Murder by traffic accidents was a very imprecise science as Sherlock had easily deduced. Only four of the nine intended victims were in fact dead, there were still in critical condition but two had escaped with only minor injuries. It was to interview these two that Sherlock and John were currently heading.
Black cabs, like busses seemed to be one of those rare places where you could get away with not wearing a seatbelt. Of course these days they had been installed and passengers were admonished to use them but most people still seemed happy to ignore this.
Sherlock was not most people, but neither did he enjoy being restricted so in this instance he followed suit with the masses. John usually more aware of health and safety than his flatmate was on this occasion no better, as he would come to regret.
John listened with alert attention as Sherlock explained how he had already deduced that the vehicle they were looking for was a military Landrover of the model RWMIK which had been painted black to blend into the cityscape. Their suspects however were not necessarily of a military background…
Sherlock's attention was glued to his phone and John's to Sherlock and it was not until they heard the driver scream in alarm that they realized that anything was amiss.
The driver stepped on the brakes, sending them both tumbling forward even before the large black vehicle slammed into them sending the taxi spinning and flipping with it's passengers tumbling like clothes in a drier until with a screech of metal and breaking glass they slammed into the wall of the building to their left and everything came to a sudden standstill.
The first thing John became aware of was the heavy weight of his flatmate on top of him, a far to limp and unmoving weight. "Sherlock?" He moaned, finding that it hurt far too much to talk. "Sherlock, wake up…" he gasped, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest and was rewarded with the slight stirring of the body on top of him.
"J..hn?" Sherlock slid half off John to land heavily next to him "Ow, ow, ow" Sherlock moaned and became still again.
"Sherlock… don't… move." John ordered trying to shift to allow more air into his lungs. It worked a bit and he drew in shuddering shallow breaths, trying to still the spinning in his head. "Where are… you hurt?" he asked finally as Sherlock came into moderate focus next to him.
"You don't sound too good." Sherlock stated, his voice reassuringly steady. "Your breathing doesn't sound right." There was worry in his tone.
"It… isn't… lung probably… collapsed… nothing… I can… do… bout it… won't… kill me… just… hurts… Answer… t'question… where?" John struggled to speak between gasps for breath that seemed to do very little to help provide him with the oxygen his body was screaming for.
"Well, I'm not the doctor here, but I'm fairly sure that my leg is broken, probably pretty badly. Arm's not working but that's probably just dislocated. Biggest cause for concern is probably the head wound, I think I might pass out on you soon." Sherlock's statement was entirely factual but John could hear the slight strain in his voice which indicated that he was in fact in a considerable amount of pain.
"Don't…" John ordered feebly, "… just… talk… to… me" He tried to move carefully to assess his own injuries but it was all but impossible to focus on anything other than the spinning in his head and the stabbing pain in his chest as he fought to drag air into lungs which felt far too small. "Sherlock… talk." He repeated himself as he felt his friend shift slightly next to him.
"What about?" Sherlock's tone could have possibly been interpreted as bored but John knew better. Even through the fog in his mind he could tell that Sherlock was now sounding distinctly strained.
"Deduce… the… accident" John suggested and moaned involuntarily as a wave of nausea hit him and he could taste the bile at the back of his throat. He forced shallow breath's and tried to focus on the sound of Sherlock's tired voice as he started to speak.
Sherlock shifted, painfully propping himself up with his functioning arm to get a look at his friend. "It wasn't an accident John, we're victims number ten and eleven. That means we're getting close. John, you're bleeding… "
The cab had come to a halt lying on its side and suddenly there was a hammering against its roof and a loud voice from outside. "Anyone alive in there?" yelled a male voice with a slight accent.
"There are two of us, don't know about the driver. We're both injured" Sherlock responded, relieved that help was on the way.
"Fire brigade and ambulance already on their way, we'll have you out in no time." The voice came back trying to reassure but Sherlock did not feel particularly reassured. He hurt more than he was ever going to let on to John and John really did not look very good. Blood was flowing freely down the side of his face and a dark stain was spreading over his right leg and despite John's reassurances that the breathing wasn't life threatening it sounded pretty damn bad to Sherlock.
"Please Hurry, my friend's not looking too good." He shouted to the man outside. At that John raised a hand feebly and opened his mouth to speak but instead of the reassurances that he was fine that Sherlock knew to expect he suddenly closed it again slapping his hand over his mouth for a second before twisting with a pained scream, vomiting and then swiftly passing out, face first in his own vomit.
"Oh, Shit… John, don't do this to me" Sherlock cursed and tried to move to help. Every movement sent agony shooting through his broken leg and with only one functioning arm there really was only so much he could. Do. His world was beginning to spin with the exertion and slumping down he found that the only thing that he could do was to reach his hand out to wrap around John's wrist frantically searching for a pulse. It was there steady and even and it made Sherlock feel a little bit better. It did however not stop the spinning of the car around him and within seconds he had joined John in unconsciousness.