Urgh, first ever fanfic ever. Sorry that it is quite unoriginal. Just a random little Idea that sort of blobbed itself onto the page. Please read and review, that would be super cool.
"Going out, back in an hour." In one swift motion Sherlock fastened his blue scarf around his neck, and quickly buttoned up his coat, then, in a whirl of coattails, disappeared down the stairs.
"Wait! Sherlock, we need-" John tried to call out, but he heard the door slam before he could even finish the sentence. "Milk." He sighed dully, sitting back down in his chair. Sherlock did say in an hour, maybe they could go out and get some then he mused. He supposed he could do it himself, and then it was likely they'd be back at the flat around the same time. John sighed while zipping up his coat. It would be nice to have maybe one Sunday when Sherlock might do the shopping, but that was one of the many footnotes of the unspoken agreement allowing him to live with Sherlock without punching him in the face half the time.
The sound of his own heartbeat and his shoes slapping on moist pavement was heaving in Sherlock's ears as he raced down the street in a hot pursuit.
John doubled back down an aisle to grab a box of tissues, remembering suddenly that Sherlock had used the last one for an experiment (one that had also lit the kitchen table on fire).
Sherlock dashed through a crowd of people, refusing to lose sight of his suspect, a notorious thug, likely involved in a drug ring, and now a murder. He pushed his way past a gaggle of tourists just in time to see the man duck into an alley.
John shifted his weight from one leg to another, wishing the line wasn't so infernally long, wondering absentmindedly if Sherlock would make it home before him. He would probably show up covered in somebody's blood again, or disguised as a dentist or something. John couldn't help but chuckle despite himself.
Sherlock raced to the end of the alley, and misguided for a fraction of as second, which way the murderer had turned. But that was all the time required for an ambush. The man leapt from behind the rubbish tip brandishing a knife. Sherlock countered quickly, dodging the clumsy swing. The man was strong obviously, but poorly trained, drugs were his game, and while there was certainly danger involved in such an occupation, it was mostly intimidation and little in the way of skill and finesse. Sherlock adeptly swung between the man's slow attempts to stab him, and threw a quickly blow to the man's gut, the man staggered, and Sherlock was ready, striking a quick blow across his face. Sherlock reached for his phone to text Lestrade, but before be had the chance to press "send" he heard the tap of shoes on pavement behind him. He whirled round in time to see the attacker coming at him, but not in enough time to block the blow, which struck the side of his face rather than where it had been intended, the back of his head.
"gaah-" was the unexpected noise that escaped from him lips, and as he staggered the man hit him in the shoulder, (with what he had now deduced to be a pipe) knocking him to the pavement. Sherlock rolled over to look up at the attacker just in time to see the man bringing his leg down, and planting his foot heavily into Sherlock's chest, with a resounding crack as his ribs gave way. Braced for the pain this time, no sound escaped Sherlock except a sharp intake of breath. The man with the knife had recovered himself by now, and took a step towards Sherlock. As he did though, police siren blared in the distance, and he seemed to change his mind, landing a final kick at Sherlock and then dashing out of the alley along with the other man.
John shut the fridge door and drummed his fingers on the counter. He had been held up an extra half out, and fully expected to find Sherlock lighting the flat on fire again when he arrived home. Instead, he had been greeted by an empty room and had internally reminded himself that when crime was involved "an hour" might mean five. But still, even Sherlock usually had the decency to just say "don't wait up," He rarely stated a time unless he meant to keep it. Lateness was fortunately not one of Sherlock's many uncomfortable habits. John sighed, and filled the kettle, resolving to wait up for Sherlock, certain he would have an interesting explanation of the case that was keeping him late.
Sherlock took a hitched breath, wincing and deducing that two of his ribs had cracked, and that the blow to his head had left a gash where it struck, one that would likely need stitches, warm blood trickled down the side of his head, and he felt dizzy as he struggled to stand. He debated texting Lestrade, but deemed it unnecessary, as the criminals had evaded him. He thought about texting John, but he realized that might make the doctor quite annoyed, as Sherlock had wormed his way out of getting the milk earlier that day. So, with the streets growing dim as evening set in, and his head throbbing, the world's only consulting detective set out at a staggered pace towards baker street.
John turned on the telly and set the remote back on the couch. Sherlock had been gone for four hours now. He checked his phone again to look for texts from Sherlock, but instead found one from Lestrade, inquiring as to Sherlock's whereabouts. This was somewhat worrying. He texted back that Sherlock had not been home, and then grabbed his coat of a chair and headed for the stairs. As he paused while pulling it on, he heard the door swing open, and a loud resounding thud from downstairs. Wondering momentarily if he ought to fetch his gun before proceeding, john stepped out onto the stairs only to be greeted by a most unfamiliar and equally unwelcome sight. It was Sherlock, face down on the hall mat, the door still open behind him, his dark curls wet with blood and sweat, which he was smearing on the floor. It would have been quite funny if it hadn't looked so grave.