I do not own BBC's Sherlock and associated characters, etc.
Chapter 1: Quick Drop, Sudden Stop
John pondered the bizarre series of events that had somehow lead to the two of them tearing through the English countryside along an ominously steep ravine. Today's quarry was a museum-curator-gone-insane who had killed his victims only to pose them into morbid imitations of well-known works of art. On top of being an art historian and a homicidal maniac, he was apparently a marathon runner in training. The man was pulling away even as they pursued him like greyhounds after a lure. Or Sherlock might have been like a greyhound…John felt more like a sheepdog on its way to cardiac arrest, but he was mostly keeping up.
Sherlock was several paces ahead of him, effortlessly evading a gnarly oak root that nearly put John on his face a few moments later. Squinting past the detective, John could see the curator leap off a small plateau and drop a few feet to the ground beyond it. Sherlock soon did the same, managing to clear more horizontal ground than the curator. John hit the edge of the plateau in time to notice two unfortunate facts: the ravine came up to meet the patch of ground on which he was about to land, and the force of two other men landing on it had caused a good-sized chunk of ground to peel away from the ravine's edge. He was heading for a quick drop and a sudden stop.
John cried out before his feet even tried to make any sort of purchase, something frantic and unintelligible that made Sherlock halt and turn. Catching sight of his flailing blogger as the ground began to give way, the detective covered the space between them in a few long strides and flung himself bodily to the dirt, clutching for John's arm. Bits of the forest floor skittered and tumbled into the several-meter drop of the ravine, but John Watson did not. He scrabbled against its remainders until Sherlock gave an almighty heave and yanked him back over the ravine's edge.
They laid there side-by-side, trying to catch their breath and laughing their nerves off. "Nice save," John spoke when he found his voice again. "Thanks for that."
"Mm-hm," Sherlock replied. He indicated the ravine with a vague wave of one hand. "Would have been a bit of a drop."
The memory of Sherlock flying at him like some great ruddy bat was not one that would soon leave him. He let out a giggle before he could help himself. "I needn't worry with you Supermanning all over the forest. How did you even manage that maneuver without landing on your face? It's like you're impervious to being clumsy."
Sherlock snorted. "Have you really just attempted to turn 'Superman' into a verb? Your lack of respect for the English language is frankly appalling."
Before John could defend himself, they heard a high-pitched cry that surpassed absurd and bordered on theatrical, followed by the tell-tale sounds of somebody tripping into the underbrush of the forest floor. Not a marathon runner, then. There was a beat of silence before John burst out laughing, and Sherlock's low chuckle was soon to follow.