John runs down the empty corridor until he reaches a corner. There he stops abruptly before carefully peeking around it.
He sees the gun and his body reacts before his brain can even start processing the facts. He slams back against the wall and the pain in his already throbbing arm amplifies. He uses one of the breathing techniques he learned in the army and the pain is immediately dulled.
He listens for footsteps, the scalpel firm in his left hand. He is a doctor and usually he prefers to save life, but not when it comes to Sherlock. He is not willing to take any risks in this regard. No one gets to lay a finger on Sherlock while John is still breathing.
All he can hear now is silence, so he carefully sticks his nose round the corner again. The floor is empty, the men are gone.
The police arrives closely followed by an ambulance, Lestrade starts shouting at John and Sherlock, Molly discovers that the men stole one of her corpses and gets completely flustered and John, whose wound gets treated by a paramedic looks at Sherlock and shakes his head.
“It’s all your fault.”
“How is all this my fault?”
“Because you were the one who insisted that his sunburn needed to be treated at St Barts.”