This is a fill for the following prompt on the Sherlock kink meme:

AU (but not very AU - just another meeting?):

John is waiting for the Jubilee line at the Baker Street Station one day, just back from Afghanistan, when he notices a tall, pale, curly-haired gentlemen acting oddly as the train is about to arrive. Recognising, from both his medical training and his time spend in high-tension situations in the army, that this man intends on doing something drastic, John tackles him just as Sherlock tries to jump in front of the train.

Sherlock is intrigued by this normal looking man, who could not only deduce what Sherlock was planning on doing, but also who dropped his cane and his limp the second he realised it.

They decide to go for coffee.

Many thanks to my awesome beta Akiame9! The unbeta'd version of this fic has been posted to the kink meme itself.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

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Waiting for a train was always so dreadfully boring. Especially waiting for one under which to splatter oneself.

Sherlock could barely contain himself, anxiety pulsing through his body in a deafening drumbeat. His pale eyes kept watching the far end of the track in frantic search of the train that wasn't supposed to be there for another three minutes and forty-seven seconds—according to his watch, anyway, which he couldn't help but steal glances at every few moments.

Had Sherlock been a bit more vain, more concerned with preserving his dashing beauty, he'd have chosen a less messy method of offing himself. Sleeping pills or painkillers of some kind, hell, even a cocaine overdose wasn't beneath him. But the train was fitting, somehow. It was chaotic, and chaos followed Sherlock wherever he went. Chaos ripped and churned inside his head, and he just wanted silence. People like him tended to leave their mark on the world. A mark wasn't enough for him, though; he'd leave a fucking stain.

It would take forever to clean his blood and brains off the tracks. Giving the normal people trouble, even posthumously, delighted Sherlock more than it probably should have.

Two minutes. Two more minutes and the two o'clock train would arrive, and he would leave.

But the wait was simply agonizing. Sherlock allowed himself the pleasure of deducing the crap out of passersby in his final minutes. A woman in her early thirties, on her way to meet a secret lover whom she was cheating on as well. A teenaged boy, eyes red and glossy from one too manydoses of stimulants, a runaway from home now coming to realize just how easy he had it before. A young child whose father abused her day in and day out, told her to lie about her wounds later, blame them on too much fun at the playground. A war veteran injured in the line of duty with a psychosomatic limp and a constant twitch in his left hand of which he was likely unaware. All so pedestrian. Dull.

Sherlock saw lights down the track. Nineteen seconds, and it would all be over.

Hesidledcloser to the edge of the platform, discretely crossing over the caution and warning zones. Everyone else was too absorbed in themselves and their lives to notice the madman inching his way towards his death.

Four more seconds…

And then Sherlock slammed into the ground, the wind knocked out of him, a solid weight atop him and crushing his lungs. Decidedly a body, not a train like he'd planned. Opening his eyes, not even knowing he'd closed them in the first place, he found himself face-to-face with the solider he'd just seen down the platform less than a minute ago. How did he get over here so fast?

"Wh-what?" Sherlock spluttered eloquently, still trying to gain back his breath. How did this man…?

Wordlessly, the smaller man heaved himself up and off the consulting detective. He stood upright, no longer favouring his right leg. Once Sherlock gathered his bearings and awkwardly rose to his own feet, he spotted the man's cane lying abandoned on the ground where he'd been standing. Interesting.

Dusting his coat off, Sherlock snapped, "Why did you save me?" Perhaps not the best thing to say to the person who'd just saved his life, even though he'd been trying to end it in the first place.

The little blond man shifted a bit, clearly nervous, but his hard blue stare didn't leave Sherlock's face. Didn't even waver. "Couldn't let you do it, mate," he said simply, his jaw set. His voice was quiet and calm, full of patience and honesty. Things Sherlock didn't think existed much anymore.

Sherlock's piercing grey eyes raked all over this man's face, his body, every inch of him. By all standards, he looked to be nothing more than the average, every-day, ordinary bloke. Nothing in particular stood out about him at all, so why was Sherlock suddenly finding himself so intrigued by this unsung hero?

"How did you know what I was about to do?"

The man gave pause before answering, "I know a suicidal bloke when I see one." And that was all he said in explanation. Sherlock expected him to either spew out a lecture on why suicide was a bad thing and that he should have talked to someone about his problems before coming to the decision to take his own life, or to inquire just what pushed Sherlock that far to the edge of death.

But he didn't get either of those things. Instead, the man just offered him an understanding silence and his undivided attention.

Maybe he had more…personal experience with this type of situation than he was willing to let on. Sherlock would have to do some more digging to find out for sure. He had a new puzzle to figure out now, something to occupy his restless mind. He could barely fathom what he'd been about to do to himself, his mind focused on this fascinating man standing cane-less in front of him.

One minute and six seconds passed, the two of them just staring at each other.

"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself, holding out his hand for a shake. The man accepted the gesture and took the proffered hand. A nice, strong grip, but not too overpowering.

"John Watson."

Sherlock's lips quirked into a small grin. A plain name for a not-so-plain person. Yes, more investigation was definitely needed.

"Coffee?" the taller man asked. He was never one for social conventions—treating this John Watson to a coffee was just a ploy to speak with him more, not a thank-you for being Sherlock's rescuer. Though it might've been easier if the latter reasoning was the assumed intention behind his invitation.

"…Sure," John answered a bit hesitantly, a slow smile lighting up his facial features. Amazing how just a small upturn of the corners of his mouth set his entire visage aglow, shaving years off his appearance. Even more amazing that Sherlock found this fact even remotely relevant to his study of John Watson.

Two minutes after two o'clock and the two men were already on their way up from the underground. Sherlock remembered John's cane still forgotten on the ground, most likely swallowed up by the crowd by now. He didn't mention it, though, for John didn't seem to notice or miss its absence. He was doing just fine without it. Hm…

Sherlock was sort of maybe kind of thankful for this man who saved his life. At least now he had something to look forward to.

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One of these days, I might write a version of this fic from John's point of view. What do you think?

Until next time,
Chibi