docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ As he's lying there, on top of Sherlock, smelling mostly singed hair and sweat and something sharper, darker, his thoughts stop making much sense. He's thinking about rugby. Charles from the rugby club who gave him his first blowjob in the boys' changing rooms and they'd been dying from nerves, what if someone came, what if someone saw, they'd kill them, something's going to kill them... Then, there's Sherlock's hand against his hip, Sherlock's body wriggling beneath him and Sherlock's voice saying his name, John, John, John.

Get out. Yes, of course. Fresh air, a change of environment, they have to get out. He gets to his feet, a scramble more than anything, possibly kneeing Sherlock in the thigh, sorry. Not the groin, though. That's good. Then, he unceremoniously grabs the other man by the wrist, yanks him to his feet and drags him all the way through the sitting room, to the hallway, to the door, throwing it open and entering the garden out front in socks and in a somewhat panicked run.

The fresh air hits him like a wall in the face. He breathes in deeply, greedily. Let's go of Sherlock's hand which he was for some reason holding, yes. He raises the other, gestures with it drunkenly. ]

Don't -- [ Voice rising to a shout, he doesn't even try keeping it together. This stuff could've killed them! Killed him, Sherlock, it could have killed him. ] -- ever do something like that again, do you hear me?!

[ John scrambles off him, kneeing him in the thigh - which barely registers as anything but a dull ache - before grabbing onto him and pulling out of the house, the hallway and the rooms passing by in a blur. As they stumble outside, Sherlock tumbles down onto his back, flattening his hands against the ground and blinking upwards, trying to control his breathing whilst taking in gulps of fresh air, just basically gorging on it. God. God, that could have - yeah. John's yelling at him and admittedly, it's not... wholly undeserved, is it. No. He winces, propping himself up onto his elbows and looking at John who's slightly red-faced and very loud. John, steady, strong, dependable John.

Sherlock could have killed them both.

He shakes his head. ]

Apologies, John. [ His voice is shaking slightly. ] You're right, we - we're not doing that again. Sorry.

[ The fact that he's just apologised twice speaks volumes about his mental state. ]

[ He would've yelled some more, honestly. He would have shouted things like, you always get tunnel vision around cases, how could you not see this would happen, I TOLD YOU, but as Sherlock gives his first apology and then a second one, the fight sort of -- wheezes out of him, expelled with his next breath. In time with the gas getting cleaned out of his system, his paranoia and feelings of agitation subsiding, John's anger also disappears. Christ, they are a couple of fools, what a lovely pair they make, yes. What a lovely pair. He breathes in, out, in. Places his hands on his hips and licks his lips, shaking his head once. ]

I'm going to mark this day in my calendar. The day Sherlock Holmes admitted to an act of stupidity.

[ A mild scoff, not really much feeling in it as he looks over at Sherlock with the kind of gaze that says I love you, you're an arse, mostly because he can't say it out loud yet. Not the first part. They're just not there. This proves it, they're just not there. Making slow progress, sure. Certainly very slow progress, but now they have a house to ventilate and obviously some curls and a face to salvage, so that's going to be a stop on the way.

Shit. ]

[ A strangled laugh. He shakes his head again, leaving John's words hanging between them, acknowledged and unchallenged. It's true - what a stupid, stupid thing to do. If he'd done it to himself, that would have been one thing (foolish but then again, he's done a lot throughout the years) but dragging John along, enough so that they might have accidentally killed each other... He frowns. Lies back again, flat against the ground, and looks upwards at the sky. The clouds are drifting by slowly, the wind not as harsh as it could be, considering their current location. It's early, still. Things might very well pick up later in the day.

There can be no doubt, then. This drug, in a more potent, professionally processed form, would definitely be deadly. It would create chaos in any household and once unleashed in a shopping centre, for instance... Imagine Harrods, at rush hour? With this thing spreading from the ventilation system? Or how about letting it loose in Parliament? What a party that would be. Lips tightening, he shuts his eyes and tries to drive the remnants of cold from his mind.

He keeps thinking about John. About how he'd thought they were both too cold, that turning up the heat might even fix it. Rubbing his left eyebrow - singed, obviously, along with a small portion of his hair - he simply lies there and tries to push all of this to the very back of his mind. Probably won't delete it, though.

Probably shouldn't. ]

storyline one.

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