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Answer your goddamn mobile!
John peered through the steam in the bathroom at his mobile: 8 Missed Calls, 3 Text Messages.
"Christ. Finally." Lestrade answered before the mobile on the other end rang.
“What’s Sherlock done this—”
“He’s gone and made himself a hostage; that’s what he’s done. Swapped himself for a young girl whose family says they can’t pay the ransom. I’ve sent a car for you. Bring your gun.” The line went dead.
His mind whirling, John grabbed the dirty clothes he’d left on the floor and shoved them on as he raced into the bedroom to retrieve his Sig Sauer.
Never surprised at the scrapes Sherlock found himself in, it didn’t mean that John’s heart didn’t leap in fear—and anger—whenever Sherlock found himself in harm’s way.
Stupid git. What’s he gotten himself into now?! Let him out of my sight for one sodding second, and… When will he get it through his thick head that his life’s as important as to the one he’s trying to save? Bloody Christ.
Out the flat door in record time, John pounded down the steps, bursting through the door to Baker St. just as a police cruiser, light flashing, screeched to a halt.
The fresh-scrubbed officer at the wheel who looked barely old enough to put on his own knickers, let alone wear a uniform, told John what he knew of the situation. Nothing.
“You at least know where we’re going, don’t you?” John bit out.
The buildings flashed by as they sped through the streets, and he gripped the pistol cradled in his jacket pocket.
When the cruiser braked to an abrupt stop in front of an abandoned warehouse, Lestrade broke away from a nearby huddle of officers, his face more ashen and stubbled than usual. Walking briskly toward John, he held up a hand before John could say anything.
“He’s alive. For now.”
John’s chest tightened, and the fingernails of his clenched hand cut into his palm. He’d seen that look in Lestrade’s eyes before—the bleakness—when Lestrade had told a frantic mother that her truant boy had been killed while committing armed robbery. It was the look of sympathy for the survivor.
“What is it, Greg? What aren’t you telling me?”
Lestrade pawed a hand through his hair, his shaky sigh telling John everything he didn’t want to know. That Sherlock’s brilliance, and stupidly uncanny luck, might not be enough to save him this time.
“It’s not looking good, John. Mycroft’s on the way with the money, but…”
“Where’s Sherlock?” He needed to see Sherlock.
Lestrade nodded at the building and led John inside to a cavernous room.
Legs crossed and hands folded in his lap, Sherlock sat on a chair in the middle of the otherwise empty space. His appearance as crisp and clean as when he’d left the flat that morning, Sherlock looked to be the most unruffled hostage in London’s history, John thought.
“Hello, John.” Sherlock met John’s eyes with an implacable expression.
At first, John’s brain didn’t register the problem, and it confused him that Sherlock didn’t get up and leave.
And then he noticed the laser beams.
Crisscrossing in tight formation, they created a web of walls around Sherlock. A metal box the size of a car battery sat on the floor beside Sherlock, its distinctive ticking causing John’s stomach to twist.
“What’s going on, then?” John asked, hoping Sherlock didn’t hear his voice waver.
“The bomb has been rigged to detonate if anything breaks the beams. As you can see, the configuration is admirably compact and won’t accommodate even the smallest or most agile individual.”
“What about cutting through the ceiling? Or maybe there’s a crawlspace beneath the floor?”
“Vibrations will also trigger the bomb. Besides, we’ve run out of time, John.”
“There’s a switch? Right? You said they all have them.”
“No, John, not this time.”
John snorted.
“I’m not lying.”
John glanced away; he’d seen a flicker of unease in Sherlock’s eyes that told him what Sherlock said was true.
“What’s the answer, Sherlock? You have one; you always do.”
“So glad you asked.” Sherlock crouched beside the bomb. “Just inside this pinhead-sized hole, you’ll see a blinking light. That’s the timing mechanism. When that mechanism is destroyed, the bomb will disarm itself. You need to shoot it.”
“Me? Why me? If I miss, I would set the bomb off. And kill you.”
“My point, exactly, John.”
“What the f—” John sucked in air and blew it out slowly. Now wasn’t the time to fight with Sherlock. “Why not have one of Lestrade’s people do it?”
“Because if I’m to die at anyone’s hands, I want them to be yours. Besides, his people are incompetent, and you won’t miss.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“There’s no one I trust more.”
“Of course. Of course, I will. But you’re sure—”
“Only two minutes left until the bomb goes off, John.” Sherlock canted his head, his focus on John as laser-like as the beams imprisoning him. “It’s not too late for you to leave.”
John licked his lips, his gaze locked on Sherlock’s face. That aggravating, infuriating, exasperating, beautiful, beautiful face that he couldn’t imagine living without, and John nodded his head. He wasn"t going anywhere, not without Sherlock.
Withdrawing his pistol, he grasped it tightly and aimed at the blinking dot.
As if it were yesterday, he remembered Mycroft telling him, “You aren’t haunted by the war, Dr. Watson; you miss it.” Back then, John’s hand had been steady because of the thrill of being at Sherlock Holmes’s side. That had been before he had known he was in love with Sherlock. But now his hand was steady because he knew what he had to lose if it wasn’t.
In a voice thick with emotion, John said softly, “I love you.”
And pulled the trigger.