Where Do We Go From Here?

Chapter Nine

Bloody hell, Sherlock, you’re at a crime scene.

John breathed down his neck, hands pressed to either side on the wall beside him, chests and toes touching awkwardly.

And Sherlock honestly couldn’t fight back the flush that began to crawl up his neck. This is humiliating.

John seemed unfazed by their proximity, the invasion of personal space, everything, because he just continued to grumble under his breath, only falling into silence when a set of footsteps could be heard passing them. Then, he would start up again, each word a huff of breath against Sherlock’s neck.

“We’ll just pass through, you said. We won’t get caught, you said.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to correct them (One, they are just passing through. Two, they haven’t been caught. Not yet.) simply because he was afraid to speak. The small closet seemed to be shrinking with every passing minute and John was so close, too close, not close enough.

  Stop. Go Back. Delete.

Another fall of footsteps ceased John’s complainings once again and Sherlock was grateful, for more than one reason.

This did not go as planned.

But we haven’t got caught.

And, shockingly enough, the thought wasn’t anymore reassuring.

The footsteps soon vanished, the silence a distant ringing in his ears, John’s breath still hot against his neck, and his heart a loud throbbing in his chest.

Give it thirty seconds. Two exits near this area, furthest down the hall, turn left, less heavily guarded. Nearest just three doors down, two guards possibly stationed.

He closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, trying to breathe. Crime scene on top floor. Can we risk it?

He glanced down at John, blond hair tickling his chin and face red with anger.

Absolutely not.

“John,” he breathed, fingers twitching. The boy in question looked up, face across between a scowl and embarrassment (so John does mind?), eyes narrowed dangerously.

“What?”

The words were hissed low, his voice near a growl and Sherlock rolled his eyes. No time to deal with John’s temper, they needed to leave. “Follow my lead. On the count of three, we get out and run.”

“What-hmmph!” it wasn’t the best tacted, but it worked. Sherlock’s palm was now damp in the center and John looked like a fucking volcano ready to explode.

“Trust me.” he finally managed.

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“You bloody bastard.” John snapped at him, struggling slightly against the officer’s hold. “We got caught.”

Sherlock looked at him, only a passing glance, before the curly haired git focused ahead again, the picture of perfect calm. God, John wanted to punch him in the face. “Yes, John. Thank you for pointing out the obvious.” he sneered.

“‘We won’t get caught John.’ ‘Trust me, John’. And I listen to you.” John went on, face heated with frustration. “And guess what I get for listening to you?” he paused, then jerked his head to the officer currently holding him, then the officer holding Sherlock. “I get bloody fucking caught. And we’re probably going to get charged! Did that ever run through you genius mind, Sherlock Holmes! That we would get charged?? Was that a part of your brilliant plan?”

“John. Would you kindly shut.Up.” Sherlock bit out at him, looking a bit more than humiliated now. “If we simply cooperate, we won’t get into trouble. I promise you.”

“Ah, fucking hell!”

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((A/N: I need to get back into the swing of things. This chapter is a bit off simply because I've been suffering very bad writer's blockfor this story in particular. Got get ideas for all these other stories and I know how this story ends and all the big things leading up to the ending, I'm just having a hard time coming up with the middle part of it as I go on. So, please, bare with me. I'm going to try to make this the last short chapter I post because that is unfair to all of you who seem to read and enjoy this little fanfic and I'm determined not to give it up!

  So enjoy this short crappy thing and I shall proceed with more!))