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Near-Death Experience

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John had just texted Sherlock about the library records he'd found on Feinstadt Landholdings, when he got the following reply:

"excellent."

"well, catch a taxi, then. have to question mrs. feinstadt," John sent.

"can't right now. busy."

"with what?"

"have a knife at my throat."

"WHAT?"

"don't worry. suspension device. timed to release in 9, 8..."

"DNT BLOODY TXT ME! GET THE HELL OUT OF - "

"free now."

"kill you," John texted, and then just realized that he'd sent a death threat to a man that had nearly died, and that Sherlock Holmes had reduced him to sending frantic text messages from the periphery of his own exciting life, and then realized that Sherlock had been keeping him at the periphery, ever since the Moriarty incident. As if assigning John stupidly transparent tasks like looking up bloody library records that Sherlock probably already knew the details of would keep John safe. Keep John safe. Sherlock wanted to keep him safe?

John was so incensed - and also stunned - that he almost didn't notice the phone's beep when Sherlock answered.

"no you won't. catching taxi now. see you in a few."

"kill you," John repeated, as a goodbye, and set to constructing the most logically and deductively soundproof browbeating he had ever constructed in his life. Because when Sherlock got home? He was going to get the browbeating of his life. And then he'd take John with him to the Feinstadt estate, and they could get shot together. Idiot.



fin.

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