One shots (johnlock fluff mostly)

Tell you when i get home

"This should have happened ages ago!" Sherlock shouted to the howling wind as he held the sledgehammer out to his side with steady determination.

"No! Sherlock!" John begged, throwing himself in front of the black stone.

"John it caused you pain, I need to remove it, destroy it, it shouldn't exist!" Sherlock exclaimed his voice breaking on the end.

"No! Because it's also a reminder, a reminder I didn't lose you, a reminder that you came back and after two years we found each other again, not even death could hold us apart!" He defended, as he held his arms out to his sides, imploring with Sherlock to see sense.

"John-" Sherlock choked , his adrenaline passing into exhaustion. He had spent the three and half hours, after his fight with John about his death, pacing around London, looking for a way to make John happy with him again, to make him smile like he used to.

"No Sherlock" John whispered into the biting night air, he too was exhausted, his body drained after a hard case and only two hours of sleep for a 48 hour period.

Sherlock appeared to collapse, his limbs slackening as the hammer fell to the floor and his arms dropped to his sides, his knees crashing into the wet mud with a squelching noise and his coat soaking up the moisture from the old grass.

"It's all my fa-"

"This was not your fault Sherlock" John said gently as he picked up the sledgehammer, surprised at the weight of the mallet before resting it against the stone with the gold writing.

"John-" he began again only to gasp in pain as the sound of a gunshot filled the air, most likely from a sniper but this thought hardly crossed johns mind as Sherlock looked down at his chest, red blooming slowly into something deeper and more sinister. A deadly rose to his white shirt.

John rushed towards him and caught him before his body could fall and lay him carefully against the mud, Sherlock whimpering as he did so.

"Sherlock stay awake for me okay?!" John demanded as he tore his own scarf from his neck and pressed it tightly to the wound making Sherlock make a choked off noise as he lay on the bed of his grave his head just a foot from the stone that read his name.

John felt his fingers become sticky with blood as he pressed even tighter, fighting against the almost impossible to stop the blood flow in his friends body. He looked up at Sherlock who's eyes were wide in shock, now green in this retched storm. He looked at the pale skin now turning even paler as his body lost too much blood, the windburn on his cheeks and the end of his nose, how he bit his full bottom lip to stop himself from crying out in pain.

How even in this cold October night, sweat beaded at his forehead and made his hair stick down in sweaty clumps and he himself choked off a gasp as the awe that he saw in those crystalline eyes.

And as he pressed ever tighter to the wound, he watched as those eyes began to grow tired.

"Sherlock! No! Stay awake! Come on!" John demanded of him and Sherlock managers one sad lopsided smile at him before his breath came in one ragged gasp and he closed his eyes.

"No no no no no, SHERLOCK!" He looked down at the wound, and then back to his best friends face. He untied sherlocks scarf from his neck careful not to jostle him and leaned over as he did so feeling for a pulse and a breath and internally relived to find both. He used sherlocks scarf to tie his own tightly to the wound in a makeshift gauze before failing Mycroft.

It answered after two rings:

"Mycroft!"

"Already on it John" the drawl replied but John could sense the panic and anger through the phone.

Before John could reply Mycroft had hung up and there was a bunch of paramedics suddenly surrounding them and tending to Sherlock, stabilising him and making sure he was safe for travel as a helicopter began to whit above before dropping down in the open space where the cars usually parked.

Sherlock was rushed off to a private hospital, which was undoubtedly Mycroft as John was given a lift along side the older Holmes in the back of a black jaguar x type.

John looked back to the grave, a pool of crimson blood absorbed by the ground, where the man proved his fake death but also where he almost faced death again.

John waited outside in the waiting room until Sherlock was released from surgery and left to wake up in his room, John and Mycroft at his side, still on the defensive even though Mycroft had informed John of the killers sudden and unexpected death that would remain a mystery to Scotland Yard for centuries to come.

Sherlocks hand twitched and caught both men's eyes as John suddenly reached over to take sherlocks fragile hand in his own shorter stronger hand. He felt or twitch around his own palm as sherlocks eyes slowly blinked open and began to survey the room.

"Myc-?" Sherlock began but ended in a confused frown before turning to John and smiling.

"You- you kept me alive" he whispered in awe as he looked at John with a small smile before turning back to Mycroft.

He lifts his unoccupied hand and straightens it flat, resting his fingertips on his chin and then swiping his hand down with a slight smile before releasing his other hand from John gently before continuing.

He held his right hand flat at a diagonal angle and then pressed three fingers to his palm. Then he moved on to create an l shape and then pressing his hand sideways to the shape, before finishing with a c shape with his right hand and then sliding his hand gently back to John's.

Mycroft simply raised both hands parallel and flat to his chest raising up and down before gripping his umbrella again.

John watched in silent shock, he'd had to learn a few words of sign language to even get anywhere with the Diogenes club, like, sure he made mistakes, but he managed to translate it to a point:

Sherlock: thankyou M-Y-C

Mycroft: you're welcome

John however was brought back to the present by a tapping to the pulse of his wrist, the delicate skin where his skin was most vulnerable being tapped very gently by long agile fingers.

It took a moment for John to realise it wasn't just tapping.

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Morse code: I have something to tell you

John tapped back: what?

Sherlock gasped before looking at John in confusion at having his doctor pick up so fast. He controlled his features once more before moving on.

Sherlock:when we get home

Sherlock winced as the stitches to his chest tightened slightly as he tried to sit up and John and Mycroft both helped him in the act. Perfectly professional yet caring all the same.

Sherlock fell asleep that night in a cold hospital bed, a new scar to his chest but surrounded by the steady breathing of one man who continued to hold his hand, tapping out melodies into his skin like a typewriter as he slept.

He would tell John when he got home.