The chaos had turned to a dull, muted noise all around him. The crowds had lessened. And now, even the police seemed to be wandering off as well.

John did not quite remember how he had ended up in the ambulance. But he was there now, seated on the back bumper with his legs hanging down, not quite touching the ground.

The paramedic was tending to his head, cleaning the wound a bit rougher than John appreciated. He guessed it was partly because he refused to go to the hospital. But the last thing John wanted was to go to a hospital tonight.

Mary returned. She still looked concerned, but her expression had softened a bit. John smiled at seeing her. And as the paramedic stepped back inside, she came over and sat down next to him, taking his hand into hers.

"You sure you're alright?" She asked. "Don't want to go to hospital?"

"No, I'm fine." He said. His eyes settled on what she was holding, and it took him another minute to realize what it was.

"Is that? A motorcycle helmet?" He asked, bewildered.

"Oh, yeah." She said, looking at it. "Sherlock's pretty good on a motorbike."

"What?! Where did he get..." John's voice trailed off. It was Sherlock after all. John knew the man could get anything anytime he needed it, or wanted it.

"I can't find him anywhere." Mary said.

"What?"

"Sherlock. I can't find him anywhere." Mary said again. "I wanted to thank him. But he's just...gone."

John's heart lurched. Something about those words struck him a bit too hard.

"He does that sometimes." John said.

Mary turned to the paramedic.

"Hey there? Hi? Yes." She said. "Have you seen our friend? Tall bloke? Long coat. Scarf. Wavy hair. Cheek bones?"

"Uh, no sorry." The young man said. "But when you do find him send him here. I didn't get a chance to look him over yet."

"What?! Was he hurt?!" Mary asked, and John's head spun around.

"Don't think so." The man answered. "But I hadn't checked him over yet." He paused. "And he forgot his gloves."

John looked to where the paramedics gaze had settled. Sure enough, there on the floor to John's right was the familiar pair of black leather gloves.

"But? I mean, he wasn't obviously hurt or anything. Was he?" She asked.

"He seemed fine when he walked off." The paramedic said.

"You just let him walk off?!" Mary sniped.

"No. The police needed him a minute. And he didn't come back."

"You see which way he went?"

"No, afraid not."

John picked up one of the gloves. The familiar feel of the worn leather brought back so many memories. He looked it over, flipping it from side to side. And as he did the same with the other, John could not find any sign that there was any damage. Everything looked fine.

"The motorbike is gone." Mary said, shaking John from his thoughts.

John looked to her.

"It was over there." She said, pointing a finger. "It's gone now. I didn't even hear the engine."

John looked to the spot she was pointing at. He felt the bitter pang of sorrow that Sherlock had left again without him. John bit his lip, and he put the gloves into his own pocket.


Sherlock had made it back to Baker street. He found the couple he had taken the motorbike from still waiting for him at Speedy's. He returned it, and gave them some cash for the one helmet he had somehow lost along the way.

Then, Sherlock made his way upstairs to his flat and locked the door.

He tossed off his coat and threw it over the chair as he headed to the kitchen. Turning on the water, he began to undo his shirts cuffs. His fingers were a bit cold, but otherwise uninjured. However, as he rolled up his sleeve, he winced.

Sherlock hadn't had any time to think of himself in those moments. Getting John out of danger had been the top priority. But now, he realized how much of an injury he had gotten for his effort.

The hot embers from the fire had blown back at him. The gloves had saved his hands. But his wrists and forearms were another matter. Scattered up and down both his arms were a number of red raw burn marks. The small welts were painfully defined against his pale skin.

Sherlock put his wrists under the cool water. He winced at the sensation as the cold made his fingers go numb. After a few minutes, he pulled back his hands and shut off the taps.

He sat himself down at the table where the medical kit was already spread out. As he set about tending to the burns, he knew it would be easy enough to hide the marks under his usual shirts. No one would be any the wiser.

Yet, as Sherlock set to work, he began to wonder where his gloves had gone off to.