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Sherlock was more than used to chasing criminals through the familiar, busy streets of London, his gaze focused on the fleeing backs of his prey. He was good, too. He knew all the city’s hidden shortcuts, and was able to leap out and grab his target, like a lion leaping out of the scrub.
What he wasn’t used to, however, was being the prey. Somehow, his pursuer has managed to keep pace with him, even as he darted down dark alleyways, scaled walls and sprung from rooftop to rooftop. Clearly, this knife-wielding maniac had just as much knowledge of London’s streets as he did. That made him all the more dangerous.
Sherlock had split from John a while ago - it was him the man was after, not John, and Sherlock would rather meet the knife head-on than have John be hurt because of him. Hopefully John had used their separation as an opportunity to alert Lestrade to Sherlock’s situation. He would be able to track his phone, so Sherlock hoped that he would round a corner and come face to face with a police car at any moment.
He could feel that hope quickly morphing to desperation as his legs began to burn from exertion.
They had reached the London Dockyards - a busy, open space with lots of opportunity to hide. He hoped that even if this criminal was stupid enough to gut him in front of witnesses, he might be able to loose him.
As he weaved through shipping containers with the man's heavy footfall still clearly audible behind him, that wasn’t looking likely.
Throughout the chase, he hadn't lost hope. Sherlock was confident in his skills - he knew his city, he knew how to fight; over 90% of the time, he came out on top. But when he rounded the next corner and found his path blocked by a wall of loose wooden planks, his heart plummeted.
He heard a whoop of delighted laughter behind him; “I have you cornered now, Holmes!” His pursuer exclaimed as he came to a halt mere paces away from the detective.
Sherlock turned to face him as he advanced, blade held aloft and glinting menacingly in the cold, November sunlight. “Nowhere left to run, you slippery bastard.”
He lunged.
Sherlock dodged just in time, the whoosh of the knife dangerously close to his right ear. He was able to land a punch to the man's solar plexus, and he doubled over with a surprised cry. Sherlock then brought his knee up, where it met its mark against the man's nose with a sickening crunch and a burst of blood. He was then able to disarm his opponent with a twist of his wrist.
But this man was strong. It was hardly surprising, as he had been able to keep pace with Sherlock for around half an hour, fuelled by spite and adrenaline. With a roar of rage, the man barrelled into Sherlock, pushing him backwards and off his feet.
Which propelled them both into the stack of loose, wooden beams.
John and Lestrade skidded around the corner just in time to witness Sherlock and the suspect be swallowed by an avalanche of large, wooden planks.
“Bloody hell!” Lestrade exclaimed over the clattering of the wood clattering around the bodies of the two men. John wasted no time and rushed forward before the planks had the chance to settle.
“Help me move these!” He yelled back at Lestrade and the three uniformed officers that had accompanied them.
It took almost five minutes of frantic scrambling and digging before they were able to see the two men buried beneath, and John was dangerously close to spiralling into a panic attack.
There was blood. And a lot of it. John’s heart was in his throat as he pushed the suspect aside to get to Sherlock. John didn’t need to be a doctor to tell that the suspect was dead - the back of his head was completely caved in like a deflated basketball. He could only hope that all the blood that covered Sherlock's still body was his.
Finally, he reached Sherlock.
The detective lay awkwardly on the planks below him, drenched in blood. So much blood that it was difficult to make out any surface level injuries, though it was obvious his arm was broken by the unnatural angle in which it lay.
John dove for the opposite wrist and pressed two fingers to the inside.
“I’ve got a pulse!” He called out over the wail of rapidly approaching sirens.
It was a difficult task to get Sherlock strapped to the board to be transferred to the ambulance. Given the unstable surface of the planks, John and the ambulance crew had to be careful not to knock any of the planks under Sherlock’s body loose and cause the man any further injury. They also couldn’t rule out any damage to his neck or spine.
Whilst the paramedics worked on stabilising Sherlock, John attended to some of the lacerations Sherlock had sustained in the fall. He had a nasty graze along the left side of his face, which oozed blood at a steady rate, but luckily it didn’t look too severe. His arm, however, was a different matter altogether - the bone had protruded through the skin.
He did what he could for Sherlock at the scene and in the ambulance, but once they arrived at the hospital, all he could do was wait.
Sherlock came to awareness slowly. He lay still, letting every sensation wash over him one by one. He was laying down, his head on a comfortable pillow and his body covered by a soft blanket. It was quiet, save for a steady, mechanical beeping that kept rhythm with his heartbeat. He was in the hospital.
He tried to move, but it was as if his limbs had been fused with the sheets. He wasn’t in any pain, and with the added fogginess in his head, he surmised that he was on a pretty high dose of pain medication.
He opened his eyes.
The room was dim, and apart from the steady beeps of machines, quiet. He was the room's only occupant - a side room, then. Even Sherlock had to admit that his brother's influence was useful. Sometimes.
With great difficulty, he turned his head to the right.
There, sat framed in the weak light pouring through the window, was John. He was fast asleep, head propped up on his fist, elbow on the arm of the plastic chair he was slumped in. There were dark shadows under his eyes and a smattering of light stubble around his lips. His clothes were rumpled - he had been in them for at least a day, likely more. His other hand was resting on the bed, on top of Sherlock’s own.
Oh, John. His Watson. Ever his protector. His hand was heavy as he gently turned it so he could hold John’s hand in a weak grip.
The movement startled the doctor awake, and he came to consciousness with a rather undignified snort. He looked about for a moment before he noticed Sherlock’s grey eyes on him.
“Sherlock,” he said, “You’re awake.”
The edges of Sherlock’s lips twitched slightly. “You always state the obvious.” He rasped, the action alerting him to just how uncomfortably dry his throat was.
John’s hand left his to pour a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table. Sherlock didn’t have the chance to miss the comforting touch before a straw was being pushed against his lips.
He drank slowly but eagerly, and then the straw was gone.
“Are you in any pain?” John asked softly.
Sherlock grunted a negative.
That seemed to put John at ease. “Good. What do you remember?”
Sherlock gazed up at the ceiling, his eyes half lidded. “Being chased by a madman with a knife… Dockyard…” His voice faded as his memory trailed off into nothingness. “Did you catch him?”
John studied him carefully. “He’s dead, Sherlock.”
Oh. Well. That took care of that.
“What happened?” He asked.
“He pushed you into a pile of lumber.”
He remembered then, the pile of stacked planks towering high over his head, and the sinking feeling in his chest when he realised he had been cornered.
“It was all unsecured, and it tumbled down around you both. If he hadn’t landed on top of you, you would be the one lying in Molly’s morgue right now…” John trailed off and cleared his throat, “His body shielded you from the worst of the damage.”
Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement and let his eyes fall closed. “How bad?”
“Not as bad as it could have been. You hit the back of your head as you fell, and one of the planks fell directly on top of your arm - you have a bad break, but nothing that won’t heal in time. You have four broken ribs from when he landed on top of you, one of which punctured a lung. The rest are cuts, bruises and scrapes, some quite nasty… You were lucky, Sherlock. Very lucky.”
Sherlock said nothing in reply, and instead lay with the comfortable silence that surrounded them. He was familiar with injuries - they came with the job, and he’d had near misses before. But not quite this bad, and he hadn’t been admitted to the hospital since before he met John.
John’s hand found its way back into Sherlock’s, and Sherlock gave it a weak squeeze.
“Stay?” He mumbled sleepily.
“Of course.” Sherlock could hear the smile in John’s voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sherlock smiled. “Thank you.” He murmured, before he fell into the warm embrace of sleep.
butterflygrl Mon 24 Oct 2022 12:31AM UTC
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Sandrina Tue 29 Nov 2022 08:32PM UTC
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