An Affair to Remember-Sherlock Fanfic

Sherlock's Loss of Logic

John lay in Sherlock's arms content and relaxed. Sherlock smiled as he blew on the small hairs on John's arm, noting with satisfaction when they stood up on end. John nuzzled into Sherlock's chest enjoying the game. After a few moments of playing around Sherlock sighed. "We have to be ready tonight. I don't want any mistakes. There's a lot at stake," Sherlock said as he gripped John's hand in a firm grasp full of tension.

John looked up at Sherlock with sleepy bedroom eyes as he said, "Don't worry Sherlock. Everything will be fine."

Sherlock's lips were pursed in a tight grimace, for John's crippled state proved that anything could go wrong. "John, perhaps we shouldn't go through with this." Sherlock said as he massaged the side of John's neck.

John ran his fingers across Sherlock's chest, noting with satisfaction how Sherlock's skin flexed and hardened under his touch. The world's greatest detective was a shivering mass of putty in his hands. "Let's relax," John whispered in between kisses.

"John, you are a terrible influence on me," Sherlock said as he wrapped his legs around John's waist.

A few hours later, they stood in front of the entrance to the bar. Sherlock looked down at John's face. His expression was relaxed, dopey from the after effects of their afternoon sexual exploits. "I know what you're thinking, John. You're very naughty." Sherlock whispered as he tussled John's fine hair through his fingers. He then checked John's bullet proof vest and fake plasma bag to make sure they were both in position. "Into battle we go my Doctor," Sherlock said with a slight quiver in his voice.

The bar was crowded and Sherlock had to blink several times to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and the bluish cloud of cigarette smoke that encompassed the room. John coughed and Sherlock ran his hand along the back on John's neck for he knew how much John hated cigarette smoke. John grinned up at Sherlock in response. With any luck this would be over soon.

The fake assignation was to take place in the one of the darkened booths. Hugh would shoot John in the stomach with a silencer. Sherlock would scream for help and Hugh would slip away in the crowd. If per chance someone were to notice Hugh leaving, Sherlock would be his alibi. Sherlock took John's hand as they were shown to John's staged booth of death. After placing their order, they both waited for Hugh's set to end. Sherlock jiggled his leg in nervous anticipation. John placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh. "Relax, Sherlock, everything is going to be fine." He whispered then he mouthed the words "I love you."

The last chords of Hugh's last song faded away. He stood up thanked the crowd and then disappeared off of the stage. A few moments later a figure in a black hoodie came up to Sherlock and John's table. Without a word he pulled a gun out of his pocket, fired a couple shots into John's chest. The plasma bag burst covering Sherlock and the shooter with red spray. The shooter then turned to Sherlock as he whispered, "I'm truly sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned. "For what?" He thought. Then the unthinkable happened and the shooter fired again. A small red hole appeared in the center of John's forehead as he slumped forward and hit the table. Sherlock jumped up in disbelief. "No, no, no, John...," he screamed ignoring the hands that attempted to pry John's broken body out of his grasp. The rhythm of the room slowed down. Hands were grasping him. Medical personnel took one look at John and black tagged him. Sherlock screamed at them to try and revive his beloved John. Their sympathetic eyes stared back at him like a dead fish's, unblinking, and devoid of emotion. John was just a body to them. How could they know what he meant to Sherlock? They would take his body to the morgue where a ghoulish Doctor would perform an autopsy. Their fingers would probe and weigh every part of John. Cold hands would weigh each organ on a scale. Cold hands would pierce his skin with a scalpel, revealing John's anatomy. Their explorations would rip at the flesh of the man he loved. "No, I won't let them touch him," Sherlock thought. "I will kill them all if they dare. Yes, I will kill them all." Sherlock bit his lower lip, not noticing when his teeth pierced the skin. A small trickle of blood ran down his chin, but Sherlock didn't bother to wipe it away.

Sherlock let himself be led away from the scene in a trance. Scads of photographers waited at the entrance. Like vultures they all clustered around their prey snapping pictures of Sherlock's blood spattered face and shirt. Sherlock felt numb as he sat in the ambulance, waiting for John's sheet draped body to join him. But the doors shut. Sherlock's screams went unheeded as he pounded on the window of the ambulance. The vehicle of death that carried John's body screamed out of sight.

Sherlock let himself be lead to the morgue. He had been to morgues before, identified bodies, made suppositions, deduced and analyzed. He had never looked on them as flesh and blood until tonight. What would he do when the tray was rolled open? What would he do when John's lifeless eyes stared back at him? They would be dark blue incapable of reflecting light back. Tears poured down his face as Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fists for control.

He stepped towards the drawers that contained the lifeless corpses of the once living. "Drawers of death," Sherlock thought as he stepped forward.

Then there was a swooshing sound. Sherlock frowned for it was not the opening of a drawer but that of a door. He turned and there was John in a wheelchair. "Jesus, this stuff is hard to get out of one's hair," John said as he scrubbed on his scalp with a towel. He stopped when he saw Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, everything's fine. We didn't tell you about this part of the plan so that you would appear genuinely grief stricken. I must say you outdid yourself. The pounding on the ambulance window and all, nice touch. I mean I pretty much figured that you would come to the conclusion of my supposed death on the ride over. So, when did you figure it out? Was it the color of the blood that gave us away or the color of my skin? Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot staring at John. Then his eyes rolled up to the top of his head and he crumpled to the ground in a dead faint.