another commission by lovely aiwa-sensei, who indulged both my potterlock and invisible!John weaknesses in one fell swoop of genius.
I drew this in colour, but I quite like the black and white version :)
(Okay, I’ll give it a shot… I’m picking Sherlock, with Johnlock, and some laughs and some sads. Hope you like it!)
Sherlock and John sat side-by-side on the sofa, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. As the doctor read a thick novel, the detective stared at the fireplace, which crackled with warm golden light. Sherlock put a hand to John’s back, stroking the soft material of John’s jumper absent-mindedly.
The day hadn’t gone as either of them had hoped. Sherlock had managed to solve the case, but for an unknown reason had ended the case in a particularly sour mood. John had suggested a takeaway dinner, to which Sherlock had readily agreed. John was still worrying about Sherlock’s well-being when the detective spoke up:
"Mm?" the doctor replied.
"Can I be blunt?"
Sherlock frowned. “Excuse me?”
"Four-twenty blaze that blunt?"
"What on Earth-"
"One of the kids said it at the surgery," John chuckled, closing his book. "I wanted to use it in a sentence."
"That was hardly a sentence." Sherlock scoffed.
John laughed quietly. “Go on, what were you saying?”
Sherlock stopped stroking John’s jumper and instead gripped it lightly, as if it were a lifeline. “It was pointed out to me earlier,” he mumbled, “that I will one day lose my intelligence.”
John raised his eyebrows. “What?”
"And I was wondering…" Sherlock looked uncomfortable, his eyes firmly fixed on the fire. "will you still love me when that happens?"
John was left speechless. The thought of Sherlock losing his intelligence - his brilliance - hadn’t even crossed his mind. Sherlock was Sherlock - the great detective.
Sherlock could talk for hours, speaking at a hundred miles an hour, about anything and everything. Sometimes it would be complete bullshit, like the time he talked for five hours about pigmentation in flamingos and how it related to ocelots. But sometimes it would be fascinating, and John adored those moments.
Anyone in proximity would invariably be shocked or appalled or stunned, lapsing into silence of bad or good factors, watching and waiting for Sherlock to explain his point of view. Sometimes they applauded; sometimes they threw Sherlock out of the room. But every time, they would marvel at the, well, marvelous man.
In those moments, John often caught himself staring at Sherlock, watching the way his hands gestured in the air, trying to get his point across physically; watching his eyes sparkle with the promise of obtaining or relaying new and exciting information. And it was - new, exciting.
And that’s why John loved Sherlock. The brilliant brain underneath the big-headed moron didn’t factor into anything. Sherlock would always be… just, Sherlock.
John pulled the taller man into a tight hug. “Who told you that?”
"You hate Anderson. Why believe him?"
Sherlock simply shrugged. “It’s true.”
John sighed. “Even if it is, I’ll love you no matter what, you complete moron.”
Sherlock hugged him back. “Even when I’m no longer brilliant?”
"You’ll always be brilliant to me." John smiled. "But can you keep your brainpower long enough to remind me to punch Anderson in the face the next time we see him?"
Sherlock grinned. He nodded. “I’ll try.”
this one’s pretty damn long, so it’s going under a read-more
(Ahhh teen!lock, we meet again. It’s been a while. I hope you like this!)
"My God, John!" Sherlock Holmes exclaimed. Having been leant back in his chair at the back of the classroom, he swung himself forward and stared in awe at the newcomer. "What on Earth is on your face?"
John Watson threw a death glare at his friend, his hand hovering next to his mouth self-consciously. Their classmates giggled around him, pointing and staring. “It’s called a mustache. Get used to it.”
"You’re not keeping it." Sherlock snorted. He leaned back again, picking up a pen and wobbling it between finger and thumb. "It’s an abomination."
John pulled up a chair next to Sherlock and set his rucksack on the floor. “I like it. My mum said I look very handsome.”
"And what did Harry say?"
"She didn’t say anything."
"Unusual. It’s not like Harry to let such a horrific crime against nature go unnoticed."
"She didn’t say anything, but she did laugh her head off."
John bent down to his bag and rummaged around in it. He pulled out a tiny comb and showed it to Sherlock. “My dad got me this.”
Sherlock instantly seized it. “What. What. What.”
"It’s a mustache comb," John giggled. "so I can-"
"Comb your mustache." Sherlock laughed loudly, his smile widening for a brief second before he regained his composure.
"He said that a mustache would make me more mature." John snatched the comb off Sherlock and stowed it away in his trouser pocket.
"You’re more mature than all these dolts put together." Sherlock gestured unashamedly at the rest of the class, some of which stopped giggling and starting bitching about "the pale black-haired freak". Sherlock just smirked at them.
"Maybe so." John grinned too. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Think I could grow it out to Gandalf proportions?"
"The wizard off Lord of the Rings."
Sherlock stared at the mustache for a moment more. “You can’t keep it. I can’t have my best friend walking around with a poodle on his face. We’ll shave it off after school.”
"Sherlock, I’m not-"
"John. You don’t look like Gandalf. You look more like Gollum."
(I can never resist a sad fic ;) hope you like it!)
The hustle and bustle of the London crowds had never been so traumatic. Sherlock’s taxi-hailing powers had been ineffective this morning, and the supposed genius had refused to take a bus (“do you really expect me to get on one of those smelly death traps?”), and so the dynamic duo of Holmes and Watson were forced to walk - of all things! - to Scotland Yard.
The sun was high in the sky, but the weather wasn’t warm. A nice cool breeze blew over the city, and John was enjoying the light, unrestricted feeling of wearing no jumper. He strolled leisurely behind a tetchy Sherlock, not noticing that he was slowly meandering into the oncoming crowd.
"Watch it!" squawked a lady, hustling past John impatiently.
"Sorry," he called after her, but she took no notice.
"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock grumbled impatiently.
John quickened his pace to fall into step at Sherlock’s side. “What’s the rush?”
"I want to spend as little time in this crowd as possible." Sherlock muttered.
"You should have hailed a cab." John smirked.
"No you didn’t. You flailed your arm about and nearly got run over."
"That’s trying. If he had stopped we would be at the Yard by now."
"But he didn’t stop." John grinned.
"Shut up." Sherlock sped up, taking long strides.
John jogged along to keep up with his partner, but eventually gave up and slowed to a walk. Sherlock practically sprinted ahead. “Fine, you big baby.” John sighed.
The crowd kept bustling him along. John was pushed this way and that, people shoving his little frame out of the way as they barged their way to their destinations. John was fed up within a minute, and soon found a bench to sit on.
The weather was hotter now, John thought, and he slid off his jacket to tie it around his waist. His left hand itched for some reason, and his legs were rather stiff. He took no notice of it, watching the rivers of people gush past. His bench faced a main road, and the cars honked and revved their engines, growing impatient at the traffic jam.
John could feel a headache coming on. There was so much noise here - he’d forgotten how noisy the city could be. He lowered his eyes to the ground, trying to block it out - but the noise was there, always there, rattling through his head… like gunfire. The cars on the roads, revving their engines - like the trucks on the sand, swerving into their compounds. The crowds on the streets, rushing to their workplaces - like soldiers, marching through the dunes. The sun high in the sky, beating down on them as they worked - and John could feel his shoulder burning, his leg seizing up, his left hand twitching. He could feel the sand filtering through his fingers, and hear the dull thump of distant shells.
John didn’t realise that someone was shaking him until he heard his name - “John? John, are you alright? Did you fall asleep?”
John looked up. Sherlock stood before him, his expression concerned.
"You could catch a cold sitting here with no jacket." Sherlock commented.
John’s throat was dry. His left hand shook, and he automatically grasped for his cane - of course, it wasn’t there, and he panicked for a second. Sherlock didn’t miss the gesture. He sat next to his partner, holding his right hand and rubbing circles onto John’s shoulders.
"John, it’s alright." Sherlock said soothingly. "You’re in London, near Hyde Park - see, there’s that cafe you like, over there, and there’s the newsagents where your friend Wilfred works. And over there is the Yard, we’re very close to it now. Can you walk? We’ll be there in two minutes, and you can have a proper sit down, and a cup of tea. Just milk, correct? And you can see the sniffer dogs. And you can talk to Lestrade while I’m being brilliant. Alright?"
John could feel a smile slip onto his face. In times like these, Sherlock was very human indeed. He squeezed his partner’s hand tightly.
"Let’s go." John smiled. Sherlock smiled back.
(Cool beans. Hope you like it!)
It was as Sherlock had expected: boring, colourful and overly-cheerful. Presents of over-priced plastic toys littered the floor of 221B, and sparkly banners proclaiming “it’s a boy!” were hung against the drab brown walls.
Dull, thought Sherlock. Dull, boring, pointless. In his arms, baby Hamish gave a little wriggle, and Sherlock held onto him a little tighter. Are you enjoying this? Sherlock thought miserably. Because I’m certainly not.
Lestrade and Molly flirted casually as Mrs Hudson poured drinks. Mike was on his fifth sherry, while John mingled with a number of Sherlock’s old clients that had insisted on being there for the occasion. Sherlock, sat in his usual chair with Hamish cradled in his arms, contented himself with glowering at the floor.
Parties, Sherlock continued his inner monologue, are the most pointless things in the world. Humans have made great scientific advancements in the last decade or so. We have discovered the joys of internet blogging, nicotine patches and something called a Miley Cyrus. And yet humans still insist on holding… parties. Social gatherings. It’s barbaric.
"Sherlock?" John called.
"Hm?" the taller man barely glanced up from the floor.
"Janice wants to say hi." John smiled at a busty young woman, who smiled toothily at Sherlock and waggled her fingers at Hamish.
Sherlock glared at her. He slowly got up, carefully re-positioning Hamish in his arms, and walked elegantly over to the woman, deliberately turning his face away from her.
"Isn’t he adorable?" Janice cooed. "Hello Hamish! Hello sweetie pie!"
She reached out to take him from Sherlock, but John stopped her. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.” he smiled politely.
"I’ll be careful." Janice insisted. "Come on Hamish, come to Aunty Jan!"
But Hamish was having none of it. He wriggled impatiently, and Sherlock immediately swept his son away from the woman. Hamish started crying.
"Oh dear, he’s tired." Janice simpered. "Poor baby."
Sherlock opened his mouth to spit out a retort, but John shook his head at him. “Sherlock, go put him to bed.”
"Pleasure." Sherlock strode with Hamish into his old room, shutting the door behind them. Hamish whimpered, slowly stopping his tears. "Alright, Hamish." Sherlock rocked him gently. "It’s alright."
Hamish gurgled. He reached up an arm and patted Sherlock awkwardly on the face. Sherlock smiled.
Parties. By God, I loathe them.
(Thank you anon, and have a lovely day yourself!)
Everything was blurry, and Sherlock had no idea why. The last thing he remembered was the crime scene. Lestrade had been angry at him again for some reason, and told him to go home. Sherlock didn’t remember leaving the crime scene, but he supposed that he was home now, because he was in John’s dorm room. He liked this room much more than his own. His dorm was clinical and neat and smelled of corpses, but John’s was messy and full of books and smelled of soap. But now John was angry at him too, and Sherlock couldn’t comprehend why.
"Another crime solved! I suppose I’ll take you through it, if you want me to, John. The suspect had brown hair and drove a Peugeot. How do I know that? Isn’t it obvious?"
His body felt cold and hot at the same time, and he was shivering and sweating, and the world was topsy-turvey. He was exploding calmly, he was panicking happily, and John was yelling because for some reason Sherlock couldn’t stop talking.
"The suspect throttled the victim using the string from the victim’s guitar. Both were musicians - how do I know that? It’s obvious obvious obvious why don’t you see, John?”
John ducked as a lamp flew at his head. Sherlock wondered where the lamp had come from, and it was only when John threw the book that Sherlock noticed his own arm extended. Sherlock felt a searing pain across his shoulder and sank down onto the floor, still talking, still shivering. John ran over to him and put an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. John was crying now and Sherlock wanted to help him, but John had started talking while Sherlock couldn’t stop.
"I’m your friend," John whispered. "I want to help you. Let me help you, please, Sherlock."
"He drove away and left her. He drove away on the right side of the road. He’s American. He’s American. He’s American."
John clamped a hand across Sherlock’s mouth, muffling the constant stream of speech. Sherlock stared at his friend through wide and terrified eyes.
I can’t stop, he pleaded silently. Help me.
John drew Sherlock into a hug and started crying again. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.
The last thing Sherlock heard was a knock on the door. The last thing he felt was John’s arms slipping away from him. The last thing he thought was nothing important, not to him, but it would have meant the world to the boy sitting beside him in the hospital.
time to go to bedthe-jewellers-hands: could you please draw Sherlock pinning John’s hands against a wall above him and kissing him? :D
(And I love you! :D thank you darling - I hope you like this!)
"Are you nervous?"
"What?" Sherlock said absent-mindedly. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, buttoning and unbuttoning his blazer, unable to decide which looked better. He settled for buttoned.
"Are you nervous?" John repeated, doing up his own blazer. "It’s a big deal, after all."
"My brother is not a big deal." Sherlock murmured. No, unbuttoned looked better. Less formal.
"It’s a big deal for me." John huffed. "He could kill me."
"I doubt that."
"Not him personally. He probably has people who do that for him."
"Buttoned or unbuttoned?"
"I mean, I could take on one or two people at a time…"
"Buttoned is more formal, but then, it’s Mycroft, he won’t care…"
"If I brought my gun downstairs and put it under the table I could take on a few of them…"
"Unbuttoned might be better for dinner, but would he expect proper manners or not?"
"Sherlock, are you listening to me?"
"Buttoned." Sherlock closed his blazer and turned to face his partner. "What were you saying?"
"Gun or no gun?"
"Why do you want a gun?" Sherlock frowned slightly.
There was a knock on the door to 221B. The men glanced at each other - they hadn’t heard anyone walking up the stairs - but then the door opened, and Mycroft strode in, his face stoic but his eyes bright and inquisitive.
"Hello, Doctor Watson," he drawled. "Sherlock."
"Mycroft." Sherlock replied curtly.
"You’re acknowledging me." Mycroft smiled slightly. "It must be a special occasion."
"You know why we invited you." Sherlock said flatly.
A long, awkward silence fell over the living room. John could feel sweat running down his neck.
"Mycroft," John said quietly. "we’re just about to have dinner."
Mycroft glanced at the lavishly decorated kitchen (or what passed for “lavish” in 221B), then turned his cool gaze to John.
The silence grew deeper, tenser, and John felt very much like a rabbit in the headlights of a monster truck. Mycroft turned his head to Sherlock, who was smirking.
"We could have done this over text." Sherlock said. "You just wanted the satisfaction."
"Satisfaction of what?" John whispered.
"Making us grovel." Sherlock lost his smile. "Yes or no, Mycroft?"
"We’ll see." Mycroft sniffed.
"It’s a simple question." Sherlock snapped. "Yes or no?"
Mycroft studied John for a second more. “Yes, if you’ll take care of him.”
"I will." John promised.
"Not you." Mycroft’s eyes flickered towards his brother.
"He’s not a dog, Mycroft." Sherlock frowned. "I’m not asking to keep a pet.”
"Aren’t you?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Before Sherlock could object, Mycroft swept out of the room and down the stairs. The front door opened and closed quietly.
"What did he mean?" John murmured.
"Nothing." Sherlock glared at the door. "Nothing at all."
(Hmmm, I’ll do the second one :D I hope you like it!)
There was that voice again, outside his bedroom door, calling to him.
"John, please let me in."
That soothing, baritone voice that could only belong to one man.
"Please, John. I never beg for anything, you know that, but I’m begging you now. Please forgive me."
Sat in a duvet nest on his bed, John glared at the door, not trusting the bastard’s words. “How should I trust you after what you did?”
"I’m sorry, John." a small tup told John that Sherlock had put his hand on the door. “Please. I’m so sorry.”
"You’re not sorry." John growled. "You enjoyed it."
"You were in danger!"
"My mustache is not a criminal, Sherlock!" John shouted. He gingerly touched the smooth skin over his lip where his glorious mustache used to be. "You can’t expect me to forgive you for shaving it off!"
"I was doing it for your benefit." Sherlock whined. "I had your best interests at heart. Besides, it was an awful mustache."
"Maybe I liked it!"
"It was repellent."
John shoved away his duvet and wrenched open the door. Sherlock, looking older and more withered than John had ever seen him, smiled down at the little doctor, his eyes glinting with honest laughter.
"You’re a prick." John muttered.
"Be honest, John. It was hideous."
John shook his head, starting to smile. “I liked it. Mary thought it made me look refined.”
"A blond mustache!" Sherlock giggled.
John grinned. “It was a good idea at the time! I was on the run! I needed something to make me unrecognisable!”
"So you grew a mini disguise!"
"Portable camouflage!" John laughed.
The two men laughed loudly in the doorway, clutching each others’ arms.
"Do you forgive me?" Sherlock wiped his eyes free of tears.
"For the mustache?"
"Of course, you brilliant bastard."
John pulled the taller man into a tight hug. John’s face felt cold, but Sherlock’s arms around his waist were warm, and more than a brilliant compensation for three years’ worth of mustache.
(Okie dokie, I’ll do my best!)
"Remember, Nancy, no funny business." Lestrade warned his niece. “I don’t want to report an accident back to your father."
"Don’t worry, Uncle Greg." Nancy laughed. “I can take care of myself."
"Yeah, well, keep in Dr Watson’s sight at all times, got it?" the detective inspector glanced at John, who was talking quietly with Sherlock in front of the crime scene. Sherlock threw a death glare at Nancy. Nancy just smiled.
"I will. We’ll be back out soon." she promised, walking over to the duo. “So, are you ready?"
"We were ready ten minutes ago." Sherlock snapped. “I still can’t believe they let a twelve year old on this case."
"For your information, I’m eighteen."
"You’re shorter than John!"
"Sherlock." John frowned. Sherlock pursed his lips and disappeared inside the house, searching for clues.
Nancy scuttled on ahead of John, who gave one last wave to Lestrade before heading into the crime scene. The place was deserted, at Sherlock’s request. In the upstairs bedroom, a wife and one of her children had been murdered. There was blood everywhere, from the walls to the floor to the stair railings. Sherlock was convinced that the second child had done it - the job had been haphazard and sloppy, obviously an amateur’s work - but Nancy had other ideas.
"The husband did it." she declared while examining a blood droplet on the wall. She waved at John to come closer. “See? Splash marks, six feet above the floor. No child is that tall."
"You’d know." Sherlock muttered.
Nancy glared at him, but continued nonetheless. “The murderer trapped them in here - they were scared, huddled against the bed. This person was a source of fear for them. A mother would try to reason with her child, but might be scared of a husband. Therefore, they tried to hide.”
"But they failed." Sherlock said bluntly. He glanced at John, who was smiling brightly. “What’s so funny?"
"No, it’s not funny, it’s just… you two, trying to one-up each other." John grinned.
"We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene. Isn’t that what you told me?" Sherlock couldn’t resist a smile of his own.
Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Are you two together?”
"No!" John frowned. “No." Sherlock said quietly.
"Huh. You make a cute couple." Nancy turned back to the wall.
John spluttered. “We do not!”
"Are you sure you’re not dating?"
"We’re not dating!"
"Come on." Nancy grinned. “You’ve kissed at least once."
John glared at the young woman. “I can see why Sherlock finds you so insufferable.”
But Sherlock made an impressed face. “Well, Nancy. I’ll give you some credit.”
"Huh? What for?"
"That’s the first correct thing you’ve deduced all day."
(WHOLOCK. You’re awesome. I haven’t written wholock in ages. I hope you like it!)
Doctor Watson sat in his office, stroking the cover of an old leather-bound book. Molly Hooper, the little housemaid, had told him that the battle was over - the family, whatever they were, had been destroyed, and the school was safe. That’s what mattered most, making sure that the boys were alright. But John’s aching heart told a different tale.
The door to his office opened. “Will that be all, sir?”
John looked up. Molly stood in the doorway, dressed in much different clothes than he had ever seen before. She wore bright colours that didn’t match the drab interior of the office, and certainly didn’t match his own tweed ensemble.
John nodded. “Yes, Molly. Thank you. I…” he paused, stroking the book again. “Take care.”
Molly smiled at him warmly, then left the room. As soon as she left, the door opened again, creaking on its old hinges. Footsteps. The whoosh of fabric.
John closed his eyes. “You did it.”
"Yes." Mr Holmes’ familiar deep voice resonated round the room. It soothed John, tempting him to believe that this was the same Mr Holmes that had enlisted in the school all those months ago. But this was not his Holmes - he would never be his Holmes.
John dared to open his eyes. Mr Holmes looked exactly the same, his eyes the same cold grey, his hair the same jet black, his face still pale and gaunt, and tantalisingly lovely. He had donned a black suit and long black coat that swirled around his ankles. He stood tall and proud, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared down at John with an expression close to guilt.
"Oh." John laughed at himself. “I thought you’d look different."
Mr Holmes smiled gently. “I am the same man.”
"No you’re not." John shook his head. “You’re… impossible." he laid the old book on his desk. “So, when are you leaving?"
Mr Holmes stepped forward, but he stopped himself from walking all the way over. His eyes were hungry - he was restraining himself from going over and telling John that it was alright, he wasn’t going anywhere, he would stay. But instead he said, “In a few minutes. I just came to say goodbye.”
John looked at Mr Holmes properly, their eyes meeting. “Who are you?”
"My name is the Detective."
"Not Sherlock Holmes?" John smiled.
"No." Mr Holmes smiled too. He looked out of the window. “I have a time machine, you know."
John nodded slowly. “Fascinating.”
"It’s a remarkable ship. Takes you round the universe, right through time, and brings you home in time for tea."
"I’m sure it’s splendid."
"It would be more… splendid, if you came with me."
John raised his eyebrows. “How so?”
"I wouldn’t be so lonely." Mr Holmes smiled wistfully. “Molly is a good woman, and a great companion, but… she’s not you, John."
John licked his lips. “What would I do?”
"You’d save planets. You’d save lives. You would be remarkable."
"But then you’d bring me home. Or something worse." John tapped the leather book. “There are many people in this book, Mr Holmes. And they all seem to fall into danger."
"Danger is fun."
"I’m not disputing that." John chuckled, but then his tone was serious. “I need to stay here."
"But I need you.” Mr Holmes whispered. He strode forward. “I can’t stay here. I’d go mad with boredom. And I know you can’t stay here either. Please, John.” he held out his hand. “Come with me. You’ll be fantastic.”
John stared at Mr Holmes’ pale hand. He smiled.
(Anything for my Charly :) hope you like it!)
If John was being completely honest, this wasn’t exactly the way he had thought his wedding would go.
In his horny teenage youth, he had envisioned his wedding day a total of five times. Each time, he would be getting married to some girl who wore a nice white dress (and black stockings underneath, maybe wearing some leather gloves and carrying a riding crop in the midst of the bouquet). Each time, the church would be decorated tastefully, with plain white flowers and a boring assembly of his friends and family (who wouldn’t notice the riding crop or gloves until it was too late). And each time, the wedding would go without a hitch.
But John was reconsidering his dream wedding - especially since it was quite the opposite to how he had imagined.
Instead of a bride, there was Sherlock, smiling broadly and looking incredible in a tight black tail-suit. Instead of a church, this was a neatly decorated registry office, filled to the brim with beaming and vibrant friends and family. Flowers were everywhere - white lilies and pale orchids, flushed roses and bashful violets. White netting was hung from the rafters in cascades. It was a beautiful scene.
And of course, as is always the case with Sherlock Holmes versus any event ever, the wedding wasn’t quite going to plan.
As soon as the registrar announced, “if there is anyone that thinks these two should not be married, let him speak now, or-” a gun was being pointed at Sherlock’s head.
The guests cried out, several of them rising to their feet. Some of the Yarders produced handguns from their belts. Best Man Lestrade moved from John’s side to stand behind the marksman, pointing his own gun at the mystery man’s head. John gripped Sherlock’s hand tightly.
"Always a pleasure to see you, Colonel Moran." Sherlock said pleasantly. “I thought you were in India?"
"Yeah, well. You know me." Moran smirked. “Can’t resist a good party."
Moran’s finger itched to pull the trigger and splatter Sherlock’s brains across the wall. The registrar had ducked and was now cowering on the floor.
"You try anything funny," Lestrade growled. “and I’ll shoot you. Understand?"
Moran rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Understood.” he pushed his gun forward so that the barrel met Sherlock’s skin. “Just wanted to relay a little message.”
"And what would that be?" Sherlock asked, his face perfectly still like a statue.
Moran turned his gun onto John’s chest. “The boss says hi.”
He pulled the trigger. Blood spurt out from John’s chest, staining the white altar a dark red. The guests screamed. Bullets rained onto Moran, making him dance and eventually drop to the floor in a pool of his own blood.
John kept holding Sherlock’s hand. He stared dumbly down at his own wound, wondering how it had got there, why he was in pain, and what he had done to deserve this. His knees buckled, and Sherlock helped him lie down on the floor.
"John?" Sherlock’s stoic face was broken in panic, his hands fluttering over John’s wound. “John, John! Stop it! Stay with me, come on, stop that, you’ll be fine, don’t do this, don’t leave me."
"We were so close." John chuckled. “It was nearly perfect."
"Stop stop stop." Sherlock shook his head vigorously. He repeated the word as if he could literally make everything stop just by saying it. “Stop. Stop!"
"Sherlock." John smiled. His eyelids drooped -
- and then snapped open. John sat upright in bed, drenched in sweat and panting heavily. He looked to his left. Sherlock was laid there, snoring peacefully, a golden wedding ring on his finger glinting in the moonlight. John held up his own hand and saw an identical ring. He sighed in relief.
Maybe it was perfect after all.