Sherlock meets The Flash and Arrow

John

The lift's metal doors slide open and we step out into the lair-cave thing. (I really need a better name.)

"Wow." It's the first word out of my mouth. It basically sums up the room I'm in.

To my right is a sleek car that I couldn't afford with my life savings. On a raised deck is a computer bank. Behind that is a large conference table. (Who else would come down here, anyways? Seems like Oliver is pretty protective of his alternate identity...)

To my left is a doorway, where I can see a glimpse of a lot of metal equipment.

Sherlock skips (I didn't now he did that) over to the row of suits on the right wall. When I say suits, I don't mean business suits. I mean superhero suits.

"Don't touch that," Oliver's voice is cool and hard.

Sherlock walks over to the next suit. He's like a kid looking at toys on Christmas Day.

"Or that. Or anything over there."

Sherlock has selective hearing when he wants to. He pushes a button on the side of one of the tube holding the Arrow suit and it opens.

Faster than I can follow, Oliver leaps over and swipes at the button. Sherlock knocks his hand away. With his other hand, he touches the mask, delicately fingering the fabric. Calmly, ignoring Oliver, he asks, "Carbon microfiber? Smart. So you can aim your bow, right?"

Oliver shoves Sherlock and punches him in the jaw, hard. Sherlock stumbles back, clutching his jaw. "Hey! What was that for?"

I groan.

Oliver has a fierce look on his face. "Don't touch my suit."

Sherlock smiles. "Why not?"

Oliver hesitates, then decides that arguing rights of privacy and property with Sherlock is probably not going to work, so he takes a different approach. "Because I'll punch you if you do."

Sherlock sighs. "That's hardly a reason."

I sigh. "Sherlock."

Sherlock looks petulant. Felicity laughs. "You're just like Cisco! He spent most of his first time here poking stuff and annoying Oliver."

Oliver looks annoyed. "John, the beds are behind the conference table."

Sherlock glances at him, then asks, "Who was she?"

Oliver starts. "Who?"

"The girl who slept on that mattress before John. The one who died. The one you were in love with. Who was she?"

Oliver turns away. "She's no one now." He's got a hurt look in his eyes.

My mouth flattens. "Sherlock. Stop prying."

To my surprise, Sherlock listens to me. He turns and walks over to Felicity's computer setup.

I sigh. I can't police Sherlock all night. I have to get some sleep. I walk over to the mattress and collapse. It's been a long day.

I just hope I wake up to something other than Sherlock-chaos.

Oliver

Felicity walks over to Sherlock. Computers are really not my thing, so I watch from the side as Felicity explains her set up and Sherlock listens with a look of intense concentration.

I leave them there and walk into the bedroom to check on John, but he's already asleep. He rolls over in his sleep, looking worried.

I know a nightmare when I see one, but I'm not sure what to do. On one hand, leaving him to suffer wherever and whenever he is seems cruel, but on the other hand, he needs the sleep.

I hesitate, then leave him be, slipping into the other bed to catch some sleep myself. Hopefully, he'll move on to happier dreams soon.

John

I'm watching from the top of the building as Sherlock and Cisco fight. Cisco reaches down and grabs Sherlock's back. Sherlock screams in agony.

Then Cisco shoves his hand into Sherlock's heart.

Suddenly, he's not Cisco anymore, he's Mary, dressed in her wedding gown, her belly rounded with our child. She's holding a gun. The hole from Cisco's hand is a bullet wound, right in Sherlock's heart.

Mary smiles as Sherlock twitches, dying.

I'm behind Cisco's barrier. When did that happen? I can't get to Sherlock. I pound on the wall, but it doesn't move. The barrier shreds my hands. I'm vaguely aware that I'm screaming as my hands pour with blood. It doesn't matter. I can't get to him.

Suddenly, I hear a noise behind me. I whirl around.

Sherlock.

He's bleeding from his hand, leg, and heart. His hair is matted with his own blood.

But he's still smiling. It's the smile that lights his face up. The one for serial killers and brilliant deductions. The best one.

I don't decide to speak, but I hear myself ask, "Would you die for me?"

Sherlock cocks his head. His voice says that this is obvious. As obvious as that the Earth goes 'round the Sun. "Of course I would, John. I already have."

Then the light leaves his eyes in a rush and he crumples to the ground. Dead, lying in a pool of his own blood, on the pavement outside Bart's Hospital. Again.

Mary laughs.

Notes

Warning: Reference to child abuse in the following chapter (John's perspective).