(no subject)
Title(s): Mistake You Make
Author: julia_dreamer
Fandom(s): Sherlock
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John if you squint?
Length: 1447 words
Summary: One bullet - oh, and didn’t Moriarty make absolutely bloody sure that there was only one - and two of them.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
They’re going to die.
No quick, easy death, certainly. He made sure of that. John wishes he could ask Sherlock if death is, in fact, a certainty here, but the consulting detective is distinctly half-conscious, glassy eyes examining their situation with a sort of detached confusion that makes John’s skin crawl.
He needs to stay on topic here. Their imminent torture and subsequent departure from the land of the living should be all he can think about. It isn’t.
Sherlock’s looking at him with sleepy eyes, murmuring something half-intelligible about wanting to go home. John looks away, chest tight.
The gun is in his hand, after all. One bullet - oh, and didn’t Moriarty make absolutely bloody sure that there was only one - and two of them. And horrible, certain death, of course, couldn’t forget that. If they were going to die, would it not be better to die quickly? Moriarty had promised to torture them first.
Or rather, he had promised to torture Sherlock. He had been quite explicit that John was only there to watch, until he grew tired of the scene and had them killed.
If only he could imagine someone saving them. If only he did not know for a fact that Lestrade would not know they were missing until far too late, that Mycroft had let that morning for Berlin, that no one would think them missing until their bodies turned up in the morgue.
No, they were royally and utterly screwed.
He hefted the gun. It wasn’t his - Moriarty had taken it off one of his squirrely henchman and dropped it in John’s lap - but it was a familiar weight. Sherlock shifted enough to lean against his shoulder and mutter something unrecognizable. John closed his eyes.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They weren’t supposed to die here, at Moriarty’s mercy. There should be no awful torture in store for Sherlock Holmes and his trusty blogger John Watson. There should be a daring escape, a heroic rescue, a shocking twist ending where they somehow get out alive against all odds.
He has five minutes, though. Five minutes to watch his drugged, half-conscious friend try to make sense of their situation. Five minutes with a gun in his hand, knowing that he can keep Sherlock for a torturous death by giving him a quicker one.
Now he’s reached it, the thought he’s tried to keep out ever since Moriarty told him how many bullets he had. He can stop this. He doesn’t have to watch them hurt Sherlock - and the things Moriarty said they would do, the way he described it, the sick pleasure he took in explaining that the drug would keep Sherlock from passing out while he was cut and whipped and burned and branded and-
John doesn’t have to watch that happen. He has a gun, and one bullet, and Sherlock is right here, and they aren’t even handcuffed. He can’t kill them both, but he can save Sherlock from the pain. Then at least he’ll get to see the look on Moriarty’s face, to know that he denied him this one thing.
What would be worse?
He almost can’t decide. Five minutes feels like a lifetime, and maybe it’s been more than five minutes but he doesn’t have the liberty of asking Sherlock how long it’s been, so he’ll never know.
He pulls the hammer back slowly, trigger finger still outside of the guard, and slides his other arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. The other man leans into him easily, and John imagines he can stay in this moment, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s curly hair, feeling the almost insubstantial weight of him at his side.
John moves, finger on the trigger.
The door bangs open.
Instinct tells him where to aim and since it’s always served him well, he obeys, only to find Anthea at the end of his sights. She does not look up from her phone.
“Time to go, boys.”
John blinks at her for a moment before putting up the gun, uncocking it slowly, as if it’s taking him a lot of thought. She glances up for a moment before turning to walk away again.
Doctor’s instinct kicks in then, and John gets Sherlock out of there without having to think another thought.
--
After he’s got Sherlock home from the hospital, it becomes distinctly clear that the other man knows something is wrong.
Of course, he didn’t think the World’s Only Consulting Detective wouldn’t notice. While John can make any and all efforts not to let on that he’s incredibly upset and disturbed, it will still only be a matter of time. So although he tries his best not to be obvious, he also isn’t the least surprised when Sherlock corners him.
“You’re upset.”
“I imagine anyone would be upset after a kidnapping and attempted murder.”
Sherlock frowns at him, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. At times like these, with all of the other man’s impressive intellect focused on him, John remembers feeling flattered. Now he only wishes Sherlock would look away.
“While that may be true, you’ve been in bad situations before. We’ve both had our share of danger. No, this isn’t your usual disquiet ensuing from a particularly hazardous situation. You seem… disturbed by what happened, John. That means something important occurred, something that you’ve kept from me.”
The ex-soldier opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock’s steepled his fingers, staring off into space - or, John imagines, it seems as though he is staring at the space just behind John’s head, sifting through all the thoughts and memories he can’t really see. John doesn’t attempt to throw the man off, now that he’s deducing. After all, he’d much rather not have to explain.
“Mycroft’s assistant said that we were alone in the room where she found us, and neither of us were substantially injured - barring my unfortunate drugging. You were in possession of a gun with one round, which you did not have upon our capture, and so must have been given to you by Moriarty…” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to light up. He sprung to his feet. “Moriarty gave you the gun. He outlined his intentions, I’m sure, to torture and kill us in some horrible but ironic way. He is quite the fan of theatrics. But then he left us alone. And that… that is when something happened, isn’t it, John? Something-“
“I was ready to shoot you.”
The man halted a bit suddenly, turning to stare at John with those piercing eyes. John Watson had faced many things in his life - war, injury, certain death - but he found he could not meet Sherlock’s eyes.
“I’m sorry. Say that again?”
John took a deep breath. “We were trapped. As far as knew, there was no one coming for us. I mean, your brother did call just that morning from Dusseldorf, remember? I… weighed the options. Being forced to watch Moriarty torture and kill you, or…”
“Or kill me yourself. Or kill yourself, I suppose, but I know that thought didn’t occur to you. Interesting, that he left you a gun and enough time to mull it over. He must have imagined you wouldn’t consider it.”
“I did. Consider it.”
Sherlock was still watching him, undaunted by the fact that John had been watching the floor with increased attention for some time now. He wished the man would look away for even a moment. It seemed indecent, to sit here in their living room and say that he had fully intended to shoot Sherlock in the head if rescue had not come in the nick of time.
Instead of resuming his pacing, Sherlock walks past him. For a moment he thinks the conversation is done, but then one long-fingered hand is resting on his shoulder, not quite gripping but definitely there in a comforting sort of way, and he realizes that Sherlock has decided to lean against his chair.
“You chose as you thought best, John. I imagine if I had been in any state to consider it, I would have preferred the bullet to whatever was in store for me.” The hand tightened briefly before leaving its position altogether. “I shall do my utmost to ensure you are never faced with such a decision again.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of Sherlock in the kitchen, opening and shutting cabinet doors, shifting pots and bowls, noises that were common and familiar. John closed his eyes and breathed, just listening to the sound of life as usual at 221B Baker Street.
“We’re out of milk again, I hope you know.”
John smiled.
Author: julia_dreamer
Fandom(s): Sherlock
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John if you squint?
Length: 1447 words
Summary: One bullet - oh, and didn’t Moriarty make absolutely bloody sure that there was only one - and two of them.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
They’re going to die.
No quick, easy death, certainly. He made sure of that. John wishes he could ask Sherlock if death is, in fact, a certainty here, but the consulting detective is distinctly half-conscious, glassy eyes examining their situation with a sort of detached confusion that makes John’s skin crawl.
He needs to stay on topic here. Their imminent torture and subsequent departure from the land of the living should be all he can think about. It isn’t.
Sherlock’s looking at him with sleepy eyes, murmuring something half-intelligible about wanting to go home. John looks away, chest tight.
The gun is in his hand, after all. One bullet - oh, and didn’t Moriarty make absolutely bloody sure that there was only one - and two of them. And horrible, certain death, of course, couldn’t forget that. If they were going to die, would it not be better to die quickly? Moriarty had promised to torture them first.
Or rather, he had promised to torture Sherlock. He had been quite explicit that John was only there to watch, until he grew tired of the scene and had them killed.
If only he could imagine someone saving them. If only he did not know for a fact that Lestrade would not know they were missing until far too late, that Mycroft had let that morning for Berlin, that no one would think them missing until their bodies turned up in the morgue.
No, they were royally and utterly screwed.
He hefted the gun. It wasn’t his - Moriarty had taken it off one of his squirrely henchman and dropped it in John’s lap - but it was a familiar weight. Sherlock shifted enough to lean against his shoulder and mutter something unrecognizable. John closed his eyes.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They weren’t supposed to die here, at Moriarty’s mercy. There should be no awful torture in store for Sherlock Holmes and his trusty blogger John Watson. There should be a daring escape, a heroic rescue, a shocking twist ending where they somehow get out alive against all odds.
He has five minutes, though. Five minutes to watch his drugged, half-conscious friend try to make sense of their situation. Five minutes with a gun in his hand, knowing that he can keep Sherlock for a torturous death by giving him a quicker one.
Now he’s reached it, the thought he’s tried to keep out ever since Moriarty told him how many bullets he had. He can stop this. He doesn’t have to watch them hurt Sherlock - and the things Moriarty said they would do, the way he described it, the sick pleasure he took in explaining that the drug would keep Sherlock from passing out while he was cut and whipped and burned and branded and-
John doesn’t have to watch that happen. He has a gun, and one bullet, and Sherlock is right here, and they aren’t even handcuffed. He can’t kill them both, but he can save Sherlock from the pain. Then at least he’ll get to see the look on Moriarty’s face, to know that he denied him this one thing.
What would be worse?
He almost can’t decide. Five minutes feels like a lifetime, and maybe it’s been more than five minutes but he doesn’t have the liberty of asking Sherlock how long it’s been, so he’ll never know.
He pulls the hammer back slowly, trigger finger still outside of the guard, and slides his other arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. The other man leans into him easily, and John imagines he can stay in this moment, resting his cheek against Sherlock’s curly hair, feeling the almost insubstantial weight of him at his side.
John moves, finger on the trigger.
The door bangs open.
Instinct tells him where to aim and since it’s always served him well, he obeys, only to find Anthea at the end of his sights. She does not look up from her phone.
“Time to go, boys.”
John blinks at her for a moment before putting up the gun, uncocking it slowly, as if it’s taking him a lot of thought. She glances up for a moment before turning to walk away again.
Doctor’s instinct kicks in then, and John gets Sherlock out of there without having to think another thought.
--
After he’s got Sherlock home from the hospital, it becomes distinctly clear that the other man knows something is wrong.
Of course, he didn’t think the World’s Only Consulting Detective wouldn’t notice. While John can make any and all efforts not to let on that he’s incredibly upset and disturbed, it will still only be a matter of time. So although he tries his best not to be obvious, he also isn’t the least surprised when Sherlock corners him.
“You’re upset.”
“I imagine anyone would be upset after a kidnapping and attempted murder.”
Sherlock frowns at him, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. At times like these, with all of the other man’s impressive intellect focused on him, John remembers feeling flattered. Now he only wishes Sherlock would look away.
“While that may be true, you’ve been in bad situations before. We’ve both had our share of danger. No, this isn’t your usual disquiet ensuing from a particularly hazardous situation. You seem… disturbed by what happened, John. That means something important occurred, something that you’ve kept from me.”
The ex-soldier opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock’s steepled his fingers, staring off into space - or, John imagines, it seems as though he is staring at the space just behind John’s head, sifting through all the thoughts and memories he can’t really see. John doesn’t attempt to throw the man off, now that he’s deducing. After all, he’d much rather not have to explain.
“Mycroft’s assistant said that we were alone in the room where she found us, and neither of us were substantially injured - barring my unfortunate drugging. You were in possession of a gun with one round, which you did not have upon our capture, and so must have been given to you by Moriarty…” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to light up. He sprung to his feet. “Moriarty gave you the gun. He outlined his intentions, I’m sure, to torture and kill us in some horrible but ironic way. He is quite the fan of theatrics. But then he left us alone. And that… that is when something happened, isn’t it, John? Something-“
“I was ready to shoot you.”
The man halted a bit suddenly, turning to stare at John with those piercing eyes. John Watson had faced many things in his life - war, injury, certain death - but he found he could not meet Sherlock’s eyes.
“I’m sorry. Say that again?”
John took a deep breath. “We were trapped. As far as knew, there was no one coming for us. I mean, your brother did call just that morning from Dusseldorf, remember? I… weighed the options. Being forced to watch Moriarty torture and kill you, or…”
“Or kill me yourself. Or kill yourself, I suppose, but I know that thought didn’t occur to you. Interesting, that he left you a gun and enough time to mull it over. He must have imagined you wouldn’t consider it.”
“I did. Consider it.”
Sherlock was still watching him, undaunted by the fact that John had been watching the floor with increased attention for some time now. He wished the man would look away for even a moment. It seemed indecent, to sit here in their living room and say that he had fully intended to shoot Sherlock in the head if rescue had not come in the nick of time.
Instead of resuming his pacing, Sherlock walks past him. For a moment he thinks the conversation is done, but then one long-fingered hand is resting on his shoulder, not quite gripping but definitely there in a comforting sort of way, and he realizes that Sherlock has decided to lean against his chair.
“You chose as you thought best, John. I imagine if I had been in any state to consider it, I would have preferred the bullet to whatever was in store for me.” The hand tightened briefly before leaving its position altogether. “I shall do my utmost to ensure you are never faced with such a decision again.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of Sherlock in the kitchen, opening and shutting cabinet doors, shifting pots and bowls, noises that were common and familiar. John closed his eyes and breathed, just listening to the sound of life as usual at 221B Baker Street.
“We’re out of milk again, I hope you know.”
John smiled.