Sherlock meets The Flash and Arrow

Chapter 33

Oliver

I wake up when Sherlock and Felicity are done talking. Sherlock slips into the training room. I follow to make sure my lair is still intact by the end of the night.

Sherlock grabs an arrow from the wall and turns it over in his hands. There's a sort of gentle reverence to his motions as he takes in the equipment room.

No such reverence from me. I pull my shirt off and grab the salmon ladder bar. I hear Felicity's high heels tap on the concrete and come to a stop in the doorway behind me, but I don't turn around. I know she just wants to watch.

I hang from the bar for a second, then swing my legs, using the momentum to knock the bar up a notch.

Clang.

I pause for a second and catch my breath, then knock the bar up again.

Clang.

I can feel Felicity's eyes on my back as I make my way up the salmon ladder. Sherlock's join hers. I studiously ignore them and keep climbing.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

I'm showing off, and I know it. Felicity always says that the salmon ladder is the best way of bragging. So what? This is where I'm sure I can excel past Sherlock.

Casually, I pick up the pace. My efforts are rewarded by Felicity's quiet gasp.

Clang clang clang clang clang.

I've hit the top of the rungs, so I flip myself upside down so I can see Sherlock and Felicity. Felicity is, as always, gazing in open-mouthed surprise. It seems the salmon ladder never ceases to astound her.

Sherlock cocks his head, looking vaguely impressed. I smile, still upside-down.

I hold myself there for a second, feeling my arms straining to support me, then let go. I fall, still upside down. Like a circus performer on the silks, I flip inches above the ground and land firmly on my feet.

I glance at Sherlock, feeling my mouth curl into a feral grin. "Care to try it yourself?"

Calmly, Sherlock walks over to the salmon ladder. He turns around and meets my eyes, letting his face curl into a smile that mirrors my own.

John

I don't remember falling asleep, but I do remember being startled awake by a loud clanging sound.

I pull the pillow over my head and groan. They couldn't have kept it quiet, could they?

I glance at the clock. I've gotten about an hour of sleep.

I roll over, but I can't go to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see parts of my nightmare written on the back of my eyelids.

Sherlock, screaming, dying.

Sherlock, smiling, bleeding, saying, "Of course I would, John."

Mary, in her wedding dress, her belly holding our baby, laughing over my best friend's corpse.

I'm never going to get back to sleep now. I pull myself out of bed and wander into the room where the clanging is coming from. The clanging stops, then I hear Sherlock talking to someone else. Then the clanging starts up again.

I walk through the doorway and stop, surprised.

Sherlock, shirtless, facing away from me, is on the salmon ladder. There's a grace to his movements as he climbs the ladder. With every rung, I can see the muscles in his back and arms straining.

I've never seen Sherlock shirtless before. I suppose it would be impossible to exercise in a button-down shirt, but still. It seems so out-of-character.

Without turning around, Sherlock says, "I thought you would want more than two hours of sleep, John."

Felicity starts and whirls around. "John! I didn't see you there."

Sherlock scoffs. Under his breath, he says, "Of course you didn't." Tactfully, everyone ignores him.

He's reached the top of the salmon ladder and calmly drops back to the ground with little fanfare.

Quietly, Diggle says, "He was faster than you."

Sherlock smiles. Oliver smiles a feral grin and leaps onto the salmon ladder.

Clangclangclangclangclang.

In half the time, Oliver's to the top.

Diggle laughs. "Barry is way faster than either of you could ever be."

Oliver smiles. "But I'm faster than Sherlock is, so no one cares."

Felicity sighs. "Boys. So competitive."

I walk over to the salmon ladder. As part of basic training, I've been on one before. Hundreds of times. I can probably hold my own against Sherlock, just because I don't think he's used one before.

I think about taking my shirt off like every time I did this before in the military. But I can't. Sherlock would see the mass of scars on my back. He would figure it out.

The mark of a belt buckle is very distinctive, and my back is decorated with dozens of them.

I suppose that not taking my shirt off might be enough of a hint to Sherlock anyways. But at least then it's less obvious to everyone else.

I grab the bar. It's been years since I've done this, but my body remembers what my brain can't. I fly up the salmon ladder with the ease that comes from doing something hundreds of times.

Clang clang clang clang clang.

The familiar sound is comforting. Unfortunately, it also brings back the bad memories of basic training. In a nutshell, Hell on Earth. The idea is to show you every horror, pain, and suffering that this world can offer. That way war doesn't bother you.

Clang clang clang clang clang.

The salmon ladder is one shorter than I'm used to, which stops me for a second. I pause at the top to think. Go through my routine or don't? The exercise calms my nerves and shakes off the nightmare, so I figure Why not?

Beneath me, Oliver says, "Not bad. Where'd you learn that from?"

I flip my legs over the bar and hang from my knees like a schoolgirl on the bars at recess so I can see him. "Basic training."

Diggle perks up slightly. "You're military?"

"Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers of Afghanistan. Army doctor. I'd probably still be there if I wasn't invalidated out." Quickly, I start doing hanging sit-ups from the bar. I add, "It's my routine. Ingrained in me, really. I didn't even know I remembered it until now."

I can hear Diggle's smile in his voice. "I know what you mean. I've got three tours of Afghanistan."

Sherlock cocks his head at me, still in my shirt, but gratefully doesn't comment. He walks over to the wall and grabs a metal bar, one of four.

Oliver walks over to a pole which has padded bars embedded in it. He makes his way through an elaborate punching routine. Behind me, Sherlock weighs the metal bar in his hands. I turn to watch Oliver.

And, in doing so, I turn my back on Sherlock. Bad idea. Two metal bars come whistling past my face, headed straight at the back of Oliver's head.

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