Even Genius Secret Agents Fuck Up Sometimes
The door swings open. A shadow falls upon the old folding bed, which threatens to break down with every movement too much. For long seconds he is just staring wordlessly at the sleeping form that appears to just be resting there in peace. But not one second too long …
“Will you the get the fuck up?!”
John’s tone of voice and his choice of words don’t exactly make him sound like the kind and friendly person he usually is. (Maybe. Sometimes. There is yet proof to be found on that.) It doesn’t seem like he’d like to be kept waiting any longer.
Sherlock, the implied resting beauty, blinks a few times, and each of these blinks reveals another glimpse of grey eyes shifting into light blue. At first, they seem quite cold - if one is unaware of what they can expose of his heart, of course - but his gaze is a searching one and not free from emotions. But all in all, it is the calmness of this gaze that John cannot put up with right now.
“I won’t repeat myself.” His voice becomes quieter, urgent.
Eventually, Sherlock begins to obey. He sits up on the bed and stretches himself, seemingly all the time in the world on his shoulders. “Hmmh, you took your time,” he says, yawnes and ruffles his hair with both hands.
John gives a snort and turns his back to him. “You should be grateful they don’t just let you rot in here for the rest of your days.” He takes a deep breath to let out a sigh and begins to walk away, as if he was convinced that Sherlock would follow.
Which he does. His long legs catch up with him quickly, and now they are walking side by side as Sherlock tilts his head to the left and to the right. Both movements cause an unpleasant sound around his neck.
“This is exactly why you always get yourself in these situation. I mean, come on, what kind of an agent manages to get himself arrested?”
John raises his voice again, but as he notices that he does so, he tries to calm down.
“It just sort of… happened,” is all Sherlock has to say to this, apparently. “Who could’ve known that some people would mind you borrowing their motorcycle for a greater good?”
Yes, it seems that is the only thing Sherlock has to say in his defense. John stops to look at his partner. “Sherlock. You practically dragged that bike from under the man’s arse, just to completely crash it in your hot pursuit, to which you also invited the nice officers of the police nearby that, as far as I’ve been told, don’t actually like to be winked at before you drive away. Normally, I’d suggest that they just keep you here, but since I know you…” And now, for the first time today, his face grows a little softer, “Could it be that you're just a bit overworked?”
Sherlock gives a short and mocking laugh, but avoids his gaze now in his usual and fake keeping-people-at-arm’s-length manner. “It’s very sentimental of you to worry about me, but, I can assure you, just as unnecessary. Apart from a few sore muscles and scratches, and some of them were caused by the uncomfortable sleeping options here, I’m doing just - fine.”
John narrows his eyes at ‘sentimental’. This is just typical of Sherlock. Once again pretending sentiment was a weakness and wouldn’t concern him. Even though he should know by now that John knows that he’s being like this especially in moments of vulnerability. Granted, John himself isn’t exactly good at handling weakness either, but at least he can see when it would be time to give in to it. Like right now, for example.
But he has noticed that these days Sherlock is buttoning up his coat extra tightly around himself to let no one else in. It hurts, and this may be selfish of him, but it hurts. During those three years they’ve known each other and during those two they’ve been officially working together, he has stopped wearing his mask like a second skin around him. It could only be about one of their last and tragic cases that has caused him to pick it up again. A woman has died. She wasn’t supposed to, despite her crimes and the threat she posed, but she wasn’t supposed to die. She was meant to join a witness protection programme in America that would spare her life. And then one day, the message left them both in silent surprise: She got killed. Never made it.
John knows Sherlock thinks he could’ve done more for her. And as hard as it is for him to swallow done his big lump of jealousy, he feels him. Having served as a doctor and having lost enough patients and comrades, he feels him.
They have almost reached the main exit of the building as Sherlock stops dead in his tracks. John shoots him a confused glance.
“Give me but a second,” he tells him. Sherlock approaches one of the officers that arrested him only one day ago. “Well?” He frowns at the copper, clearly expecting to hear something now that he thinks should be obvious.
The police officer groans and eventually complies. “Sorry that I've arrested you by mistake.”
Apparently, that is all Sherlock wanted to hear from her, so he turns around with a little smug smile on his lips.
But the lady isn’t done talking yet. “But we can’t just let every psychopath who claims to be a secret agent on a mission turn loose like that.”
Sherlock’s expression changes once more, probably at the word 'psychopath’.
“I mean, you didn’t even have an ID with you.”
Now that draws John’s attention again. “You didn’t have your ID card with you?”
Sherlock gives a shrug. “I must’ve lost it when I fled the ship.”
John feels the urge to slap himself in the face. Or Sherlock. Yes, at second thought much rather Sherlock. He tries his best not to get too angry about it, but…
“Do you have any idea how much it costs to reconstruct that thing? Sometimes, I swear…”
Sherlock is trying to stop him from being so upset by simply talking to the police woman once more. Not the best of ideas, in retrospect. “Alright. But you would be a great help if you didn’t stand in the way next time and just left the real work to us instead.”
John walks away before Sherlock can even end his last sentence, too worried he will actually punch him this time. “I hate you sometimes,” he says as soon as they are outside and Sherlock has caught up again.
He pretends to think about this for a moment. “Hmmh, no you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
They slip into the black limousine that has been waiting for them outside the police department, black windows that block not only curious looks but bullets as well, and a man in a black suit has stood outside at parade rest to hold the door open for them. When they are finally sitting on the dark leather seats of the car, John pulls Sherlock close to him by the already half ripped collar of his shirt with force.
“Don’t you ever do this to me again, do you hear me?”
He crushes their lips together in a desperate kiss full of fears and promises. In between kisses, his presses more words into Sherlock’s mouth, squeezes them between his muffled whimpers. “Running off on your own? You’re done with that.” Tongue slides in between his lips, and Sherlock opens his mouth wider. “Understand me? Never. Again.”
Sherlock can’t quite comprehend anything of importance right now, expect for John, John, it’s all him, but he swears to remember, “Never. It’s always you, John.”
They are snogging away time and space for the next ten minutes before Sherlock’s tired body presses against John’s in exhaustion.
“Did you manage to eliminate the target at least?”
Sherlock exhales deeply. “I’ve been arrested. What do you think?”
There is a little moment of silence as, suddenly, John creases his face in increasing confusion. “What bloody ship did you even flee from?!”
“Oh, you know, I thought… Long story.”
“Idiot.”
“Always you, John. Always.”