one, two, three, went the bullets

by sigtryggr

Summary:

Prompted by a post on tumblr about the ill-advised nature of firing guns at walls around war vets.

I'd write their relationship differently, now, but I actually still mostly like this.

Living and working with Sherlock Holmes was certainly a peculiar experience. Had John asked those who knew him what living with Sherlock Holmes would have been like, they would have told him the usual things: the man's crazy, the man's dangerous, the man's untidy, the man's a consulting detective who doesn't give a shit. But they wouldn't have told him what living with Sherlock would be like. It was that personal touch that made the difference.

He only got to see Sherlock half of the time. Sherlock was fond of him, thought highly of him, and was just a little bit clingy. Sherlock asked John's medical opinion at crime-scenes. Sherlock didn't want John to leave him behind. Sherlock called him "brave" and played slow violin pieces on nights when John couldn't sleep. Sherlock trusted him, perhaps even with his life. It was odd, really, since John didn't know what in him inspired such friendship, but it was also nice.

The other half of the time, John had to deal with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was arrogant, rude, loud, impatient, never knew when to shut up, never knew when he'd gone too far, and didn't much care. Sherlock Holmes told John he was an idiot, and an inept assistant. Sherlock Holmes sent John into danger alone because Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered to face it himself. Sherlock Holmes kept John up all night reading about Chinese pottery on Wikipedia. Sherlock Holmes lied to him because he didn't want John meddling in his business.

He ventured to say Sherlock, not Sherlock Holmes, was his friend. He ventured to say that they got along. He ventured to say that he liked Sherlock, but that sometimes Sherlock would cease to be Sherlock and would become Sherlock Holmes, and then John didn't like him anymore.

Sherlock wanted to learn how to be nice to John. Sherlock Holmes didn't give a damn. Sherlock brooded when John was depressed, or tired, or just a damn army vet who was too old to keep going to war and too young to stay away. Sherlock Holmes didn't believe that John had any lingering problems.

Sherlock Holmes also tended to provoke bullets, though this time the bullets weren't aimed at him. He had already tired of demeaning everyone on the planet and had instead opted to take his bored wrath out on the wall.

 

One two three, went the bullets against the wall.

One two three, went the beats of John's heart.

One two three, went the hoarse, shouted order.

One two three, went John's steps on the stair.

One two three, went the poundings of the mortar.

One two three, went the beats of John's heart.

 

"What the hell are you doing?!"

One two three, went the beats of John's heart.

"Bored," Sherlock Holmes groaned.

"What?"

"Bored!" Sherlock Holmes replied, jumping up with the gun in his hand.

"No--" John Watson was very small and hid his eyes.

One two, went the bullets against the wall. John could still hear them, despite the fingers covering his ears.

Three, he heard in his old soldier's brain. Four five six, went the second volley of bullets, seven eight nine, the sound from far away. Ten eleven twelve, bullets through the patient's brain.

Thirteen fourteen fifteen, and then it was over. He grabbed the gun (only two shots that time, stupid, only two shots) from Sherlock Holmes and unloaded it.

Only five shots total.

__________________________________________________________________________________

 

The second time it happened, he was running down an alley, hot on the killer's heels, as Sherlock (not Holmes) stumbled behind him. John's gun was out, as was the killer's, and John was perfectly prepared to face the sound.

He'd faced it before, after all.

He rounded the corner.

One two three, sounded the killer's bullets. Four five six, they echoed back to him.

Seven eight nine, John answered back. The killer was dead. He covered his ears again, so that he didn't hear the echo.

Ten eleven twelve, bullets through the heart.

Thirteen fourteen fifteen, came the sound of Sherlock's heels.

Sixteen seventeen eighteen, came Sherlock's breath, panting.

"He's dead?"

John couldn't but nod numbly.

Sherlock stepped forward, glancing over the scene, as John leaned against the nearest wall, staring at nothing.

Sherlock looked back at him.

"Why are you covering your ears?"

John hadn't even realised he still was. He removed his hands slowly, not wanting to seem too fazed.

He must have still seemed off, because Sherlock came closer. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he lied.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, trying to deduce something from John's tired eyes, but found nothing he could explain. Eventually, he nodded.

John couldn't lie to Sherlock Holmes, but that wonderful trust Sherlock placed in him was enough to keep him safe.

For the time being.

__________________________________________________________________________________

 

The third time it happened, he hadn't intended to scream. It was an accident, it just slipped out. The situation didn't call for screaming at all. Sherlock was blowing up beakers in the kitchen, for whatever insane reason. And yet, John had uttered a cry, felt his hands fly to the sides of his head, and toppled backwards over a kitchen chair. It was all very undignified.

Sherlock, good Sherlock who trusted and respected John's bravery, was baffled at his hero's sudden fall. John heard him scramble over to where John was still sitting on the floor.

"Stop!" John managed, "Don't... don't come closer."

"John?" Sherlock definitely sounded concerned.

One two three, went the beats of John's heart.

One two three, came his breath, in stops and starts.

One two three, had gone the shouts and screams.

One two three, bullets in his shoulder.

One two three, and he was on his knees.

Four five six, when would death come?

Seven eight nine, how soon 'til he burned up in the sun?

Ten eleven twelve, think of the others who died.

Thirteen fourteen fifteen, all those dead before his eyes.

 

"John?"

John forced his eyes open with significant effort. Sherlock was kneeling several feet away, aching to come closer but uncertain of what he'd done wrong. John tried to meet his eyes, but he was halfway between death in the grass and a breakdown at home and he couldn't even be sure of who he was looking at.

Something of that must have shown in his face, or his unfocused eyes, or whatever tenuous bond they, two deranged flatmates with no home but each other, shared. Something must have let Sherlock know, because suddenly his face opened up in surprise, eyes wide. John tried hard to focus on him.

Sherlock's face crumpled, and he sat back, looking away. John watched him, only just realising that his hands were still at his head. He lowered them.

"I'm sorry. I should have realised," Sherlock said, and meant it.

John tried to smile, but it was hard. His muscles didn't want to respond, didn't want to live, just wanted to clench up here on the floor in abject pain while his flatmate fought for the appropriate words to say.

This was Sherlock at his best -- not Sherlock Holmes, not the brilliant lunatic who didn't give a damn, but the idiotic young man who cared and didn't know how to do it.

"It's okay," John slurred, not sure it was entirely understandable, "it's okay."

"I should have realised," Sherlock repeated, looking like he wanted to pound the floor but scared that the sound would set John off again. "Stupid."

"Shut up."

There was a silence, which was welcome until it gave room for the echoing bullets to sound again and again in John's head.

John's hands went back to his head involuntarily, and Sherlock was alarmed again.

"John?'

John couldn't do more than breathe heavily and wait for the sounds to stop.

"...John?"

"What?" John responded when he'd recovered his voice from the fog.

Sherlock bit his lip, considering. John tried to breathe. It was hard.

Finally, Sherlock spoke again. "Can I touch you?"

It was an odd question, and John pondered it some, thankful that even thinking about the oddest, most mundane things distracted him from the sounds of guns firing.

"I need space," was all he said in return.

Sherlock nodded, and didn't attempt to come any closer. Instead he reached out, slowly so that John saw it coming and had time to stop him, and laid his hand upon John's shoulder. The good one.

John didn't flinch, only stiffened a tiny bit, and Sherlock took that to mean that it was okay. He gripped John's shoulder lightly.

It wasn't comforting, but it was nice. It made the sounds in John's head dim just a little.

 

One two three, went the beatings of John's heart.

One two

three, went the beatings of John's heart.

 

One

two

three

went the beatings of John's heart.