So I haven't written in a long, long time (like years people, YEARS)…but I got a stray little plot-bug in my head today and while I was out I wrote this on my iPhone. Not sure if anyone else in the fandom will enjoy it, but if you do, please let me know. If it's good I may decide to continue this or write more. Enjoy!
Sherlock sat bloody and tired on the entrance to 221 Baker Street… the throbbing in his limbs only exaggerating the intense pounding of his head and the steadily falling London rain around him. The detective let out an annoyed sign looking down, watching the raindrops wash away some of the hardened and blacked blood, which now turned crimson again as it pooled and flowed down the grey sidewalk. He knew from the intense pain in his side and a basic knowledge of human anatomy that his left rib—no two of his left ribs were fractured, if not completely broken—but luckily no organs had been punctured. A large gash on his forearm gleamed happily red through the thin fabric of his favorite purple shirt—very happily, as that beautifully painful slice through skin and tendon had defended his face from an even worse fate. The severe wound on his upper right arm throbbed equally wonderfully to the detective…it had helped him escape the same knife from assaulting his torso, which danced dangerously close to some very vital organs.
Worth it. He thought, a small smile ghosting across the corner of his mouth.
The consulting detective had accomplished his goal and found the missing informant alive (albeit tortured and bleeding profusely). The fight with the would-be assassin was definitely the highlight of the evening—it was probably one of the most vigorous physical exchanges he'd participated in…at least within the past six months. It wasn't until he had helped the injured informant out of the warehouse and into the street that he felt it safe enough to ask about the information he carried—the location of the man who almost killed John.
The assassin who had been hired to kill Sherlock last week had instead found the good doctor. It was unfortunate that John had been hospitalized after the attack…even more unfortunate that the assassin's partner had to be shown how to properly wield a knife in a darkened warehouse at one in the morning. At least that was one of two out of the way…and now he could concentrate on finding the man he was truly after.
He hadn't felt any of the pain until he had stopped to take a breath outside the abandoned warehouse. The rain falling steadily down against his bleeding body, the chill settling into his bones, the soft splashing as the informant ran off into the hazy expanse of the night… it was then that the adrenaline decided to ware off. The pain had surged through his body like a tidal wave of agony. Sherlock was barely able to gather and steady himself through the shock to make it to the road, hail a cab, and fight off any threats of a visit to the hospital. He didn't even put up an argument about being charged double to remove the bloodstains from the seats and floors. By the time the detective had paid for his ride and slumped out of the vehicle his condition had worsened—the bleeding hadn't stopped.
And so here he was, bloody, bruised and broken, sitting slumped in the street with his back against the cold door of 221 Baker Street, bleeding out in the cold London street in the rain.
Smiling.
Suddenly, from somewhere far off, the detective heard his name being called at strange levels—first soft, then loud and deafening, then again high-pitched and cracking. He opened tired eyes that he didn't even know that he had shut.
"Mmmmmmellllo Jawn," he slurred, smiling softly as he looked up at the doctor's terrified face, "I seem to have…slipped. On a knife."
