Five Times that Sherlock was Safe

1.

John stared at the beeping coordinate of the phone for a second too long before slamming the netbook shut, before bolting out of the flat.

The phone hadn't been there at all. It had been, but on a different person. On another man. On a cabbie. And Sherlock had gotten into a cab. The phone was traveling away. Sherlock was getting further away from safety, and further into the hands of a serial killer.

John had figured it out immediately and, despite the fact that he should have been proud of himself, should have been thinking that Sherlock would have been proud, too, all he could think about was how incredibly stupid Sherlock was. Who would ever... why would he... John couldn't even collect his thoughts through yelling into his own mobile and stating directions to his cabbie. He was scared. He was scared for Sherlock and he barely even knew the man.

It all got worse when John realized that he had chosen the wrong building. It got worse when he could see Sherlock, but couldn't get to him. It was the worst when John knew, knew, without a doubt, that Sherlock was going to take that pill.

Looking back, he wouldn't be able to remember when he made the conscious decision to do what he did. He didn't remember pulling out his gun, didn't remember opening the window, didn't remember shooting with exact precision. He didn't remember making the choice to do all of those things, and yet, he had done them all the same.

He had no regrets.

Sherlock was safe. But only for now.

2.

When the lights went out and Sherlock took off at a dead run out of the room, John shouldn't have been surprised. If he were to be honestly true to himself, honestly, he would have known that he wasn't. Wasn't surprised, but something else: scared.

He was always scared that Sherlock was going to run off and not come back. He was terrified that Sherlock would go down one day and not get back up. The thought haunted him. It spurred him into action.

He led Soo Lin into the safest place he could think of, which wasn't a safe place at all, but safer than where Sherlock was.

The gunshots echoed in his ears and, with every one, he sent up a silent plea: please let him be okay, please let him be okay. The gunshots kept going, so John thought that that meant Sherlock wasn't dead. Wasn't dead yet.

The museum was large and confusing at best, but John was following the gunshots, the sounds that his ears had become so trained to. He had to find Sherlock, had to find Sherlock...

The gunshots stopped. That scared him more than anything else. His heartbeat picked up, he paused; one more gunshot. Silence. For one wild moment, he panicked. But it would take more than one, singular gunshot to take down Sherlock Holmes.

His next best guess at what had happened would invariably be proven correct.

Sherlock was safe. But someone else hadn't been.

3.

They were both in danger. They were both in danger, but the funny thing was, John didn't feel panicked for himself. He was panicked for Sherlock.

It was slowly becoming a steady thing for him, to panic for Sherlock. To worry, to fret, to be fearful for what would happen to his flatmate, his friend. Because Sherlock did none of that for himself, John felt obligated.

There were bombs at the other end of the pool, there were targets on their bodies, and Sherlock was pointing his gun in pre-meditation of blowing the swimming pool up. John agreed with what Sherlock was doing; he agreed one hundred percent. It was better to die and kill this Moriarty lunatic than to die and let him live. It was just... better.

John was wondering if he could tackle Sherlock into the pool after he pulled the trigger. He could try, and they might drown, but they might fry, anyway.

He took a steadied breath, willing it to be over with, willing for the suspense to stop and for peace to finally crash down around their ears. He just wanted peace, one moment of peace-

John would never be able to exactly figure out his emotions after Moriarty's phone had gone off, after Moriarty had gotten a better offer, after Moriarty walked out, leaving them safe. He just wouldn't be able to rationalize a state of emotion except relief.

Sherlock was safe. But they were both destined for disaster now.

4.

When John walked back into Irene Alder's bedroom to find The Woman standing over Sherlock with a riding crop in her hand, John knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong, because Sherlock wouldn't have put himself into such a position.

Panic took over him again, followed by a quick jolt of what he only could describe as his doctor side. Sherlock had been drugged, maybe poisoned; he didn't know. His flatmate couldn't speak, could hardly move, he looked terrible, and yet, Irene Adler was saying that he would be fine. John didn't believe her. John didn't believe her at all.

He didn't know what to do with himself for the next hours. He was constantly checking on Sherlock, making sure nothing had changed, making sure that the detective was only sleeping, and not something else totally unthinkable.

But then.

Eventually Sherlock Holmes, the unstoppable, woke up. He was fine. He was fine and back to his usual pompous, irritating self, but he was fine.

John wouldn't have any way to express the sheer amount of relief that he felt when his friend woke up, when his friend called his name. Even if he had been stumbling about and still unwell, he was alive. That would always be the one most important thing that mattered.

Sherlock was safe. But how many close-calls could he have?

5.

His mind was a volley of fear and curses. They had solved the case. Sherlock had been so sure...! The hound had been fake! Unreal! Not there! Fantasy!

But it was right there, in the darkness, growling and snarling and John wasn't the only one who could see it, because Greg could too, and Greg couldn't have been drugged...!

John was aware that he was shaking. Greg was panicking, Henry was going even further off the deep end. Sherlock, ever calculating, seemed to be bothered for a half second, that precious half second that threw everyone off, before coming to a conclusion that it was somehow still a fake. Still not a raging beast...

Somehow.

And, somehow, Sherlock was right.

John wouldn't have any idea, in the future, how Sherlock could remain so calm in such situations. Faced with life or death, John knew that his own mind went blank. He couldn't recall what he was saying or doing, wouldn't recall anything but paralyzing fear. Sherlock, however, never seemed to be affected.

Sherlock was safe. But John was starting to get weary with panicking needlessly for his friend.

+ 1

Sherlock was safe.

He was supposed to be, anyway.

John should have learned to expect the unexpected.

Every moment, every single moment that John had spent panicking for Sherlock, every second that he had prayed that his friend would be fine did not match up to this. Nothing could match up to watching your friend standing on the end of a building, saying a final goodbye.

First, he felt fear. Then, anger. Finally, desperation. More pleas.

"No, don't-"

But, this time, pleas fell on deaf ears.

Sherlock fell.

John's mind was screaming at him, his thoughts a jumbled up mess besides the chorus of No! going through his head.

Sherlock had to be fine. Sherlock would be fine. Sherlock was always fine.

There was blood on the pavement. Blood matted in Sherlock's hair. Blood across Sherlock's snowy-white skin.

He was too still, too silent. His eyes didn't blink, his heart didn't beat.

John's thoughts were a train wreck, asides from the fact that Sherlock was always fine, Sherlock was always supposed to be safe...! Sherlock was untouchable, nothing could stop Sherlock bloody Holmes...

Except death.

Death stopped everybody.

John didn't know why he thought Sherlock was the exception to the rule. Maybe because Sherlock had always been the exception. Always.

John would never be able to look at St. Barts again. John would never be able to forget the feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched Sherlock fall. He would never be able to explain just how much Sherlock had meant to him. John would never be able to get over the guilt.

He hadn't been able to keep Sherlock safe. That was all he knew.

I'm anxious to torture myself with my post-Reichenbach depression, I guess. Dunno; it fit. Anyway, this is my first 5 +1 story. I was so eager to try it out and, look, I've made it depressing. :P Joy! Anyway, I like the format, although I don't know what I can 5 +1 without being repetitive to other stories out there, so I'm thinking, and you might (probably) see more of this format from me.

Thoughts? Comments? Reactions? Ideas for a 5 +1? Any and all would be appreciated!

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