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Title: The Soldier
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Genre: Romance/Action
Warnings: AU, slash
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary:Captain John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes in Afghanistan and - after a whirlwind romance involving spies and giant monsters - marries him on the army base there. Months later, he's shipped home to his husband wounded.
AN: So I meant to do other things this weekend, and then this happened.
He’s able to stand – sort of – by the time he finally arrives in England. He spots Sherlock from the plane window, towering over the families gathered around him. They’re here for the squaddies he travelled back with. They’ve just finished their first tour; John has been honourably discharged. His presence, and his injuries, have been something of a mood killer on what would have ordinarily been a rowdy flight home.
He’s been dreading seeing Sherlock again since he’d woken up after they’d dug the bullet out and screwed his shoulder-blade back together. He’d met Sherlock in Afghanistan. He’d been on his third tour and Sherlock had been running an errand for his ominous older brother. He’d needed a doctor and the powers that be had chosen John for the job. It had been lust at first sight, followed by a good, hard shove into love when Sherlock had deduced his entire life story from the way he shaved and the scars on the back of his hands.
They’d married out there, after a whirlwind romance involving corpses, espionage, genetic mutations, and assassins. It had been an impulse decision he hadn’t been able to regret until he’d ended up very nearly crippled. The man Sherlock remembered was a strong, active army doctor. The man who would step off the plane could barely stand unaided, let alone chase down hired killers.
He is the last one off the plane. Sherlock approaches him with quick, nervous steps, dodging the squaddies reuniting with their families around him. There’s a wild look in his eyes and his black curls are mussed from the wind.
He is so perfectly beautiful that it makes John’s chest ache just to look at him.
“John,” he breathes. “You’re –“ His hands flutter in the air between them, and then John finds himself clutched against Sherlock’s thin chest with desperate kisses being dotted all over his face. Instinctively, he catches Sherlock’s lips with his own, kissing back with all the pent up fear and frustration and love that he can muster.
The hand that isn’t holding on to his cane slips under Sherlock’s coat to grip the bony jut of his hip.
Sherlock tastes of home.
The thought crosses his mind before he can stop it, and it brings a lump to his throat. He pulls away before he breaks down, but Sherlock keeps his arms around him and presses their foreheads together like he’s trying to steal John’s thoughts through osmosis.
“Welcome back,” he says after a while.
…
Sherlock’s found them an apartment in central London that they can somehow afford on John’s pension and the money that seems to ooze from Sherlock’s pores. They get it on discount, even, because Sherlock put the landlady’s husband on death row and she’s grateful for it.
Sherlock has always claimed to be a consulting detective. John just thinks he’s brilliant, regardless of what he does.
It takes a few weeks before a case comes up. During that time, Sherlock has deduced that John’s limp is psychosomatic and has mostly succeeded in weaning him off the cane, and John has met – and been threatened by – the ominous older brother.
Mycroft Holmes is simultaneously one of the most terrifying and frustrating people he has ever met, and given that he married Sherlock, John thinks that says a lot.
The first hint of the case is, of course, the newspapers. Articles appear, and with them come clues that link suicides together. The second hint is Sherlock trolling a police press conference with the mass-text function on his phone. John watches him do it, and he smiles as Sherlock starts to laugh at the chaos he’s causing.
The third and final hint is the police officer from the papers appearing in their living room telling Sherlock that he needs him. He barely spares John a glance, probably dismissing him as a roommate and, therefore, part of the furniture. It’s something that John’s slowly become used to – out of the army he’s a nice, normal guy. Sherlock is not, and he’s so much more interesting for it.
He watches as Sherlock’s eyes gleam with a familiar excitement and he feels his heart skip in his chest. This is the man he fell in love with – who pressed him up against a wall in Qandahar and kissed him so hard that John had wondered if he could die from it.
The police officer leaves, and Sherlock goes to follow him. He pauses at the door, and looks back at John over his shoulder. That look sends shivers through John’s entire being.
“Coming?” Sherlock asks.
“Oh God, yes,” John replies. He grabs his coat and follows Sherlock out of the door and down the stairs.
His cane stays propped against the arm of his chair.
…
John isn’t the kind of soldier that usually ends up called up in front of the officers. He’s not entirely sure why he’s being called now, either. He’s thought back over his actions since landing in Helmand Province, and can’t think of anything that would have got him in trouble. Still, he feels like a child being dragged to the headmaster’s office after putting glue on his teacher’s chair.
The door opens, and the General’s secretary pokes her head out. “Captain Watson,” she says, “come in.”
He does, saluting the General as he comes to a halt in front of his desk. There’s a man in civilian clothing sitting in a chair next to him. He’s got pale skin and black curls that brush against his cheekbones in a strictly non-regulation haircut. He’s gorgeous enough that John’s heart skips a beat.
“At ease, Captain,” the General says. “Take a seat.”
John does, sitting next to the civilian, who’s watching him closely with pale eyes – so pale he can’t actually figure out whether they’re blue, grey or green.
“Watson, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He’s here on a job for the Government, and he requires the services of a doctor.”
John’s raises his eyebrows. A job for the Government could only mean that Mr Holmes is a spy of some sort, though he can’t see how. Spies are supposed to look less striking, surely. And why would he need a doctor? If he’s ill, this meeting would be being held in the infirmary, wouldn’t it?
“Sir?” he asks.
The General ignores him. “Doctor Watson is the best we can give you, Mr Holmes. I trust he will come to no harm.”
Holmes barely looks at him. “If he’s as good as you say he is, then he probably won’t,” he says, “though I dare say he’s better. School bullies often tend to beat the concept of fighting fair out of their victims before long, and Captain Watson seems to have learned that lesson. Tell me, Captain, when you broke your knuckles on someone’s nose, how long did they suspend you for?”
John stares at him, and wonders for a moment if he’s real. “Three weeks,” he says. “How did you -?”
“The scars on your knuckles,” Holmes says. “I observe, Captain. It’s my job.”
“It’s brilliant,” John says before he can stop himself.
Holmes, for the first time, smiles. He’s breathtaking.
…
There’s a woman standing by the police tape. She’s pretty, with full lips and tightly curled black hair, but the expression on her face when she spots Sherlock is far from lovely. She greets him with an angry, “Hello Freak,” and it makes John’s blood boil.
Sherlock gives her his frostiest look. “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he says.
“Why?” she asks.
“I was invited.”
“Why?” She’s being intentionally difficult, and her rudeness is appallingly unprofessional. John knows his husband has a habit of rubbing people up the wrong way, but it can’t possibly just be because of that, surely.
“I think he wants me to take a look.” The sarcasm in Sherlock’s voice is biting. John has to bite his lip to hide a smile. Normally, he would find Sherlock’s condescension grating, but the woman deserves everything she gets, in his opinion.
She looks furious. “Well you know what I think, don’t you?”
“Always Sally,” Sherlock replies. They’ve apparently had this conversation before, many times, and John finds himself liking her even less for that. He watches as Sherlock inhales sharply. “You know you didn’t make it home last night.”
He takes advantage of her sudden distraction to lift the police tape and duck under it, motioning for John to follow. He tries to, but she reaches out and stops him, the flat of her palm against his chest. She’s got small hands, and fingernails that are just long enough to suggest that she mostly does deskwork.
John thinks that Sherlock’s been rubbing off on him.
“Ah-buh. Who’s this?” she asks.
“Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock says. John raises his eyebrows slightly, but given the atmosphere between the two of them, he can see why Sherlock wouldn’t want to air their private life in front of her. And if she hasn’t noticed the matching rings on their fingers, then that’s her problem; not John’s. “Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. An old friend.”
Friend. Yeah, right.
“A colleague?” she asks. “How do you get a colleague?” She looks like she’s trying not to laugh as she turns to speak to John for the first time. “Did he follow you home?”
John doesn’t reply. He just moves out of her reach and ducks under the tape. She sighs and raises her radio to her mouth. “Freak’s here, bringing him in,” she says, and turns to lead them up to the house.
They’re almost at the door when a weasel-faced man with slick black hair and a nasty expression stalks out, making a bee-line for Sherlock and getting right in his personal space.
“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” Sherlock sounds even less impressed than he did with Donovan.
“It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated, are we clear on that?” The man, Anderson, sounds as though he wishes Sherlock was the corpse they were there to see. John only barely manages to stop himself from hitting him on principle, but doesn’t manage to keep his fists from clenching at his sides. His nails dig into his palms, and the pain is a good enough distraction for him to focus on Sherlock instead.
Sherlock, who appears all too used to this.
“Quite clear,” he says. “And is your wife away for long?”
Anderson scoffs. “Oh don’t pretend you worked that out, somebody told you that.”
“Your deodorant told me.”
“My deodorant?” It’s funny, in a way, the incredulous look on his face. People always tend to look the same when confronted with Sherlock’s observational skills.
Malicious chirpiness – Sherlock hates this man, truly hates him. That much is obvious. “It’s for men!” Sherlock is building up to something, and John can’t wait to see it because, weird though it might be, he loves hearing Sherlock’s deductions. He loves the way his husband gives those tiny insights into the world he lives in, where everything is so clear and vibrant that the truth imprints itself in his mind with little effort.
“Well of course it’s for men! I’m wearing it!”
“So’s Sergeant Donovan.”
John snickers. Anderson and Donovan exchange a panicked glance before Anderson turns back to Sherlock with an attempt at a placating expression on his suddenly pale face. John turns his laughter into a cough.
“Now, look. Whatever you’re trying to imply…” Anderson starts to say.
Sherlock cuts him off. “I’m not implying anything,” he replies, brushing past Anderson and walking up the path to the house. John follows him without a word. “I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors judging by the state of her knees.”
He shuts the door behind them, leaving Anderson and Donovan stammering denials outside.
“Brilliant,” John murmurs. Sherlock grins at him wickedly.
They suit up in a room that – if the house hadn’t been abandoned and derelict – would have made a lovely sitting room. The detective that had come to the flat is there waiting for them, and he looks confusedly at John when he spots him behind Sherlock’s taller frame. “Who’s this?” he asks.
John’s earlier impression – that he had been part of the furniture – was apparently correct.
“He’s with me,” Sherlock replies.
“But who is he?” the detective asks again.
“He’s with me.”
Their exchange tells John far more than it does the detective. He knows now that Sherlock actually likes the detective to some degree, and respects him far more than he does Donovan or Anderson. ‘He’s with me’ is the closest that Sherlock will get to admitting their relationship in a professional setting, and it makes John feel oddly happy that Sherlock has at least one person on the Force that he likes.
It means that Sherlock hasn’t been entirely lonely without him.
…
He’s seen Sherlock work before, so the way he crouches over the woman’s body and inspects it closely doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. He’s not surprised either when Sherlock asks his opinion – it’s how they did things before – nor when he gets excited by the prospect of a serial killer.
The more dangerous the case, the more interesting it is. He knows that.
He is surprised, though, when Sherlock slips off into the night without him, leaving him to the mercy of Scotland Yard’s finest.
Lestrade sighs beside him. “He’s always like this,” he mutters.
John doesn’t reply – he knows that Sherlock’s sometimes worse.
…
The body he’s been asked to inspect is in a morgue on one of the US army bases, waiting for autopsy. Sherlock gets them in, and gets the American doctor out of the room before he opens the body bag.
The corpse is male, early thirties, and missing its right arm from just above the elbow. The injury is post-mortem, judging from the bruising, and it looks as though it was caused by something with large, sharp teeth though John is sure there’s nothing big enough in Afghanistan with a bite that large. Cause of death is, quite clearly, from a knife wound to the throat, which had neatly severed the carotid artery.
“MI5?” John asks as he peers a little closer at the corpse’s neck. “Or MI6?”
“At the moment? CIA,” Sherlock replies.
An American agency is totally at odds with the cultured, English upper-class accent Sherlock has. John tells him as much and gets a sly smile in return.
“Very good, Captain Watson.”
Sherlock has a ridiculously erotic voice. The sound of it goes straight to John’s groin and he shifts awkwardly, away from the other man. But Sherlock is leaning over the corpse as well, and he can only move so far without being obvious – he’s still close enough to smell the combination of cologne and desert on Sherlock’s skin.
“I’m actually neither,” Sherlock says. “I’m simply returning a favour.”
“Most favours don’t leave you looking at corpses in a war zone,” John replies.
“My brother always did have a terrible sense of humour,” Sherlock says lightly.
John decides there and then, that he never – ever – wants to meet Sherlock’s brother.
…
He buttons his coat as he steps into the cool night air. He looks both ways for Sherlock before approaching the police tape, but there’s no sign of him. It’s not overly surprising, but he does wish Sherlock had told them where they were before vanishing into thin air.
Donovan looks up at him as he approaches. “He’s gone,” she tells him. “He just took off. He does that.”
“Is he coming back?” John asks. He suspects the answer already, but it would be nice to hear it.
“Didn’t look like it.”
“Right…” he says. “Right. Okay, sorry. Where am I?”
Donovan’s eyebrows rise in mild surprise. He just looks at her steadily until she answers.“Brixton.”
“And, er, do you know where I could get a cab?”
“Try the main road.” She looks like she pities him now.
“Thanks,” he mutters. He ducks under the tape as she lifts it for him and starts off into the night.
“You’re not his friend,” she calls after him. He turns. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”
He wonders how much he should tell her. Sherlock had introduced him as a colleague, even though they were married, but it was true enough as they’d worked together before. He just doesn’t know what, if anything, Sherlock wants her to know. He brushes his thumb over the warm metal of his wedding band. “I’m…I’m nobody,” he says eventually.
She sighs and shakes her head. “Okay, bit of advice. I’d stay away from that guy.”
“Why?” he asks.
“You know why he’s here?” She waves a hand towards the house – the crime scene and the body it contains. “He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off, and you know what? One day, just showing up won’t be enough. One day, we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”
John takes a deep breath. There’s anger building inside of him, burning steadily in his lower belly. He’d known she didn’t like Sherlock – that was why he had asked. He’d wanted to know what she really thought of his husband; he hadn’t realised she would be so harsh. “Why would he do that?” he asks. He wonders that she can’t hear it – the clipped tone; the suppressed fury.
Her eyes widen slightly. She thinks he’s an idiot; he can see it in her eyes. “Because he’s a psychopath,” she tells him. “Psychopaths get bored.”
John thinks it would be very easy to hate Sergeant Sally Donovan.
“Donovan!” Lestrade calls for her from the door of the house.
“Coming!” she calls back. She starts to walk towards him, away from John. He breathes out slowly from between his teeth, and he’s about to walk away himself, but then she turns back. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she says.
Impossible.
…
He makes it back to Baker Street before Sherlock, and sits down with a cup of tea waiting for his husband to arrive. Either that, or to send him a text to let him know he’s alive. Sherlock will do one or the other; if he doesn’t then the case is worse than he’d thought.
He’s on his second cuppa and he’s just switched on Doctor Who when Sherlock bounds through the door carrying a painfully bright pink suitcase under one arm.
“You’re here,” he says, dropping the suitcase onto one of the chairs. He sounds mildly surprised. John switches the telly off and watches as Sherlock peels off his scarf and coat, revealing the tight white button-down he wears underneath. There are small drops of water clinging to his hair, glittering in the warm light from the overhead. It must have started raining.
He reaches for Sherlock automatically, and pulls him into a kiss. Sherlock hums with pleasure as John’s tongue slips into his mouth, and he runs his fingers through John’s hair – just beginning to grow out of its military buzz-cut. John pulls him closer so that Sherlock’s half draped across his lap and begins to trail kisses down the long column of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moans appreciatively, tightening his fingers in John’s hair.
“Phone,” he whispers. His voice is deeper than usual, husky with budding arousal. John wants him desperately, but – what?
“Hmm?”
“I need to borrow your phone,” Sherlock tells him.
John sighs, and Sherlock shivers in his arms as his breath flows over the sensitive skin of his throat. “Case?” he asks.
“Of course. Need to send a text. Might recognise my number from the website.”
He groans, frustrated and pulls his phone from his pocket. Sherlock will make it up to him later.
…
For someone so clinically antisocial, Sherlock has a lot of people willing to do him favours – willing to do just about anything, in fact, like give him a discount on rent or free meals for him and his husband whenever they visit.
Consequently, Angelo’s is one of their favourite restaurants. It helps that the food is good as well.
As always, when he’s like this, Sherlock refuses to eat in favour of staring out of the window. John orders his favourite – pasta with chicken and mushrooms, lightly spiced with chilli – but barely tastes it.
“Donovan told me to stay away from you,” he says. Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “It seems she’s quite worried I’ll turn up dead one of these days.”
“Is that your way of asking for a divorce?” Sherlock asks.
“What? No! Of course not! Just, you know, letting you know.”
John’s not even sure why he brought it up in the first place, but surely Sherlock must know that if Mycroft couldn’t put him off then Sally Donovan certainly won’t. Sherlock hums softly, like he does when they’re kissing, and his foot nudges John’s under the table. Apparently he’s forgiven.
The thought of divorcing Sherlock, of having to spend the rest of his life without him, is frankly terrifying.
…
They crash back into 221b, laughing and panting and exhilarated. Chasing after cabs over rooftops and through back streets, and then running from the police is almost as good as sex. Almost. John presses Sherlock up against the wall of the corridor and kisses him hard, before pulling away again – he hasn’t quite got his breath back enough to do that yet.
“That was ridiculous,” he says, panting. “That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done.”
“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock says. His normally pale eyes are dark – pupils blown wide – and glittering with lust and excitement.
John kisses him again, but he’s laughing too hard to do it properly. “It wasn’t just me,” he says. “Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?” He leans against Sherlock’s chest. He can feel his heart thundering behind his ribs. He slips a hand down Sherlock’s abdomen, and grins when he hears his breath hitch. He hooks his fingers into Sherlock’s belt and tugs, just a little, enough to be suggestive.
Sherlock moans softly and dips his head to brush a kiss over John’s lips. “They can keep an eye out,” he breathes between rapidly deepening kisses. “It was a long shot anyway.” His hands slide under John’s jumper, cold against the small of John’s back. He gasps and then bites down reflexively; not hard – just enough to sting.
“So what were we doing there?” he asks. He reaches up with his free hand to bury his fingers in Sherlock’s dark hair and tugs him down a little lower.
“Passing the time,” Sherlock whispers, breathless as John rocks their hips together. He wraps one of his legs around John’s waist, bringing them closer together and John moans at the friction. He pushes Sherlock harder up against the wall, slides his hand up from Sherlock’s belt to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt. The top two are already undone, so he sets in on the third with single-minded determination.
He can feel Sherlock, hard against his stomach, and he wants him. Desperately.
The sound of a door opening, and Mrs Hudson’s shocked “oh!” make him draw back and sigh. As much as he wants Sherlock, there are things he refuses to do in front of witnesses.
She’s almost in tears, and what she says kills John’s arousal faster than anything. “Sherlock, what have you done?”
“Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock sounds worried.
“Upstairs.”
…
The police are searching their flat. There’s a surprisingly large number of them there, rifling through their possessions. Lestrade is sitting in Sherlock’s chair, his legs crossed, and the pink case in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock hisses.
“Well, I knew you’d find the case,” Lestrade replies. “I’m not stupid.”
“You can’t just break into our flat.” Sherlock is angry. He’s probably feeling as violated as John is, and the urge to reach out and hold him is almost overwhelming. But he doesn’t. He’ll comfort Sherlock later, when they have privacy again.
“You can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade argues. “And I didn’t break into your flat.”
“Well what do you call this, then?” Sherlock demands, his voice rising.
Lestrade looks around himself, as if only just noticing the other officers, and he shrugs. “It’s a drugs bust!”
“Seriously?” John asks, laughing slightly.
He knows about Sherlock’s past. He knows about the cocaine and the drug dens, and he’s seen the silvery scars of the track-marks on the insides of Sherlock’s elbows. Sherlock had even gone as far as to present him with the results from a recent blood screen before they’d married, so that John could see that the hypodermics hadn’t given him any diseases. He also knows that Sherlock has been through rehab and has been clean for years, and he knows that Sherlock knows that if he ever slipped then John would probably kill him for it.
His husband isn’t a junkie. Not anymore. It’s a poor excuse for the invasion of their privacy.
“I’m not your sniffer dog.”
“No, Anderson is.”
John turns just in time to see Anderson raise a gloved hand in greeting from the kitchen.
“Anderson?” Sherlock sounds incredulous. “What are you doing on a drugs bust?”
“Oh I volunteered,” Anderson sneers.
“They all did,” Lestrade says. “They’re not strictly speaking all on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.”
“Are these human eyes?” Donovan, it seems, has been investigating the microwave.
Sherlock turns to snarl at her, but John catches his arm. “Sherlock,” he says quietly. “Come on. The faster you figure this out for them, the faster they get out of here.”
The officers look at him, so does Sherlock. For a moment, he thinks Sherlock’s going to continue throwing a fit, but then his shoulders slump and he nods his head. “Fine,” he says.
…
He’s shed his military uniform for something less conspicuous. Not that anything can take the army from his posture or his haircut – though the latter can be hidden with traditional headdress – but it does make him stand out slightly less in a crowd. It does the same for Sherlock, barely, because no matter how he disguised himself, Sherlock would never be anything but striking.
He follows Sherlock down alleys and over rooftops. He follows him into sewers and cellars that shouldn’t exist, and it’s in the cellars that they find it – the thing with teeth big enough and sharp enough to sever a man’s arm.
It’s a genetic mutation created by poor scientists scraping by on old Soviet technology. John thinks it looks like some kind of rat, and as he crouches with Sherlock in view of its cage, he feels fear close cold fingers around his heart. “It’s not possible,” he breathes, and it isn’t. It can’t be. But it is.
Sherlock hushes him with a flick of his hand, and John remembers where they are and what they’re doing and is embarrassed for the slip. But when they’ve crept back into the abandoned building they’ve been living in, he realises that Sherlock’s hands are shaking too. He draws Sherlock close and breathes in the smell of the sewers and the slums and the desert from his skin, and when Sherlock kisses him for the first time he pulls him closer and swears never to let him go.
…
He watches Sherlock drift out of the door and down the stairs as if in a daze. He watches the police pack up and leave, and even politely bids them farewell at the door. Though he calls Lestrade back. He wants to know, knowing how maverick Sherlock is, why Lestrade does this. Why he comes to John’s husband and begs him for help.
“Because I’m desperate, God help me,” Lestrade says. “And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”
John smiles at that. He can see why Sherlock likes Lestrade now. It’s because Lestrade is the only one on the Force with enough brains to see the man that Sherlock is truly capable of being.
Lestrade hasn’t been gone for more than a minute when John’s laptop beeps behind him. He picks it up, curious, and watches as the dot that is the dead woman’s phone moves further and further away from Baker Street. When he remembers the taxi driver, and Sherlock’s distraction as he left, he almost drops the laptop to the floor.
Sherlock is with the murderer.
Later, he will barely remember his journey to the college. He will be told that he called Lestrade, but he will have no idea what he said. All he will remember is the blinding panic that twisted through him, and the endless corridors and the locked doors, and the sight of Sherlock through the window.
He will remember killing a man. He will remember seeing him crumple backwards onto the floor with perfect clarity for the rest of his life. He will hear the blast of the gun and the shattering of the glass, and every time he dreams about it afterwards, he will smile in his sleep. He has killed for Sherlock before, several times. This is no different from then; John will never regret killing anyone, if it’s to protect Sherlock.
When it’s all done, he slips under the police tape and makes his way to Sherlock, who is sitting in the back of an ambulance. Someone has draped a blanket around his shoulders, and Sherlock looks utterly confused by its presence.
“It’s for shock,” he hears Lestrade say.
“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock protests. “Am I, John?”
John takes Sherlock’s wrist between his fingers and examines his pupils as best as he can in the low light. “Doubt it,” he says, and it’s true. Sherlock seems utterly fine to him. Far better than anyone would have a right to be in his situation. “Hardly traumatic, nearly killing yourself. Well, for you, anyway.”
Sherlock grins up at him. “I wasn’t in any danger,” he replies.
Sherlock never believes he’s in any danger, not until he really is and it’s too late. John slips his fingers down from Sherlock’s wrist to wrap around his fingers instead.
“Oh no,” he murmurs. “Serial killers are par for the course.”
“Like giant rats and traitorous spies.”
John wonders if maybe he’s made a misdiagnosis and Sherlock really is in shock after all, because that sounded awfully giggly.
Then Sherlock tugs him closer and rests his forehead on John’s stomach. “I’ve missed you, John,” he says. Over the top of his head, John catches sight of Lestrade’s wide-eyed look, and he brushes his fingers gently through Sherlock’s curls.
“I’ve missed you too,” he says.
“Dinner?” Sherlock asks.
“Starving. That Chinese again?”
“You read my mind.” Sherlock stands, and removes the blanket once and for all, dropping it to the floor of the ambulance like a rag.
They’re halfway back to the police tape, still hand in hand, when Lestrade catches up to them. “What about – “ and he waves a hand at the crime scene.
Sherlock shrugs. “Looks like the shooter did the taxpayers a favour,” he says. “Come on, Lestrade. I caught you a serial killer. Relatively.”
Donovan is approaching, her heels clicking on the asphalt. John knows the exact moment that she realises they’re together, because her jaw drops open and she stops dead in her tracks.
Lestrade sighs. “Fine. Get some sleep. I’ll call you in for a statement tomorrow, all right?” He looks between them. “How long have you two…”
“We’ve been married for fifteen months,” Sherlock says, loud enough for Donovan to hear. She’s too surprised to even speak.
“Oh,” Lestrade says. “Oh. Congratulations.”
John manages not to laugh at him, but it’s a close thing. Lestrade is so shocked it’s actually funny. “Thanks,” he says instead. “Is that everything?”
Lestrade nods. “Yeah. Yes. Go on, both of you.”
John doesn’t dare look at Sherlock until they’re out of earshot. When he does, all he can see is the wicked grin on Sherlock’s face and the shimmer of suppressed laughter in his eyes. He’s not sure which of them gives in to it first, but they’re still laughing when they tumble into the cab to take them back home.
…
John wakes up wrapped in Sherlock’s arms, his head resting on a sharp-boned shoulder. He feels warm and sated and perfectly content with the world. He listens to Sherlock’s soft breathing and the prayers from the local mosque drifting in through the window, and he thinks he could stay here forever.
When Sherlock wakes, he peers down at John shyly through his long eyelashes. John’s still not sure what colour his eyes are, but he loves them anyway – loves the intense way Sherlock looks at everything, the way his hands move, the sound of his voice and the noises he makes as John moves inside of him. He loves Sherlock. He shifts, just enough to catch Sherlock’s lips in a kiss before he settles in his arms once more.
They bask together, in the sunlight and in each other, and in the middle of a war zone they find peace for themselves. For a time.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Genre: Romance/Action
Warnings: AU, slash
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary:Captain John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes in Afghanistan and - after a whirlwind romance involving spies and giant monsters - marries him on the army base there. Months later, he's shipped home to his husband wounded.
AN: So I meant to do other things this weekend, and then this happened.
He’s able to stand – sort of – by the time he finally arrives in England. He spots Sherlock from the plane window, towering over the families gathered around him. They’re here for the squaddies he travelled back with. They’ve just finished their first tour; John has been honourably discharged. His presence, and his injuries, have been something of a mood killer on what would have ordinarily been a rowdy flight home.
He’s been dreading seeing Sherlock again since he’d woken up after they’d dug the bullet out and screwed his shoulder-blade back together. He’d met Sherlock in Afghanistan. He’d been on his third tour and Sherlock had been running an errand for his ominous older brother. He’d needed a doctor and the powers that be had chosen John for the job. It had been lust at first sight, followed by a good, hard shove into love when Sherlock had deduced his entire life story from the way he shaved and the scars on the back of his hands.
They’d married out there, after a whirlwind romance involving corpses, espionage, genetic mutations, and assassins. It had been an impulse decision he hadn’t been able to regret until he’d ended up very nearly crippled. The man Sherlock remembered was a strong, active army doctor. The man who would step off the plane could barely stand unaided, let alone chase down hired killers.
He is the last one off the plane. Sherlock approaches him with quick, nervous steps, dodging the squaddies reuniting with their families around him. There’s a wild look in his eyes and his black curls are mussed from the wind.
He is so perfectly beautiful that it makes John’s chest ache just to look at him.
“John,” he breathes. “You’re –“ His hands flutter in the air between them, and then John finds himself clutched against Sherlock’s thin chest with desperate kisses being dotted all over his face. Instinctively, he catches Sherlock’s lips with his own, kissing back with all the pent up fear and frustration and love that he can muster.
The hand that isn’t holding on to his cane slips under Sherlock’s coat to grip the bony jut of his hip.
Sherlock tastes of home.
The thought crosses his mind before he can stop it, and it brings a lump to his throat. He pulls away before he breaks down, but Sherlock keeps his arms around him and presses their foreheads together like he’s trying to steal John’s thoughts through osmosis.
“Welcome back,” he says after a while.
…
Sherlock’s found them an apartment in central London that they can somehow afford on John’s pension and the money that seems to ooze from Sherlock’s pores. They get it on discount, even, because Sherlock put the landlady’s husband on death row and she’s grateful for it.
Sherlock has always claimed to be a consulting detective. John just thinks he’s brilliant, regardless of what he does.
It takes a few weeks before a case comes up. During that time, Sherlock has deduced that John’s limp is psychosomatic and has mostly succeeded in weaning him off the cane, and John has met – and been threatened by – the ominous older brother.
Mycroft Holmes is simultaneously one of the most terrifying and frustrating people he has ever met, and given that he married Sherlock, John thinks that says a lot.
The first hint of the case is, of course, the newspapers. Articles appear, and with them come clues that link suicides together. The second hint is Sherlock trolling a police press conference with the mass-text function on his phone. John watches him do it, and he smiles as Sherlock starts to laugh at the chaos he’s causing.
The third and final hint is the police officer from the papers appearing in their living room telling Sherlock that he needs him. He barely spares John a glance, probably dismissing him as a roommate and, therefore, part of the furniture. It’s something that John’s slowly become used to – out of the army he’s a nice, normal guy. Sherlock is not, and he’s so much more interesting for it.
He watches as Sherlock’s eyes gleam with a familiar excitement and he feels his heart skip in his chest. This is the man he fell in love with – who pressed him up against a wall in Qandahar and kissed him so hard that John had wondered if he could die from it.
The police officer leaves, and Sherlock goes to follow him. He pauses at the door, and looks back at John over his shoulder. That look sends shivers through John’s entire being.
“Coming?” Sherlock asks.
“Oh God, yes,” John replies. He grabs his coat and follows Sherlock out of the door and down the stairs.
His cane stays propped against the arm of his chair.
…
John isn’t the kind of soldier that usually ends up called up in front of the officers. He’s not entirely sure why he’s being called now, either. He’s thought back over his actions since landing in Helmand Province, and can’t think of anything that would have got him in trouble. Still, he feels like a child being dragged to the headmaster’s office after putting glue on his teacher’s chair.
The door opens, and the General’s secretary pokes her head out. “Captain Watson,” she says, “come in.”
He does, saluting the General as he comes to a halt in front of his desk. There’s a man in civilian clothing sitting in a chair next to him. He’s got pale skin and black curls that brush against his cheekbones in a strictly non-regulation haircut. He’s gorgeous enough that John’s heart skips a beat.
“At ease, Captain,” the General says. “Take a seat.”
John does, sitting next to the civilian, who’s watching him closely with pale eyes – so pale he can’t actually figure out whether they’re blue, grey or green.
“Watson, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. He’s here on a job for the Government, and he requires the services of a doctor.”
John’s raises his eyebrows. A job for the Government could only mean that Mr Holmes is a spy of some sort, though he can’t see how. Spies are supposed to look less striking, surely. And why would he need a doctor? If he’s ill, this meeting would be being held in the infirmary, wouldn’t it?
“Sir?” he asks.
The General ignores him. “Doctor Watson is the best we can give you, Mr Holmes. I trust he will come to no harm.”
Holmes barely looks at him. “If he’s as good as you say he is, then he probably won’t,” he says, “though I dare say he’s better. School bullies often tend to beat the concept of fighting fair out of their victims before long, and Captain Watson seems to have learned that lesson. Tell me, Captain, when you broke your knuckles on someone’s nose, how long did they suspend you for?”
John stares at him, and wonders for a moment if he’s real. “Three weeks,” he says. “How did you -?”
“The scars on your knuckles,” Holmes says. “I observe, Captain. It’s my job.”
“It’s brilliant,” John says before he can stop himself.
Holmes, for the first time, smiles. He’s breathtaking.
…
There’s a woman standing by the police tape. She’s pretty, with full lips and tightly curled black hair, but the expression on her face when she spots Sherlock is far from lovely. She greets him with an angry, “Hello Freak,” and it makes John’s blood boil.
Sherlock gives her his frostiest look. “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he says.
“Why?” she asks.
“I was invited.”
“Why?” She’s being intentionally difficult, and her rudeness is appallingly unprofessional. John knows his husband has a habit of rubbing people up the wrong way, but it can’t possibly just be because of that, surely.
“I think he wants me to take a look.” The sarcasm in Sherlock’s voice is biting. John has to bite his lip to hide a smile. Normally, he would find Sherlock’s condescension grating, but the woman deserves everything she gets, in his opinion.
She looks furious. “Well you know what I think, don’t you?”
“Always Sally,” Sherlock replies. They’ve apparently had this conversation before, many times, and John finds himself liking her even less for that. He watches as Sherlock inhales sharply. “You know you didn’t make it home last night.”
He takes advantage of her sudden distraction to lift the police tape and duck under it, motioning for John to follow. He tries to, but she reaches out and stops him, the flat of her palm against his chest. She’s got small hands, and fingernails that are just long enough to suggest that she mostly does deskwork.
John thinks that Sherlock’s been rubbing off on him.
“Ah-buh. Who’s this?” she asks.
“Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock says. John raises his eyebrows slightly, but given the atmosphere between the two of them, he can see why Sherlock wouldn’t want to air their private life in front of her. And if she hasn’t noticed the matching rings on their fingers, then that’s her problem; not John’s. “Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. An old friend.”
Friend. Yeah, right.
“A colleague?” she asks. “How do you get a colleague?” She looks like she’s trying not to laugh as she turns to speak to John for the first time. “Did he follow you home?”
John doesn’t reply. He just moves out of her reach and ducks under the tape. She sighs and raises her radio to her mouth. “Freak’s here, bringing him in,” she says, and turns to lead them up to the house.
They’re almost at the door when a weasel-faced man with slick black hair and a nasty expression stalks out, making a bee-line for Sherlock and getting right in his personal space.
“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.” Sherlock sounds even less impressed than he did with Donovan.
“It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated, are we clear on that?” The man, Anderson, sounds as though he wishes Sherlock was the corpse they were there to see. John only barely manages to stop himself from hitting him on principle, but doesn’t manage to keep his fists from clenching at his sides. His nails dig into his palms, and the pain is a good enough distraction for him to focus on Sherlock instead.
Sherlock, who appears all too used to this.
“Quite clear,” he says. “And is your wife away for long?”
Anderson scoffs. “Oh don’t pretend you worked that out, somebody told you that.”
“Your deodorant told me.”
“My deodorant?” It’s funny, in a way, the incredulous look on his face. People always tend to look the same when confronted with Sherlock’s observational skills.
Malicious chirpiness – Sherlock hates this man, truly hates him. That much is obvious. “It’s for men!” Sherlock is building up to something, and John can’t wait to see it because, weird though it might be, he loves hearing Sherlock’s deductions. He loves the way his husband gives those tiny insights into the world he lives in, where everything is so clear and vibrant that the truth imprints itself in his mind with little effort.
“Well of course it’s for men! I’m wearing it!”
“So’s Sergeant Donovan.”
John snickers. Anderson and Donovan exchange a panicked glance before Anderson turns back to Sherlock with an attempt at a placating expression on his suddenly pale face. John turns his laughter into a cough.
“Now, look. Whatever you’re trying to imply…” Anderson starts to say.
Sherlock cuts him off. “I’m not implying anything,” he replies, brushing past Anderson and walking up the path to the house. John follows him without a word. “I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors judging by the state of her knees.”
He shuts the door behind them, leaving Anderson and Donovan stammering denials outside.
“Brilliant,” John murmurs. Sherlock grins at him wickedly.
They suit up in a room that – if the house hadn’t been abandoned and derelict – would have made a lovely sitting room. The detective that had come to the flat is there waiting for them, and he looks confusedly at John when he spots him behind Sherlock’s taller frame. “Who’s this?” he asks.
John’s earlier impression – that he had been part of the furniture – was apparently correct.
“He’s with me,” Sherlock replies.
“But who is he?” the detective asks again.
“He’s with me.”
Their exchange tells John far more than it does the detective. He knows now that Sherlock actually likes the detective to some degree, and respects him far more than he does Donovan or Anderson. ‘He’s with me’ is the closest that Sherlock will get to admitting their relationship in a professional setting, and it makes John feel oddly happy that Sherlock has at least one person on the Force that he likes.
It means that Sherlock hasn’t been entirely lonely without him.
…
He’s seen Sherlock work before, so the way he crouches over the woman’s body and inspects it closely doesn’t surprise him in the slightest. He’s not surprised either when Sherlock asks his opinion – it’s how they did things before – nor when he gets excited by the prospect of a serial killer.
The more dangerous the case, the more interesting it is. He knows that.
He is surprised, though, when Sherlock slips off into the night without him, leaving him to the mercy of Scotland Yard’s finest.
Lestrade sighs beside him. “He’s always like this,” he mutters.
John doesn’t reply – he knows that Sherlock’s sometimes worse.
…
The body he’s been asked to inspect is in a morgue on one of the US army bases, waiting for autopsy. Sherlock gets them in, and gets the American doctor out of the room before he opens the body bag.
The corpse is male, early thirties, and missing its right arm from just above the elbow. The injury is post-mortem, judging from the bruising, and it looks as though it was caused by something with large, sharp teeth though John is sure there’s nothing big enough in Afghanistan with a bite that large. Cause of death is, quite clearly, from a knife wound to the throat, which had neatly severed the carotid artery.
“MI5?” John asks as he peers a little closer at the corpse’s neck. “Or MI6?”
“At the moment? CIA,” Sherlock replies.
An American agency is totally at odds with the cultured, English upper-class accent Sherlock has. John tells him as much and gets a sly smile in return.
“Very good, Captain Watson.”
Sherlock has a ridiculously erotic voice. The sound of it goes straight to John’s groin and he shifts awkwardly, away from the other man. But Sherlock is leaning over the corpse as well, and he can only move so far without being obvious – he’s still close enough to smell the combination of cologne and desert on Sherlock’s skin.
“I’m actually neither,” Sherlock says. “I’m simply returning a favour.”
“Most favours don’t leave you looking at corpses in a war zone,” John replies.
“My brother always did have a terrible sense of humour,” Sherlock says lightly.
John decides there and then, that he never – ever – wants to meet Sherlock’s brother.
…
He buttons his coat as he steps into the cool night air. He looks both ways for Sherlock before approaching the police tape, but there’s no sign of him. It’s not overly surprising, but he does wish Sherlock had told them where they were before vanishing into thin air.
Donovan looks up at him as he approaches. “He’s gone,” she tells him. “He just took off. He does that.”
“Is he coming back?” John asks. He suspects the answer already, but it would be nice to hear it.
“Didn’t look like it.”
“Right…” he says. “Right. Okay, sorry. Where am I?”
Donovan’s eyebrows rise in mild surprise. He just looks at her steadily until she answers.“Brixton.”
“And, er, do you know where I could get a cab?”
“Try the main road.” She looks like she pities him now.
“Thanks,” he mutters. He ducks under the tape as she lifts it for him and starts off into the night.
“You’re not his friend,” she calls after him. He turns. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”
He wonders how much he should tell her. Sherlock had introduced him as a colleague, even though they were married, but it was true enough as they’d worked together before. He just doesn’t know what, if anything, Sherlock wants her to know. He brushes his thumb over the warm metal of his wedding band. “I’m…I’m nobody,” he says eventually.
She sighs and shakes her head. “Okay, bit of advice. I’d stay away from that guy.”
“Why?” he asks.
“You know why he’s here?” She waves a hand towards the house – the crime scene and the body it contains. “He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off, and you know what? One day, just showing up won’t be enough. One day, we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”
John takes a deep breath. There’s anger building inside of him, burning steadily in his lower belly. He’d known she didn’t like Sherlock – that was why he had asked. He’d wanted to know what she really thought of his husband; he hadn’t realised she would be so harsh. “Why would he do that?” he asks. He wonders that she can’t hear it – the clipped tone; the suppressed fury.
Her eyes widen slightly. She thinks he’s an idiot; he can see it in her eyes. “Because he’s a psychopath,” she tells him. “Psychopaths get bored.”
John thinks it would be very easy to hate Sergeant Sally Donovan.
“Donovan!” Lestrade calls for her from the door of the house.
“Coming!” she calls back. She starts to walk towards him, away from John. He breathes out slowly from between his teeth, and he’s about to walk away himself, but then she turns back. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she says.
Impossible.
…
He makes it back to Baker Street before Sherlock, and sits down with a cup of tea waiting for his husband to arrive. Either that, or to send him a text to let him know he’s alive. Sherlock will do one or the other; if he doesn’t then the case is worse than he’d thought.
He’s on his second cuppa and he’s just switched on Doctor Who when Sherlock bounds through the door carrying a painfully bright pink suitcase under one arm.
“You’re here,” he says, dropping the suitcase onto one of the chairs. He sounds mildly surprised. John switches the telly off and watches as Sherlock peels off his scarf and coat, revealing the tight white button-down he wears underneath. There are small drops of water clinging to his hair, glittering in the warm light from the overhead. It must have started raining.
He reaches for Sherlock automatically, and pulls him into a kiss. Sherlock hums with pleasure as John’s tongue slips into his mouth, and he runs his fingers through John’s hair – just beginning to grow out of its military buzz-cut. John pulls him closer so that Sherlock’s half draped across his lap and begins to trail kisses down the long column of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moans appreciatively, tightening his fingers in John’s hair.
“Phone,” he whispers. His voice is deeper than usual, husky with budding arousal. John wants him desperately, but – what?
“Hmm?”
“I need to borrow your phone,” Sherlock tells him.
John sighs, and Sherlock shivers in his arms as his breath flows over the sensitive skin of his throat. “Case?” he asks.
“Of course. Need to send a text. Might recognise my number from the website.”
He groans, frustrated and pulls his phone from his pocket. Sherlock will make it up to him later.
…
For someone so clinically antisocial, Sherlock has a lot of people willing to do him favours – willing to do just about anything, in fact, like give him a discount on rent or free meals for him and his husband whenever they visit.
Consequently, Angelo’s is one of their favourite restaurants. It helps that the food is good as well.
As always, when he’s like this, Sherlock refuses to eat in favour of staring out of the window. John orders his favourite – pasta with chicken and mushrooms, lightly spiced with chilli – but barely tastes it.
“Donovan told me to stay away from you,” he says. Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “It seems she’s quite worried I’ll turn up dead one of these days.”
“Is that your way of asking for a divorce?” Sherlock asks.
“What? No! Of course not! Just, you know, letting you know.”
John’s not even sure why he brought it up in the first place, but surely Sherlock must know that if Mycroft couldn’t put him off then Sally Donovan certainly won’t. Sherlock hums softly, like he does when they’re kissing, and his foot nudges John’s under the table. Apparently he’s forgiven.
The thought of divorcing Sherlock, of having to spend the rest of his life without him, is frankly terrifying.
…
They crash back into 221b, laughing and panting and exhilarated. Chasing after cabs over rooftops and through back streets, and then running from the police is almost as good as sex. Almost. John presses Sherlock up against the wall of the corridor and kisses him hard, before pulling away again – he hasn’t quite got his breath back enough to do that yet.
“That was ridiculous,” he says, panting. “That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done.”
“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock says. His normally pale eyes are dark – pupils blown wide – and glittering with lust and excitement.
John kisses him again, but he’s laughing too hard to do it properly. “It wasn’t just me,” he says. “Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?” He leans against Sherlock’s chest. He can feel his heart thundering behind his ribs. He slips a hand down Sherlock’s abdomen, and grins when he hears his breath hitch. He hooks his fingers into Sherlock’s belt and tugs, just a little, enough to be suggestive.
Sherlock moans softly and dips his head to brush a kiss over John’s lips. “They can keep an eye out,” he breathes between rapidly deepening kisses. “It was a long shot anyway.” His hands slide under John’s jumper, cold against the small of John’s back. He gasps and then bites down reflexively; not hard – just enough to sting.
“So what were we doing there?” he asks. He reaches up with his free hand to bury his fingers in Sherlock’s dark hair and tugs him down a little lower.
“Passing the time,” Sherlock whispers, breathless as John rocks their hips together. He wraps one of his legs around John’s waist, bringing them closer together and John moans at the friction. He pushes Sherlock harder up against the wall, slides his hand up from Sherlock’s belt to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt. The top two are already undone, so he sets in on the third with single-minded determination.
He can feel Sherlock, hard against his stomach, and he wants him. Desperately.
The sound of a door opening, and Mrs Hudson’s shocked “oh!” make him draw back and sigh. As much as he wants Sherlock, there are things he refuses to do in front of witnesses.
She’s almost in tears, and what she says kills John’s arousal faster than anything. “Sherlock, what have you done?”
“Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock sounds worried.
“Upstairs.”
…
The police are searching their flat. There’s a surprisingly large number of them there, rifling through their possessions. Lestrade is sitting in Sherlock’s chair, his legs crossed, and the pink case in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock hisses.
“Well, I knew you’d find the case,” Lestrade replies. “I’m not stupid.”
“You can’t just break into our flat.” Sherlock is angry. He’s probably feeling as violated as John is, and the urge to reach out and hold him is almost overwhelming. But he doesn’t. He’ll comfort Sherlock later, when they have privacy again.
“You can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade argues. “And I didn’t break into your flat.”
“Well what do you call this, then?” Sherlock demands, his voice rising.
Lestrade looks around himself, as if only just noticing the other officers, and he shrugs. “It’s a drugs bust!”
“Seriously?” John asks, laughing slightly.
He knows about Sherlock’s past. He knows about the cocaine and the drug dens, and he’s seen the silvery scars of the track-marks on the insides of Sherlock’s elbows. Sherlock had even gone as far as to present him with the results from a recent blood screen before they’d married, so that John could see that the hypodermics hadn’t given him any diseases. He also knows that Sherlock has been through rehab and has been clean for years, and he knows that Sherlock knows that if he ever slipped then John would probably kill him for it.
His husband isn’t a junkie. Not anymore. It’s a poor excuse for the invasion of their privacy.
“I’m not your sniffer dog.”
“No, Anderson is.”
John turns just in time to see Anderson raise a gloved hand in greeting from the kitchen.
“Anderson?” Sherlock sounds incredulous. “What are you doing on a drugs bust?”
“Oh I volunteered,” Anderson sneers.
“They all did,” Lestrade says. “They’re not strictly speaking all on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.”
“Are these human eyes?” Donovan, it seems, has been investigating the microwave.
Sherlock turns to snarl at her, but John catches his arm. “Sherlock,” he says quietly. “Come on. The faster you figure this out for them, the faster they get out of here.”
The officers look at him, so does Sherlock. For a moment, he thinks Sherlock’s going to continue throwing a fit, but then his shoulders slump and he nods his head. “Fine,” he says.
…
He’s shed his military uniform for something less conspicuous. Not that anything can take the army from his posture or his haircut – though the latter can be hidden with traditional headdress – but it does make him stand out slightly less in a crowd. It does the same for Sherlock, barely, because no matter how he disguised himself, Sherlock would never be anything but striking.
He follows Sherlock down alleys and over rooftops. He follows him into sewers and cellars that shouldn’t exist, and it’s in the cellars that they find it – the thing with teeth big enough and sharp enough to sever a man’s arm.
It’s a genetic mutation created by poor scientists scraping by on old Soviet technology. John thinks it looks like some kind of rat, and as he crouches with Sherlock in view of its cage, he feels fear close cold fingers around his heart. “It’s not possible,” he breathes, and it isn’t. It can’t be. But it is.
Sherlock hushes him with a flick of his hand, and John remembers where they are and what they’re doing and is embarrassed for the slip. But when they’ve crept back into the abandoned building they’ve been living in, he realises that Sherlock’s hands are shaking too. He draws Sherlock close and breathes in the smell of the sewers and the slums and the desert from his skin, and when Sherlock kisses him for the first time he pulls him closer and swears never to let him go.
…
He watches Sherlock drift out of the door and down the stairs as if in a daze. He watches the police pack up and leave, and even politely bids them farewell at the door. Though he calls Lestrade back. He wants to know, knowing how maverick Sherlock is, why Lestrade does this. Why he comes to John’s husband and begs him for help.
“Because I’m desperate, God help me,” Lestrade says. “And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”
John smiles at that. He can see why Sherlock likes Lestrade now. It’s because Lestrade is the only one on the Force with enough brains to see the man that Sherlock is truly capable of being.
Lestrade hasn’t been gone for more than a minute when John’s laptop beeps behind him. He picks it up, curious, and watches as the dot that is the dead woman’s phone moves further and further away from Baker Street. When he remembers the taxi driver, and Sherlock’s distraction as he left, he almost drops the laptop to the floor.
Sherlock is with the murderer.
Later, he will barely remember his journey to the college. He will be told that he called Lestrade, but he will have no idea what he said. All he will remember is the blinding panic that twisted through him, and the endless corridors and the locked doors, and the sight of Sherlock through the window.
He will remember killing a man. He will remember seeing him crumple backwards onto the floor with perfect clarity for the rest of his life. He will hear the blast of the gun and the shattering of the glass, and every time he dreams about it afterwards, he will smile in his sleep. He has killed for Sherlock before, several times. This is no different from then; John will never regret killing anyone, if it’s to protect Sherlock.
When it’s all done, he slips under the police tape and makes his way to Sherlock, who is sitting in the back of an ambulance. Someone has draped a blanket around his shoulders, and Sherlock looks utterly confused by its presence.
“It’s for shock,” he hears Lestrade say.
“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock protests. “Am I, John?”
John takes Sherlock’s wrist between his fingers and examines his pupils as best as he can in the low light. “Doubt it,” he says, and it’s true. Sherlock seems utterly fine to him. Far better than anyone would have a right to be in his situation. “Hardly traumatic, nearly killing yourself. Well, for you, anyway.”
Sherlock grins up at him. “I wasn’t in any danger,” he replies.
Sherlock never believes he’s in any danger, not until he really is and it’s too late. John slips his fingers down from Sherlock’s wrist to wrap around his fingers instead.
“Oh no,” he murmurs. “Serial killers are par for the course.”
“Like giant rats and traitorous spies.”
John wonders if maybe he’s made a misdiagnosis and Sherlock really is in shock after all, because that sounded awfully giggly.
Then Sherlock tugs him closer and rests his forehead on John’s stomach. “I’ve missed you, John,” he says. Over the top of his head, John catches sight of Lestrade’s wide-eyed look, and he brushes his fingers gently through Sherlock’s curls.
“I’ve missed you too,” he says.
“Dinner?” Sherlock asks.
“Starving. That Chinese again?”
“You read my mind.” Sherlock stands, and removes the blanket once and for all, dropping it to the floor of the ambulance like a rag.
They’re halfway back to the police tape, still hand in hand, when Lestrade catches up to them. “What about – “ and he waves a hand at the crime scene.
Sherlock shrugs. “Looks like the shooter did the taxpayers a favour,” he says. “Come on, Lestrade. I caught you a serial killer. Relatively.”
Donovan is approaching, her heels clicking on the asphalt. John knows the exact moment that she realises they’re together, because her jaw drops open and she stops dead in her tracks.
Lestrade sighs. “Fine. Get some sleep. I’ll call you in for a statement tomorrow, all right?” He looks between them. “How long have you two…”
“We’ve been married for fifteen months,” Sherlock says, loud enough for Donovan to hear. She’s too surprised to even speak.
“Oh,” Lestrade says. “Oh. Congratulations.”
John manages not to laugh at him, but it’s a close thing. Lestrade is so shocked it’s actually funny. “Thanks,” he says instead. “Is that everything?”
Lestrade nods. “Yeah. Yes. Go on, both of you.”
John doesn’t dare look at Sherlock until they’re out of earshot. When he does, all he can see is the wicked grin on Sherlock’s face and the shimmer of suppressed laughter in his eyes. He’s not sure which of them gives in to it first, but they’re still laughing when they tumble into the cab to take them back home.
…
John wakes up wrapped in Sherlock’s arms, his head resting on a sharp-boned shoulder. He feels warm and sated and perfectly content with the world. He listens to Sherlock’s soft breathing and the prayers from the local mosque drifting in through the window, and he thinks he could stay here forever.
When Sherlock wakes, he peers down at John shyly through his long eyelashes. John’s still not sure what colour his eyes are, but he loves them anyway – loves the intense way Sherlock looks at everything, the way his hands move, the sound of his voice and the noises he makes as John moves inside of him. He loves Sherlock. He shifts, just enough to catch Sherlock’s lips in a kiss before he settles in his arms once more.
They bask together, in the sunlight and in each other, and in the middle of a war zone they find peace for themselves. For a time.
