The day that Mr. Hooper died, Sherlock and John decided they best not intervene with the mourning process. They knew that he was to be hung at two o'clock, and so by two o'clock the two of them made sure to be far from the Hooper household. They had fixed a meal and left it in the fridge, as well as made a pot of tea and arranged it in the sitting room; however they knew that the two women would be best left alone. It was a family matter, after all, and no matter how hard they tried Sherlock and John would never properly be part of the Hooper family. And so they walked out of town, far out of the way of any British officers, far from the light of any reporters who may want to get the inside scoop on life inside of the Hooper household. They walked far enough so that the sound of the crowds at the gallows would not be heard; they walked far enough so that they could not hear the toll of the bell, announcing two o'clock and the breaking of the poor man's neck. Eventually they found themselves at a field that had been plowed over, spanning for what seemed like miles with clear views of the distant ocean on one side, and the peaks of mountains on the other. It seemed almost surreal, how far the human eye could see when nothing was obstructing it. Evidently they thought this was the perfect spot for whatever was going to happen, for as soon as they arrived in such a clearing John opened the large bag he had been totting on his shoulder for the entire walk. They didn't look at the time because they didn't want to know.
"I got you something." John announced, dropping the bag and rooting through it for a moment. He brought out crusty old cans and bottles, which Sherlock thought to be a rather peculiar present.
"Very nice, John." Sherlock teased, chuckling once more when John unearthed some wooden pegs from the depths of the bag.
"No, this isn't the present. Shut up Sherlock!" John laughed, smacking at Sherlock's legs with one of the pegs, to which the boy just ducked away with a giggle.
"Sorry, I'm sorry." Sherlock muttered, taking a couple of hops back so as to avoid any more of John's retaliation. John just stared at him with a very unamused look before turning away and huffing his disappointment.
"This is your present." He announced, pulling a very small gun from his waistband and presenting it to Sherlock proudly. Sherlock looked at it fearfully, and then back up at John with an equally perplexed look.
"You got me a gun?" Sherlock breathed in clarification. The little thing looked terrifying, gleaming in the middle of John's palm. Yes it was small, yes it was innocent, but Sherlock knew that with that very gun he could end whatever problems he was having. If he wanted to he could march right over to his house, with six bullets all loaded up for each and every traitor that infested his home. He could kill Victor, all with that little thing that sat no bigger than John's hand.
"You'll need it, I'm sure you will." John insisted, holding it out a bit more agressivley so that Sherlock would take it from him. Sherlock nodded, gulping as he took the little thing very carefully from John's hand and observed it. It was so small and cute that he almost thought it laughable to think about this tiny thing killing someone, yet he was sure that it had the capability to do so, and so he had to at least give it the respect it deserved. He had to be very carefully with it.
"It's so small." Sherlock pointed out a bit obviously.
"Well yes, it's small so that no one knows you have it. You can tuck it in your belt and no one will know. I thought you'll need it for when you go back home." John said a bit sadly, busying himself with sticking the wooden pegs into the ground, obviously for some target practice.
"I'm not going to shoot anyone in my own house." Sherlock pointed out.
"Yes, but they don't know that. If they give you a hard time, I don't care which one; I want you to defend yourself. They don't think much of you, Sherlock." John warned.
"You know that because you overheard them, Victor I mean?" Sherlock clarified in a small voice, holding the gun much more confidently in his hand with the thought of that cruel man.
"Ya, I heard Victor." John agreed quietly, as if the recollection of such language was not pleasant.
"What did he say about me?" Sherlock wondered. He had not talked to Victor, or even seen Victor, since the man left him on the bed all those nights ago. His last impression, other than of course his attempted attack outside of Molly's house, had been that cruel face as he had left Sherlock sitting vulnerable and afraid on his own bed. He left without so much of a goodbye.
"He was just laughing about how weak you are. That's all." John admitted with a shrug, obviously leaving very much out.
"I know he doesn't think a lot of me, he probably thinks I'm really young, and really impressionable." Sherlock muttered sadly. John nodded with a shutter, now balancing some of the bottles and cans onto the pegs so that they could aim for them from afar. He looked upset about something, and of course he had every right to be. Over these past couple of days John had taken over as a stand in care giver for Sherlock, and of course the idea that Sherlock would allow himself to be with such a horrible man must bother him.
"Why did you ever love him, Sherlock? What made you think that he'd be...the perfect one?" John asked, not daring to look back at Sherlock as he balanced yet another gross glass bottle onto the peg.
"He was nice once, he was kind. I swear to it." Sherlock insisted almost defensively.
"I cannot imagine a man who is so...so cruel to everyone else to have ever been kind." John muttered.
"Well it doesn't matter now, does it? I know what he's really like now, and I despise it. He had put on a mask, a very convincing façade, and I fell for it. He was just trying to use me, I'm sure of it. I meant nothing to him after he got what he wanted." Sherlock growled. John nodded quietly, now satisfied with the five bottles and cans that were lined up a couple of feet above the dirt.
"You should've waited, Sherlock. For someone who would've cared for you." John muttered, turning back and walking slowly towards where Sherlock was standing. The ground still had the marks of the plow, divots in which the weeds grew heavily as they waited for the next crop to be planted. It was difficult to move about, and even now Sherlock had to position himself so that he didn't topple over while standing and watching as John approached.
"That could've taken years." Sherlock pointed out glumly.
"It didn't." John muttered, shaking his head before turning back to observe the targets he had set up. He said that so casually that Sherlock almost didn't understand the meaning behind it, the momentous confession that had just come out in casual conversation. John was saying that it didn't take years for someone who loved Sherlock to appear, he was saying that someone had already arrived, and that he of all people should know. Oh how obvious this all should have been!
"So there are your targets, sort of at the height of a chest, or stomach." John said with a shrug.
"Or your head." Sherlock suggested, to which John just frowned at him. Sherlock grinned right back, a sign that John was free to continue when he recovered from that little comment.
"So you're going to hold the gun in one hand and fold your other hand underneath." John instructed. Sherlock nodded, doing as he was told and placing his hands accordingly around the gun. It felt sort of awkward, however he could tell that such a grip was going to have the most balance and control.
"Now don't put your finger on the trigger, even though you have to pull the hammer back to load it I still don't want to take any chances. Put your finger above the trigger, and the other one along the barrel, far from where it could be hit by the hammer." John muttered, nodding along as Sherlock repositioned his fingers.
"Now there's eight bullets in there, and to cock it all you have to do is use your thumb and pull the hammer down. It'll click." John instructed. Sherlock nodded, and as John said he pulled down the hammer so that it clicked into positon. "Now it's loaded, and ready to fire." John finished. Sherlock nodded, holding the gun up and listening to John's instructions on how to aim. It all seemed pretty self-explanatory to be honest, just line up the two little notches on the top of the gun and fire away. Yet John still felt obliged to instruct him all the way through, on his proper stance, on the way his arms were raised, and the lecture of course on gun safety. They were in a wide open field which really wasn't ideal, however John said that he knew no one else would be around, and that the bullet would eventually just hit the ground. Sherlock could only hope he was right, for he didn't want any poor civilians miles away getting struck by his beginning shots.
"Now make sure you don't twitch when you pull the trigger, some have the tendency to sort of pull the entire gun back, which distorts the sights. Just be steady, breathe easy." John instructed. "And get your aim, and fire when ready." Sherlock nodded, for he had been aimed and ready to go all throughout John's boring lectures. As soon as John gave the okay Sherlock pulled the trigger, making them both jump for completely different reasons. It was the surprise of such an early shot that made John yelp, and it was the recoil that made Sherlock scream. He hadn't anticipated the gun coming back at him with such force, for just as soon as he shot it he felt like he had been kicked in the gut with all the force that nearly through him off of his feet. It was so little he had almost thought it wouldn't have any sort of kick, yet that little thing had some power! To no one's surprise, however, none of the bottles cracked. The bullet had missed.
"Well that was alright." John muttered, although he didn't sound too sure.
"Shut up, that was terrible. I didn't even hit anything." Sherlock pointed out with a little frown.
"If you got it on the first shot you'd have been a wizard, Sherlock. There's no need to feel down about that." John insisted. "I missed my first shot too."
"I'll one up you on that, John, and miss my whole first round of shots." Sherlock taunted.
"Don't do it purposefully." John begged.
"I won't, don't worry." Sherlock assured, holding up the gun once more, cocking it, and firing. Once more, nothing shattered. Sherlock shot a whole round of eight bullets, and in the end all he managed to do was skim the top of one bottle so that a little chunk of it broke off. It was very disappointing, but John assured him that if that bottle had been a person they would've been momentarily out of action, since they would associate the pain with a wound that had been a lot worse. John assured him that such a wound would have given Sherlock time to run away, if he needed to.
"How much did this thing cost you?" Sherlock asked as John was reloading it, sitting on the dirt and sliding more bullets into the cylinder. He simply shrugged, not looking too eager to share.
"It was worth it, I'm sure." John shrugged.
"John come on, just answer the question." Sherlock nagged. John sighed heavily, shaking his head yet knowing of course when he was beaten.
"It was thirty pounds, but that doesn't matter, it's nothing." John insisted, shaking off the question as he loaded the gun and handed it back to Sherlock proudly.
"Thirty pounds! John that must be more than you make in a month, you couldn't possibly..."
"I said it doesn't matter Sherlock! I wouldn't have bought it for you if I didn't think about the price beforehand." John snapped, sounding downright defensive about his purchase. It was a stupid purchase, yet John didn't seem too bothered by the irrationality of it all.
"Well that's...could I at least pay you back? Half?" Sherlock pleaded.
"I'm not going to make you do that." John snapped. "Now just appreciate it, would you?"
"Yes of course, I never said I didn't appreciate it." Sherlock defended, lowering his voice now that he realized how much this gift had meant to John. Maybe he was embarrassed that such an amount was crippling, or maybe he was ashamed at how much he was willing to spend to keep Sherlock safe. Maybe he didn't want to think about the stupid things you do when you were in love.
"Thank you John." Sherlock managed finally. John nodded stiffly, clearing his throat yet looking appreciative all the same.
"You're welcome." He muttered. "Now get up there, take a couple more shots. I want to make sure you know how to use this thing."
"Yes alright." Sherlock agreed. This round he tried a lot harder to make John proud, simply because now he saw how much it meant to the boy. What an idiot he was, throwing away such money for Sherlock, who could've very easily bought it for himself! Yet it meant a lot to him, that someone would give away so much money to keep him safe, that someone would care that much for his wellbeing. On his third shot, Sherlock shattered his first bottle. It shocked him, and it shocked John as well, yet after a moment of processing what had just happened they both began to jump up in down successfully. It certainly was an accomplishment, for now Sherlock at least had some peace of mind that he could manage the weapon to be useful. It would be just a very expensive piece of metal if he wasn't able to use it. Yet that bottle...that might've been Victor's head. It still could be, in the future, if all went well. Shattered and destroyed, those beautiful blue eyes rolling about in a bloody mess on the hardwood floors. It was a lot more than he deserved, a quick death. He should die, hang, and bleed out for all Sherlock cared! Starve to death over the course of weeks, in constant pain and misery! A shot to the head was much too quick, and much too generous. That was the only bottle Sherlock broke, yet that was enough improvement that he was happy with it. He then turned the thing over to John after he had emptied a couple of bullets into the field, just so to see what sort of miracles John could work with the thing.
"You're skilled in this, aren't you?" Sherlock clarified. John shrugged humbly, holding up the gun in his hands expertly, and taking aim without so much as twitching his hands, or inhaling too rapidly. There was no question about it, he was most certainly skilled, and that became even more evident when he began to fire. Sherlock watched in awe as, one after one, John shattered every glass that was still standing. Sherlock was sure he could've gone back and skewered the pegs if he had wanted to, for not a shard was left standing when he was finished! And Sherlock watched in awe, Sherlock watched in almost livid fascination, as instead of glass bottles he saw the heads of the soldiers in his house. Moran's head exploding on the pike, the ponytail falling straight off of the other's! Victor's head, blown to a thousand pieces, each one of their red coats stained yet you would never know! Their bodies falling limply to the ground, and shattering amongst the dirt that was tilled with weeds. Justice was done, or at least it would be done, when John could finally get his hands on those horrible soldiers!
"That was amazing." Sherlock breathed. John just shrugged, emptying the cylinder of all the empty rounds and tucking them back into his bag. Obviously he wasn't one for littering, which Sherlock was sure the farmer would appreciate. Then again, he would have to deal with all sorts of glass shards come the planting season.
"Well, it takes practice." John agreed with a shrug. Sherlock nodded, watching quietly as John walked out and grabbed the poles (some of which were splintered from his excellent marksmanship). He dug them out of the ground and put them back in the bag, all while Sherlock watched in absolute admiration. Every day he was more and more impressed with that seemingly insignificant John Watson. The five foot nothing spy who doubled as a milk man, traitor, and housewife all at the same time. He was everything that Victor wasn't, or at least everything that Sherlock had hoped Victor to be. John was caring, handsome, skilled, and gentle. He was the one Sherlock had been waiting for all along, the one that deserved to be in Sherlock's dreams and imagination, the one that would make permanent residence in Sherlock's heart. The one who should've been the first, and the one that still could be the last. While John had his back turned Sherlock walked up to him, he walked up from behind so as not to scare John too much. Yet he knew what he had in mind, he knew what he wanted to do. He was done waiting around for John to make a move, just as he had done with Victor he would do now. He would take matters into his own hands, and instead of just waiting for people to admit their love for him he would instead take what he wanted and run with it. And so with a small leap of faith Sherlock came up from behind John, wrapping his arms around his neck from behind so that he could cradle the man there, in his grasp and against his chest.
"Sherlock, what..." John gasped, yet he didn't finish his sentence because it was a stupid question, it really was pointless. It was obvious what he was doing, was it not? Any blind man could see what he was doing, he was declaring his love. Just without words.
"John, I was supposed to wait for you, was I not?" Sherlock clarified in nothing more than a whisper. He could feel John's heart thumping in his chest, he could feel his lungs struggling to inflate, he could feel him tremble. Such passion, such fear, trembling like a leaf in a windstorm, just as Sherlock had done the first time he had been held by admiring arms. And yet John didn't resist, he didn't push Sherlock away. For once Sherlock was in control of this boy, and he didn't want to let go just yet.
"Yes of course." John agreed in a mere whisper. Sherlock smiled to himself, for John would never see, and ever so timidly pressed his lips to John's neck. Just as Victor had done to him all of those nights ago, the feeling that had elicited such passion inside of him he now did to John. And he still felt the tingles, like electric shocks passing from his lips and into John's skin, powerful and passionate; the taste of that boy's skin was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Yet John wasn't as helpless as Sherlock had been in this situation. While Victor's kisses had paralyzed him, John instead seemed to be empowered. He dropped the gun onto his bag and turned, twisting in Sherlock's arms and bringing their lips together faster than Sherlock could ever have processed. He didn't expect it, and just like that he lost the upper hand. This might have been John's first kiss, the might have been his millionth, either way Sherlock had no way of knowing. He kissed like a professional; he kissed more beautifully than Victor had ever managed, all while basically standing on his tiptoes! And what could Sherlock do, oh what could he do except melt into his arms? Because it was becoming increasingly obvious that no matter who he was with, he was just destined to be overpowered. Just as with Victor, Sherlock lost all control over himself as John's kiss deepened, his knees wobbled and his breath ceased all together. All Sherlock could do was try to survive until the next kiss, try to survive until the next touch. Yet just as it had started, so abruptly did it end. John pulled away first, taking a gasp of breath and holding Sherlock so close that together it was all they could do but stare into each other's eyes with the same look of shock, both wondering if that had really just happened. So quickly, and without warning! And just like that, it was over. Yet it was enough, was it not? Enough to see the excitement in John's eyes, enough to feel his fingers clutching to Sherlock's shoulders, enough to hear his heart racing inside of his chest. They both took deep breaths, both hardly daring to believe that had just happened.
"I um..." Sherlock muttered, suddenly falling away from John's grasp and taking a step away. "I'm sorry."
"Don't you dare be sorry. I'd been waiting for that for days now." John snapped, grabbing the bag and handing the gun back to Sherlock, evidently his to keep.
"Days?" Sherlock clarified. John just smiled, shaking his head as if he knew when he had been caught.
"Weeks." He admitted with a shrug. Sherlock hummed in agreement, tucking the gun into his waistband as he had been taught to do.
"I know." He agreed smugly. And with that they walked home, almost as if nothing exciting had happened at all. Because well, it didn't, not really. They had all knew that was coming, the kiss was evident. The love had been there for weeks, just as John had said, and so when you think of the kiss it was just another stage in the mutual love that had been blossoming for all of this time. It wasn't all that monumental simply because it was destined to happen, for a while now Sherlock had felt like it had already happened and he had simply forgotten. They had been acting like a couple ever since Molly's father had been arrested, they had been so close for so long that whether or not it had ever happened almost seemed irrelevant. It happened now, did it not? The fates had taken over, and together Sherlock and John simply completed what had to be done for a while now. And when you think about it, there was nothing surprising in it at all. That is why they walked home without a word, without any sort of surprise or any sort of fear. They walked now in knowingness, in purpose. For they knew for sure now that who walked beside them was their soulmate, the one that was intended to walk beside them for a very long time.