One shots (johnlock fluff mostly)

Not as planned

Feeling the gearstick under his palm and his fingers curl lightly at the edges in a loose grip as he moves the car into fourth gear slowly gaining speed on the M5.

He's currently drawn by the lines on the road, following them like a snake would follow a rodent as the V8 engine growls threateningly, every single bump avoided with precision.

"You never did tell me where we were going" a tired voice points out.

"Hmm?" He replies distractedly, hes brought back to the present by a hand on his leg which is the easiest thing for the doctor to reach without messing up his driving. "No I explained to you quite clearly we are going to Lancashire."

"Hmm no you didn't, I came home from the surgery and you had already packed both of our bags and then you were practically dragging me out of the car. So what are we actually doing?" John asked him, his voice tired but clear.

He never takes his eyes off the road, the feeling of Johns hand ingrained into his skin. "Five dead, Bullet wounds to the head but no shrapnel or bullets, there is no murder weapon and the only possible entrance for a bullet to pass through is too small for a person but large enough for a bullet but there are no actual bullets so what causes that?"

John nods and then turns his head back to the road.

It happens fast. Well that sounds cliché but there's not a lot that can be done. Britain's been suffering from a snow storm all over and there's blizzards and black ice. I guess cliché is something that happens often enough that enough of us will experience it for it to become cliché. But then in the end we are human. Even the great Sherlock Holmes.

Which is why the car spins out of control on the M5, it's why all control is lost and Sherlock's first instinct is to put an arm across Johns chest and hold him tightly in place as the car crashes into the barrier, his own body taking the impact as Johns is held back by a seatbelt and an arm tensed by adrenaline.

It's why John stays fully awake with only a cut to his brow from a shard of glass that flew off at the impact from Sherlock's window where his own head collided.

It takes a while, a lot longer than it should for Sherlock to open his eyes and wander why his torso seems to feel a lot heavier than he expects it too, than what is natural. It takes too long for him to realise the car is overturned and there's another car added to the wreckage, a girl in her twenties climbing out.

The psychosomatic limo returns full force as Johns shoulder is angled uncomfortably from Sherlock's hand gripping it tightly still.

"Sher-?" John starts uncertainly and looks at his friend who's curls are hanging in a mess around his head, and almost unconscious but not letting his arm leave John because something tells him internally that John still might be in danger and John Watson can't be in danger. Not again.

John very carefully peels the fingers from his shoulder and bracing himself against the low roof he unbuckles the seatbelt and frees himself from the chair, curling in on himself as he slips out the chair until he's sat on the underside of the roof and facing Sherlock who still hangs upside down, his hand clenching and unclenching.

Johns heads pounding and his whole body aches for some reason unknown to him but no bones are broken and he's not bleeding anywhere but that small cut. He sees Sherlock's leg twisted at an odd angle and winces in sympathy before slipping into army doctor mode, the doctor that is prepared for the worst, the doctor that can handle stressful situations and deal accordingly.

He supports Sherlock's body before unbuckling the seatbelt and carefully lowering him until he's lying on his back across the underside of the roof, his torso supported by John.

He checks his vitals and breathing and besides the broken leg that will require a trip to the hospital and the impact against the window that has given the detective concussion making him stare dazed at John, confused at the new view of the cars interior above him.

"It's gonna be alright" John tells him carefully, as he turns to the door and on his side, the one that didn't take the impact and opens it, pulling the detective out by his coat lapels and keeping him carefully supported until he's on solid concrete.

The police have already shut off he road and traffic has slowed to a halt. Two cars, one overturned one not.

It's all a blur from there, the ambulance  and the paramedics and the soothing sound as scissors cut through material to check how bad his leg is before there's a stretcher and then an oxygen mask and never once does John Watson let go of that cold shaking hand. Never once does the thought even cross his mind.

The trips a blur, John barely remembers as verdigris eyes blink in and out of focus always locking onto his own every time before they close again.

He's going to be fine. The doctors have all said so. There's so much evidence yet still watson remains in that chair never leaving his side, people come and go, he's already fought with Mycroft's men, because he will not leave him in case somehow one of these breaths is his last and he doesn't get a chance to tell him.

It's not as planned, it's not what he wanted. He was gonna take him to dinner, make sure he ate something, he was going to walk over the tower bridge instead of catch a cab on the way home and he was going to take his hand, feel it tense before relaxing, he was going to tell him under the night sky, the stars out for the rare occasion and he was going to kiss him and hold him close and the world would stop, as though time never existences but it wasn't as planned.

He vows he'll do it when they leave the hospital, when he's helping the now grumpy detective into a cab on the way  back to the flat with crutches and a bright blue cast, John suggested pink, Sherlock suggested murder in return.

He still hasn't told him. It still remains a secret. But one day he will.

And it will go as planned.