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Title: Rescue
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Teen+
Word Count: 1,063
Genre: Uh...action?  It would be casefic if it were a whole fic and not just two scenes.  Also contains fluff, because apparently I am incapable of writing anything without fluff.

Summary: Written for a dialogue prompt on the kink meme: "My name is John Hamish Watson and get your filthy hands off of my [???]!"  Basically, John comes to Sherlock's rescue.  An excuse to write BAMF!John and damsel-in-distress!Sherlock.



John could feel that something was different as soon as he entered 221b.  Everything looked normal.  He couldn't hear screaming or banging or gunshots.  But his gut instinct told him something was wrong.  He walked up the stairs, hyperaware of everything around him, and opened the door of the flat to find a completely silent room.  Something was off.

Keeping his coat and shoes on, he stepped into the kitchen, and his breath caught.  The kitchen table was clear, Sherlock's experiments scattered on the floor in a mess of broken glass and body parts.  All that was left on the table was a single piece of paper, held down with the pen that Sherlock had been using to track the progress of his moulds.  John approached it with a knot in his stomach.

Hammerston's Warehouse
10:00pm
£10,000

Taped to the end of the note was a lock of Sherlock's hair.  John touched it with one fingertip, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Fuck, Sherlock."

In seconds, he had shoved his gun in his waistband and run out the door.

---

He crept into the warehouse through a low window.  The lighting was poor, scattered light bulbs creating tiny circles of light from one end of the building to the other.  He could just make out the two dimly-lit figures facing the main entrance, one seated, one standing.  Other than them, the entire building was empty.  He walked quietly, hiding behind one large empty crate after another as he approached.

Sherlock was sitting in a metal folding chair.  His ankles were duct-taped to the legs of the chair, his arms folded behind him, the wrists of each arm bound to the elbows of the other.  Bill Harris, the kidnapper that Sherlock had been tracking for weeks, was standing behind him, leaning down to speak into Sherlock's ear with a knife held casually in one hand.  Sherlock's mouth was turned down in a scowl.

John took a deep calming breath and stepped out from behind a crate.  He spoke in his most commanding military voice. "Let.  Him.  Go."

Harris looked up, startled.  He smiled and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  Sherlock stared at John with wide eyes.

"Did you bring my money?" Harris asked.  John didn't answer, but kept his gun aimed steadily at Harris's chest.

Harris rolled his eyes.  "You think you can shoot me before I can cut his throat?"  He made the mistake of not actually raising the knife to Sherlock’s skin.  John took his chance without thinking about it.  He lowered his gun and shot Harris in the foot.

"Fuck!" Harris grimaced and dropped the knife to the ground as he doubled over in pain.  He clutched one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to hold his balance and looked up at John disbelievingly.  "What the—who sent you?!  Who the hell ARE you?!"

John's hand was steady.  He stood at an angle, spine straight, chin up, gun now pointed directly at Harris's chest.  His voice was steel.

"My name is John Hamish Watson.  Now get your filthy hands off of my boyfriend."

Sherlock grinned.  When Harris hesitated, John aimed again and shot him in the arm farthest from Sherlock.

"Fuck!  What the hell, man!  I was going to let him go, I'm not touching him, okay?"  He put his hands up and hopped away on one foot, then stumbled to the ground.

John took his phone from his pocket and made a quick call to Lestrade, then went straight for Sherlock.  He put a hand to Sherlock's face, and Sherlock leaned into his palm.

"Are you alright?" he asked, softly.  Sherlock nodded.  John ran his thumb over Sherlock's cheek gently, then stepped away to deal with Harris, who was examining his foot as best he could through the pain.

Harris looked up at him and chuckled through his sneer.  "I'm guessing you didn't bring my money?"  John stared down at him with eyes like ice.  "Yeah, didn't think so."

John knelt down and pressed his gun into Harris's good foot.  He gripped Harris's chin with his other hand and looked into his eyes as he spoke.

"If you EVER touch him again, you will not live to see another day.  Do you hear me?"

Harris tried to jerk away, but John held fast.

"Do you hear me?" he asked again, voice quiet and dangerous.  Harris nodded, dumbfounded.  John pushed him to the ground and looked up as the sound of sirens whined in the distance.  Harris's shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his hair, visibly giving up.  John picked the knife up off the ground and went to Sherlock to free him from the duct tape.  As soon as Sherlock's arms were free, he gripped John's shirt and pulled him in front, yanking him down for a searing kiss.

John laughed softly against his mouth and rubbed at Sherlock's wrists, which were sore and red and sticky with residual adhesive.  He pressed his forehead to Sherlock's and they breathed together for a moment, then looked up as the door to the warehouse burst open.  Lestrade strode over to them, followed by three other policemen.  He eyed Harris, who was still clutching at his foot, then gave a pointed look at John’s gun, where it was nestled in his waistband.  John immediately pulled it out and tossed it to the ground.

“Found it,” he said.  “On the ground outside.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes and gave a half-hearted “uh huh.”  

John bit his lip to hide a wry grin, then turned back to free Sherlock’s legs from the duct tape.  Sherlock wobbled a bit as John helped him to his feet.  He gripped John’s arm for support.  

“You two alright?” asked Lestrade.  

John nodded affirmatively for both of them.  Sherlock was still staring at John with vague surprise.

Lestrade jerked his head toward the door.  “Let’s go,” he said.  “You two have statements to make, so start thinking.”  They headed toward the door, following Harris as he was led, handcuffed, by two policemen.

Sherlock could walk on steady feet now, but he still kept a tight grip on John’s arm.  John looked up at him and smiled, fondly.

“I’ll always come, you know,” he said.

Sherlock nodded firmly, and held on tighter.

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