Blind Support for Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 1

John followed Sherlock, who quickly strode out the crime scene.
"Well, that was quick," noted John.
"As always," Sherlock smirked. John had barely had time to hear Sherlock's ideas and conclusions, and all he really remembered was a young victim in an expensive and modern flat in the middle of London. Where were they exactly? John wasn't even sure.

"Cap?" John asked.
"Yes, but let's get out of this mess first, shall we?" Sherlock motioned towards the unusual amount of police cars, police officers and journalist covering the area outside the crime scene.

"Let's."

John excused both of them while Sherlock shoved everyone out of his way, not even looking back. John kept a cautious eye on the journalist, already clicking away on their damned cameras. He really wished Sherlock would behave in front of them, just once in a while. John tried his best to ignore the blinking lights, seeming much lighter now that the sun had gone down what seemed like hours ago. It was hard though, and John made sure he kept a straight face when walking past them.

"Sherlock, not so fast!" he called, having walked slower than him, apologizing to everyone he rambled into. 'I'm to nice for my own good', John thought, sighing.

Mildly surprised that Sherlock actually stopped, John smiled at him. His face went blank, however, when he caught sight of something.
"John?" John did not respond. He stared. He stared at a man, standing but a few meters from the crowd of journalist. He wore a big jacket, too warm for tonight's weather. John noticed him, because he had caught a glimpse of what was underneath the jacket. It was only a glimpse, but it was enough. John got eye contact with the man, a devilish grin spreading on his face.

John reacted before he could think, fisting Sherlock's coat and shoving him to the side. Sherlock slammed into the nearest police car and John jumped to him, shielding him with his own body. And deafening 'boom' surrounded them in the next moment. John faintly heard Sherlock surprised yelp just above his ear somewhere. John was pushed violently into Sherlock and the car, all air was stolen from him and he grunted in pain from the shockwaves blow. What felt like hours, but must have been minutes, John opened his eyes. He found himself sitting half on Sherlock's legs, half on the ground, facing Sherlock.
"John! John, speak to me, are you alright?" Sherlock asked. John's head was aching and throbbing unpleasantly.

"I think- I guess so…" he tried. He was still clutching Sherlock's coat, holding it in a tight iron grip. Just as he let it go, he grimaced when he felt pain spreading in his shoulder, moving his arm. "Mmphf!"

"John? What is it? What happened?" Sherlock sounded surprisingly worried.

"I'm- it's just my shoulder, don't worry. Are you okay?" John looked over Sherlock's face and body. No blood. Good.

"I'm- yes! Yes, I'm fine, great- now let me see!" He gently moved John of his legs and turned John so that he could see his back. "Splinter from the explosion- you'll be fine."

"Told you so."
"Don't." Sherlock sounded shocked, though he would of course never admit such thing. "Don't talk. We're getting out of here."

John found himself in the flat by what seemed like the power of magic. He only faintly remembered sitting in a cap, surrounded by Sherlock and his voice. He felt the soft cushions of their couch and only then noticing his shaking hands.
"What's going on?" he asked, as if he had just woken up from sleeping. Sherlock stood in the kitchen and turned when he heard John speak. He quickly strode to stand by John. He handed him a cup of steaming hot tea.

"You're in shock. I think." Sherlock adds with hesitation.

"Oh, well, great." Sherlock kneeled in front of John, remaining silent for a moment. John would maybe have thought it odd, seeing Sherlock in front of him like this, staring intently at him, but right at the moment he had a hard time concentrating on anything.

"John," Sherlock spoke softly, "did you encounter bombs in Afghanistan?"

John huffed, "Of course I did."

"Personally?"
John was silent for a moment, struck by a long line of memories.
"…Yes."

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"What did you see?"
"What?" John looked into Sherlock's eyes after having dropped them to stare into the steam from his tea.

"What did you see? On the street? How did you know?" Sherlock looked tense, hair impossible more messy and curly than ever and a fine layer of dust covering his face and coat. He has mud on his cheek, and John had to resist the urge to lick his thumb and remove it.

"I-uh- a man."
"A man, do you remember his face?"

"Not-uh… He was smiling."
"Smiling?"
"Yes, and he…" John trailed of.
"What John? What is it?" Sherlock inquired.

"He was strapped in explosives, Sherlock, just like-"
"-you," Sherlock finished. His eyes were beaming, like they always do when his crazy mind is spinning, but he looked befuddled as well. "The same way-?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
Sherlock only nodded. "Copycat."
"Copycat?" John asked confused. "But I just said-"
"Yes, what you saw all matched Moriarty's methods, but you said the bomber was smiling. Obviously he must have know of the heavy explosives around his waist, and so he must have either set of the bomb himself or known it would happen."
"A suicide bomber…"

"Yes, that as well, but more importantly a copycat." Sherlock continued. John gasped when he unconsciously tipped his teacup so that the hot fluid spilled on his thigh. He breathed heavily as Sherlock snatched the cup from him and put it on the coffee table. He left and quickly returned with a cloth soaked in cold water.

"We'll figure out the rest later, tomorrow if necessary," Sherlock said, his word hardly above a whisper. John took the cloth and hastily pressed it to the burned spot.

"Thank you," he mumbled, "Why don't you just go? Alone, I mean."
Sherlock looked at him incredulously, "Of course not. I don't go anywhere without you, John."

John snorted. "I'm staying. I'll be watching over you," Sherlock stated simply.

"Since when have you become the doctor?" John said, praying he wasn't blushing.

Sherlock smiled and gave John his tea back. "Don't drop it again."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock stopped in his tracks as he walked to the door to hang his coat near it, turning to face John.

"The man. He blew himself up."
"Yes."
"Does this mean…" he nodded weakly down his body. Sherlock stayed silent for a moment. Then he was by John's side again, snatched his tea once more, and removed his jacket without much trouble. John just moved his arms around a bit, to help, closing his eyes when he saw what it looked like. Unidentifiable dark… things were stuck on the back of his beige coat. He groaned, "That's- ugh. I think Lestrade would like that for evidence."
"He most likely does. However I don't think that he'll be needing it, seeing that there was so much DNA on the scene anyway."
"Sherlock-"
"Don't worry, I'll give it to him."
"No, Sherlock, were there any casualties?"
Sherlock threw the jacket somewhere over his shoulder, "You mean besides the bomber? I don't know. I don't believe so."
John sighed in relief, "Okay, good, that's good. I'm going to lay down, for a while, okay?" Sherlock nodded, keeping eye contact with John. "Please stop deducing me?"
"Sorry, I was merely making sure you were healthy enough to stay hom-"
"I'm not going to the hospital so just be quiet, or play some violin, or whatever." John said as he lay down on the couch. Sherlock smirked, "I believe I have a bad influence on you, good Doctor."
"Yes, well, surprise-surprise!" John mumbled as he laid one arm over his eyes and sighed tiredly. Sherlock just stood, fetched his violin and began playing a nice lulling piece, waiting for John to fall asleep.

When John woke up, it was early next morning. Sherlock was not surprisingly awake. "Morning, John." Sherlock greeted him.

"Hmm. Morning," John yawned and stretched, halting the movement when he felt his aching shoulder. "Bloody-"

Sherlock looked up at him, watching him from behind the screen of his laptop- his own laptop for once. "All right?"
"Yes, fine, fine." John grimaced but didn't make a sound. Sherlock frowned but kept quiet as well. "Are we going to meet Lestrade? Today I mean?"
"Yes. He texted me just moments ago, saying we should meet him as soon as we could."

Sherlock made no move to leave.
"So? Are we going then?"
"Are you ready? Don't you want a shower first? I think Lestrade would appreciate it."

"I… Yes. Yes, of course. I'll hurry."
Sherlock smiled as John got up and headed for the shower. John thanked his years of experience with blood and gore for keeping him from gagging from the things he found in his hair and on his clothing. He tried not to think too much about it, and quickly filled his senses with the fruity smell of shampoo. When clean, dried and dressed, he hurriedly stuffed himself with a piece of toast and a glass of water and met Sherlock in the sitting room.

"Ready," he declared.

"Good!" Sherlock stood promptly and lead the way downstairs. John followed noting Mrs Hudson's locked door on the way down. "Mrs Hudson?"
"Out of town, visiting a friend as I recall it."

"Oh, I see," John stopped at the last step of the staircase.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, hearing his footsteps stop behind him.

"I forgot my jacket, I'll just go get one – one moment," He turned around and walked back up the stairs.

"I'll get a cap!" Sherlock yelled after him.

"Yes, do that!" John reached the sitting room as he heard Sherlock enter the street. He quickly turned around and headed for his own room as he saw the bloodied jacket on the floor. He only sighed over the fact that Sherlock –of course- hadn't brought it with him to give Lestrade. He reached his room and scanned it for a new jacket. He spotted one underneath his bed and rushed to get it. When he reached the door, however, he froze. Sherlock was outside, waiting, and Mrs Hudson was not in. Then who made that cracking noise on the staircase? John tried to deduce the situation like Sherlock would have. Or like he though Sherlock would have. No one was invited to the flat, and they were on their way to see Lestrade, so surely he wouldn't be here now? And Sherlock was right outside the front door- he would have noticed someone entering the flat. Therefore, whoever was creeping up the stairs must have sneaked in somehow. Whoever it was, was not welcome - unless of course Sherlock had gotten impatient and was coming to drag John along.

John cautiously leaned forward to peek down the staircase, when a pair of enormous rough hands grabbed him by his new jacket and pulled him, with a great strength, over the railing of the staircase and shoved him down the stairs. He fell, crashed against the stairs and tumbled down. He grunted in surprise and pain, trying to shield his face with his arm, still rolling down. He stilled himself, throwing an arm to the side and halting his body, he looked up at his assailant, just in time to notice a great belt of explosives around his waist. The man grinned and led a hand to the belt.
"NO, WAIT!" John yelled, but the maniac had already done the deed.