John

John made his first legitimate contribution.

 "Mind palace," he hissed at Sherlock.

 Sherlock looked up. "Hmm?"

 "Use your mind palace." He sounded possessed, but he couldn't have cared less. They were about to be blown up into little John-and-Sherlock meat strips.

 Sherlock looked at him like he was the stupidest person alive. "How will that help?"

John couldn't believe his ears. Sherlock being in his mind palace had saved them on too many occasions to count, and that was when they thought they really needed it, or they would die.

Sounds about right.

"You've salted away every fact under the sun!" John didn't bother hiding his incredulity.

"Oh, and you think I've just got 'How to Defuse a Bomb' tucked away in there somewhere?"

"Yes!" And he genuinely did think he had it somewhere amidst the clutter in Sherlock's hard drive.

Sherlock looked momentarily jolted, like he couldn't find a point to argue with, and then resigned to accept his own genius. "Maybe," he shrugged, pressing his fingertips to his temples and shutting his eyes.

Sherlock

Sherlock wondered if Mycroft had cameras in this compartment. This would be excellent to watch later on.

He heard the urgency in John's words. "Think," said John. "Think!"

But Sherlock could never resist a touch of the dramatic, now, could he?

Giving John the impression that he was in his mind palace was turning out to be quite entertaining. He pretended to sift through endless shelves, searching for information he already had. Sherlock grunted and groaned in feigned frustration, enjoying every moment of exaggerated action. Ordinary people were so gullible.

"I...can't!" His outburst was perfect. Perfectly believable, perfectly executed.

Sherlock's hands moved away from his temples, eyes staring at John, panicked and very, very regretful. His façade was perfect.

Except for the look of unmistakable shock on John's face. Shock that Sherlock Holmes had, in fact, been defeated.

And the disappointment.

Sherlock wanted to scrap it all and tell John how he really knew they would survive this, but John would never forgive him. His plan would be totally ruined.

"Oh, my god," John said yet again. Sherlock had lost count of how many times he'd heard that in the last few minutes.

The blue scarf left his neck, and Sherlock knelt to get a closer look at the bomb. Bracing himself on his knees, he pretended to make panicked, futile hand gestures all over the bomb, where in reality his fingers sought the little switch that would save their lives. It had to be there somewhere.

"This is it," came John's voice. Drama queen number two. That didn't stop the twinge of regret that spiked through Sherlock as he heard the acceptance creep into John's tone. "Oh, my god."

Again. What would repeating the same three words over and over again do for them in this situation?

1:29.

Sherlock ran his hands over the wires, the tubes, the metal, the buttons, until one little thing caught his fingers and gave way to a satisfying and almost inaudible click.  Sherlock permitted himself one wide, victorious grin.

Right then. Back to being the blubbering ninny.

Panting, Sherlock brought his eyes to meet blazing cobalt orbs. "I'm sorry," he whispered, throwing helplessness and a little quiver in. For good measure.

John squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away from everything. He looked back at Sherlock on the floor. "What?"

Sherlock kept his gaze on John, willing tears to pool in his eyes. "I can't do it, John," he went on. "I don't know how."

Now the real fun began.

"Forgive me," said Sherlock, sitting back on his heels. Time for the finale.

John looked entirely exhausted, and very, very angry. "What?"

Sherlock pressed his own palms together like he was praying. "Please, John, forgive me," The words seemed to flow almost naturally from his mouth. "For all the hurt that I caused you."

It was then that it occurred to him that maybe it wasn't all an act.

"No, no, no, no, no," John's voice was low, and hoarse, and alien. Sherlock decided he preferred the previous tones. "This is a trick."

Oh, how well you know me, John. "No."
 
"Another one of your bloody tricks."

"No," Sherlock felt the tears pool again, and this time he had done nothing to provoke their onset.

"You're just trying to make me say something nice."

Maybe. "Not this time."

"Normal people don't have "times" like this," John hissed. "You're just trying to look good even though you behaved like-" he winced and crammed his eyes shut, deeply inhaling through his nose.

"Do you," John hissed, "have any idea how much you risk, every time you do this? Every bloody time you try and be clever, we end up almost dying. You think we're going to get out of this one, too, Sherlock? 'Cause if you really believe that, I'd really love to see you stop that timer from ticking down to our deaths."

"I'm perfectly aware of the risks," said Sherlock, craning his neck to the side and scratching his neck. Mycroft's Lady Bracknell would be child's play compared to this performance.

John cocked his head and adjusted his stance, his fierce gaze burning into Sherlock. "Do you plan on doing anything about them?"

"I plan on accepting them," Sherlock enunciated, all traces of emotion gone from his steady tone. John's face contorted into an expression that was becoming increasingly commonplace on his features - confused, and then angry that he was confused.

This is what I've done to John Watson.

John

Sherlock stared right back at him.

And his lips parted.

And his eyes hardened.

And his cheeks flushed.

Sherlock stood from his seat, walking around the bomb in the floor with precise, measured steps. With each of his deliberate advances, John's fury began to ebb away into a flow of repressed emotion, his set jaw slowly slacking, his eyebrows losing their knot, his gaze losing its intensity.

Their eyes didn't falter as Sherlock came right up to John, his chocolate fringe hanging off his forehead helplessly. A strange emotion graced his heavy lids - regret, John realised with a start - and suddenly it broke upon the shores of his mind like a fresh breath of salty sea breeze.

He had met Sherlock in the not-so-good ol' days of his life.

Since he had met that man, a number of fascinating events had transpired.

His psychosomatic limp disappeared overnight.

His nightmares ceased.

His boredom decayed into nothing.

He started a blog, got famous like that.

He found someone as complicated as it gets, and fell into step with a madman.

And then he fell further, and further, and further, till he reached a red-hot core of lava and mystery and mayhem and danger.

He fell in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And then he watched Sherlock hurl himself off a building after a phone call that had haunted John for two years. He'd seen him fall. He'd seen the body. He'd seen the blood, crimson streaks clashing violently against pale white skin and clear blue eyes.

Dead eyes.

John remembered the cold dread that had settled into him when he found no pulse. Dead, Sherlock. Dead, Sherlock.

Dead, Sherlock.

But then it was Sherlock Holmes he was considering, so obviously he wasn't really bloody dead. Finally John had something to write about.

"I," John's voice barely rasped beyond a whisper, "wanted you not to be dead."

Pain pierced Sherlock's beautiful, beautiful eyes. "Are you entirely sure about that?" His voice was soft, like rose petals on the brink of wilting away.

"Two years, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock nodded, looking away, at the floor, at the windows.

"I thought you were dead for two -" The tears were hot and brimming behind John's eyes. "- years."

Sherlock's eyes were glossy, shining with every bit of emotion every person had said he didn't possess. As John's anger crumbled, his resolve hardened into diamond. He would not let this man slip out of his fingers again.

"I'm know, John, and I apologize," Sherlock tipped his chin down, looking into John's eyes through his awry curly fringe. "For the problems you faced."

Sherlock/John (It kept switching rip)

Sherlock wasn't very familiar with guilt. Making Mycroft feel bad about himself was more of a leisure thing than anything else.

But Sherlock was desperate. He yearned for his old life with John and Mrs. Hudson at Baker Street. The last two years, though not uneventful, had been the worst period of Sherlock's life.

John's voice shook as he spoke. "There was no violin at 2 in the bloody morning," he started steadily, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. "There were no gunshots 'cause someone was bored," John's eyebrows quirked, almost sternly. "There was nothing to write on the blog. There was no reason to hide the cigarettes anymore, because you weren't there anymore."

Sherlock couldn't have said a word if he tried. Which he didn't, because he didn't know what to say.

"I made tea for two of us anyway," John's voice was audibly straining to stay above the sea of emotion churning beneath his tones. Sherlock couldn't help but feel like this whole thing was leading up to a huge 'I forgive you', but for now he had to watch John. In pain.

Because of him.

"I would love that cup of tea right now," said Sherlock. Despite himself, he felt a smile tug its way loose onto his face. Once it was there, he couldn't pull it back off, so he let it stay there.

John looked at him.

And looked.

When the words left John's mouth, they were a harsh, pained whisper.

"For two years, I thought I'd never see that smile again."

And then John took Sherlock by the collar of his coat and kissed him like he was the most desirable thing on the planet. His lips sealed Sherlock's own as he pulled the detective closer, closer-

And Sherlock was ecstatic. He had been right, he was right.

His fingers threaded through John's slightly shorter hair as he relished the feeling of his blogger's fingers gripping his collar. John trailed firm, deliberate kisses down the side of Sherlock's jaw, to his ear, to his neck, lingering there a moment like he was validating that Sherlock was really here, he was alive.

Sherlock's knees went weak, and he saw stars as John took him gently by his hips and steered him against the side of the train compartment. John's beautiful eyes found his, John's beautiful hands found his, and suddenly Sherlock had a thought. A single thought, bred in the tranquility of solitude and uncontainable love.

What a glorious thing it is to be alive.

John's palms caressed Sherlock's cheeks, his thumbs gently brushing away stray tears. He leaned towards Sherlock, closing the distance until their lips were almost brushing-

And he pulled away, confused as a fish.

"Why aren't we dead?" John frowned.

"I think I am," Sherlock exhaled, still reeling from being madly kissed by John Watson.

"Why aren't we...y'know," John waved one hand. "Blown up? Dead?"

And Sherlock smirked an insane smirk.

Oh. My. God.

"Oh, you..." John's voice was dark and so, so relieved at the same time. "...complete...cock."

"I'm no expert, but I think that but comes further down the road in a romantic relationship," Sherlock spouted shamelessly.

"How?"

"There's an off switch, John."

"What?"

"There's always an off switch."

"How did I not know that? I was a soldier!"

"You were a doctor, John."

"I had bad days!"

John grinned at the flashback that tore through his mind. Sherlock seemed to get it, and wound his arms around John tightly, holding him to his chest. John sank into his embrace, sighing as he rested his temple on Sherlock's shoulder.

Their cocoon of bliss was pierced by blinding bluish-white beams of light, multiple sets of footsteps echoing from the gravel. Sherlock waited for John to realise it, and couldn't resist a chuckle when he did.

"And you called the police."

"Of course I called the police."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Mrs. Hudson couldn't help but rush at her two boys when they got home. She'd been so worried, they were always getting themselves into all kinds of trouble.

And then she saw their fingers entwined, and cast her eyes to the heavens gratefully.

"Boys," she shook her head, smiling, and disappeared into the kitchen to make two cups of tea.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Jesussssssss

I'm so sorry about the inconsistent updates on this oml

Huge thank you to benedicted2johnlock, who requested this plot in the first place

I hope y'all enjoyed this short story, but ze road ends here

THANK YOU FOR ADDING THIS STORY TO YOUR READING LISTS AND SHIZ I REALLY APPRECIATE IT

ok peace world

~A.M.