"Sherlock? Sherlock!"
"Is he alright?"
Sherlock hauled himself to his feet, admittedly shaken, then swayed dangerously in the fog-laden air. He had to sit down. Strong, but gentle hands guided him to a satisfactory seat, presumably a bench, where he slumped in his seat, too exhausted to try to remember what had happened.
"What happened to the poor lad?"
"Something nasty about a car I think, probably got himself into a right situation. We had to get him out of the roads though. Could'ave been worse then."
"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock!"
"Funny name that in't it? You don't reckon he was that detective in the papers d'you? What's he doing getting infront of a car then?
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock listened to the voices fade away, then looked up to who he assumed to be John, mumbling something in assent. Even in his sluggish stupor, he was sure he saw something white flash on John's back, just for a second. Then it reappeared, gold, brown and white feathers in seamless harmony, forming a wing that was sheltering him from the cold. His guardian angel. Quite impossible, but in his current state, it hurt his head to think about it. Unable to hold on to consciousness any longer, Sherlock sank into the warmth of oblivion, just as his head began to throb.