yes. Is there more? I would love a longer or contiuation of this!
I imagine, if he ever did, this would be the way Sherlock would propose :)
A bit more dramatic, but…?
“I am married to my work,” Sherlock murmurs, and John nods, nestled softly into the warmth of his arms, the pain in his side growing, yet irrelevant. His vision darkens, and Sherlock touches his face, cool fingers grappling with John’s consciousness, gripping tightly as if to say hold on, please. Just please, hold on.
John slumps, and Sherlock catches him— yanks him closer, holds on tighter.
Don’t leave me, his arms say.
John blinks. I won’t.
Promise? dances on his lips as he breathes into John’s hair.
I promise. is hidden in John’s sigh.
“Yes, I’ve been informed.” John struggles with his lungs and his throat and his mouth and his face. He struggles with his heart and his soul, and with the skin around the bullet lodged in his side.
Stupid. Stupid. He should have seen the gun pulled out, should have noticed where it was pointing before it was too late to do anything other than twist around himself in horror.
What a soldier.
A doctor, at least. He knows enough to know that he’s barely missed a fatal hit. He’ll be fine. The pain is numbing a bit. He isn’t sure if this is because he’s blacking out (unlikely, his vision is sharp enough), or because he can feel Sherlock pressing against him, hands fluttering around, gaze locked, heart beating.
Sherlock’s breath is powerful, rustling the hairs on John’s head, warming his scalp and drying his involuntary tears.
“And now you’re part of my work.”
His voice is careful and bored all at once, drawling and sharpening on key phrases, and the flow of air to John’s head cuts off for the slightest second before returning, barely heavier. A cool hand encircles John’s wrist; a thumb and index finger encircle his ring finger.
It hardly occurs to John that Sherlock and he haven’t even dated yet. That up till now, he hadn’t known at all about any of it. About Sherlock. About himself.
Besides, the harder he thinks about it, the more he realizes they have been rushing towards this point, hurtling at the speed of light and jumping the boring track switches of kissing and relationships and holding hands. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, after all.
”Did you just propose to me while I was bleeding and semiconscious?” John smiles, vision still blurring somewhat as Sherlock’s lips rise slightly against the skin behind his ear. Sirens sound somewhere nearby, and Sherlock sags in relief.
”Possibly,” he says, and John is dizzy with the feeling of lips and not bullets. “I think I just have. Problem?”
”Never,” John breathes, and lips meet lips and hands encircle wrists and arms encircle waist. Before he knows it, he is being carried onto a stretcher, and lifted into an ambulance and rushed into a room.
And all the while, fingers around his wrist, dancing through his hair. And all the while, lips against his skin.
He’ll be alright.
Even better, perhaps.
Omg reblogging again because FIC.
dead. I am literally dead now.
THIS JUST SHOT ME THROUGH THE HEART.
I may have to write some more to this
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