Regression

AN: I have never used wattpad before, just fanfiction, so don't hate me if I violate some sort of unspoken rule of conduct.

Strictly a one-shot, I'm afraid. I wrote this a while ago and I stumbled upon it again. My eyes are leaking. Anyway, this was my first actual Sherlock fanfiction, so I thought it would be fitting to be the first one I posted on wattpad. Please leave me your opinions in a review!

Warnings: Mentions of (minor?) character death

Also: established Johnlock, angry and protective Sherlock

Beware, this is quite possibly one of the saddest things I've written. Don't hate me.

Also, of course, I own none of the Sherlock characters. Sherlock belongs to BBC and ACD and Mofftiss.

Enjoy, bros!

~Kiro

Regression

"It's now or never, John." Sherlock looked deep into his friend's eyes, studying the uncertainty in the tension around them and the slight creasing of his forehead. "Are you sure you can to do this? If not we- we can do something else. Send-"

"No. No, it's fine. I'll be fine. We'll do this." John nodded, looking away and breaking the gaze between the two. Sherlock drew back, turning to look again into the lit city, street lights, cars, and signs shining all over London.

"Then let us depart." The consulting detective looked back at his army doctor, watching as he limped over to the table to pick up his gun, stuffing it in his jacket. Damn. The limp was back, much less pronounced and John obviously trying his best to hide it, overcompensating, but it was there. But John had said he would go; there was no turning back now.

Sherlock walked down the stairs, his steps filled with worry for his friend and partner. For that is what they had always been: partners. He thought of this as he stepped in the cab, sliding over for John to get in. John spouted out the address to the cabbie and they were off. To church, for the first time in Sherlock's life, though not, apparently, John's.

The rest of the trip was silent, John peering out the window, his left hand slightly trembling on his knee. Sherlock stared straight ahead, for if he did anything else he was certain he would do something to indicate that he did, in fact, have emotions. Finally, the cab pulled up before the church. Sherlock tossed the fare to the cabby just as John got out his wallet, then fled the car and John's shocked glance. Sherlock never paid the fare.

The two partners stood before the church. John took a deep breath and Sherlock took his hand, squeezing gently. John sent him a raised eyebrow and nod of thanks, then the two moved in unison up the steps. As they entered, Sherlock glanced around, noting details about the people littering the church, some sitting, some lingering in the aisles. They appeared as beetles, dressed in black, clambering all over the place of the dead. John let go of Sherlock's hand, moving slowly up the centre aisle to the coffins. Two, black, the tops lifted to show two women, one with dark hair and the other blonde, the same stubborn jawline as John.

Harry and Clara, back together after Harry quit her drinking, had been killed in a car accident on their way across the country to visit John. A fourteen wheeler had swerved to avoid hitting a cow, instead rolling down a hill and spilling oil across the highway. The oil was still there when Henry and Clara came along two minutes later, the authorities still on their way, and the women's car lost control and skid into a tree. Since they had been going at highway speeds, Clara had been killed on impact. Harry died of blood loss twenty minutes later.

The accident had definitely been no accident, no cattle ranchers lived anywhere near the area, and there had been suspicious activity witnessed by a farmer who lived close by around the time of the accident. It was some enemy of Sherlock's, aiming to hurt him through John, and John through his sister. They had certainly gotten Sherlock's attention, and as he watched John start to weep from several meters away Sherlock knew that he would be paying them back. They had his fullest attention, all of his ice-clear focus centered on their destruction. No one hurt his Watson and got away with it.

Sherlock gently took John's hand and led him to the first row pew as the ceremony started. John leaned on Sherlock's shoulder, weeping silently as Sherlock pulled his husband closer. No, they wouldn't get away. They would be either in a gas chamber in prison or floating in the river wrapped in barbed wire. It didn't matter what way he got them, Sherlock would be paying his sister-in-law's killers in kind.