"Sherlock? Sherlock, please." John begged.
Had he any inclination at all that it would assist the situation, that it would make any difference, he'd have dropped to his knees and begged proper.
John closed his eyes and uttered a prayer. He was an atheist, but the old addage stood true; there are no atheists in foxholes, or you know, minefields.
"Come back to me, Sherlock. Please." he whispered.
The lunatic turned to face John and he grimaced. Sherlock might have been a genius, but, he was still liable to get himself blown to pieces. Now is not the time for him to get caught up in that bloody mind palace of his. One wrong move, and... he didn't want to think about it. The thing was though:
Did he dare?
John shook his head.
Without a doubt, did he dare.
He had to try.
At the very least, he had to try.
So, John looked to the ground and saw his best friend's poncy rich person shoes indented into the dirt that led to his current position. He compared his shoe size to that of Sherlock's and let out a small chuckle, and quickly chastised himself. "Now is not the time for jokes."
John's feet were three sizes smaller than Sherlock's. He could work with that; he'd just have to be careful. A mere centimeter from Sherlock's footprint and it could very well be, "Goodnight Gracie".
He looked to Sherlock who was standing frozen in the middle of the minefield. He hadn't yet said a word, or made an movement to indicate that he acknowledged the fact that he knew of his current whereabouts.
"If we get out of this alive," John mutters to himself, "we are going to have a long talk."
Looking back to the ground, carefully following the trail that Sherlock had left, only looking back up when he had reach the middle of the dirt of death. John mused that that would be a classically terrible title for a horror film. But nothing, NOTHING would be more horrifying than the look of pure unadulterated terror that flashed across Sherlock's face.
So.
The click John thought he had heard wasn't a figment of his imagination after all.