I can’t embrace you, can’t squeeze your hands or kiss your cheeks. You can’t see the look in my eyes when you like or reblog a post. You can’t see my heart swell when you send an ask to say you were moved by something. So I’m left with words. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for following. I hope you’ll stay and I hope that we’re able to keep writing stories you’ll enjoy. Thank you for everything. And thank you for giving our weird RP/collaborative fic a try.

Also, Kam and I are planning to do a small anniversary give away over the next few days, so hang around to hear about that. Don’t worry, you’re already entered just by being a follower. We <3 you guys so hard.

Sincerely,

D (mcxi) & K (msaether)

John - thedoctorisin221b
Sherlock - tallandtailored
Sebastian - mightybastion
Jim - coldbloodedconsultant

Previously: Sherlock

——

I love you… and it’s distracting… we can’t be together.

John lowers his cup and pushes his chair out from the table. His eyes are fixed on Sherlock as he stands. They share a moment of silence - staring at one another - until John simply turns and walks out of the room. He climbs the stairs to his room to pack a bag.

He refuses to be walked out on by Sherlock Holmes.

John takes his time packing. Sherlock can damn well wait.

With a full duffel in hand, he heads back downstairs to the main floor of the flat. Sherlock has moved from the kitchen to stand in front of the window in the sitting room. Anger washes over John like a tidal wave.

“You’re a bastard,” he says in an even tone. He doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t cry and he doesn’t walk over and clock Sherlock in the face. But he wants to. Oh, he wants to.

“I’ll be back for my things,” John says, turning to the stairs. ”Text me when you leave the flat.”

Sherlock never moves from the window.

Thankfully he doesn’t run into Mrs. Hudson on the way out. John takes the stairs as quickly as possible and pushes out on to the side walk. He walks to the end of the block and turns the corner. Out of sight of Baker Street at last.

John leans against the concrete wall of the Underground entrance just as his knees give out beneath him. He slides roughly down to the pavement and tries to remember how to breathe. The corners of his vision swim with blackness and he sucks in deep breaths of cool air. He fishes for his mobile in his pocket.

The reply comes quickly. A soft vibration in the palm of his hand.

<I’ll get us a table and a couple pints to start. Couch is yours. -GL>

It takes John ten minutes just to stand back up again.

For the second time in his life, John lives his night through vignettes. Triggered by loss, John notes, the patient suffers a detachment from current events. He vows to share his deep and meaningful observations with Ella when he starts seeing her again. Which he plans to do. At some point. Maybe when he’s a little more sober.

Greg orders lager like it’s going out of style. John is witness to a montage of empty glasses stacking up, raucous laughter with a group of cops and shouting over a football game which he can barely recall. A bachelorette party invites them to join in a round of body shots. As he sucks vodka out of the bellybutton of a 20-something year old, John suddenly realizes he’s lost control of the night. Patient exhibits a desire to repress earlier memories through the use of intoxicants.

In the next moment, he and Greg are right soused in the back of a taxi, then stumbling up the stairs to his flat, arm in arm. Greg miraculously gets the key in the lock and then they’re falling through the door in a tangle of limbs. Patient exhibits a dulling of inhibitions relating to personal boundaries.

John manages to steer their descent to the couch for a soft landing. They must pass out, because when he wakes again, Greg is splayed out beneath him, snoring lightly. John untangles himself as delicately as possible and nearly collapses under the weight of his headache. He stumbles towards the toilet, and more importantly, the shower.

John strips off his clothes as the water heats up. When there’s a dense steam filling the room, he climbs into the bathtub and stands under the hard stream of water. It pounds out the tension in his shoulders, cascading down his back and over his arse.

Naturally, his thoughts stray to Sherlock - the way his body looks when wet, the way his muscles pull taut across his back, the way his mouth looks wrapped around John’s cock. Before long, John is stroking himself roughly, desperately chasing a resentful orgasm.

“John, you got the curtain pulled? I just need to take a piss-“

Before John can react, Greg pushes through the door and gets an eyeful of John, hard cock in hand. John opens his mouth to speak, but he can think of nothing to say.

Greg stands frozen at the threshold of the room, doorknob still in hand. Seconds stretch into agony.

Then Greg pulls off his jumper in one smooth motion and steps into the shower. Water soaks through his trousers as he takes John’s face in his hands and presses their lips together. Patient exhibits self-destructive tendencies.

—-

Next: Sherlock

Previously: Sherlock

——-

Lestrade meets John in the lobby of the Yard and escorts him to the holding cells. On the way there, they say very little to each other.

“Thanks for the call, Greg.”

“Of course,” he replies. ”I’ll take you to him.”

“How long until Mycroft arrives?” John asks.

“I… haven’t called him yet.”

There’s a long period of silence as they walk down a brightly lit hall and through a door that unlocks with a loud buzzing noise.

“I thought it best to wait until you two had a chance to talk,” Lestrade adds once they are past the sign-in desk.

“Right, thanks.”

Lestrade gestures towards a row of mostly empty cells. In the third one, John sees a tall figure slumped forward, elbows on knees, head resting in hands.

“Did you have to arrest him, though?” John asks quietly.

“He was at the crime scene when the patrol cops arrived. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t cuff him, he came willingly.”

John frowns. ”You know he didn’t-“

“I know, John. But I had to bring him in, think about how it looked.” He sighs and rubs a hand over his chin. ”I’ll give you a minute, then we should talk about his release.”

Lestrade turns and walks back to the desk. He starts a conversation with the officer on duty and gives a slight nod towards the cell. John knows the brief moment of privacy is a gesture of kindness. He takes a deep breath and walks up to where his flatmate is being held.

“Sherlock, I’m here.”

John crouches down so that he’s level with where Sherlock is sitting on a cold metal bench. John reaches through the bars and tries to touch his arm, shoulder, anything. He needs to feel him, to know that he’s solid and alive and real.

Sherlock starts, lifts his head out of his hands. He turns to John and blinks heavy lidded eyes. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, John sees how prominent the dark circles under his eyes have become. He hasn’t been sleeping. They look sunken, bruised. Sherlock reaches over and takes John’s hand.

“Take my hand.”

“Now people will definitely talk.”

“All right?” John asks, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but pauses. He shakes his head, very slightly. John tries to move closer, but the bars are very successful at being a deterrent. Sherlock tries to slide over instead, but the side of the bench that connects to the wall is between them.

“Sherlock, wait! We’re going to need to coordinate.”

“Go to your right.”

“Huh?”

“I said, let go for a moment,” Sherlock repeats.

John shakes the memory free, loosens his grip and lets Sherlock’s hand fall. Sherlock gets off the bench and moves as close as possible, kneeling in front of where John is squatting. He puts his face up to the bars and John can no longer stand it. He reaches through, takes Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him through the bars. Sherlock is tense at first, but dissolves into the kiss a moment later, and everything falls back into place. His lips are soft and full, responsive and yearning.

It lasts for only a few seconds before Sherlock pulls away. They lock gazes for a moment and something passes between them. John is silently screaming for him to respond, to come back to him.

“John, I- This doesn’t mean that-“

John swallows hard, his eyes threatening tears. It was there, he felt it. Goddamn it. He leans away and stands back up.

“I should see to your release. Greg’s waiting for me before he calls your brother.” He nods, turns and walks away.

He felt it. Please god. It was there.

…

It was there.

…

Wasn’t it?

——

Next: Sherlock

Previously: Sherlock

—-

John sits in his armchair and bounces his knee. He stares at Sherlock’s phone on the desk as if he could will it to life. He’s desperate for a clue, a signal, anything. Outside of Baker Street, the sun is rising. It’s been hours. Hours.

Despite his best efforts, John starts to think about what he must have done to chase Sherlock off. Or what he didn’t do. Should he have made a more concentrated effort to pursue their… what? Relationship? Hardly. Courtship? Please. Or maybe he’s been trying too hard? Acting like things were back to normal, not addressing everything that hung between them, unspoken.

John puts his head in his hands and sighs. There must be something he can do. Call Mycroft? No. Absolutely not. He can’t tip Mycroft off that something could be wrong. Lestrade? Probably unwise. He’s been keeping his distance lately. Molly? No, Sherlock hasn’t been speaking to her either. It’s his fucking self-imposed exile.

What then? He closes his eyes and tries to think like his flatmate. But what comes are images of Sherlock’s hands on John’s skin. The sensation of his hips pressed up against him. The vibration of his lips when he moans John’s name. The way his cock feels pressed against John’s palm. Stop. Stop. Stop.

John stands and paces towards the kitchen. Tea. Make tea. Busy hands, busy mind. Stay distracted. He reaches for a mug but displaces a saucer in the process. It falls to the floor and shatters into pieces with a crash.

In the next room, a mobile rings. It’s jarring. John feels completely off balance all of a sudden. He leans against the counter to steady himself. The mobile rings again, insistent. Sherlock’s phone is all he can think in that moment. He rushes into the sitting room and picks it up off the desk. It’s still, cold, silent. John frowns.

Another ring, this time from John’s chair. Dammit, he thinks, it’s my own bloody mobile. He fishes it out of the cushion just before it switches over to voice mail.

“Yes?” There’s an annoyed tilt to his voice when he accepts the call.

“John?”

“Greg?”

“Oh good, it is you. Listen, I shouldn’t be doing this, but… well, you know. I figured you deserved to know before I call Mycroft.”

John’s blood turns cold. ”What’s happened?”

“It’s Sherlock-“

“Jesus christ,” John breathes.

“John, listen. He’s under arrest. We’ve arrested him.”

Suddenly all the colour comes flooding back into the world.

“For what?” John asks.

“Suspicion of murder.”

In two steps John has his jacket and is practically flying down the stairs.

“John? You still there?”

“I’m coming, Greg. Tell him I’m coming.”

—-

Next: Sherlock

Previously: Jim

—-

-3 Months Later-

John never realized how much could change in three months. Old sparks had been snuffed out. Opportunities had been missed. Resentment had grown deeper. Sherlock blamed himself for losing Sebastian in the events following his overdose. He pulled away and shut himself off. For about a month and a half after they got back to Baker Street, he had continued to go through the motions. Pretending that things were still all right. But John knew they were just empty gestures.

The glances, the embraces, the occasional touch as they passed each other in the flat. Eventually they just stopped. John was living with a ghost. Again. And this time it wasn’t just in his head.

It’s easy to fall back into the old routine, so much so it breaks John’s heart. Sherlock suffers from long periods of silence. He stops eating, plays his violin for hours on end in the middle of the night. John sits quietly in his chair, reads the paper, watches television. He makes dinner for two and throws half of it out. He watches endless cups of tea grow cold on Sherlock’s desk.

John tries texting Lestrade, begging him for cases, but Greg won’t budge. When Sebastian escaped, Mycroft came down hard on his brother for what he had cost them. He demanded that Lestrade cut Sherlock off from cases for at least six months. It was worse than a death sentence.

“Six months of sobriety, then you can go back to solving your little crimes.”

“Fine.”

It was Sherlock’s only reply these days.

“All right?” John asks.

“Fine.”

“I’m going to make a roast for dinner.”

“Fine.”

“I’m heading out to Tesco for a bit.”

“Fine.”

It’s all just fine. Fuck. John got Sherlock back just to lose him again.

John lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock is downstairs, playing some vaguely familiar piece on the violin. Sleep won’t come - the nights have been restless. John closes his eyes and tries to fill the hollow feeling in his chest with old memories. He thinks about Sherlock’s lips against his own, the way it felt to hold him in his arms. He thinks about the time they were in the shower together, at Mycroft’s flat. The way Sherlock steadied him, the way John peeled off his wet shirt, the water coasting over his skin.

John rolls over to his side and brings his knees closer to his chest. There’s a cold pain blossoming under his ribs and it is sucking all the warmth from his body. He thinks about the time he and Sherlock snuck off together at the crime scene. Hurried breaths, desperate groping, incredible pleasure. He chokes in a breath.

John is not unfamiliar with loss. He saw many men die in the war; men he was close to, men he respected. He’d also been with and parted ways with many women, some of which he may have even loved. But nothing so profound as the loss which he feels every time he looks at Sherlock.

Best friends? Flat mates? Acquaintances. It’s not enough, he can’t go back. John clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the sob that is climbing up his throat. He swallows it down, pushes it away.

Downstairs, the violin playing stops abruptly. John can hear Sherlock cross the flat and walk down the stairs. Then the front door opens, closes. He sits up in bed and says: “Sherlock?”

When John gets down to the sitting room, it’s quiet and empty. Sherlock’s mobile is on the arm of his chair. His jacket is gone. There is no note, no indication of where he’s gone or how long he’ll be out.

Please, John thinks. Please come back.

You can haunt me until the end of time.

—-

Next: Sherlock

Previously: Sherlock

——

John closes his eyes and feels the words vibrate against his skin. “I’m sorry, John.” He responds quietly, in kind.

“I know.”

He wraps Sherlock in an embrace. His bones feel somehow closer to the surface and his earlier sweats have given way to a dry feverish heat. John is trying to hold on to the anger, the feelings of betrayal, but they slide off him as Sherlock relaxes into his arms.

But Mycroft’s words, oh, they are resilient. They circle his mind, vicious and subversive. Questioning, threatening. The reality of addiction comes back in waves of memory, of pain and of destruction. It lives in the pit of his stomach and sends traitorous tendrils through his body. Harry’s voice, then. “It won’t happen again, Johnny, I promise…”

“No.” John says.

“John?” Sherlock asks, pulling back slightly.

He shakes his head and pushes Sherlock back towards the modest cot. It connects with the back of his legs just below his knees and he is forced to sit. John stands above him and starts to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.

“You’re burning up,” he explains.

Sherlock looks down at his chest and watches as John undresses him. John knows it’s a weak excuse, but he needs the distraction. He’s pretty sure that Sherlock bought it anyway. In his current state of mind, it probably sounds legitimate enough.

“Lie down,” John commands.

Sherlock shifts backwards towards the wall and swings his legs up. John climbs on beside him and lies on his side. He props himself up on one arm and rests the other over Sherlock. His fingers trace lazy lines over his warm skin and Sherlock shivers pleasantly.

Recently, John decided that his favourite part of Sherlock is the concave dip of his lower back. It reminds him of the curve of Sherlock’s Stradivarius and the hollows of the f-holes. John runs his fingers along his skin and he watches as Sherlock’s face telegraphs the simple pleasures of his touch. John flattens his hand against Sherlock’s back, inching him closer, and presses their lips together.

It’s a chaste kiss, as far as their kisses go, but it somehow tells John everything that he needs to know. He would fall to ruin for this man. They kiss as long, sweet minutes pass, with no urgency and no expectations of where it might lead. John lays his hand against Sherlock’s cheek and it feels cooler.

“I think your fever is breaking. How do you feel?”

Sherlock leans in and kisses John, biting gently at his lower lip.

“More like myself again,” he replies.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Sherlock says abruptly.

John frowns. ”Go on, then.”

“There are… fragments… from back at the flat that I am trying to resolve. I think you said something to me. I think you-“

The door to the cell creeps open with a fatigued squeal. Mycroft is standing in the opening.

“Doctor Watson,” he says, “I need you to come with me.”

John sighs and rests his head against Sherlock’s. ”Really? I thought we were done talking.”

“Sebastian has requested to speak with you.”

John rolls awkwardly and sits on the edge of the cot. He looks at Mycroft, making sure he can see just how unimpressed he looks.

“And if you could put these on…” Mycroft holds out his hand and a pair of dogtags fall to the end of their chain, swinging slightly. ”…We would appreciate it.”

——

Next: Sebastian

Previously: Sherlock

——

John feels stretched thin. Sherlock’s hands on his skin and breath in his mouth are urging him onwards. But the setting and the circumstances repel him with almost equal and opposite force. When they kiss there is nothing in the universe but Sherlock beneath him. Everything fades to delicious blackness and John is completely honed in. But everytime they break apart or take a breath, his mind floods with images from the distant past; memories of Harry stumbling through the house, late nights in hospital waiting rooms and boughts of vicious anger.

John senses that Sherlock is still not quite in his right mind. He wants to pull away, uncomfortable with the idea of this continuing without Sherlock’s rational consent. But then there was the pleading - Sherlock’s insistence that John helps, that he eases the pain. Appealing to his constant desire to soothe and heal. But underneath all that is the simmering fury over what Sherlock did. The sheer irresponsibility and recklessness of his actions. John is tense and strained and hurt.

“Ahem.”

John pushes himself off Sherlock’s lap so quickly that he nearly topples over backwards. Mycroft is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking extremely governmental.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock muses, “who let you into the flat?”

“You’re not at the flat, Sherlock. You’re in a holding facility.”

“Is that right?” John interjected. ”Because no one has bothered to come in and tell us anything.”

“I thought it would be best to let Sherlock… level out a bit first.”

John narrows his eyes at Mycroft who is fixated on his brother. His mouth is a thin, tight line. Finally he looks over to regard John.

“Might I have a word? Outside?”

Sherlock’s eyes have glazed over and he is humming quietly. John sighs, heavy, and nods. ”Yes, alright.” He follows Mycroft out into the hall and the door closes behind him with a heavy clunk. They walk in silence through a security gate and into a sparsely decorated office. Mycroft motions to a guest chair and John sits.

“So…” Mycroft begins. But John cuts him off.

“How did you know to come? Hmm? Was it the cameras Sherlock keeps muttering about?”

Mycroft purses his lips. ”We keep him under surveillance for his own safety. I think that should be appreciated, given the circumstances.”

“Oh, I was appreciative when you arrived. At first. But then I thought about it. Sebastian must have been in the flat for quite some time before I came downstairs. Not to mention the cameras were rolling while your brother injected himself with some insane drug.”

“Well, it’s not as if-“

“And I suppose you were watching the stand off, as well. Watching that little red light dance across Sherlock’s chest while you… what, exactly? Bided your time? Put bets on how it would go down?”

“John.”

“No. No, don’t. Don’t you dare.”

The silence hangs between them for several long moments before Mycroft speaks.

“You seemed to have the situation under control-“

John laughs once, the sound harsh and edged with venom.

“-and we needed to confirm certain information that Mr. Moran was divulging to you. It was tactically wise to delay the infiltration of your flat in case he were to provide further detail.”

“That’s it then? Your tactical advantage was more valuable to you than Sherlock’s life?” John asks.

“I understand that you are perhaps slightly irrational about the whole situation given the recent… developments… in your relationship with my brother.” Mycroft replies.

“I beg your pardon?” John says, very quietly.

“I did warn you, as you may remember. I cautioned you away from Sherlock, prompted you about his destructive tendencies. Once he loses interest in this little experiment, you’ll be the one who is left suffering.”

John stands and brushes off his trousers. ”I think you need to let me back into the cell now.”

“John. I know that Harriet’s addiction-“

John closes the distance between himself and Mycroft in two swift steps. He is significantly shorter than both Holmes, but no less intimidating.

“I said, let me back in the cell.”

Mycroft clears his throat and steps to the side. ”Very well. But this discussion-“

“Is over.” John finishes. ”Forever.”

He pushes open the door to the office and strides down the hall. He waits by the door to Sherlock’s holding room and taps his foot impatiently. Mycroft nods at a security camera and a harsh buzz sounds. The door unlocks and John enters, slamming it shut behind him.

——

Next: Jim

Previously: John

——

There is no pain. But there is awareness. Odd.

“Open your eyes.”

Sebastian is still standing before him, gun raised. There was a gunshot, of that much John is sure. He peers over Sherlock’s shoulder and his chest heaves out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. There is no wound.

“First, I want you watching when I kill your precious Holmes.”

John clenches his jaw.

“Second…” Sebastian pauses. ”Explain yourself. What did you mean about the boss not appreciating me?”

John is caught so off-guard by the question that he stumbles over his words at first. ”I… What- You.” He takes a deep breath. He can’t let this opportunity go, he has to outwit him.

“Sebastian,” John begins. ”Do you remember when we met? Your whole scheme with at the Yard and the storage container?”

“Of course I do,” Sebastian snaps back.

“That was…” Choose the right words, John. ”Masterful. The planning and coordination that must have taken.”

“It was a little arduous, I suppose.”

“And you pulled that off solo. Moriarty was still in the wind.” If you’re going to go down, at least do some damage. ”Did he appreciate how successful that was?”

“Well. Not exactly. I mean, you did get away.” Sebastian lowers the gun slightly.

“With a near fatal leg wound. And you managed to expose a weakness in the great Sherlock Holmes.”

“You.”

“Me.” John shifts Sherlock’s weight slightly, just in case. ”You want my opinion?”

Sebastian considers this for a moment. ”Get on with it then.”

“Moriarty needs you a lot more than you need him. And he’s trying to keep you under the heel of his boot so that you don’t realize it. So that you don’t go out and… Well.”

“Well what?”

John grins. ”Become his competition.”

Sebastian gets a faraway look in his eyes for a moment and John quickly searches the floor for Sherlock’s mobile. Someone had been calling and he wanted to know who. He just needed to get his hands on it. Start a call to Lestrade, maybe.

“He thinks I fucked it all up,” Sebastian finally replies. ”But I’ve got you here, now. Look how well it’s going.”

John nods. He spots the mobile by the desk. Damn it. Too far. Think John, think. ”You don’t need him, Sebastian.”

“Maybe not.” The silence hangs in the dark flat for a beat too long. ”But a job’s a job and I will not fail him this time.”

Sebastian raises the rifle to shoulder height and John meets his eyes. Do it, then.

There’s a creak from the stairwell. John knows it well - fifth step up from the bottom. He wills himself not to look, but too late. His head moves almost imperceptibly towards the door. Sebastian catches it. Damn good sniper.

“What was that?”

The answer comes in the form of a tear gas canister rolling through the foyer. Sebastian turns and covers the distance in two steps. He swings his foot and kicks it back into the hallway.

When he turns back, Sherlock is slumped against the chair, alone. John slides across the kitchen floor on his knees, fishing out his gun from under the cabinets. He can see the laser light searching for flesh. He takes cover behind the overturned table once more.

John’s heart is pounding in his throat. Sherlock is unguarded and vulnerable. Every muscle in his body aches to cross the distance and shield him. But it’s too dangerous. He looks to his side and can see gas creeping up the stairs. Nothing about this scenario is going well.

“Watson!” Sebastian is calling him. He’s out of time.

John stands up from behind the table, gun drawn. He levels it at Sebastian. The rifle is pointed at Sherlock, red dot hovering over his chest.

“There is more than one way to stop your heart, Doc.”

“No!” John lowers his gun and surges forward.

In the next second, a bullet punches through the flesh in Sebastian’s calf and his leg gives out beneath him. A crowd of special police in riot gear and gas masks spill into the flat and surround him, trailing tear gas around their ankles.

John wraps himself around Sherlock. His eyes are streaming tears from a mix of relief and the gas and the irritation is making him cough. He presses two fingers against Sherlock’s neck and feels his pulse. Rapid, but strong.

John collapses. The last thing he remembers seeing is a man in a suit approach them, umbrella in hand.

——

Next: Sherlock

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