By the time John had put on his coat while racing down the stairs, Sherlock was already getting in a cab. John bolted toward the door and through, pulling it shut after him, and jumped into the cab. As he clicked his seat belt into place, he noted Sherlock smiling at him. "You're fast when you want to be, aren't you?" he asked. "I could say the same for you." John replied.
When the taxi pulled up outside the Houses of Parliament, Sherlock got out straight away and headed toward the building. Which left John to pay the cabby. He sighed, and forked out the money and passed it to the driver. John got out the other side, and as soon as he slammed the door shut, the taxi pulled away.
When he tried to find Sherlock, he was already heading inside. Damn, why can't he just wait? He thought and ran through the Londoners after him. When he got to the doors, he was stopped by guards. He stuttered over explanation, and then Sherlock reappeared on the other side of the doors. He opened them, grabbed John's hand, and explained to the guards for him.
"He's with me." And with that he dragged John over the threshold and all the way up to the floor where Mycroft was, muttering things about how there was no time to waste.
Sherlock was still dragging him when he opened the doors to Mycroft's office and ran in. John noted the doors shut behind them, and started to wonder if this was a bad idea. He looked over to Mycroft, who looked up, slightly surprised at first, and then he smiled.
"Ah, Sherlock, you have finally found yourself someone decent. All those girls you liked at school were really quite pathetic, you know." John knew exactly what he meant, and looked down to Sherlock's hand grasped around his. He felt a blush crawl into his cheeks. "What? Oh." Sherlock said, and gave John his hand back.
"I'm not here to reminisce my childhood with you, Mycroft, I'm here to talk about Moriarty. He's back." Mycroft's face switched from an amused smirk to a concerned glare in an instant. "What?" "He came to our flat this morning. I believe he threatened to kill John." Which surprised the man himself, as he didn't recall telling Sherlock about that. Mycroft looked a little bored. "Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock almost looked stricken.
"Because, dear brother, you're helping him!" The detective's composure cracked, and John saw a glimpse of his anger. He quickly managed to smooth it over. Mycroft seemed to find this amusing. "Whatever gave you that idea?" He clasped his hands together and leant forward.
"You, Mycroft, have been telling him about me. About things that I entrusted you with. Things like-" He paused, and John swore Sherlock looked at him, very briefly. "Private things," he finished. "He now has the advantage, thanks to you."
"Brother, has it ever quite crossed your mind that maybe, once or twice, you might be wrong? You know how fast that brain of yours works; it's easy to miss something." Sherlock looked outright offended, and the bickering went on for quite some time.
John decided to move to the back wall, and leaned against it, pondering about the previous case Lestrade had given them.
It was only when John heard his name mentioned in the conversation- no, argument, that he listened in. Mycroft was talking. "-and how do you know your little pet didn't leak the information?" That froze Sherlock right on the spot. At first, John thought someone had shot him or something crazy, but then he took in a deep breath.
"Firstly, he's not my pet; he's called John. Secondly, I know he wouldn't," he said, and Mycroft's eyes flashed as he leant closer, intrigued, "Have you asked him?" Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but John quickly stepped in. This was out of hand.
"No, he hasn't asked me." And they both turned to look at him as if they thought he'd died and come back. Sherlock tried to talk to him. "John, I don't need you to-"
"Go on Sherlock, ask the man." Mycroft said impatiently. Sherlock walked over to John, and eyed him. "No," he said simply, and explained, "because I know my own flat mate
and I know what makes him blush." With which Sherlock put his palm above John's head on the wall, and leant into John's personal space, his head only inches away from the doctors. John's confusion melted into a tremendously hard effort not to show any emotions.
Especially the kind which involved blushing.
He quickly made to shuffle out from the space between the wall and Sherlock, and walked not too fast to the other side of the room. He felt Mycroft's eyes on him, probably accompanied with a smug expression, but he was focused on Sherlock, who was looking at him with an expression John found hard to identify. "Knew it," Sherlock announced, and simply turned his attention back to Mycroft, leaving John to wonder what he meant; though he had a gnawing feeling that he knew.
"You're hiding him somewhere. Perhaps here," Sherlock insisted, and stopped to think, which, for him, took a split second. "Yes. He's here, isn't he? You're helping Moriarty. How could you? Of course you never did have an IQ over thirty so I suppose it's not too surprising."
"Dear brother, why would I help the man that has attempted to kill you several times already?" To which Sherlock paused. He opened his mouth to answer, but his string of words probably went something like I don't know which was impossible for Sherlock to admit.
Suddenly Moriarty was right there, in the centre of the room. John wasn't sure how it had happened, but one moment that space was empty, and in the next moment it was filled by Moriarty's figure. John looked past him through the now-open doors and saw the guards that were standing by the door now splayed across the floor outside.
"Sherlock! What a nice surprise to see you here," said Moriarty, twisting his face into a smile that quite honestly scared John and made him want to run and hide. The army doctor glanced to Sherlock, who was glaring at Mycroft, who was blankly looking back. This left Moriarty to stare at John with those crazy black-hole eyes. John shuffled awkwardly on the spot, feeling as if he was being sucked into them.
"We'll be leaving now, John," said Sherlock suddenly, and strolled straight past Moriarty, sending daggers his way. John took a moment to gawk after Sherlock then hurried after him, not taking his eyes off Moriarty who was still staring at him until he was safely through the doors.
By the time John had got outside, Sherlock was already crossing the road at the front of the building, his long black coat billowing behind him. Yet again, he was leaving John to catch up. John ran over to the road, checked for cars, and crossed swiftly. "Sherlock!"
The detective paused and turned at the familiar sound of his name, which left John enough time to catch up with him. When Sherlock saw who it was, John noticed he smiled. "Why aren't we taking a cab back to the flat?" John asked, staring at Sherlock's face blandly.
"No. Too obvious. Moriarty knew we were with Mycroft
We need to be more careful, John, alright?" And just for a moment, John swore he saw a glint of worry in Sherlock's eyes. "Alright," John said, which seemed to put Sherlock's manic mind at rest, just a little.
Then, John noticed a little white speck drift onto Sherlock's black coat, making it stand out. "Sherlock?" John asked, watching the dot. "Yes?" he replied, his eyebrow arched.
"I think it's snowing." With which they both looked up into the grey-coloured sky. Indeed, there were more small white flakes falling from the sky. "So it is, John." Sherlock smiled, his hair beginning to look silver from the dusting of snow. "Come on," Sherlock said as John began to shiver from the cold, and lead him down an alley between two tall buildings, where the snow found it hard to fall.
The detective combed a hand through his hair, which shook the silver colour from it. Shame, John thought; it suited him. John tried his best to stop shivering, but found himself unable to, so he wrapped his arms around himself and pressed his back to the wall. John was watching the stray snowflakes weave into the small crevice in-between the buildings when Sherlock spoke; a warm sound which contrasted against the state of the weather.
"You're cut, John," he said, staring at the doctor's wrist. John had to look down at it to confirm it for himself, then realised with a start it was the cut that the smashed teapot had left. And it hurt. John opened his mouth to explain, but Sherlock was already grabbing his wrist to inspect it, holding it up to a slither of light as if it wasn't attached to a body.
John couldn't help but notice how warm Sherlock felt, even through the detective's leather gloves, John could feel the heat radiate from Sherlock's skin to his own. While he was inspecting his wrist, John couldn't help imagining snuggling into that warmth and-
And just to make it worse, Sherlock had to comment, "John, why are you so cold?" without even looking away from his wrist. "Well, it's minus two at least out here, it's snowing and the only warm thing I'm wearing is this damn coat," he replied. Sherlock turned his eyes to him and studied his face for a moment, the let go off his wrist, leaving it to be swarmed by cold air once more. John noted that Sherlock didn't bother stating the fact that he wasn't cold, but instead said, "John, I need you to promise me something."
His stare at John's face had hardened, and John realised he was expecting a reply. "Yeah, of course, what is it?" He answered, and frowned into his stare.
"I need you to promise me that you will never let Moriarty get between us. Because if he does, he can use us against each other, and that may quite possibly be the worst experience I will ever have to go through. Do you understand?" he finished. John could see he was dead serious and nodded convulsively, but couldn't help but add;
"Ah, so the great Sherlock Holmes does have feelings?" Which caught Sherlock quite off guard, but he quickly regained himself. "Please, John, everyone has feelings. I just tend to hide mine more than the average person. Because, well, when was I ever average?" John realised that Sherlock was in fact smirking at the ground, and not directly to him, which made John feel indescribably odd, like he had known all along. Sherlock's gaze then snapped to him again, and the seriousness was back.
"I mean it though, John; whatever he says to you, you have to ignore. He's below us, and always will be. Do you understand?" The desperation in Sherlock's voice was almost unrecognisable for someone who always seemed so self-assured, and the more John looked into his eyes, the sadder they seemed. John nodded again.
"I know, Sherlock. I trust you, more than anyone I've ever met," he said reassuringly, but he wasn't sure if he was reassuring himself or his flatmate. The detective seemed surprised at himself, and quickly changed the subject.
"Shall we head back to the flat? It'll be warmer there," he said, and looked to John's still-shivering figure, "or we could stay here, and you could get frost-bite or hypothermia, or simply just be miserable." John swore that just for a moment Sherlock smirked, but something quickly rubbed it from his face. He was probably still think about Moriarty, John decided.
"Personally I'd like to head back to the flat," John said. Even if it was on foot, the thought of a warm cup of tea made John want it more desperately. The pair walked out of the alleyway, and as they turned the corner, Sherlock's hand brushed his, and John thought that he was going to hold his hand again. But he didn't. Sherlock didn't even seem to acknowledge the fact he'd touched him.