Chapter 3
February, 2010;
"Hang on, hang on, Sherlock. I've got you. I've got you. Don't worry." John was mumbling in Sherlock's ear as they hurried to Baker Street.
"I'm not worried." Sherlock snapped, his sharp breath creating a small cloud.
"Well, I am, so shut it!"
Sherlock sighed in annoyance, even as he leaned heavier on John.
"I've got you." John whispered again.
"I know. I'm okay." Sherlock said, squeezing John's shoulder. "I'm... Okay."
"Hang on, hang on. Just a little while longer. It's okay. Hang on."
John threw the door open, not bothering to close it behind him, practically dragging Sherlock up the stairs and kicking their door in.
"Okay, okay. Um. Sit on the couch. I'll be right back. Stay awake." John ran to the bathroom, taking out Sherlock's way too complicated first aid kit he'd mocked him for when he first saw it.
When he got back, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, eyes closed, fists clenched in the cushions, chest heaving.
John sat next to him. "Sherlock... You've got to... We have to-"
Sherlock opened his eyes. They slowly found John, locking onto him lazily.
"Hm?"
"You have to take your shirt and coat off." He says quietly. He and Sherlock had only been living together a short while at that point, and they were still adjusting to each other. They hadn't seen each other in any state of undress.
Sherlock didn't seem to mind, as he'd been shot, and just nodded, shrugging his coat off. He began to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers were trembling and he was bleeding so much-
John grabbed scissors from the first aid kit, pushing Sherlock's hands out of the way and cut his shirt open.
The next problem was that John could not get a good angle to dig the bullet out of Sherlock's side. John looked up at Sherlock, but his eyes were closed again. John made a small noise of distress.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He said, grabbing him by his shoulders and gently lying him on his back. John kneeled next to him, pulling out tweezers and quickly rubbing it with an alcohol pad.
"I'm gonna take the bullet out now." John says quietly.
Sherlock nods.
John places a palm on Sherlock's stomach to steady him, and slowly began to dig the bullet out.
The gun was shot at a rather far distance, and it- thank God- wasn't a very big gun, so the wound was rather shallow.
Still, taking it out was awful. Sherlock groaned, his legs flailing. John's hand barely managed to keep him from rolling over.
John feels the tweezers come in contact with something hard. He slowly closed them around the bullet, and glances at Sherlock's face.
"I've got it. I'm going to-"
"Fuck, John, just rip it out." He growls, hand wrapping around the wrist of the hand on his stomach.
John nodded, taking it out as fast as he could without injuring him.
As soon as it's out, John drops it on their coffee table, hoping the various newspapers will protect the wood from staining.
Sherlock slumps, breathing like he'd been holding his breath the entire time.
"Now I've just got to stich you up." John says gently.
Sherlock snaps his head over to him. "For fuck's sake, John!" He throws his head back dramatically, "What's the point of having a live-in doctor if you can't treat me properly!"
"I am treating you properly!" John snaps, taking out the suture.
Sherlock breaths quickly for a moment, so quick John worries he might pass out, or have a panic attack, but instead his breathing calms after just a moment. "Can you give me some morphine?"
John thinks about it. Then curses himself for thinking about it. "I'll give you ibuprofen when I'm done."
Sherlock huffs, but doesn't protest much, instead just squeezing his eyes tight and nodding for John to proceed.
John stitches Sherlock up as quick as possible, muttering assurances and apologies with every wince from Sherlock.
When he's finished, he stands, and brings Sherlock three small ibuprofen pills and a glass of water. Sherlock swallows all three pills at once, dry.
John pulls a blanket over Sherlock and places a pillow under his head, not wanting to make him get up to go to his bedroom.
Then he sits against the sofa, legs stretched out under the coffee table. He turns on the TV.
"Do you mind?" He asks Sherlock.
Sherlock shakes his head.
John wasn't sure what kept him there, by Sherlock's side all night. Wasn't sure what made him grab a decorative pillow that had fallen to the floor, and the quilt that hung over the back of his chair, and sleep on the floor.
He was certain his neck and back would ache for days, but just couldn't find it in him to care.
In the following weeks after Sherlock got shot, he realized two rather concerning things:
Number one; he was not at all bothered by the vulnerability he had shown John on that night.
The writhing, the groaning, the bare chest.
None of it made him sick to his stomach the way he thought it might.
And, when Sherlock would lie on the couch, and lift his T-shirt up so John could clean the wound and reapply gauze, he realized that didn't bother him either. He was perfectly capable of putting on his own bandages, but let John do it anyway.
Number two; John wasn't bothered by it at all, either.
After the first few days, Sherlock couldn't bear wearing a shirt anymore. Even his loosest of shirts felt too constricting in combination with the bandages. They made his chest itch and his back burn white-hot.
So, he stopped wearing them. He walked around the flat shirtless, and John didn't comment on it. Didn't give him a weird look, even when he sat down at the dinner table across from John, who was clad in a jumper and undershirt.
Sherlock wasn't sure which of the two epiphanies was more concerning.
It was strangely freeing, however.
Being able to walk around the flat in whatever clothes or lack thereof he desired.
He would wander around under a bedsheet and underwear, sometimes sans the latter, with no fear.
He was used to making people uncomfortable, and to being uncomfortable, and never cared much either way. To Sherlock, that was how the world worked; he could not be comfortable without sacrificing the comfort of another, and vice versa.
Never before had he been with someone where neither of them were uncomfortable.
It was amazing.
The next case they worked after the one Sherlock got shot on was tough. Sherlock barely got any sleep, and would stay up all night playing the violin.
Then, it came to him.
In the shower, no less.
He immediately switched the water off, threw his bathrobe on, and slid out to the sitting room, where John was looking over the case photos.
"It's the woman's mother!" He says, delighted.
John barely has time to look up at him before Sherlock is grabbing him by the shoulders, making him stand and placing him across from the wall, which Sherlock had made their theory board. Sherlock stood on the sofa, pointing out the various pictures on the wall, explaining his theory. John is silent the entire time, until Sherlock stops talking, and turns to John, smiling.
"That's... Yeah, Sherlock, that's fine, and all, but..." He slowly made his way to the sofa as well, grabbing Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself. "It could also be her cousin." He says, not going into an explanation, just pointing at the newspaper clipping that represented the crime scene, where the cousin was reported to be.
Sherlock frowns, opens his mouth, and then closes it. "Yes... Yes, that's a good idea, John." He pats him in the back and makes his way to the door.
"Um, Sherlock, where do you think you're going?" John calls after him.
"We have to interrogate both of them, to see who the culprit is."
"Sherlock, you've still got soap in your hair, you aren't dressed..." John trails off and laughed. "You can't go out like that."
Sherlock scowled, knowing John was right. He ran to the bathroom to finish his shower.
He was out in five minutes, and found John standing at the door, coat and shoes on, Sherlock's coat draped over his arm.
"Let's go." He said quietly, eyes smiling.
Even after the interviews, they were still no closer to the truth.
Sherlock sat on Lestrade's desk, legs crossed, fingers steepled under his chin.
"Maybe we missed something," Lestrade starts, "I can ask Molly to look over the body again-"
"Oh, don't waste your time," Sherlock snapped, "Molly's a genius, and very good at her job. She hasn't missed anything."
John and Lestrade stared at him. Sherlock blinked.
"What?"
"I've just... Never heard you compliment anyone." John said quietly.
"That's because I don't. I didn't compliment her, I stated a fact. Compliments are things you say to another person to boost their ego in hopes for a returned ego boost. I've not said anything to her, and I'm not expecting anything in return. Ergo; not a compliment."
"It's still very much a compliment." Lestrade laughs.
"Do you compliment me when I'm not around?" John asked, amused.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're always around, John. When would I have a moment to say anything about you?"
John frowns. "Well, would you, if I weren't around so much?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes, swinging his legs off the desk and sliding to the floor. He looked at the police's board of suspects- much larger and more comprehensive than the one in Sherlock and John's flat, but just not as right as the one at home.
Sherlock snaps his fingers. "Just go and make the arrest." He says.
Lestrade blinked at him. "Arrest... Who?"
"The murderer." He said.
"Sherlock, we don't know who-" John started but was cut off by Sherlock.
"Precisely, John. But they do. The impulsive, stupid murderer knows exactly who they are. You make an arrest, they will run." His eyes were bright and frazzled, like they always were towards the end of a case.
Lestrade shrugged. "I guess there's no harm as long as we don't make an actual arrest."
Sherlock nodded. "The killer has had no time to leave and dispose of the woman's ring, it should be somewhere on their person. Evidence."
So, they went with Sherlock's plan- to sit the entire family down under the pretense of making an arrest.
The plan worked, because of course it did, and John and Sherlock were currently chasing down the murderer- her sister, not her mother or her cousin.
The girl was very fast and agile- being a young woman in her early twenties and a very accomplished athlete- and John and Sherlock were falling farther and farther behind- being two middled aged men whose only exercise is their bi-weekly chase-down of suspects (who are often in similar or worse shape than them).
"I'll cut her off, you keep following her." Sherlock pants, before splitting off down an alleyway. John simply nods, and continues his pursuit.
The suspect- Sarah, he's pretty sure her name was- looks behind her shoulder at John. She groans in annoyance and speeds up.
"Bloody hell!" John swears under his breath.
Sarah takes a sharp turn up the stairs onto a concrete plateau in front of a rehab center, the jumps over the railing onto the road below.
"Shit!" John yells this time.
He runs down the stairs and runs across the road, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car.
She's heading towards the docks, and John knows he'd lose her if she got on a boat or dove into the water. He looked around desperately for Sherlock, and, as if being summoned purely by John's desperation, Sarah is tackled to the ground by a tall figure, seemingly dressed in shadows.
Sherlock lies on top of her for a few seconds, until he can get a good grasp of her hands. Then he rolls off of her, one hand around her wrists, the other at the top of her back, pushing her into the concrete. John jogs over to him.
"Take my phone. Call Lestrade." Sherlock pants.
John bent over, shaking his head. "Left my phone... in the van."
"Take mine."
John nods, reaching into Sherlock's coat pocket. Instead of standing and backing away, John sits next to Sherlock, stretching out his legs and placing them over Sarah's, which had been flailing. He dials Lestrade.
"Sherlock. Are you alright?"
"It's John. Sherlock's alright. I am too, if you care. We caught her. by the docks. Hurry up, she's... phew... she's really fast."
He hung up.
John slipped Sherlock's phone back into his coat, leaning backwards and breathing heavily. "How'd you know she was gonna go here?"
Sherlock shifted, placing more weight on the arm on Sarah's back. "Her father owns one of these boats, which she stole the keys for. You'd know that, if you bothered to pay attention."
"Yeah, alright." John laughs.
They sit there until the police arrive, lights blinking brightly. Lestrade rushed over, pushing Sherlock and John off of Sarah and putting her hands into handcuffs.
John and Sherlock sit on the ground for even longer, still panting a little. John just chuckles and lies down, his arms outstretched. Sherlock shifts, and John looks up at him to see him leaning on the arm closest to John, cheek resting on his shoulder, a weird expression on his face, that's somewhat akin to a smile. It makes John feel weird, but he can't seem to look away.
"Well, boys. Good job, although you weren't really much help." Lestrade says from above them.
Sherlock's face goes into something much more neutral, bordering on a scowl, and turns to Lestrade. John sits up.
"What do you mean? We just caught her for you?" Sherlock says, holding his hand in front of his eyes against the headlights of the police cars.
"It wasn't the cousin or the mother." Lestrade said.
Sherlock scoffs, turning to John and smacking the back of his hand against his chest. "What good are you?" He asks. He's got that funny look on his face again.
"What...?" John says dumbly.
"What use are you to me? You're a shit doctor, and an even worse detective."
John realizes this is Sherlock attempting at sarcasm. He's adorably awful at it.
"You didn't get it right either." Sally Donovan says as she walks over, arms crossed against the cold.
Sherlock scowls for real this time.
John shoots her a look. "You were closer, though. The motive was the same between the mother and the sister. The money." He says to Sherlock, his voice coming out quieter than he meant.
Sherlock looks over to him and leaps to his feet. "You know, Watson, flattery suits you." He reaches his hand down and John takes it, standing.
Sherlock turns to the detectives. "Well, unless you need us to do your job any further, the two of us will be off."
Donovan rolls her eyes and walks off. Lestrade nods and smiles. "See you later, boys."
Sherlock and John began walking home, arms around each other to keep from slipping on the ice.
Mary wrapped her arms around John's waist, swaying back and forth. She presses her mouth to his ear.
"Are you alright, love?" She asks.
John jumps at the question, dropping the wooden spoon into the pasta sauce. He sighs, pulling his out and wiping it off with a paper towel. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You haven't been as chipper recently. And you haven't seen Sherlock and weeks. Has something happened?"
John closed his eyes and sighs. "No, no, nothing happened-"
Mary pulled away. "John, don't lie to me."
John stared into the pot. "We got into a-" he clears his throat. "We got into a fight. I was- hmm. I was drunk. We both were."
"Was it... Bad...?"
"I'm not a fucking freak, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes widened. "I'm not either, John."
John nodded. He felt a single tear roll down his cheek. "Yeah, yeah you are, I think."
Sherlock's posture collapsed, shoulders slouching, knees bending, and face going slack. "Oh. Oh, okay. I guess." He nodded, looking away.
"Sherlock-"
"Yeah. Yeah, it was bad."
"Should I ask...?"
"No." John snaps. "Please don't."
Mary sighs, rubbing John's back. "Well, I'm here when you're ready."
"Right, thanks."