John struggled to open his eyes. His ribs were hot, his hands were cold, and his face was… something was different about it.
"John!"
John's eyes were sticky. He lifted his arm to rub at—no, that wasn't going to work, was it. There was blood on his face, gumming his eyes together. And that heat in his ribs, that was pain.
"John, please…"
Bricks to his back, cold puddle soaking his jeans. And Sherlock above him: Sherlock's voice, but strange and sharp.
"Mmmmph."
The strangeness on his face shifted, and he recognized it: leather gloves, cupping his face. John pulled his eyes open. Sherlock was staring at him, eyes cinder-bright.
"Halligan's men jumped you. "
Damnit. "Did they…"
"Shhh, stay still." Sherlock cut him off, thumb stroking along his jawbone. "Your rib may be broken, it's best you don't move."
John sank into Sherlock's touch until the shrill of a siren stabbed him awake. When the medics appeared half a moment later, Sherlock was upright, remote, issuing directions in a voice John would have recognized right away.
And then Sherlock was gone, shut out by the ambulance doors. A medic's hand on his wrist, another voice reciting chart data, but still: alone. John lay restless, feeling the ghost of Sherlock's touch on his face, and wondered what else had broken.