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There’s something comforting about having John along on a chase over the rooftops of London. While he had a lanky sort of strength, John was a compact John-shaped group of muscles that had gotten back into military trim. When the two men they were chasing turned on them and somehow (he’d replay it in slow motion later) got Sherlock into a quite painful hold (Para-military. Trained with guns daily but preferred his hands. Tattoo of a butterfly on his elbow) John suddenly stopped struggling in his own altercation and simply put the man down (unconscious, recovery at least thirty minutes; seconds until loss of own consciousness, twenty), flung himself at Sherlock’s assailant. Gasping for breath and fighting the greyness away with every heave, he watched as John silently and with movement that spoke of the most economical use possible, simply destroyed the man (broken collar bone, left arm [two places], shattered knee, loss of consciousness, head grasped). “John.” He coughed out, before swallowing painfully and continuing, “Lestrade would probably prefer him alive.” John had a millisecond of complete stillness before he let the unconscious man drop to the ground. Striding over to Sherlock and hauling him close, their faces clashing together as he kissed him bruisingly (tastes like chocolate). He pulled back to growl, “Don’t ever do that again you bastard.”
Sherlock smiled.