Baker Street Boys

29

//GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS Of VIOLENCE WARNING//

//TRIGGER WARNING//

There's such a liberating feeling which unfetters the very depths of your soul, in trusting yourself unconditionally, no holds barred, into the hands of the man you love. When it is John Watson. Especially when it is John Watson.

He feels it before he hears it.
Then the bang!

And the gunshot reverberates in the still air.

The frantic "Sherlock, down" doesn't register until after much later.

Then the cacophony of noises of the hitherto silent forest erupt in full blow. He isn't dead, realizes Sherlock . Surprising, really.
He knew the exact moment when James Burton raised his pistol, approximately six yards behind him, half hidden by a huge black walnut, he calculated the exact moment James Burton would pull the trigger, and he knew he didn't have as much as a chance of a hair's breadth to duck and avoid the killshot. But now, he feels the coolness of the forest floor against his cheek. And he is hyper-aware of the adrenaline rush that surges through him. He turns his head to see the serial-killer that he and John had been chasing, who has fallen dead, with a clean and neat bullet through the forehead.

Ah! John.

There he is. His steady hand still holding the Sig sauer P226R pointed at the fallen villain. His eyes, a pure blue fire of rage. His face set in a murderous gleam. Like a punishing angel. Angel he is. John Watson. Moral and loyal to a fault. But his moral compass has got nothing much to do with what is legal as it is to do with what is right. And Sherlock has known, from their very first night as flatmates, that John has no qualms to send a villain hell-ward at short notice. He wouldn't bat an eyelid. And the sight of his ex-army, gun-wielding, homicidal, avenging angel causes his blood to rush hurriedly down, somewhere very much inappropriate, given the circumstances, way way below his brain, and fills the erectile tissues down there in a sudden flare of enthusiasm , without warning.

John Watsons should always come with a warning. Otherwise it is not fair to blame Sherlock for having improper hard-ons at crime scenes, is it?

In the middle of a thick woodland.

With the freshly murdered ,previously-wanna-be murderer of Sherlock Holmes lying in a pool of blood and gore a few yards away.

And there is a mirthless, evil smile pulling at the corners of John's mouth. A smile that is scary as hell but Sherlock knows that it never fails to make him horny, as long as he is not at the business end of that smile.

But his throat parches when he realizes, all of a sudden, that he is, of course, at the receiving end of that smile.

And to his horror, he also realizes, that it doesn't cease to make him horny as hell.

Flirting with danger is what Sherlock Holmes gets off on.

How many times, Sherlock....." John's quiet voice holds the fury of a thunderbolt , in the now still and heavy air of the forest . "-how many times do I have to tell you that you should inform the police when chasing down the criminals. That's what the government pays them for. But no, you need all the glory for yourself, you have to put your bloody life in danger again and again , and it could have been you, lying there , had I not turned up at the right moment to save your bloody, smug, arrogant ASS"

"I did" Sherlock replies airily.

"WHAT? "

"I did call the police and they will be here within another forty two minutes and by the way, John, it would be appropriate to turn your voice down a little. You are disturbing the silence of this solitary place which had been undisturbed and preserved for more than hundreds of years, which is already-"