Ack! Sorry this took so long. I wanted to resolve it all, but the more I tried to write, the less it seemed to work. So I've ended it where I feel it needs to end, and I think it's closer to what you asked for anyway, but it's not as long as I thought it would be. But be reassured that Sherlock will be fine, and the culprit will be found and everything is all happy and lovely now!
Warnings for quite a lot of blood. Not gorey just... a lot of it.
Cold Blood
John stood outside the Barbican Centre, having just spent a few hours listening to the London Symphony Orchestra perform Shostakovich's Violin Concerto No 1 and Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony. He had been informed it was very good, but he had no frame of reference. He wasn't even supposed to be there.
Sherlock had got the tickets for Mrs Hudson, who had mentioned a few times that she'd never been to a 'proper' concert. In one of those surprising shows of consideration, he'd given her a pair of tickets for Mothering Sunday (after John pointed out they really should get her something). She'd asked Sherlock to come with her, but, unfortunately, she'd developed a bad cold and couldn't attend. She was very distressed at the idea of them going to waste, so John volunteered to go to placate her. Also unfortunately, Mycroft was in attendance, and he and Sherlock had spent the whole lead up to the performance furiously texting each other from across the theatre.
Now they were arguing about whether or not Mycroft had come on purpose to try to spy on Sherlock, or whether it had been a coincidence. Mycroft pointed out that, as they were raised in the same household, it made sense that he might enjoy the same music as Sherlock. Sherlock countered that Mycroft hadn't been to see the LSO in years, and wasn't it convenient he'd chosen to attend that night? John couldn't decide which one was the truth. He just hoped Mycroft's car came around soon to take him away.
When the red dot appeared on Sherlock's chest, John was a moment too late in realizing what was going on. By the time he'd made the connection, Sherlock was already on the ground, and even then it looked like he'd just lost his footing. He seemed to think the same thing, as he immediately tried to get up, his legs going out from under him halfway. He looked down to the puddle of blood growing on the pavement, and then up at John, his eyes widening in alarm.
“Vatican cameos!” he said.
They'd chosen that phrase because it couldn't mean anything but what it was. It couldn't be accidentally said in a conversation; it couldn't be mistaken for something else. It just meant duck—and John did. A bullet shattered the glass doors behind him.
All this took only a few seconds, and John was still getting his bearings. Mycroft's security detail had him tackled to the ground, and there were surprised screams from other concert-goers. John crawled along to Sherlock, but was held back by one of the security people, who dragged him into the building instead. Someone forced Mycroft in, and another was half-carrying Sherlock.
John crawled again, this time unhindered. Mycroft was trying to wrestle off the security detail, barking orders for phone calls to be made and the area to be cleared. There was blood everywhere: on Sherlock, on the tiled floor, on the security man, and soon on John as he tried to locate the source of it.
He looked around for something vaguely sterile to cover his hands. He remembered Sherlock kept plastic baggies in his coat pocket in case he needed to steal evidence. He fished them out, and stuck each of his hands in one, before continuing his search for the wound.
“Sniper. Must... be... at the far end of his range,” Sherlock mumbled. “Didn't... hear the shots fired. Did you?” John shook his head. “Obviously... a professional. I was... moving, so... hard shot. Must have been... startled. Odd place to hit and I'm not... dead.”
“Don't move, Sherlock, I'm trying to find the wound,” John said. “Lie still.”
“Are you...listening?” Sherlock said, urgently. “You need... to remember. Someone should write it down. I don't...don't want the irony of my own murder going unsolved because... because I wasn't there to solve it.”
Part The First
Warnings for quite a lot of blood. Not gorey just... a lot of it.
John stood outside the Barbican Centre, having just spent a few hours listening to the London Symphony Orchestra perform Shostakovich's Violin Concerto No 1 and Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony. He had been informed it was very good, but he had no frame of reference. He wasn't even supposed to be there.
Sherlock had got the tickets for Mrs Hudson, who had mentioned a few times that she'd never been to a 'proper' concert. In one of those surprising shows of consideration, he'd given her a pair of tickets for Mothering Sunday (after John pointed out they really should get her something). She'd asked Sherlock to come with her, but, unfortunately, she'd developed a bad cold and couldn't attend. She was very distressed at the idea of them going to waste, so John volunteered to go to placate her. Also unfortunately, Mycroft was in attendance, and he and Sherlock had spent the whole lead up to the performance furiously texting each other from across the theatre.
Now they were arguing about whether or not Mycroft had come on purpose to try to spy on Sherlock, or whether it had been a coincidence. Mycroft pointed out that, as they were raised in the same household, it made sense that he might enjoy the same music as Sherlock. Sherlock countered that Mycroft hadn't been to see the LSO in years, and wasn't it convenient he'd chosen to attend that night? John couldn't decide which one was the truth. He just hoped Mycroft's car came around soon to take him away.
When the red dot appeared on Sherlock's chest, John was a moment too late in realizing what was going on. By the time he'd made the connection, Sherlock was already on the ground, and even then it looked like he'd just lost his footing. He seemed to think the same thing, as he immediately tried to get up, his legs going out from under him halfway. He looked down to the puddle of blood growing on the pavement, and then up at John, his eyes widening in alarm.
“Vatican cameos!” he said.
They'd chosen that phrase because it couldn't mean anything but what it was. It couldn't be accidentally said in a conversation; it couldn't be mistaken for something else. It just meant duck—and John did. A bullet shattered the glass doors behind him.
All this took only a few seconds, and John was still getting his bearings. Mycroft's security detail had him tackled to the ground, and there were surprised screams from other concert-goers. John crawled along to Sherlock, but was held back by one of the security people, who dragged him into the building instead. Someone forced Mycroft in, and another was half-carrying Sherlock.
John crawled again, this time unhindered. Mycroft was trying to wrestle off the security detail, barking orders for phone calls to be made and the area to be cleared. There was blood everywhere: on Sherlock, on the tiled floor, on the security man, and soon on John as he tried to locate the source of it.
He looked around for something vaguely sterile to cover his hands. He remembered Sherlock kept plastic baggies in his coat pocket in case he needed to steal evidence. He fished them out, and stuck each of his hands in one, before continuing his search for the wound.
“Sniper. Must... be... at the far end of his range,” Sherlock mumbled. “Didn't... hear the shots fired. Did you?” John shook his head. “Obviously... a professional. I was... moving, so... hard shot. Must have been... startled. Odd place to hit and I'm not... dead.”
“Don't move, Sherlock, I'm trying to find the wound,” John said. “Lie still.”
“Are you...listening?” Sherlock said, urgently. “You need... to remember. Someone should write it down. I don't...don't want the irony of my own murder going unsolved because... because I wasn't there to solve it.”