Disclaimer: My initials are not BBC, so it looks like these characters aren't mine…but John could be mine, if he wanted to. :-)
They are running and it is pouring down rain. John struggles to keep Sherlock's back in his sights while inwardly cursing the man in every language he knows.
His foot goes into a massive puddle and he nearly trips, soaking his trouser leg up to mid-knee, and that's when he starts making up languages to curse Sherlock in.
He had been perfectly content back at their flat twenty minutes ago. After a 12-hour shift at St. Barts, he had come home looking forward to a cup of tea and a pair of warm thick socks. Sherlock had been absent and John figured his flatmate was downstairs or in the kitchen somewhere experimenting on something…to be perfectly honest, he hadn't cared. He had decided within seconds of arriving home that he wanted to stay in and had settled into his chair with a book to do exactly that.
So of course, of course, that was the moment Sherlock had barged into the room like a full-force hurricane and scared the wits out of him. John's tea spilled and he leapt from the chair with a shout, hastily wiping the scalding liquid from his lap.
Sherlock hadn't even stopped. Ignoring John's protests and grabbing the arm of his robe, he had begun trying to yank John's arm through. John had tried to twist away but Sherlock had just moved to the other arm, urging him.
"Come on, John, come on," he'd said impatiently. "My informant tells me our suspect is going to be leaving Bar 12 in thirteen and half minutes."
John had eyed him suspiciously. "What informant?" he'd asked, pulling away when Sherlock managed to get the sleeve of his robe down over his arm. "Wait-" He had narrowed his eyes when a thought occurred. "What suspect?"
Sherlock had made a sound of annoyance. "The one in the homicide case Lestrade asked me to help solve yesterday morning," he said. "Twelve and a half minutes." He snatched the tea cup from John's hand, ignoring his squawk of protest. "I'll tell you about it on the way, now come on!"
He had thrown John's coat at him and dashed back out of the room. John had groaned but shucked his robe off from over his clothes and jammed his feet back into his shoes. He buttoned his coat as he ran.
He knew from experience that Sherlock would let the taxi go without him if he didn't catch up in time. Cold rain had assaulted him the moment he stepped outside and he had groaned again, ducking into the cab barely in time to prevent Sherlock from slamming the cab door into his face.
John hadn't even seen the suspect. The cab had stopped and Sherlock had rushed out, leaving the door hanging open. He had thrown some money at the cab driver before taking off after him.
He is soaked in seconds. He can hardly see in front of him with the rain streaming into his eyes and is lucky Sherlock had chosen to wear a bright scarf that night. It's the only thing keeping his flatmate in his sight as he runs after him.
"Bloody hell," John grumbles, realizing Sherlock is going even faster. He feels water seeping into his shoes and his footsteps are squelching as he struggles to keep up.
"Hurry, John!" Sherlock yells, seeing the suspect scurry up the fire escape of the building nearest them. He hears John a few paces behind as he quickly scrambles up after the man.
Sherlock gets onto the roof a couple of steps behind the suspect. The man turns around and that's when he sees the glint of a gun. He hears metal clanging behind him as John makes his way up the fire escape. He quickly shouts out a warning, diving to the ground as the suspect fires. The bullet whizzes past him.
John's head pops up over the top of the metal ladder and then quickly ducks back down. A loud CLANK! echoes in the night air when the bullet hits the metal, barely missing the top of John's head. Sherlock glances back at him and then back at the suspect.
The man starts running across the roof and Sherlock hurries after him. John jumps down from the fire escape and begins to take off after them.
A second man emerges from the dark corner next to the fire escape as John runs past and barrels into him.
John doesn't know what happens. One second he is running, the next all of the air explodes from his left side. He is yanked backwards, weight like a steam engine pounding into him, and then suddenly he is going over the side of the building.
"CHRIST!" he screams frantically, his heart dropping like a boulder down to his feet when he sees ground rushing up at him.
He closes his eyes in horror and braces himself for the inevitable.
Air rushes out of him in shock when he is abruptly halted in place. His eyes pop open as his shoes scrape the side of the building and he feels cold air whooshing through his coat. He chokes with terror when he sees there are hands literally suspending him in the air and a meaty face squinting down at him from the edge of the roof.
The yell cuts across the roof and stops Sherlock in his tracks when he recognizes the voice. He turns to look behind him in surprise.
He freezes and his heart climbs into his throat.
Another man who Sherlock hadn't even seen is standing at the edge of the roof. He is holding John in the air over the side of the building, his grip the only thing keeping his friend from freefalling four stories to the ground below.
"Oh, Christ," John moans. Sherlock can hear him hyperventilating. "Please-"
The man lets go with one hand.
Sherlock's heart stutters when John screams. John screams like he's never heard before and then begs, he begs, and Sherlock has never heard that before either.
It both fascinates and horrifies him.
"Please, please!" John pleads hysterically.
He wants to grip something but he is frozen. His hands hang uselessly by his side and his feet brush the side of the building again.
"Oh, God," he moans. He is praying now, because he knows. He knows what is going to happen and he isn't ready, dear Jesus, he isn't. "Please, oh, God."
"Two choices, Mister Holmes."
The suspect behind him is talking coolly. Sherlock is afraid to take his eyes away from John, as if his stare will keep the man from letting go. The voice gets closer to him.
"You let us go."
The suspect he was chasing gets bolder. He steps right up to Sherlock and smirks. He smirks and taunts and he doesn't even have the gun anymore. He knows he doesn't need it.
"Or we let him go."
The man holding John lets go for a split second, lets him feel the drop before yanking him back up again. He screams again.
Sherlock remains frozen. His eyes are transfixed to John and his mind whirls.
This is their man. Hands down. He wasn't expecting an accomplice, the patterns didn't indicate it. It was likely the other man isn't an accomplice to the missing person case. Maybe he is just a minion.
It doesn't matter. If they get away the chances of finding them again will drastically diminish. It might kill the investigation outright. More people might become victims.
Sherlock doesn't hesitate.
He throws his hands in the air to show he's unarmed. "Go," he says at the man in front of him. "Both of you. I won't follow you or try to find you. Leave my friend alone and I promise you can both get out of here."
He waits, watching the man's face and calculating the expressions he sees. The man smirks condescendingly. They have his weakness in their hands, literally, and they know it. They can do whatever they want right now. And they know it. He hates it but he doesn't know what else to do.
He throws another desperate look over to the edge of the roof when he hears John's panicked moan.
The man in front of Sherlock twists his lips into a cryptic grin. "What the hell….I'm a generous guy," he says mockingly. "I'm going to give you..." He pauses, thinking, and smirks again. "Five seconds to get over to your friend before my associate lets go. How fast can you run, Mr-?"
He falters in surprise when Sherlock begins a mad dash to the other side before he even finishes the sentence. He makes up for it by loudly beginning to count backwards from five.
Sherlock's heart is pumping fast. He knows the man is bluffing and so he takes the opportunity the moment he hears it, hoping fervently that he has bought himself enough time.
He sprints. He sprints faster than he ever remembers going before and tries not to listen to the man counting.
"Four."
" Three."
He dives to his knees and slides hard across the gravel.
"Two."
His hands shoot over the side of the roof. He catches John's arm in a death grip with both hands just as the other man lets go.
John inhales in shock when he suddenly sees black-gloved hands appear over the edge and latch onto his arm. The man's hands drop from his jacket. He feels himself lower a few inches with the change in hold and his heart thumps again.
The beefy man's face backs away and then Sherlock is looking down at him. The detective's eyes look wild and frantic.
"Hold on, John," he says urgently. "I've got you. I've got you."
He struggles to lift John up. He hooks his other hand under John's armpit but realizes from his kneeling position that he isn't able to get enough leverage to get to his feet. He tries to slide backward and pull John with him but can't get off of his knees without John's weight pulling him forward.
Sherlock swallows hard.
For the first time in his life, Sherlock realizes he doesn't know what to do.
John is looking up at him, terror still haunting his eyes and face, too far down to help pull himself up and helplessly depending on him. Sherlock feels something awful and tight climbing up his throat and something pricking at the corner of his eyes. John is shivering and he starts to shiver too.
He just looks into John's face, wondering what his own face looks like as he dangles his only friend over certain death. An expression of heartbreaking resignation comes onto John's face and incredibly, John gives him a weak smile.
What he reads on John's face then terrifies him even more than the thought of John falling ever did.
It's ok. You tried your hardest.
Don't forget me.
"Shut UP!" he snaps, outraged. He digs his hands even harder into John's skin and berates him incredulously as if John is speaking out loud. "This isn't part of the plan. You don't get to change the plan, John, so just shut up and hold on!"
John's eyes flutter closed.
Then they snap back open in shock at the sound of other voices approaching.
Sherlock hears Lestrade's exclamation a minute before the DI materializes beside him. The older man quickly leans over and grabs onto John as well. The agonizing pressure of holding all of John's weight lessens and he breathes a sigh of relief.
"Oi!" Lestrade yells over his shoulder. "Get over here!" He looks down at John anxiously and is quick to offer reassurance. "Hang on there, mate. We got ya."
Then a flurry of voices and hands joins theirs as three other officers reach to help. In seconds, John is up and back on solid ground.
John collapses to his knees when he is released, his legs wobbling with adrenaline. Sherlock kneels beside him and John is shocked to see how grey his friend's face is. He is still too shell-shocked to speak. He just gasps in air and looks to Sherlock in amazement. Sherlock has his head bent forward, breathing hard as if just returning from a chase.
"Chased the guy up here on purpose," he says lowly. His voice sounds odd, almost monotone. He can't seem to look at John. "Knew Lestrade would be waiting to grab him." He shook his head and let out another breath. "Didn't know there was going to be someone else with him."
John hears the unspoken apology in the words. He swallows and takes a few seconds to get his breathing to try and resemble something normal.
"You owe me a new pair of socks," he says seriously.
Sherlock's head snaps up. He is shocked to see the playfulness glinting on John's face. John, who should be screaming at him for such a foolish risk and punching him in the face right now, is grinning.
The pressure against his heart begins to ease. He gets up slowly and reaches down to grasp John's hand.
Sherlock holds on to John a fraction longer than necessary when he is upright. John can see the uncertainty still on the other man's face.
"You're buying me dinner," he says, pointing a finger almost into Sherlock's face. "That's all I've got to say."
His face has returned to its normal amused, not-quite put upon expression and he is smiling now. Sherlock is amazed.
Lestrade clears his throat. He begins instructing his officers in getting the suspects back down as they move away from Sherlock and John.
John shakes his head. "I'm not even hungry," he continues with conviction, "but after that, there's no way you're not buying me dinner." He gives Sherlock a pointed stare. "And dessert. Hell, you're buying me two desserts…and a new pair of socks."
Humor sparkles in his eyes. Sherlock can only smile back, his mind reeling by the astonishing mystery that is John Watson's character.
"I'd wager a new pair of pants as well," he says slyly as they head toward the fire escape again.
John stops walking and glares murderously at him. Then he begins listing the most expensive restaurants in London and exactly what he plans to order from each one.
Sherlock laughs. After a moment of hesitation, he slings an arm over John's shoulders. John bumps his shoulder against Sherlock's playfully in response but doesn't move away.