A ɔase of ӎᴉҳԑᴆ IDENTITY ‖ a Sherlock roleplay

[Roue Lette]

You disappear with all your good intentions.
And all I am is all I could not mention.
No, I never meant to let you go at all.

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x

Who will bring me flowers when it's over?


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x

D O N ' TxxxE V E RxxxS A YxxxG O O D Y E .



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Dr. Boris Amsel, German Neurologist.

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Sherlock had staggered backwards, trying to gain balance. He hadn't expected the head jolt, and it hurt like hell. Before he knew it, hands gripped at the collar of his shirt, pulling him in to the man's grasp. He could feel the cold metal of the gun's barrel press into his shirt, threatening a painful blow in only a matter of seconds. He looked like he was about to pass out, to his advantage of course, and drew back with an even harder head bash. Then his elbow rose to jab him in the collarbone, sending him back into the wall with the gun dropping to the floor. Sherlock pinned the Russian to the wall by his curling his hand around the man's throat. He used as much force as he had to keep him back, and quickly brought his fist up to meet the man's face.

The burly man jabbed Sherlock in the gut with his knee, causing him to fall back, gripping at his gut. Then there was the punch to the face, toppling Sherlock over. His shoulders and side scraped across the ground, but luckily his head had remained elevated. In an instant, the Russian hovered over him, hands choking at his throat. Sherlock groaned, trying his best to kick and jab his way out of the grip. Finally, with one fatal jab, Sherlock managed to knee him in the groin. It gave him just enough leeway to lurched out from under him, grabbing for the gun. Before the Russian knew what had hit him, Sherlock had fired two rounds into his thigh.

Shrieking loudly, the man crumbled to the floor, yelling out in pain as his hands wrapped around his injury. Sherlock rose to his feat coughing, while his narrowed eyes tried to focus. When he caught sight of the man on top of John, he rushed over, letting the burning barrel of the gun seer into the back of the man's neck. "Переместить его!" Sherlock ordered the man to move away in Russian. Clearly this 'Boris' guy knew more than one language. The man finally nodded, and just as he began to slowly descent off of John, Sherlock bashed him across the head with the gun. He fell instantly, lost in temporary unconsciousness.

"Hurry," He groaned before reaching down and pulling John up in one swift move. When the doctor was on his feet, he took hold of his arm again, rushing off into the opposite side of the alleyway. The police would arrive soon, judging by the amount of noise they had made, and hopefully, if they were lucky, the Russians would be detained even if for just a little while. He found it hard to breathe, running so fast, but he didn't dare slow down. He took every odd twist and turn he found, avoiding main streets, or easily closed in areas. Finally, after what seemed like ages, he stopped just outside of an old, closed down bar. He let go of John only so that he could push in the boards that had closed up some of the broken windows. "In you go," He said, practically pushing John inside. When Sherlock entered, he quickly boarded the windows, before turning to John, observing him with eyes of a hawk.

"Jesus..." He mumbled, looking over the broken skin, the blood and scrapes that John now had. He didn't look horrible, but he wasn't unscathed either. He had been panicked, dreading any really significant injuries may have occurred. Luckily John was still as tough and stubborn as always. "Are you alright?" He asked with anxiety laced in his voice. He remembered being just as scared, the time Jim had him strapped to a vest covered in c4. Sherlock couldn't stop himself. His fingers were pressing at John's brow bone, examining his eyes, to make sure they were still reacting right. His hands lifted up his arms, checked his hands, head-fiddling with him. He wasn't a doctor, but he knew enough to know whether or not something seemed potentially dangerous. More importantly, this wasn't any typical person. No, this was John.

He let out a sigh of relief when he made sure nothing fatal had occurred. The intense panic had died down, but he still felt guilt and responsibility in irritating waves.


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See my head aches from all this thinkin'
Feels like a ship God, God knows I'm sinkin'
Wonder what you do and where it is you stay.

x
x

These questions like a whirlwind, they carry me away.







I ' MxxxO N L YxxxH U M A N .


→xxS H E R L O C K xx✗xxH O L M E S

[StoriesByBrook]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
x
x

Is it enough to have some love small enough to slip inside a book;
small enough to cover with your hands, because everyone around you wants to look?



Is it enough to have some love small enough to fit inside the cracks;
the pieces don’t fit together so good with all the breaking and all the gluing back.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.


xxxxxxxxxx



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One minute John was trying to push a giant thug off of him, the next he’s being hauled up off the ground. By the time he realized just what had happened, he was being pulled down the alleyway. “W-wait.” John couldn’t help but pant; running down the street, getting in a fist fight, then running down an alleyway did not do well for catching ones breath. “Slow down would you.” They turned sharp corners, zigzagged through back alleys. Finally they stopped, and it took everything John had not to collapse against the street light.

They had barely stopped when John was suddenly being shoved into an abandoned building, “What!?” The blond doctor stumbled into the darkened room, his eyes taking in the dusty bar table, chairs scattered around the room. An abandoned bar? Some German doctor dragged him down the street, got him into a fight with some thugs who were obviously not German.

John opened his mouth to demand answers when the other man cut him off. “I’m fine.” And suddenly the other man’s hands were prodding him. John stood their awkwardly for a moment, watching the other man with a confused look. At the taller man’s sigh, John took a step back, coughing uncomfortably. “I said I’m fine.” John’s heart kept pounding against his chest, and no matter how hard he controlled his breathing, it wouldn’t calm down. “If I can handle being shot in the shoulder, I can handle getting socked in the face.” Trying to lighten a mood with joking only worked when the joke was funny… Why he was trying to joke around with a stranger who John knew nothing about other than the fact he looked alarmingly like his dead flatmate, and had angry foreign men trying to kill him… Right, so he was just alarmingly like his dead flatmate.

“You’re uh… You’re bleeding.” John pointed towards Boris’ forehead which was bleeding rather profusely, though John had thought he’d seen the guy get head butted. The shorter man pulled a chair upright and pulled it towards the ginger haired man. “Sit.” John sighed, moving to look behind the abandoned bar for a cloth. He was surprisingly able to find one rather quickly. “Hold still.” John shook his head, pressing the cloth to ginger’ forehead.

He had so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he just wanted to scream. He hadn’t been this frustrated since… well since the last two cases he had worked with him; his flatmate trying to poison him with sugar which turned out to be just normal sugar, and then there was their last case which ended with Sherlock… jumping off a building. It was such a muddled mix of emotion, and it had taken him so long to move on, to drag himself out of the hole he had been shoved in. And now, he was holding a cloth against a man who looked, acted, and got himself into similar situations that he did.

The doctor would deny it, he already had denied it. But what were the odds? What were the odds that someone would say the exact words he had texted John the first day; the odds that someone would hold themselves with the same cocky indifference as he had; the odds that someone would have the exact same cool calculating ardent eyes?

Slim to none. That’s what the odds were. And now standing here holding a cloth to a man who strongly resembled him in just about every way, John came to a decision. A direct approach wasn’t going to work with this ‘German doctor.’ And despite the fear of getting his hopes up, John couldn’t let the nagging feeling in the back of his mind go. It sounded crazy, even to himself, but this couldn’t be a coincidence. The similarities couldn’t be a coincidence. Molly’s words kept ringing in his ears, 'He’s dead.' But John couldn’t push the buzzing feeling in his head. The first time he had seen the guy, John had sworn it was Sherlock, now more so than he did before. But if Boris really was Sherlock, John highly doubted the man wouldn’t admit to it; Sherlock was stubborn like that…. But if Boris was Sherlock, John was going to find out.

John took a deep breath to calm himself, pulling the cloth back to see if the bleeding had stopped. “I’m going to avoid the obvious questions, because I doubt you’d answer them honestly.” John set the bloodied cloth on the back of another chair, his now free hands brushing the ginger’s hair back to get a better look at the cut. “Bleeding has stopped, but you’re going to need to put a bandage on this as soon as you can.”


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And is it getting harder to pretend that life goes on without you in the wake,
and can you see the means without the end in the random frantic action that we take?



And you may be acquainted with the night,
but I have seen the darkness in the day and you must know it is a terrifying sight
because you and I are living the same way.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.



xxxxxxxxxx


J U S T xxD O N ' T xx B E xx D E A D

[Roue Lette]

You disappear with all your good intentions.
And all I am is all I could not mention.
No, I never meant to let you go at all.

x
x

Who will bring me flowers when it's over?


xxxxxxxxxxxx

x
x

D O N ' TxxxE V E RxxxS A YxxxG O O D Y E .



▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

Dr. Boris Amsel, German Neurologist.

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"Bleeding? Wha?" His fingers instantly rose to his forehead, wincing as the contact made the open wound burn. Ah, well, he supposed bleeding wounds were quite possible considering the scuffle they had just had. Still, leave it to John to be doctoral as ever. He watched John disappear with squinted eyes, trying to refocus back to the sharp gaze he always held. The headache wasn't too bad, throbbed a bit, but at least his injuries were minor. He couldn't spend another three weeks in bed because of another injury. He didn't have the time, or the patience to deal with Mycroft badgering him like a worried mother, and rebuke him for his poor choices. Been there, done that-and the sleuth certainly didn't plan on dealing with it anytime soon.

When John returned, he took charge of the situation, an dabbed the cloth to his forehead. It stung, so he hissed lightly, closing the eye underneath the cut slightly, while observing John with the other. He was alright...thank god, and seemed to be holding himself together much better than Sherlock had anticipated. John always managed to surprise him like that. Whether it was surprise by him being over sensitive to something, or him being strangely tough and stoic. Though the circumstances were not what he had hoped, or planned for, this moment with him, it was nice. Very nice. He almost, for a mere second, felt as if he were being taken care of after chasing some lead on a case with him back in London. He wanted to smile, to laugh even, but it died just as quickly as it birthed. This was not home, and he was not Sherlock Holmes. Not right now. Not to John.

"You...thank you," He responded thickly, trying to ground himself back in character. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, and though he listened to John's advice on bandaging it up soon, he doubted he would. His most important task at hand was getting John back to the hotel safely, while avoiding any Russian contact. He could deal with them-had been dealing with them long enough to know many of their tricks and techniques. But having John mixed up in this situation was very discomforting. If they so much as recognized John's face, he could become an instant target. How was he suppose to go after Alfonse Schreiber AND watch over John at the same time? He was one man...and Mycroft, he may have been a second pair of eyes and ears, but he was off in London. And there was no way in hell he was going to involve Irene. He had already spent a long month in Paris with her, bunking at her place, using her skills to assist him in shortening the web. She was helpful, indeed, but she and him together made life a constant battle. He may have loved games, but he did not have the time. This was his one chance at getting back at the men sought out to ruin him, and bring himself home to John.

He pulled away from John and went towards a small opening. Pulling back a bit of the board, he peered out the window, checking to see if anything odd had been going on outside. If they were lucky, the Russians would be a bit too preoccupied getting their injured out of the hospital, and saving them from jail time. He doubted they had come over legally, so finding ways to keep them from getting caught was rather important to them. "You should not have followed me," He added, sighing when the coast seemed clear. After a moment, he returned to John, preparing to make another escape. "Time to go. Coast is clear." With that, he gently intertwined his hand with John's, and led him out the back of the building, where they carefully, and less in a rush, headed back for the hotel. They went around the buildings, staying clear of the alleyways they had taken in the first place. When they arrived back to the hotel, he dropped John off at the door, a hand on his shoulder now firmly pressed. "Doctor, do me a favor and go to your room and stay there. Tomorrow, go to the conference. Stay out of trouble, yes?" He patted his shoulder and turned to leave.
.


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See my head aches from all this thinkin'
Feels like a ship God, God knows I'm sinkin'
Wonder what you do and where it is you stay.

x
x

These questions like a whirlwind, they carry me away.







I ' MxxxO N L YxxxH U M A N .


→xxS H E R L O C K xx✗xxH O L M E S

[StoriesByBrook]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
x
x

Is it enough to have some love small enough to slip inside a book;
small enough to cover with your hands, because everyone around you wants to look?



Is it enough to have some love small enough to fit inside the cracks;
the pieces don’t fit together so good with all the breaking and all the gluing back.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.


xxxxxxxxxx



▀ ▀ ▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀ ▀

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John’s attention snapped back to the German as the man spoke. He felt a sudden swell of anger towards the man. “Well, then you shouldn’t say things like that.” It was true, if the man hadn’t so directly quoted Sherlock, John probably wouldn’t have followed the apparent ‘doctor.’ “Not very German like.” John’s azure eyes watched the other man closely as he looked out the opening in the boards.

This was all so familiar; it reminded him so much of the cases, the time he had spent with Sherlock. John would be lying if he said he didn’t miss his old life, because he did. He missed it greatly; he missed Sherlock. John had taken his death poorly; it had gone straight to his heart, though the war vet did a good job at hiding just how strongly John had taken it. He had known Sherlock was his best friend, but he had underestimated how dependent on the consulting detective he had become.

John jumped slightly, being pulled from his internal thoughts by the approaching ginger. He was confused for a moment before it all clicked back together. Right, they were in an abandoned bar, not in 221B. “Uh. Right.” The blond did his best not to tense as he felt the taller man’s fingers intertwined with his. John allowed Boris to lead him down the streets back towards the hotel. The memory of the last time he had run through the streets of London with Sherlock. ‘Take my hand.’ They had been awkwardly handcuffed after… well after Lestrade and the rest of the Yard had come to take Sherlock into custody. “People will definitely talk.” John muttered to himself as he shook his head, biting back a laugh.

They were back at the hotel all too soon in John’s opinion – he had missed this: the thrill of the case, the adrenaline rom the fear, the comfort of the other man’s presence – though he doubted he would admit to that out loud. There was a fleeting moment where John questioned his sanity; there was still that chance this was just another stranger off the street, in which case John had seriously gone mental. He had no proof other than his gut and bizarre coincidences; the only thing he knew was Boris strongly reminded him of Sherlock. John was at a loss; how was he supposed to prove that his man was in fact Sherlock Holmes? He would think of something, he had to. He’d keep track, watch the man… follow him again if need be. But he would put an end to the wondering, one way or another.

The blond raised a slender eyebrow; Go to his room? What was he ten and being punished? What exactly was ‘Stay out of trouble’ supposed to mean? “I’m not the one who has a group of men wanting to beat the s**t out of me.” John gave the man a slight smirk. Those men hadn’t been after them because of him; nothing ever happened to him. This little jog down memory lane was turning into something John wasn’t liking. Things he had pushed aside a long time ago were resurfacing; things John would rather not think about. Sherlock had changed his life; he had been an empty shell after the war, and the world’s only consulting detective had taken him and made something of his useless life. The thought that he was only hoping, wishing, that he was still alive – the thought that he was making this up in his head – scared him.

John had stopped going to his therapist; after Sherlock’s death he had gone back a few times, but nothing ever came from his sessions. He wasn’t behind honest, he wasn’t letting things go. He couldn’t voice the words he so desperately wanted to say to his deceased flatmate. He couldn’t hunt down the man responsible for the lies and his death. He couldn’t tell the people closest to him that whenever John walked into that flat he wanted to curl up on that familiar black leather chair with his coat wrapped firmly around him. He couldn’t tell anyone that for the longest time after that fateful day, John had seen him, talked to him. John had been going crazy, a phase which he had dragged himself out of after an intervention from Molly.

But this… this man was too much like Sherlock. And as much as the army doctor was afraid he could be wrong, at the moment, he couldn’t see how he could be mistaken; Boris was too much like— “Wait.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying, his hand shooting out to gently grasp the ginger’s upper arm. “Uhm.” He cleared his throat quickly, dropping his hold on Boris’ arm. “I have a bandage–Upstairs. I could, you know, patch that up for you… if you want.” John waved his hand towards the taller man’s forehead.

Doctor Watson turned around, moving up the few steps into the atrium. He wasn’t going to force the other man to come up; he made the offer suddenly and without thinking, but it would give him the chance to observe the German longer – to continue his list of similarities. John had come up with the plan on their walk back to the hotel; befriend and get to know Boris in order to keep an eye on the man until he could find evidence of who he really was.

The blond man hadn’t gotten five feet into the door before an arm wrapped around his shoulder and a body slammed into his side, “John!” Arthur cheered, pulling John towards the elevator. “Where have you been?” The taller blond raised an eyebrow, flashing his army mate a sly grin.

“Hello, Arthur.” John’s tone was flat; he was used to Arthur’s up-close-and-personal attitude. He avoided the question, not wanting to really explain the scuffle, running down back alleys and hiding out in a bar before walking back to the hotel holding hands with a tall ginger haired man that looked remarkably similar to his dead flatmate.

They stopped in front of the elevators, Arthur turning to snicker in the direction they came. “You sly fox.” He rested his hand on the bend of John’s neck and squeezed lightly. “So, how was the date?”

John’s shoulder’s sagged as he looked up at the ceiling in frustration. “It wasn’t a date! I’m not—” He let out a sigh and shook his head; Arthur’s snicker only got bigger. “Oh, why bother.”

“That’s my boy!” Arthur’s hand was across his shoulder’s again, the other blond looking to see what floor the elevator was on. “Oh!” Arthur looked positively giddy when he turned back to look at John. “Did you hear about the brawl across the street?” John cleared his throat and looked up at the elevator awkwardly as Arthur proceeded to explain the police had found three unconscious Russians in an alleyway across the street from the hotel they were standing in now.

The elevator finally dinged and the piled into the small boxed, John hitting ‘17’ and Arthur hitting ‘19’. “One of them was shot in the thigh a few times!” Arthur turned to look at his old friend. “I mean, we saw some messed up things, but shot in the thigh at point blank range?” He shook his head, “That’s twisted.”

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open on the 17th floor. “See you tomorrow, Arthur.”

The other blond smirked, “Have a good night, John.” A thought occurred to him, “Oh! Lunch tomorrow! The Chinese place around the corner for the convention hall during lunch bre—” The doors closed.

John shook his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes; same old Arthur. The blond man wandered down the hall and around the corner to 17108, pulling the room key out of his pocket and was pleased that the new one he had gotten at the lobby earlier that night actually worked. His first two keys hadn’t worked; it had been a frustrating ordeal when they had first arrived at the hotel and John still had his luggage.

“Finally.” John sighed, glad to be back in the calm of his room. It had been such a busy day: traveling, dealing with massively large crowds, seeing a man almost identical as Sherlock, getting is a fist fight with three burly Russians. The calm his room offered was a more than welcome change.


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x
x
x


And is it getting harder to pretend that life goes on without you in the wake,
and can you see the means without the end in the random frantic action that we take?



And you may be acquainted with the night,
but I have seen the darkness in the day and you must know it is a terrifying sight
because you and I are living the same way.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.



xxxxxxxxxx


J U S T xxD O N ' T xx B E xx D E A D

[Roue Lette]

You disappear with all your good intentions.
And all I am is all I could not mention.
No, I never meant to let you go at all.

x
x

Who will bring me flowers when it's over?


xxxxxxxxxxxx

x
x

D O N ' TxxxE V E RxxxS A YxxxG O O D Y E .



▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

Dr. Boris Amsel, German Neurologist.

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He should have left. Could have kept walking, disappearing into the dark alleys, until he found himself back at his safe house. So why didn't he? Why was it that even now, after so long, John Watson still had that incredible effect on him? He wanted to go where he went, hear what he would say, read what he wrote-simply enjoy his company. Usually it was quite the reserve. Sherlock was always being followed by his loyal friend, his best friend. And he liked it-despite what he said, or what he showed. But John had meant the world to him, in so many ways. And seeing him, even while pretending to be someone else, still made it exceptionally difficult to avoid, or deter from his offer. Mycroft would warn him against this, telling him it was too risky, and stupid. But Mycroft wasn't here, and as the good doctor had said, he had bandages. And Sherlock needed a bandage. He chastised himself from following, stopping just in front of the doorway to the hotel as he caught sight of another rough blonde occupying John's time.
Obviously familiar, judging by the physical contact. His eyes narrowed involuntarily, spying on the two men having a friendly conversation. He didn't like it. Period.

It was someone else, someone taking John's attention...but he held his tongue. There was no need to get worked up. After all, he was here as Boris Amsel-a man with very little connection to Dr. Watson. Still, he couldn't help himself but decipher this other man. He was tall and brooding, stood with a similar military stance which John possessed, though a bit more confidence and spunk in his demeanor-and kept himself clean and pristine-like a medical man would. They were quite particular about their hands being overly clean. So, medical military man, hmm? Same as John-perhaps someone who had served with him in Afghanistan. Would seem likely. It was an old friendship being rekindled then. Regardless of the facts, it didn't lighten the mood, or his distrust in this new figure. Jealous? Oh, yes. But like hell he wouldn't admit it.

He was relieved when the man finally took off, leaving John to enter the elevator. Sherlock practically glared as Arthur left, watching him like a hawk, before making his move. The elevator doors had closed, and Sherlock took note of what floor it had been heading for. So he took the stairs, far too impatient to wait on another lift. When he reached the designated floor, he looked around for doors just recently opened and closed. He could tell by the faintest shoe indentions in the carpet, and by which rooms still had lights lit. It narrowed it down, until finally he came to his room, knocking on the door. Hopefully the offer still stood, and he imagined it did. John wasn't one to take back on his offers. He was a good man, always willing to help. When the door opened, he glanced from his feet up, resting on John's face. "Bandage?"



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See my head aches from all this thinkin'
Feels like a ship God, God knows I'm sinkin'
Wonder what you do and where it is you stay.

x
x

These questions like a whirlwind, they carry me away.







I ' MxxxO N L YxxxH U M A N .


→xxS H E R L O C K xx✗xxH O L M E S

[StoriesByBrook]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
x
x

Is it enough to have some love small enough to slip inside a book;
small enough to cover with your hands, because everyone around you wants to look?



Is it enough to have some love small enough to fit inside the cracks;
the pieces don’t fit together so good with all the breaking and all the gluing back.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.


xxxxxxxxxx



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x
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It would be a lie to say John wasn’t disappointed that Boris hadn’t come up, though Arthur’s jab had pointed out an awkward point John knew what inviting someone up to a hotel room looked like, coffee or bandage aside. That was obviously not why John had invited the man up. John needed more proof, more information on who this man was.

John had pulled his jacket off and started to pull his sleep shirt from the suitcase he had yet to unpack. He had set it on the chair in the corner of the small room. There was a small dresser on the other side from the chair, but thinking on it now it probably wasn’t necessary to unpack for just the weekend. He would figure it out later though, at the moment all the Englishman wanted to do was take a shower and go to sleep.

And he would have too, if it wasn’t for the knock at his door. John looked at the door in slight confusion for a moment, wondering who would be at the door at this hour; surely Arthur knew he had understood the details for lunch tomorrow. The doctor pulled open the door fully expecting to find his familiar blond friend standing on the other side; he was more than surprised when his eyes landed on the ginger standing in front of him. John blinked, gaping up at the taller man in shock. He hadn’t expected Boris to be there, though he was happy to see the man; a feeling which he was surprised to be feeling about a man he just met… even if he did think the man could possibly be Sherlock.

Bandage? What—Oh, right. John cleared his throat, taking a step back from the doorway to allow the other man to step inside. “Yes, of course.” He closed the door once the man stepped inside. This was slightly awkward, but the shorter man refused to let it get to him. “Just… sit down, I guess.” He motioned towards the bed as the chair was taken up by his case. John ducked into the bathroom, opening a cupboard to grab the first aid kit he had set their earlier.

John opened the box as he moved back into the small room. He set the box down next to Boris as he moved to stand in front of the ginger haired man. The blond brought up a washcloth, moving to clean the cut before he disinfected and bandaged it. “How did you know where my room was?” He couldn’t remember telling the man what room number or what floor he was on.

Once John was finished cleaning the wound, he pulled out a cotton ball and a bottle of disinfectant. “This might… sting a bit.” The doctor gave an apologetic smile before lightly dabbing the cotton ball against the cut. “You’re lucky, any deeper and you’d need stitches.” When John was satisfied the wound was cleaned, he set the cotton ball down grabbing a rather large strip; he brushed his hand through auburn strains, holding the hair back as his other hand carefully placed the strip across the cut.

He shouldn’t have, John knew, but he let his hand linger in the other man’s hair, playing lightly with the tips; the blond looked at the color trying to weigh if he liked the shade or not. It certainly was different, but not bad. “I can’t decide if red is your color.” He had muttered it more to himself, but John hadn’t meant to say it.


x
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x
x

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x
x
x


And is it getting harder to pretend that life goes on without you in the wake,
and can you see the means without the end in the random frantic action that we take?



And you may be acquainted with the night,
but I have seen the darkness in the day and you must know it is a terrifying sight
because you and I are living the same way.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.



xxxxxxxxxx


J U S T xxD O N ' T xx B E xx D E A D

[Roue Lette]

You disappear with all your good intentions.
And all I am is all I could not mention.
No, I never meant to let you go at all.

x
x

Who will bring me flowers when it's over?


xxxxxxxxxxxx

x
x

D O N ' TxxxE V E RxxxS A YxxxG O O D Y E .



▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

Dr. Boris Amsel, German Neurologist.

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Relief washed over Sherlock as the door opened, revealing a rather uncertain John. He clearly didn't expect to see 'Boris' at his room door, though he hardly found it strange, considering the fact that he did offer him a bandage, and he was a proper doctor. Made perfect sense to him, but he could understand the surprise in his former colleague's face. Former...that burned, thinking something like that. Was it really accurate? It wasn't as if John had quit, no, they were only separated by Sherlock's need to keep him alive, and out of harm's way. Hence the faked suicide. And, only moments ago, it was very much like old times-John being at his side in the most dangerous of situations, brushing it off, with a laugh or two. It astounded him that even in danger's way, John usually always managed to bring in some humor, grace the situation with a joke. He only returned a cold, hard stare, trying very hard to seem as stoic and emotionless as possible. He was simply hear for the proper patch up, not to reminisce with John, or see how he was doing....he had already given him too much time, threatening his life with their scuffle with the Russians. No doubt they would cause more problems. Hopefully it was dark enough for the three not to have gotten a good look at John. Perhaps they wouldn't spend their time searching for John, and simply stay focused on him. He could only hope. But hope rarely got him anywhere, so why bother with such sentimental nonsense in the first place? "Danke," He thanked in German, and moved past him to enter the hotel room.

It was nice, cozy and not too big. A good place to relax for a decent price. Not only that, but it was warm and looked clean. Much better than where he usually preferred to stay. He often dismissed his brother's offers for rooms, or places of a high caliber. He didn't want to risk it. Too many eyes on him in one place night after night made him paranoid. So he often moved around, bunked in unsavory places, and took up the offers he received from his growing, international homeless network. They kept him invisible, and safe. "Sehr schön," He complimented, ardent eyes picking up every bit of detail he could. Immediatly, however, his mind had gone for where the quickest exists were, best places to hide, or take advantage of in a break-in. Funny how his mind wandered in that sort of direction. But he didn't find it discomforting. It was relieving if nothing else, knowing that even in the midst of his best friend, his mind still chose to function, to keep him in survival mode. He'd seen so much, been through so much on his own that it was learning to disappear entirely was becoming easier and easier. Even Mycroft had been given a few scares, losing all leads on his brother. He did that to him on purpose, reminding his older brother just who it was that remained in charge, and that should he need to, he could ditch him effortlessly. As of now, he took every bit of help he could get.

His randevouz in Russia had certainly highered the stakes, making his loneman act a bit more difficult to manage. He nodded when John sort of asked him to sit, so he did, and slumped down on the matress, arms crossing on his lap awkwardly. He felt weird. How was he suppose to act around him? Obviously not himself. So...how would Boris act? He was almost startled by the question John had asked. "How did you know where my room was?" He narrowed his eyes, sending him a stare as if to say 'obvious, really', but quickly tossed it aside with a small shrug. "I asked man at desk. Said you left something in my care. He gave me room number."
"That problem?" He asked thickly, curious as to what his actual reaction would end up being. Still, he silenced himself, shifting in his seat when John returned with the medical equipment he needed. Sherlock's eyes quickly analyzed each and every item, out of habitual safety precaution, but made no attempt to alter John's process. He squinted slightly at his touch, cleaning the wound. It was uncomfortable, but he honestly hadn't noticed it as much as he had noticed the warm, familiar fingers on his skin. John's hands. He liked John's hands. They were very...professional, tough, but soft all at the same time. Interesting. When John finished with the disinfectant, he winced lightly as cool air met the damp wound. Now it was painful. "Autsch, Scheiße vorsichtig sein!" He complained at the stinging, but settled down after nearly waving John's hand away. Smirking, he looked up at John when he mentioned how lucky he was. Yes, how very lucky. He truly was, but Sherlock didn't like to look at it as luck. More like damn well earned results. "Ha! Luck..." He chuckled, but contained himself.

It was odd, being here with him again. It almost started to feel as if none of this had ever happened, that they were simply enjoying their company, and John nurturing him back to health after a lovely case in London. Sadly, it was far from that reality. "What? I think red looks rather good on me," He remarked, but drove his eyes into the ground. He couldn't risk saying something like that, AND looking him straight in the eye. It was too much of him, too painful to open up so easily, knowing it could just as easily get his best friend killed. "Ah, danke-er, thank you, Dr. Watson... I appreciate your hospitality...." He said, quickly standing up on suddenly weak knees. He struggled to gain his balance, since his vision had started to spin sideways, and so he found himself slowly sinking downward, missing the bed and ending up sitting on the floor. His shaky hand reached for his head, pressing on the bandage lightly. God, no, no, this couldn't be happening-not right now. Couldn't it have justed waited until after he was up and out of the door? His world was teetering up and down, his head throbbed, and his eyes burned.


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See my head aches from all this thinkin'
Feels like a ship God, God knows I'm sinkin'
Wonder what you do and where it is you stay.

x
x

These questions like a whirlwind, they carry me away.







I ' MxxxO N L YxxxH U M A N .


→xxS H E R L O C K xx✗xxH O L M E S

[StoriesByBrook]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
x
x

Is it enough to have some love small enough to slip inside a book;
small enough to cover with your hands, because everyone around you wants to look?



Is it enough to have some love small enough to fit inside the cracks;
the pieces don’t fit together so good with all the breaking and all the gluing back.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.


xxxxxxxxxx



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x
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John didn’t believe for a second that the desk had told a complete stranger his room, at least he hoped he hadn’t. “Uh, no that’s fine.” He lied. Of course it was a problem, what if someone wanted to rob the place? Though in honesty, John doubted that was really the case. If this man was who John suspected he was then the man at the desk hadn’t told ‘Boris’ anything. The words spoken by the German weren’t understood by the blond doctor, but he continued on with his work.

“Yes, luck!” The ginger could scoff all he wanted, but he had come seriously close to stitches; the thought may seem amusing to the taller man, but John had seen nasty head wounds. They were no laughing matter. He had seen good men die from head wounds, some far worse and some not far off from the injury the ginger had sustained.

This was nice, even if the situation wasn’t a good one. Azure eyes watched the German closely; there were so many thing, subtle things: like how Boris’ speech pattern would change every now and then, the way those ardent eyes took in information, the way those bow lips smirked and how he scoffed at luck. He had only known ‘Boris’ for a few hours, but he had trusted the man, gotten into a fight with the man. There was only one other person he had jumped head first into trouble with… How was he supposed to think Sherlock was dead when the man sitting in front of him was so similar? John’s heart ached in conflict; he wanted to believe in the idea, but he couldn’t turn his back on what he had witnessed, or what Molly had told him.

John let out a slight chuckle, “Well, it certainly is different.” He cleared his throat, and taking a step back from the ginger. He shouldn’t have said that. What if he was wrong? Boris was going to end up thinking he was a crazy person. The fact the other doctor wouldn’t looked at him probably meant John had already crossed the line.

“Right. No problem.” The blond took a step away from the short hall to the door, allowing the doctor to leave. “Just take it easy, not more fist fights for—Hey!” John lurched forward, grabbing the ginger’s arms as the taller man sank to the floor. “Are you alright?” He gently pulled the other man’s face up to look at his eyes; John shook his head and let out a sigh. “Let me guess, blurred vision and most likely a monstrous headache.”

John knelt down, wrapping one of his arm under the ginger’s shoulders and pulling him up onto the bed. “Right then.” The army doctor pulled the covers back, angling the lithe man to lay back on the mattress. “You’re not going anywhere for a while.” John pulled the covers across the man, shaking his head. Boris should have said something about the headache earlier. “You’ve probably got a concussion.” He pressed his hand against the man’s chest for a moment, making sure he wouldn’t try to stand up again. “You need to lay down and rest.” Sleep wasn’t exactly safe for someone to do when they had a concussion; he’d be up all night making sure the man kept breathing.

When he was sure the man wasn’t going to try and get up, John went to the chair, moving his case off the furniture and pulling the chair near the bed. He let out a soft groan, rolling his neck as he lifted his feet to rest on the bed that he couldn’t crawl into because of a certain ginger occupying it. And before John knew it his eyes were drooping down and his head was lulling to the side as he fell asleep in the no-so-comfortable chair he was sitting in.

The next thing John knew, he was bolting up right startled awake by something. The ex-military man let out a soft groan, hand coming up to rub his neck; his shoulders and lower back were killing him, though he supposed that’s what he got for sleeping in a wooden chair. There was a knock on his door, and John begrudgingly stood up, hissing slightly at the pain in his lower back. The doctor pulled the door open, leaning against it heavily as he was still half asleep. “Molly?” Sleep filled azure eyes blinked at the girl for a moment before where they were and why hit the blond.

“s**t! What time is it!?” John spun around back into the room; he was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. “Uh… Molly!” He turned back to look at the small woman. “I’m sorry. I.. lost track of time. Can I meet you at the postmortem lecture before lunch?” He wouldn’t make the first lecture on a new kind of suture he had wanted to attend, but he could catch up with his friend for the late morning time slot before he went to meet Arthur for lunch.


x
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▀ ▀ ▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀ ▀
x
x
x


And is it getting harder to pretend that life goes on without you in the wake,
and can you see the means without the end in the random frantic action that we take?



And you may be acquainted with the night,
but I have seen the darkness in the day and you must know it is a terrifying sight
because you and I are living the same way.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.



xxxxxxxxxx


J U S T xxD O N ' T xx B E xx D E A D

[Roue Lette]

You disappear with all your good intentions.
And all I am is all I could not mention.
No, I never meant to let you go at all.

x
x

Who will bring me flowers when it's over?


xxxxxxxxxxxx

x
x

D O N ' TxxxE V E RxxxS A YxxxG O O D Y E .



▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

Dr. Boris Amsel, German Neurologist.

x
x

At first Sherlock had a hard time grasping what was going on. His head throbbed, and his eyes refused to stay focused. He could hear John rushing toward him, his arm pulling him up off the floor. "John...." He groaned groggily at first, but regained his composure, and his character, and swatted away the doctor's hands once he had successfully helped him up on the bed. No, no...he didn't need this now! He needed to be leaving, and staying gone. Somehow, despite this bit of logical insistence, he didn't move from the bed. He was stuck there, body practically molding into the soft mattress that screamed his name. There were two things wrong with this picture-one, he was suddenly quite sleepy. Of course head injury patients were suppose to sleep without proper supervision, but John he told himself, was proper enough. But secondly, Sherlock hated to sleep, or even eat during his work. It was nuisance, something he simply couldn't afford to bother with. Yet here he was, lulling into a sleep that wouldn't let him protest much further. He was grumpy about it, shifty, and irritated by the way he was giving in. But he gave in nonetheless. Concussion or not, Sherlock had gone under.

It may have been a dangerous decision, but it may have worked out for the better. His body restored itself to the best that it could in the few hours of sleep he had gotten. His body still shifted often, as Sherlock always slept, but he felt good. He didn't wake until he heard a commotion at the door. His ardent eyes snapped open, regretfully so. Everything blurred back into his focus, and though he felt rather nauseas at first, he composed himself, and slid up into a sitting position. His hands rested on his head while his eyes observed John frantically speaking to someone at the door. Molly? Molly! He was talking to Molly Hooper. Well, at least it was her and not anyone else...like that overly friendly military pal of his.
Molly Hooper, however, stared at John oddly when he had opened it. He was tired, which didn't surprise her, but not only was he wearing the same clothing he wore yesterday (which suggested he tired himself out to the point of exhaustion before changing), but he looked rather roughed up. She had heard rumors about some fight going on last night, but it was simply just the local news-things that made little sense to her since her knowledge of foreign languages was still a bit rusty. She was even more discouraged by the tone of his voice, and the fact that he wasn't even aware of what time it was. "Oh...um, ok. Sure, sure, no problem..." She replied, so uncertain of how to handle this situation. What was going on with him? Was the 'Sherlock' he had seen still bothering him? Maybe she should check up on Sherlock, see what he was up to... but more importantly, she felt the need to keep a closer eye on John. She promised Sherlock she would. And now she felt guilty-staring at a man who looked worse for wear. "I'll just...see you later then..."She said, waving her hand idly before the door closed, and she left reluctantly. God, if anything happened to him...Sherlock would kill her.

She pulled out her phone and quickly shot him a message, hoping it would reach him. And it most certainly did. Sherlock had been watching them closely. Though he was un able to actually see Molly, he could just barely hear her. He could tell that the way John blew her off was going to come across as suspicious to the girl-after all, he did train her on what to look for. If Sherlock couldn't be around to watch him, then Molly and Mycroft would have to do. Lately however, it had been mostly on her shoulders. Mycroft had joined him more and more often, providing as much help as he could without seeming suspicious or endangering Sherlock's cover. His eyes had averted John the moment his phone went off. It rumbled loudly in his pocket, and in an instant, he drew it out. His eyes glared at the several missed messages. How had he not woken up at their alerts? Ah, head injury...right...not to mention, it had been days since he last had a proper sleep.


John's acting funny. And looks pretty beat....I'm not sure what to do. -MH

Don't worry about it. He's fine. -SH


He smirked and placed the phone back in his pocket, ignoring the multiple messages and missed calls from his brother. He rose to his feet slowly, pleased that he had better balance now then he had before. "I should go..." He grumbled, "Long day. Conference." He walked slowly toward the door. Hopefully John wouldn't waste anymore time or effort in keeping him there.



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See my head aches from all this thinkin'
Feels like a ship God, God knows I'm sinkin'
Wonder what you do and where it is you stay.

x
x

These questions like a whirlwind, they carry me away.







I ' MxxxO N L YxxxH U M A N .


→xxS H E R L O C K xx✗xxH O L M E S

[StoriesByBrook]

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
x
x

Is it enough to have some love small enough to slip inside a book;
small enough to cover with your hands, because everyone around you wants to look?



Is it enough to have some love small enough to fit inside the cracks;
the pieces don’t fit together so good with all the breaking and all the gluing back.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.


xxxxxxxxxx



▀ ▀ ▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀ ▀

x
x
x

Thank god for Molly Hooper; John realized she was probably worried, based off her staggered words it was a likely assumption. It wasn’t his intent to make her worry. He had simply forgotten to set an alarm; after yesterday, he was more exhausted than he had thought. Of course being in the same clothes, and looking a bit roughed up probably wasn’t helping the small woman either. He’d find a way to make it up to Molly. “Thanks, Molly.” He flashed her a smile before shutting the door.

John ran a hand over his face, stretching his back in an attempt to wake himself up. Rubbing his neck as he stepped back into his room, he flashed Boris a slight awkward smile, “Good. You’re up.” Deep cerulean eyes watched the other carefully as the ginger stood from the bed; obviously feeling a bit better, though the ex-military doctor would have preferred to check up on the cut. “Right…” John nodded reluctantly, side stepping so the taller man could get past him to the door.

Would he ever see this man again? He had to, there was no question; John had to know who this guy was, and why he resembled Sherlock so much. But what were the odds of running into him again with so many people at the conference… though John had run into him twice already… and the odds of him looking just like Sherlock were even more slim, that was if Boris wasn’t Sherlock in disguise. John was determined to find out if that was the case; he couldn’t exactly stalk the guy around the entire convention, John wasn’t Sherlock. If he was right in his assumptions – more like wishes, a part of his mind reprimanded him – Sherlock wouldn’t let him follow anyway.

John opened the door of his room, holding it open for the man who so strongly desired to leave it seemed. “Lunch!” The blond cleared his throat, looking down at the floor for a brief moment, “Uh… that is… I’m meeting an old friend during the lunch break, at the English pub place down the road.” John shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “If you uh… want to join us.” It might have sounded strange, but John needed some excuse to see the man again; he’d figure out how to explain things to Arthur.

“Right, well then.” John gave a curt nod, “Watch out, yeah? I’m not the one with thugs trying to beat the s**t of me.” He gave a slight smile, watching the guy leave as he shut the door behind the ginger. John would worry about the German later, right now he had to take a quick shower, change clothes, and meet Molly at the postmortem lecture.

An hour later, John Watson found himself pushing through a few groups of people standing and conversing on his way to conference room 235A. With lectures going on and more rooms opening up, the crowd had thankfully spread out more, allowing people to walk down the halls without too much pushing and shoving – it was still crowded, but John didn’t feel like he would have a claustrophobic attack like he had the previous day.

John slide into the lecture hall a few minutes before the presenter gave his speech, his eyes scanning the seats for his petite friend. He found her, sitting somewhat in the middle, not too far forward, not too far back. “Excuse me.” He muttered, sliding past people already seated in the row. John flashed Molly a grin, taking the seat next to her. “Sorry about earlier. I forgot to set an alarm.” His grin morphed into an apologetic smile.

He would have to watch himself, the last thing he wanted to do was worry Molly; she had been so concerned after Sherlock’s death, John didn’t want to cause the woman any more worry. So, he’d have to be careful. But trying to appear as perfectly fine was so difficult when his back was killing him and he was so tired. The lecturer’s monotone voice certainly wasn’t helping him stay awake. He must have zoned out, because he seemed to blink at the lecture was over. John cleared his throat, standing up and sliding his black jacket back on. “I’ve got to run. I’m meeting an old friend from the army for lunch.” John said his goodbyes, before making his way out of the conference hall, down a flight of stairs, through the door and across the street.

It was a nice outside, cool but not freezing; the streets weren’t too crowded, and traffic wasn’t bad. John hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he stepped into the pub-restaurant. “John!” The blond doctor was pulled into a one armed hug, Arthur appearing by his side and pulling him to a table in front of the window. “I didn’t see you at the heart resuscitation lecture this morning.” The other blond gave a light smirk, “Busy night?”

Arthur was a jokester, he made light of everything. “Not in the way you mean it, Arthur.” John shook his head, looking down at the menu’s that were waiting on the table. And so began the long trip down memory lane. Arthur had been his closest friend when he was in the military; the other blond was smarter than he let on, his jokeful facade was how he coped. They all had ways of getting by; when you saw men killed in front of you, you had to have some way to manage all the death. Arthur chose to be a prankster. And John? He went along with it... until he was shot.

After he was shot, John had nothing... John wandered through the day with no purpose... But then he had Sherlock

x
x
x
x

▀ ▀ ▀ ▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀ ▀ ▀ ▀
x
x
x


And is it getting harder to pretend that life goes on without you in the wake,
and can you see the means without the end in the random frantic action that we take?



And you may be acquainted with the night,
but I have seen the darkness in the day and you must know it is a terrifying sight
because you and I are living the same way.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.



xxxxxxxxxx


J U S T xxD O N ' T xx B E xx D E A D

[Roue Lette]

You disappear with all your good intentions.
And all I am is all I could not mention.
No, I never meant to let you go at all.

x
x

Who will bring me flowers when it's over?


xxxxxxxxxxxx

x
x

D O N ' TxxxE V E RxxxS A YxxxG O O D Y E .



▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄ ▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

Dr. Boris Amsel, German Neurologist.

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He was so grateful that John had not insisted he stay. He knew had this been Sherlock, instead of Boris, John wouldn't have hesitated to throw at him his stubborn concern and force him to lay off the action. But times, unfortunately, were different, and he wasn't himself-at all. He was some German shmuck who got into fights with overly rowdy Russians. Yep, made complete sense. Oh, he could only imagine the verbal beating Mycroft would attempt to lash out at him, once he gave his brother the opportunity to actually get his attention. He had ignored all those messages for a reason-that reason being he wasn't in the mood to be pushed around, or prodded by his older brother. Still, Sherlock knew that if he didn't check in with the elder Holmes soon, things would get out of hand. Mycroft would most likely send a ridiculously large force to track him down. He had already made it clear to Sherlock that he was /not/ going to let him die, or 'disappear' again. Not without his 'consent' apparently. He rolled his eyes painfully at the thought. Honestly, if Sherlock wanted to disappear, he would...but Mycroft was still clever, and it was only a matter of time before he caught up to him. The only reason he hadn't found him earlier was because Mycroft wasn't aware that he was even alive. But he knew the truth, which made it sufficiently easier to keep tabs on his baby brother.

He was so ready to walk down that hall and not look back, but John always changed everything. The moment he sheepishly interrupted their parting, he turned to stare at him with a confused expression. His brow arched high, and his eyes narrowed a bit, trying to observe him. Lunch? Did he really just invite him to lunch?! After nearly being killed by three Russians, the doctor still wanted him there. Damn John, he never did change. Any bit of action, of danger and he was completely enthralled. He grinned slightly. Not because of the invitation, though he would allow John to think that was what it was for, no, t his was because it had made him happy knowing John still longed for that sense of adventure. It was what drew him to Sherlock immediately, and what had helped him rid the psychosomatic tremor in his hand, and the usage of his cane. He had become the soldier again! Not just the medic. It was nice seeing that part of John again, having him at his back, which made this moment even harder....

"No, I'll pass," He told him, before nodding and leaving. God his chest hurt! Why did it hurt? This was ridiculous, feeling so overwhelmingly upset about turning him down. Of course he wanted to go to lunch! He wouldn't eat of course-he couldn't be bothered with digestion on a mission like this, but he longed to see him again, to sit, to hear his voice, and communicate with him . He was tired of the updates from Mycroft, or from Molly. He wanted his own time with him...and it wasn't fair. To either of them. He was quick to disappear down the hall, trying to ignore anything noise coming from behind him. He was on the verge of breaking, so close to turning around and pulling him into a hug and saying how sorry he was. He'd never be able to apologize enough! Not to John, for all that he put him through. Sherlock disappeared into the morning bustle that was Zurich. He finally caved in and messaged his brother while heading for his current hideout in order to change and prepare himself for another day's work. Somehow, however...Sherlock knew in the back of his mind that he wouldn't be able to stay away from John for long. Perhaps showing up to lunch unexpected wouldn't be so bad after all....


Not dead. Stop fretting. -SH




***


He breathed in the last bit of his cigarette, and allowed the fumes to scorch his throat before exhaling the black smoke into the breezy afternoon. It was a terrible feeling, something he somehow thoroughly enjoyed. Maybe it reminded him of pain, or perhaps it reminded him of the fires and billowing ebony clouds that once engulfed him. He didn't know, and didn't particularly care. He was always a focused man, though now he was far less interested in the reasons behind his pleasure in masochism so much as he was on aligning his rifle to meet his specifications. He sharpened his view by narrowing his eyes slightly as he peered through the scope. Just a little to the left.....and perfect! His azure gaze met the restaurant window, peering past it's common occupants to settle on one single man. John Hammish Watson. He the name lingered on his tongue, burning far worse than the heated tar of the cigarette. He was a dead man. That's all there was to it. He didn't care what the 'deal' was that James and Sherlock had made between one another-he didn't give a damn that the sod jumped after all. Jim shot himself. He ******** killed himself and for what? So this Holmes fellow would simply dive off a building? No. No! That wasn't fair...it was ******** up. What was he suppose to do now? Carry on the organization? Fat chance...Not with people disappearing left and right, and fighting for that power. He didn't care about all of that. Never did. No, Sebastian Moran had gotten himself stuck in the web for James Moriarty. The psychotic little punk was far too alluring for his own good. And strangely, Sebastian was intrigued. So he joined forces, stood at his side, as his main man. He did everything he was asked, and more. And now, when the 'final problem' had come, just like he always went on about, it ended everything. He was so furious. So full of rage that he wanted to snipe out the little shits and leave them to die, just like Jim. For Jim. But for some reason, he stuck to the plan. Sherlock jumped and died in front of John's eyes. And that was it.

He took in a deep breath then, observing John's engaged figure. He was busy talking with some other chump, military-by the looks of it, and her certainly could tell. Just watching John filled with him a range of emotion. Rage, amusement, lust. He couldn't decide on what he wanted to feel more. Angry because it was because of John that Jim had killed himself, because John existed in Sherlock's life, and Sherlock cared about him. Sherlock Holmes had cared about him. All the more reason to bury him into the ground. Then there was the hilarity. John was in his reach, minding his own business, never to suspect a blow to the chest, to the throat, or to the head. It made him chuckle just thinking about it. God, he had been waiting for this. He played his cards right, stayed out of sight, and did whatever Jim's last wished had been before burying him, too, into t he ground. Now there was the lusting. He was yearning for this chance, for his finger to caress the trigger of his sniper rifle, and finally deliver him the solace, the revenge that he deserved. He didn't work so hard, put up with so much, for nothing. Sure, John and he could both relate. They both lost their best friend, their everything...but unlike Dr. Watson, Moran wasn't quite as graceful at moving on. Oh, it was now or never.

He positioned himself gracefully atop of the roof way across from the small English pub. His eyes focused, hands steadied, and slowly he placed pressure on the trigger. "Goodbye, Dr. Watson," He hissed and delivered t he first blow.



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See my head aches from all this thinkin'
Feels like a ship God, God knows I'm sinkin'
Wonder what you do and where it is you stay.

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These questions like a whirlwind, they carry me away.







I ' MxxxO N L YxxxH U M A N .


→xxS H E R L O C K xx✗xxH O L M E S

[StoriesByBrook]

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Is it enough to have some love small enough to slip inside a book;
small enough to cover with your hands, because everyone around you wants to look?



Is it enough to have some love small enough to fit inside the cracks;
the pieces don’t fit together so good with all the breaking and all the gluing back.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.


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It was nice, to be out catching up with Arthur, the last time had really gone out – outside of work and when Molly had forced him out of the flat awhile back – was when he’d grabbed Chinese with Sherlock. John had to admit, it was nice to go somewhere and not be the only one eating.

“Oh! You’ll get a laugh out of this.” Arthur leaned back in his chair after they had ordered. “There were these news stories awhile back; some fake genius running around solving crimes he had—” John blocked out what the other blond was saying, hi mind going through the few times he had already had this conversation. Yes, he was that John Watson. No, Sherlock was nor available for an interview. No, Richard Brook was a fake – that usually didn’t go over well. “Anyway, that’s not important. What is, is he had some sidekick or live in PA named—”

“—John Watson. Yes, I know.” John found the corner of the table very interesting at the moment. “And I wasn’t a side kick or a PA. Just flatmate.”And friend.

Arthur was silent for a moment, looking at his former comrade. “Sorry… Sucks that he offed himself, mate.”

“Yeah…”

The conversation moved on from there, much to John’s relief. Sherlock was a topic he really didn’t want to get into. It seemed Arthur still understood John enough to know when to let a subject drop. It still hurt, to talk about him, especially to people who hadn’t known the consulting detective. They didn’t understand; they only knew the twisted truths the news had spread.

“—and the time you swapped his water with rubbing alcohol!?”Arthur reminisced about their service time. The two of them laughed, going over the pranks either of them had pulled.

The waiter came with their food in no time, balancing two plates and utensils in his hands. “Reuben sandwich.” He spoke with a thick accent that made John wonder how much English the man really knew. Arthur raised his hand slightly, and the man set the plate in front of him. “BLT.” The man set the plate in front of John, his hand hitting John’s glass sending it flying to the floor. “Oh! I so sorry!”

John had luckily avoided having beer spill on him. “No. No. It’s fine.” The blond turned, bending down to grab the pieces of glass off the floor. There was a loud noise followed by a shattering sound, and hard pellets rained down on John’s back. It was as if time slowed down; the waiter crumpled to the floor, muffed shouts reached his ears, people leapt up from their tables all turning towards the two blonds, red liquid flowed out from the waiter’s abdomen. And suddenly John realized how he knew that sound; it was a sound that echoed throughout any military man’s mind: a gun shot.

Azure eyes met sea green as the two blonds spun around, falling to their knees as the pushed the table on its side; the table wouldn’t provide much coverage due to its small mass, but it would have to work for the moment. “The hell!?” Arthur instinctively ducked as a third bullet landed in the window frame not far from where John was ducking. John would have had some kind or retort, but his attention had quickly turned to the bleeding man on the ground. Someone had shot at them – at him – and as a result the waiter – an innocent bystander – had been shot. “Behind the bar.” Arthur jerked his head in the direction of the bar, the higher walls would prove better cover than their small table.

“Right.” John nodded, turning back to look at his lunch partner, eyes locking on the gun the other blond was pulling from under his jacket. “Christ! You carry one of those around with you everywhere, do you?!” Arthur gave the blond a look that screamed ‘of course.’ “Oh! Right! That’s normal.” Sarcasm proved a useful tool while under fire from a sniper trying to kill you for unknown reasons. Arthur shrugged, a sloppy grin slowly spreading across his face.

Arthur and John shared a glance; the ability to speak without words was one of the few advantages to their military training. The armed blond picked up a piece of bread from his ruined Reuben laying on the floor; he barley raised It up above the table when a shot flew through the flatbread. “Damn. b*****d is a good shot!” Arthur’s hand dropped, looking down at the smoking hole in the middle of the wheat.

They shared a look again, John’s attention shifting to the bleeding man on the floor as Arthur cocked his gun. With a look and a nod, they moved into action; Arthur shot up to his knees gun going off in cover fire as John moved to pull the injured waiter across the floor towards the bar.

With a final grunt, John gave the groaning man one final tug, successfully pulling the man to safety. Carefully, John peered around the bar entrance, ”Arthur!” The doctor barely had enough time to lean back out of the way before his comrade slid past him and behind the bar just as another shot rang out

“The son of a b***h sure is determined.” Arthur positioned himself at the corner, pausing to catch his breath before rising to get off a few shots himself.

John was silent, a sense of dread welling up inside of him at the realization that was hitting him: the shooter was only firing when John was in eye sight. He was the target. But why? What had he done? Or better yet, who had he pissed off? Since Sherlock’s death, he had been served, minding his own business; living a “normally dull life” as he was sure Sherlock would put it.

A sharp cry pulled John from his thoughts, a glass on the bar table had shattered near Arthur, sending glass across the blond man’s face. “Here.” John carefully climbed across the waiter, taking the gun from the other, “Look at him.” John nodded towards the waiter. He had barely risen when a shot rang out; John ducked back down, noting as other people in the restaurant had come to hide behind the bar. With a deep breath, John moved back up, gun aimed and fired with trained accuracy, though there wasn’t much he could do with a hand gun. Not from this distance; John didn’t even know where exactly to aim – most likely near the top of the building, but that still left a wide range of area to cover.

“John. Arthur looked up at the other man, hand’s deep into the guy’s gut. “John, I can’t…” Blood gushed out from the man’s wound, spilling out onto the floor. “I can’t get my hands on this bleeder.” John’s attention turned to the two at Arthur’s strained tone. Before he had the chance to fully kneel down, another shot ran out and a pain ran through his arm. John sank quickly to his knees with a stifled groan. The bullet had only nicked his forearm; it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as being shot in the shoulder. It still hurt like hell though, and he guessed he’d probably need a few stitches.

With a grimace, John carefully moved next to Arthur. Their personal space awkwardly combined as John climbed over the other blond. Another shot was fired when John shifted up a bit too high, the glass on the table the only thing protecting him from a bullet in the back. “Yeah, definitely a damn good shot.” He passed the gun off to Arthur as the other man slid out from his spot that John quickly took up.

Arthur positioned himself to get a clean shot at the front door if need be, turning to the other people huddled behind the wooden fortress that was the bar table. “One of you has to have a phone! Call the police!” There was a short silence where the blond let out a frustrated growl. “Rufen Sie um Hilfe!” He repeated in German.

John’s full attention was on the waiter currently bleeding out on the floor. Arthur had used a knife to extend the entry room, enough to slip a hand inside; the bleeding needed to stop, and the bullet had nicked an artery. “This is going to hurt.” John gave the poor man an apologetic smile. With a deep breath, John carefully slid a hand into the gaping hole, feeling around for the source of the bleeding. Concentrate. He needed to concentrate where his hand was and how the blood was flowing... And then he hit it: one part of the punctured vein. Good that was a start so where was… His fingers ran over the detached lump again, dreading what he thought it was. John searched for the other end of the split artery, fingers traveling several inches before they felt the frayed edges; the tattered lump he had felt earlier being the blown up bits of the many inches between the two severed ends. That wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all.

Azure eyes trailed up to look at Arthur whose attention had already been on him. They had another silent conversation, Arthur’s raised eyebrows and questioning gaze answered by John’s slumped shoulders and deflated eyes. Without the proper equipment – and even with sutures – there wasn’t anything John could do for the poor man. Not without being in a legitimate medical facilities. John shook his head, hands fighting to find a way to block off each end somehow to stop the blood from flowing out; the only thing it caused was for his arms and clothes to be further stained in the red liquid. The now unconscious waiter started coughing, John’s frantic need to get a handle on the situation rising. “No! No, don’t you—” Blood pooled from the young man’s mouth, dripping down his cheer as his head lulled to the side. “Damn it!!” John snapped, elbow jarring back to hit the shelf behind him, as he pulled his other arm from the man’s insides, the loose-floating bit of artery following his bloodied hand to drip down onto the dead man’s chest.

“s**t.” Arthur eyed the missing piece of anatomy, grimacing at the sight. The blond looked up at the other doctor and his bloodied form. “There wasn’t anything—”

“—Yeah.” John cut him, nodding. “I know.” He slid down to sit on the floor, back falling to rest against the bar. The doctor let out a frustrated sigh, looking up at the ceiling before down at his bloodied appearance. It was the worst feeling, having someone die in front of you, because of you. Placing blame on himself was irrational, he knew, but it was an action that was hard for him to avoid. Especially in this circumstance where John was rather sure he had been the true target. That understood, John realized he should probably get out of there. He’d either have to deal with the authorities, risk having the shooter actually enter the restaurant – though he doubted a marksman like that was that stupid – or run into some other form of trouble. He wasn’t sure if the Russians from the other night were involved or not, but neither was an encouraging thought; he didn’t know which sounded worse, not knowing why the Russians were targeting him, or not knowing who exactly was after him.

John eyed the back door for a moment, hearing the distant sounds of sirens going off. With a deep breath, John stood back up to a crouch. “I… I need some air.”

“John? Oi! John!” Arthur called after John as he pushed himself out from behind the bar, quickly sliding to the back door and slipping out into the kitchen. It was risky going outside, he knew… but it was too hot in there, too stifling. The door in the kitchen lead behind the building, facing away from where the sniper had set up – though John doubted he’d still be there.

The air was more than appreciated, the blond nearly collapsing against the brick wall; an arm flew out, grasping it to keep him upright. John winced, arm falling back to his side as he remembered the injury he had sustained. He pivoted to lean his good shoulder against the wall instead. John enjoyed the thrill of the cases he worked with Sherlock; they gave him the adrenaline he had craved so much for. And while John still very much considered himself an adrenaline junkie, what had just happened reminded him too much of the war… of being shot. The memories were flooding over him, his body betraying the mix of excitement and fear – most of all fear – he was feeling: his knees felt weak, his vision was unfocused, his breathing was labored. But he couldn’t let it get the best of him, not until he was somewhere safe… Safe. Where was safe when John didn’t even know who was after him?


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And is it getting harder to pretend that life goes on without you in the wake,
and can you see the means without the end in the random frantic action that we take?



And you may be acquainted with the night,
but I have seen the darkness in the day and you must know it is a terrifying sight
because you and I are living the same way.



But you are, my love, the astronaut flying in the face of science.
I will gladly stay an afterthought just bring back some nice reminders.



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J U S T xxD O N ' T xx B E xx D E A D