CRASH.
Assess the damage. Laundry truck in proper location. Landed on sheets, bedding-but definitely something harder. Hangers? Broken ribs. Punctured lung? No. Minor bruises and lacerations. Nothing that won't heal in a few days.
All these thoughts ran through the mind of Sherlock Holmes in the span of approximately fifteen seconds, during which time he had already rolled from the truck, assumed his position on the sidewalk, and offered an infinitesimal nod to familiar-eyed delivery driver in the street. Upon receipt of the nod the delivery driver removed a unit of blood and a racquetball from his packages and proceeded to rip open the blood with his teeth, emptying the contents upon Sherlock's head and the concrete beneath. The racquetball assumed its position underneath Holmes' arm, effectively blocking all signs of a radial pulse.
34 seconds. He'll be off the ground now. On his way over.
The delivery driver had disappeared into the quickly forming crowd of onlookers as John Watson made his way through.
"He's my friend!" John fell to the ground. Unable to reach Sherlock's neck, blocked by the physicians now encircling his best friend, he reached for his wrist. He felt nothing.
No.
Sherlock's lifeless body was quickly lifted onto a stretcher and whisked away-John Watson left on the ground, unreachable.
Please no.