Chapter Text
Sherlock’s lungs burned, every breath ragged as he pushed himself forward, rain blurring his vision as he sprinted down the South Bank, each step a battle against exhaustion. The courthouse was close now, its stone facade looming ahead through the relentless downpour, but the journey wasn’t over. Crowds lined the sidewalks, their voices a low murmur as they ducked beneath umbrellas or huddled together, watching in wide-eyed amazement as Sherlock tore past, his body soaked, every muscle pushed beyond its limits.
His head pounded, sharp with pain, and the bruises from his earlier falls and scrapes flared with each movement. His clothes were plastered to his skin, rain mingling with the faint traces of blood from open cuts along his arms and knuckles. He felt as though he were running through quicksand, the adrenaline starting to fade, leaving him painfully aware of every bruise, every ache that had been dulled by pure willpower. But he couldn’t afford to stop, not yet—not when he’d come this far.
The steps of the courthouse loomed closer, and for a fleeting moment, a flash of relief surged through him. He could almost taste the victory. But in the next heartbeat, something dark moved in his periphery, closing in fast. Before Sherlock could react, a heavy weight barreled into him from the side, throwing him to the ground with bone-jarring force. His head struck the pavement, pain searing through his skull, and the world spun wildly as he struggled to regain his bearings.
Blinking through the rain and blurred vision, he saw the glint of a blade—a knife, held steady in the hand of a figure looming over him. One of the Saudi agents. The man’s face was set in cold determination, eyes narrowed with the intent to finish what they had failed to do at the embassy. The blade arced downward, aimed at Sherlock’s throat, and he barely twisted aside in time, feeling the sharp edge slice through his jacket, grazing his shoulder with a hot sting. With a surge of instinct, Sherlock fought back, his hand shooting up to catch the agent’s wrist, muscles straining as he struggled against the strength pinning him down. They grappled, Sherlock’s body screaming in protest as he used every ounce of remaining strength to keep the knife away from his chest. Rain poured down, mixing with the blood that now seeped from his shoulder, his fingers slipping against the wet pavement as he twisted, trying to gain the upper hand.
The crowd, once frozen in shock, began to stir. Someone shouted, “Get off him!” and then a surge of people moved forward, gathering their courage as they closed in on the agent.
The agent’s grip faltered for just a second, his focus split between Sherlock and the crowd now pressing forward. Seizing the moment, Sherlock slammed his knee up into the man’s torso, wrenching the knife free from his grip and sending it skittering across the pavement. The agent staggered back, but before he could regain his balance, three people from the crowd surged forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him back, shouting as they held him away from Sherlock.
“Go, Sherlock!” a voice called out over the rain, filled with urgency and defiance. “Get to the courthouse!”
Another pair of hands reached down, helping Sherlock back to his feet, steadying him as he stumbled, barely upright. His vision wavered, the pain in his shoulder sharp and unyielding, but he didn’t allow himself to falter. Not now.
“Thank you,” he gasped, his voice hoarse as he took off again, every step bolstered by the resolve of the people surrounding him. Behind him, the agent struggled against the crowd’s hold, but more people stepped in, blocking his path, shielding Sherlock as he broke into an adrenalin-fuelled sprint.
As he ran, one thought stayed with him, clear and constant: John. The memory of that impossible jump, the moment he had started to fall—he could still feel the terror that had clawed through him as his fingers had slipped, as gravity had pulled him down. And then John had been there, just when Sherlock thought he’d reached his limit, his strength slipping, his calculations falling short. John’s hand had gripped his wrist, steady, certain, and pulled him up with a resolve that cut through the haze of exhaustion, anchoring him when he’d nearly lost everything.
He’d looked up then, breathless and stunned, to see John’s face, open and raw in a way that Sherlock hadn’t allowed himself to hope for. That fierce, unguarded look, the words that had followed—“You absolute, bloody idiot”—and then the kiss, that grounding, undeniable kiss. It was still burning in him, carrying him forward with a strength he’d thought he’d lost. The ache in his body seemed to fade just slightly, as if John’s strength still lingered in his bones, urging him on.
He turned a corner, only to be met with flashing blue lights and a line of police barricades, blocking off the final approach to the courthouse. The sight sent a fresh surge of panic through him. There was no time for this. Every second counted, and he knew that if he didn’t make it now, everything would have been for nothing. The bruises, the pain, even the jump that had nearly ended it all—they’d mean nothing if he failed here.
Heart pounding, Sherlock scanned the line of officers, his vision swimming with exhaustion, and then he saw them. Donovan stood at the barricade, her eyes fixed on him with a look he never thought he’d see: fierce determination mixed with something close to respect.
“Let him through!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the rain. She raised the tape, waving him forward as she locked eyes with him. “Go, Sherlock. Don’t you dare stop now.”
Sherlock nodded, pushing forward with what little strength he had left. He staggered past her, murmuring a hoarse, “Thank you,” as he passed. Behind her, Lestrade stood in the rain, his face grim but his eyes lit with pride.
“Go show them what you’re made of, Sherlock,” Lestrade called, stepping aside with a nod, his eyes filled with steady encouragement. “We’re all behind you. Not you!" He said angrily to a swell of supporters trying to follow.
Sherlock managed a weak smile, a flicker of gratitude that he hoped reached them before he broke into a final sprint up the courthouse steps. Each step jarred his bones, his legs trembling as he climbed, his vision narrowing with each second. The weight of the documents in his hand was a painful reminder of everything at stake. He burst through the courthouse doors, the cool air hitting him like a wall, making his head spin. He staggered down the polished hall, his footsteps echoing in the stillness, each one more unsteady than the last. By the time he reached the clerk’s desk, he was barely upright, his grip on the documents slipping. With a final burst of strength, he shoved the papers onto the counter, breathing out, “Please—take them,” before his knees buckled. The clerk reached out, alarm flashing across her face as she glanced at his rain-soaked, bruised figure, her hand hovering uncertainly.
“Are you…?” she began, her voice fading as Sherlock collapsed, his vision going dark as the pain he’d been holding back surged all at once. His shoulder hit the cold floor, a sharp pain searing up his side, but it felt distant, hazy as exhaustion dragged him under. He could barely make out voices, faint shouts echoing down the hall as he lay there, his breaths shallow, his chest aching.
Did I make it? He wondered distantly, his mind foggy, the world blurring at the edges. It felt like his body had finally surrendered, every ounce of energy drained. He couldn’t even lift his head, every inch of him weighed down by fatigue and the countless bruises and cuts that flared, unrelenting, in the dim light. It's not the fall that kills you...
Footsteps echoed down the hall, hurried, and then a familiar voice broke through the haze. “Sherlock!” John’s voice was thick with panic, cutting through the blur, grounding him. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”
Sherlock forced his eyes open, the outline of John’s face coming into focus, rain still dripping from his hair, his eyes wild with worry. John dropped to his knees beside him, his hands gentle but urgent as he checked Sherlock for injuries, his face growing grimmer with every bruise and scrape he uncovered.
“Christ, Sherlock,” he muttered, voice tight with barely controlled emotion. “What the hell have you done to yourself?”
Sherlock managed a weak smile, his lips barely moving. “Finished it,” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. “The injunction… it’s in.”
John’s face softened for a moment, a flicker of relief breaking through, his eyes tracing over Sherlock’s bruised and battered form, taking in every cut, every scrape. His shoulders sagged as he let out a shaky breath, his own exhaustion showing in the tremor of his voice. “You reckless bastard,” he murmured, voice thick with barely contained emotion.
The words came out rough, a mix of anger, relief, and something deeper—something raw and unfiltered that Sherlock had rarely seen from him. John’s hands found their way to Sherlock’s face, fingers trembling as they brushed back the rain-soaked hair from his forehead, lingering just a moment longer, as if he needed to reassure himself that Sherlock was really there, that he hadn’t lost him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” John’s voice cracked, breaking through the forced calm it seemed he’d been holding onto. The anger was edged with hurt, with fear that had chased him across London. “Why didn’t you let me help?” His gaze held Sherlock’s, searching for answers, for the reassurance he had needed but hadn’t been given. “You didn’t have to do it alone,” he continued, voice dropping to a near whisper. “I would’ve been there with you. I would’ve followed you anywhere.” He let out a ragged breath, the tension finally breaking as he shook his head, a trace of a sad smile touching his lips. “You didn’t have to shut me out.”
There was so much Sherlock wanted to say, words clinging to the edges of his exhaustion, caught in his throat as he looked into John’s eyes. He could feel the questions, the hurt, the worry—every unspoken thought woven into the lines of John’s face. But all he could do was hold John’s gaze, hoping to convey what he couldn’t put into words: the trust, the unspoken apology, the knowledge that he had never let anyone this close before. And he’d asked John to stay out of it for his own good—for reasons he knew John would never accept.
Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper, raw with emotion. “When we met… you couldn’t run. You were trapped, not by your body, but in your mind. And that night, I gave you something to chase, something to make you forget.” He looked down, the guilt flickering across his face. “But now… now I’ve put the pain back. Any day, you might feel it again—because of me. So I had to learn to run without you."
For a brief moment, John’s expression softened, the anger fading as a flicker of recognition passed over his face. Sherlock saw him recall that night, the one that had set it all in motion—the night when he’d pushed past his own limits, following Sherlock on that first, breathless chase, his limp forgotten in the thrill of pursuit. Sherlock had seen it then, the way John had rediscovered something he’d lost. He had wanted to protect that, to protect John from the dangers that trailed in Sherlock's wake.
John’s grip tightened, his gaze intense, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face, taking in what must be quiet devastation there. “Sherlock,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, “You brilliant, impossible fool.” He shook his head. “You think you’ve put me back in that pain? Sherlock, you’re the one who saved me.”
Sherlock couldn’t control the flicker of doubt that twisted inside him, an unfamiliar ache spreading beneath the steady weight of John’s gaze. He wasn’t sure what expression he wore—he only knew that John’s eyes were searching his face with unwavering intensity, taking in every detail as if he could read Sherlock’s every unspoken thought.
Then John’s hand came up, warm and grounding as it cupped his jaw, his thumb brushing slowly over the rain-slick skin. Sherlock’s breath caught, his pulse flared, as John leaned in—deliberate, unhurried, as though savoring every inch that closed between them. Each movement was impossibly tender, his presence steady, and Sherlock felt himself held there, anchored in a way that made the world fall away.
Their lips met, the kiss slow, almost wondering. John lingered, a comforting presence crouched over him, letting the warmth build between them, his hand steady on the side of Sherlock’s face. It held the quiet strength, the relief, the undeniable loyalty that had chased Sherlock across the city and through every danger. John’s fingers traced the edges of Sherlock’s face, as if reassuring him that he was real, that he was here.
When they finally pulled back, John’s gaze softened, his eyes bright with determination. “Sherlock, you didn’t put any pain back. I chose this.” He let his words settle, holding Sherlock to the moment. “And I’d choose it again, every time.”
For a beat, Sherlock allowed himself believe it, the feeling of John’s steady presence breaking through every defense he’d tried to put up. As the weight of John’s hand steadied him, Sherlock felt something inside him ease, if only just a little.
“Come on,” John said, voice steady but fierce as he slipped an arm under Sherlock’s shoulders. “You’re not collapsing here.” He helped Sherlock to his feet, hoisting him up with an unyielding grip, grounding them both.
Sherlock winced, pain flaring through his vision, but he gritted his teeth and allowed himself to lean into John’s support, tentatively letting himself be held, just this once. He wasn’t entirely sure what came next or whether he would find himself here again, but in that moment, he felt a glimmer of hope that maybe he wouldn’t have to face it all alone.
The courthouse doors opened behind them, and they stepped out together, John’s arm firm and steady around Sherlock’s waist as they descended the steps. Rain poured down, blurring the world around them, the edges of the crowd softened as faces turned toward Sherlock, filled with something he hadn’t expected: admiration, perhaps even gratitude. And, for the first time in years, he felt it—a flicker of warmth, the beginning of a trust he’d thought was gone, a quiet belief in himself he hadn’t dared imagine returning.
***
Back at Baker Street, the storm rattled against the windows, a steady pulse that, despite everything, had a calming effect. John guided Sherlock to the sofa, his grip firm yet careful, his expression tense. Sherlock’s eyelids grew heavy as exhaustion pressed down on him in waves, but the familiar walls and John’s solid presence beside him kept him grounded in the present. As John checked each bruise and scrape with practiced hands, Sherlock felt a surprising ache beneath his injuries—a blend of relief and gratitude he hadn’t anticipated. John worked in silence, his jaw tight, but Sherlock could sense the unspoken questions hanging in the air. John’s fingers traced over the worst of the injuries, pausing slightly as if to remind Sherlock that he was here, and that he wouldn’t be going anywhere.
After a few minutes, John gave Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder a squeeze. “I’m going to run you a bath,” he said, his gaze lingering on Sherlock as though to reassure himself that he’d still be there when he returned. Sherlock managed a faint nod, too tired to do much more, and watched as John disappeared down the hallway, the sound of running water echoing back to him. Left alone, Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut, just for a moment, unable to resist the weight of his exhaustion. But as he slipped into a brief sleep, shadows quickly crept into his mind. In his dream, he was running again, tearing through rain-soaked streets with faceless enemies closing in on him, the ground slipping beneath his feet. He stumbled, hands reaching out, feeling a jarring sense of freefall as he went tumbling, the cold dark rising to meet him, laughter all around—
Sherlock jerked awake, heart pounding, a faint sheen of sweat cooling on his skin. The living room was dim, the familiar shadows steady around him, and he was at Baker Street—he was home. He took a steadying breath, running a hand through his damp hair as he tried to shake the lingering dread that clung to him. Just then, John reappeared, concern flickering in his eyes as he took in Sherlock’s expression. He approached, kneeling down beside him, his hand resting on Sherlock’s arm. “Hey, it’s all right,” he murmured, his voice a low, steadying presence in the quiet room. “Sherlock,” he said quietly, his voice warm but laced with something raw, “You know you can tell me anything. Whatever happened out there—wherever you went, whatever you faced—I’m here.”
The words settled in the silence between them, carrying a promise that seemed to slip past every wall Sherlock had tried to keep up. He felt his defenses weaken, the careful distance he’d kept crumbling under John’s unwavering stare. Sherlock looked down, his voice barely above a murmur. “I know,” he whispered, words caught between regret and something deeper. "The princess - she helped me, once. She sheltered me, when nobody else would." A pause, and then he took a steadying breath, letting the fear he’d buried for so long rise to the surface. “I left you behind because I wanted to keep you safe,” he said, his gaze still cast downward. “I couldn’t bear to watch you risk yourself for me again. I thought… if I was out there alone, you’d be safe here.”
John’s hand closed over his, strong and reassuring, the contact steady. “You didn’t have to face any of it alone,” he said, his voice edged with a mix of frustration and understanding. “Whatever you thought you’d save me from… Sherlock, you’re wrong. I chose this. I chose to be with you, to face everything together.”
Sherlock lifted his gaze, meeting John’s unshakeable presence head-on, and felt a quiet certainty cut through every reason he’d told himself they were better apart. “Do you know what the difference is?” John continued, voice firm and unyielding. “It’s when we’re together. It’s running towards things side by side—neither one of us alone. I’d rather face every danger with you, than watch you do it without me.” A faint, weary smile broke through Sherlock’s exhaustion, a warmth settling in his chest. He’d spent so long trying to keep John at arm’s length, thinking it would protect them both. But here John was, unmovable, the presence he’d chased across the city and found at last. And, maybe, he thought, that was all he’d ever needed.
They ended up side by side on the sofa, the storm outside a quiet backdrop to the warmth settling between them. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, a steady presence anchoring him, allowing Sherlock to finally let his guard down. John’s hand rested over his, thumb tracing a slow pattern across his knuckles, offering reassurance without words. Sherlock’s eyelids grew heavier, each breath deepening as the weight of the day finally eased. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth radiating from John’s steady hold, the heartbeat under his ear a tangible reminder that he was here, that Sherlock didn’t have to keep running. Sherlock let his mind go quiet, slipping into sleep with a peace he hadn’t dared hope for, no shadows chasing him, no places he had to be. John’s hand remained where it was, a constant, and Sherlock knew, even as sleep took him, that he was safe—and there was nothing left to run from.