|Not the Only One who Cares
Author: TruffleHead PM
Only a couple of weeks after moving into 221 B. to live with her brother, John, Cassie finds herself dragged into one of Sherlock's legendary cases.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Adventure/Friendship - Sherlock H. - Words: 2,104 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 1 - Published: 05-05-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8087872
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I do not own Sherlock. Obviously. :P
I'd say it has a plot, but really it's more of a shell for all this fluff. :) Hope you enjoy! :)
This is dedicated to GoggleBox! ... I kinda stole her name. XD Thanks for being awesome! ;)
I tiptoe quickly behind the next pillar, trying to make my heavy breathing quieter. A swoosh of black in my peripheral vision lets me know he's still okay. I squint into the darkness of the abandoned school but can't spot anything; not like I'd be able to see him anyway- he's much better at this sneaking- around business than I am.
Warm fingers brush my hand and I turn my head quickly, adrenaline shooting through me. Funny. You'd think my body would have run out that stuff by now. It's only him, though, and I give him a small, scared-out-of-my-wits smile. I've only known him for a few weeks now, but his presence is more than enough to reassure me.
"You all right?" He whispers.
"Fine," I say, but my voice is shaky and it's clear to both of us that I'm very scared. My brother, John, would be much more suitable for this job.
He looks at me and nods, not in the least convinced. His fingers curl around my hand, trying to reassure me.
A loud crash coming from down the hallway makes us both jump.
"Come on," Sherlock says, barely audible. He glances behind him. "Could be Farfalla." Farfalla- the girl we were sent here to rescue. The only witness of the horrific murder on Brady St. The murder that didn't make any sense. It was vital that we got her out of here- she was the only piece of evidence left, one that was crucial for solving the case.
Sherlock breaks into a run, and I follow a little distance behind, ducking into classrooms and things to insure we can't be seen.
Two gunshots. The startlingly loud noises echo down the hallway and my heart leaps, but not because of the sudden noises. Because of the searing pain in my left thigh. I've been shot.
I collapse to my knees, taking cover behind a wall in case there are more bullets coming. Hot tears begin to roll down my cheeks before I can stop them.
He is at my side in an instant, his face shocked and full of worry. His careful hands immediately go to my thigh.
"You'll be all right," he insists quietly. How does he keep his voice so calm? He pulls off his scarf and wraps it around the already- bloody wound. Great. Now I've ruined his scarf.
Despite the fact that I know he has no medical knowledge whatsoever, he nearly fools me the way his fast, confident, and gentle hands bandage my leg. I would try to help, only I'm occupied enough trying and failing to ignore the burning pain coming from that confounded limb.
I hate myself for crying; it could give us away. Then again, the shooter had already spotted me once... The shooter, I realize. He's still out there, probably getting ready to aim at us again.
Sherlock is already on top of it. He stands, peering around the wall, gun in hand. He mouths 'back in a moment' to me, his gray- blue eyes staying on me a moment longer. Then he darts around the corner.
Another gunshot is fired a few minutes later. Although I obviously have no idea who shot it, I know I can't just sit here and hope Sherlock isn't wounded. I know what he would do in my place.
I start crawling down the hallway, being very careful not to make too much noise, looking for any sign of Farfalla, Sherlock, or the gunmen.
A sobbing noise starts coming from inside one of the rooms. I'm guessing that it's Farfalla. I groan involuntarily as I reach up to turn the doorknob.
It's just as I thought; it's Farfalla, and after a moment of shh-ing and reassuring, I free Farfalla from her bonds.
"We've got to find my friend," I say gently as Farfalla wipes tears from her face, and tries to compose herself. "He's going to help you escape."
Still on all fours, I peer into the hallway. Footsteps, running footsteps, are drawing closer and closer. I am nearly positive they're Sherlock's, but would I bet my life on it? No.
I edge back into the classroom and put my finger to my lips, telling Farfalla to be silent.
A blur passes by the door as we hide in the shadows. There's no doubt about it: it's Sherlock. No one else really has that... swoosh... in their step. The long coat probably helps. Gosh, I've got to get myself a trench coat.
"Cassie!" Sherlock yells in his deep voice. He must have made it back to our original spot and saw I wasn't there.
"Cassie!" he yells again, this time a little more frantically.
Well, since he's yelling, he must have taken care of the guards. I stick my head out the door frame. "Sherlock!"
It's not long after when something dark and heavy hits me in my chest. Takes me a moment to realize it's Sherlock. Sherlock... hugging me. Sherlock is not a hugger.
"Umm, are you alright?" I say, a bit of actual concern coloring my voice.
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Clearing his throat, he spins around, taking in Farfalla. "Oh. Good." He pauses. "We'd better go," Sherlock says, looking out the door again. "I handcuffed most of the guards to poles and such, but there might be more reinforcements on their way."
"Where did you get so many handcuffs?" I ask, baffled. There were at least five guards ahead of us.
He smiles a little flash of a smile. "Anderson is really annoying.."
He helps Farfalla to her feet and checks her over. She's fine. Then he turns to me.
He crouches down next to me. "Can you stand?" Sherlock holds out his hand, and I grip it tightly as I slowly try to lift myself. I bite my lip, trying to keep myself from crying out, and realize standing on my own will be impossible.
I shake my head at him, knowing my voice cannot be trusted at this point.
"Okay," he says, his voice kind as he scoops me up in his arms.
"Sherlock!" I sputter, my voice magically fully- functioning now. "Put me down," I insist. My face flushed, I start struggling until I realize it would be very, very bad if he dropped me, especially with my leg. This thought makes me hug him tighter.
"Please put me down?" I say, looking down at the now- distant ground. I never really realized how very tall he was before...
"Alright," Sherlock says to Farfalla. "Come along. We can drop you off with Lestrade." He strides out of the room, in his arms a hyperventilating me and behind him a timid Farfalla.
Trying to focus on other things, nothis warm, sturdy arms, my thoughts turn to the case. I wonder how Farfalla survived that murder on Brady Street. The victims showed no signs of poison, suffocation, or heart attack. The killer that kills without... killing.
I can't take it any longer; the swaying motion of his walk combined with the pain in my leg is making me green and I needed to be put down now. I've always admired his walk, but this... new perspective was making me form a new opinion. I just buried my face in his chest and tried to forget where I was.
It must have worked, because next thing I know I was being carried into the familiar walls of 221 B. Baker St. My leg feels considerably better. I glance at and find its been bandaged. Must have stopped at the Hospital while I was out. I let my head lower itself back onto his arm.
I started to make out voices- John's, I think.
"Is she alright? What... happened... exactly? You didn't let her go with you to the school, did you? Sherlock?"
"I think she's awake." I hear Sherlock's baritone voice say, the sound close to my head. Too close to my head. I start hyperventilating again.
"Sherlock." John said, using that solemn tone that is one of the only things that can order Sherlock around. He puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Put her down."
Sherlock complies. I sigh in relief. "Finally," I say, my voice barely a whisper.
John's hand is on my forehead. "She has a fever. I'll get her some water." He walks off to the kitchen.
My eyes flutter open for just a moment- but it is moment enough for me to gather that Sherlock is still right beside me. There was an odd expression on his face. Like... anger. Deep, true anger. Fear overwhelms me for a moment- Sherlock with this kind of anger can be beyond dangerous.
I forced myself to open my eyes again, and after a while am able to focus my eyes on him. My brows furrow.
"What's..." It's hard to sustain my weak voice, and it trails off. "What is it?"
Sherlock looks up, startled. He snaps out of it immediately. "Nothing's wrong, Cass." He smiles, and although I'm not a Sherlock expert, I know when he smiles for real.
"I don't-" I start to say, but am interrupted when John walks in.
"Here's your water," John says in his very-official-and-serious-Army-Doctor voice. I look up and on his face there's a look that matches his tone. "Go on, drink some." He holds out the glass farther out to me.
My shaky hand takes the glass and I take a sip. I look at John, and he seems satisfied.
"Good," John says, nods once, then turns to Sherlock. "I can't believe you'd do this, Sherlock." He shakes his head and leaves.
I take another sip of the ice water as I look at Sherlock, waiting for him to speak.
His phone buzzes, and he takes a minute to examine the message. "It's Lestrade," he says to me, "those people on Brady Street died of fear." The thought makes me shiver, and there was a moment of silence as we thought through that. Farfalla must have a braver soul than we imagined. This had Moriarty written all over it.
"I'm really very sorry," He says suddenly, breaking the fearful silence and looking up to meet my eyes.
"For what?" I ask, puzzled.
He motions to my leg, and looks away, like he's embarrassed.
"That's ridiculous-" I start, but he interrupts.
"No; your brother's right. I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry."
"Of course," I say, and I mean it. I take another sip of water, trying to ignore the way he's still staring at me.
"I wasn't thinking. I get caught up in the moment, in the thrill of the chase. And I didn't think." His last two words were full of anger and frustration. The more he continues, the more I want him to just be quiet. "I should have told you that you couldn't come, John probably would have-"
"It's not your fault, okay? I don't care what John says." I lean forward and kiss him gently, hoping this will add to my point. "John's not the only person who cares about you." I pause for a moment. "Okay?" I say, my last word gentler than the rest.
"Okay," he says, and hugs me, a bit awkwardly given my position, just as Watson walks back in.
He stares for a few seconds, but then recovers and walks past us and into his room. Sherlock lets go and turns toward John. A sly grin creeps onto his face as we both hear John mutter, "Alrighty then." But what Sherlock didn't see was the spark of jealousy that had flared in John's eye as he first entered the room.
Hope you enjoyed it!
I'm new at this kind of thing, so if you have any tips of what I could improve on, that would be brilliant. But, you know, flattery is always nice, too. :)