Greg hated when Sherlock did this. Running off on his own, no backup, no friends, blithely certain he could save the day on his own, meaning Greg had to follow at his heels like a bloody puppy. He was a Detective Inspector, but he hardly felt like one as he slid around a corner, scrabbling on the slick bit of pavement to find his footing before dashing down the next street. It wasn't even worth it, in his opinion — this was an open-shut case, even Sherlock had looked at it disdainfully, and even if the suspect got away this time, he'd be easy enough to track down. He wasn't a very clever man.
Sides aching, Greg turned another corner and gasped a breath, seeing Sherlock advancing on the man, who was trying to climb onto a skip, turning around to stamp on Sherlock's hands when he attempted to climb after.
The gunshot was loud. Greg always hated that sound, it made his ears ring even with ear protection at the range they made him practice in, and this time there wasn't any ear protection, which made it worse. He hadn't thought the suspect had a gun — Jimmy Duggins. Stupid, drunk, not clever enough to get a gun.
The man's eyes were so blue and so sad. Greg noticed that, straight off, before he even noticed the old-fashioned tunic, torn and stained with blood. He hadn't seen the man climb onto the skip next to Jimmy, and he blinked as the sandy-grey hair wavered in and out of focus, the man's revolver — how old was that gun? — glinting oddly in the light of the streetlamp, brighter than it should be.
And then Greg felt the hole in his arm and the dizziness, and Sally was running around the corner with a shout as he fell to the pavement, and everything went black.