Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sherlock let his head fall back against the soft fabric of the chair feeling the patches tingle his flesh and his neck muscles relax. He stared at the ceiling blankly. Boring. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. It was strangely quiet in the flat. Their flat.

It had been Jim’s idea, of course—to rent a place where they could both escape the boring, tiresome, dreary, normal world outside, escape it together in each other’s arms. Jim found the flat himself, paid for it, stocked it with books, cushions, sofas, armchairs, DVDs, coffeemakers, and anything else he found “sexy.” Sherlock failed to comprehend the sexiness of cushions and coffeemakers, but it was not really up to him. With Jim, it was never really up to him. They did not live at the flat, oh no. They did not even make arrangements to meet up. They would both just wander here, each with their own worries and each seeking their own kind of escape. Sometimes Sherlock would find Jim pacing back and forth in a t-shirt and underwear or cuddled up on a sofa with some gruesome film playing on mute as he snored away. Or Jim would find Sherlock—reading, or drumming his long fingers on yet another coffee table Jim salvaged from IKEA, or hidden away in his mind palace. And sometimes they would sit together—watching a movie, or having dinner, or simply holding each other. They never really talked. The flat was about solitude and stillness.

Sherlock felt himself drifting away into the cold, empty oblivion of the deepest corners of his consciousness, nicotine patches eating away at his skin. It was a soothing sensation.

Then he heard the noises—loud, penetrating, invading his mind, slipping between the patches and the skin and turning the pleasant tingling into incessant burning. Noises were not welcome in this flat. There was the rattling of keys, stumbling of feet. Jim.

Jim was always quiet, sneaking up behind Sherlock, tugging at his shirt, or tracing his cheekbone, or brushing hair from his face. Jim only made noises when they made love. No. When they made love, he whispered Sherlock’s name or held his face, breathing heavily. Jim only made noises when they fucked.

Sherlock remained silent, breathing softly, his eyes closed. After a while, the noises stopped and it got quiet again—so quiet Sherlock almost believed that he dreamed the wild, unexplained invasion of his privacy.

He didn’t hear Jim as he approached, didn’t hear him dragging him limp leg across the wooden floor, didn’t hear him panting, didn’t hear the drops of blood hitting the floorboards. Sherlock was drifting away into the cold, empty oblivion of the deepest corners of his consciousness, nicotine patches eating away at his skin. It was a soothing sensation.

“Sher- Sherlock…” Had Sherlock been listening, he would have heard the pain behind the teasing tone of Jim’s voice—the agony of a small piece of metal eating away at his flesh with his every breath. “A little…help?”

It was so quiet, so quiet Sherlock almost believed that he dreamed the wild, unexplained invasion of his privacy. And then there was a loud crash, reverberating against the walls, the cushions, the DVDs, and the coffeemaker.

The bullet barely missed an artery. It was sitting in the lower part of Jim’s calf, only a few inches deep, but enough to make Jim scream, and whimper, and beg, and scream again as Sherlock cut it out with a scalpel (why would Jim ever think of buying a scalpel for their flat?), and poured vodka on it to disinfect the wound (why would Jim ever think of buying a bottle of vodka for their flat?), and wrapped Jim’s leg and wiped Jim’s sweat and washed away Jim’s blood.

“Why would you come here?” Sherlock wondered out loud as he tugged on Jim’s torn shirt, and traced his cheekbone, and brushed off his messy hair. “Why here of all places?”

“I knew you’d be here,” Jim replied with a soft chuckle and immediately hissed in pain—everything burns.

“Were you watching me again?” Sherlock smiled, sliding down against the wall onto the cold floor next to where Jim had collapsed minutes earlier.

“I just knew you’d be here,” Jim reached for Sherlock’s face—flinched in pain—and pulled him in for a kiss. He barely touched his lips before slumping back down, exhausted.

They sat there, together, in their flat, cramped with books, cushions, sofas, armchairs, DVDs, and everything else Jim found “sexy.” It was quiet and still. They didn’t talk, they just held each other.