Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were in a dark, wet, and putrid smelling alleyway, somewhere in the heart of London. They hovered over a man with short brown hair and a knife in his chest, coughing and spluttering for air. He was their only living witness and was within minutes of his final breath. He refused to speak of anything related to the case.
"Oh God, just put me out of my misery already!" the man croaked, his voice hoarse and pleading.
"The poor bloke..." muttered John. He gently coaxed the knife out of the man's heart and put it in a plastic bag for further examination.
With the withdrawal of his murder weapon, the man gasped and shuddered. John winced, knowing that there was not much he could do for the man at this point, in this dark alley, minutes of life remaining. "Just end this..." the man pleaded.
"No. C'mon, stay with us. Just tell me who you saw in the back room," John pleaded, sitting anxiously on his knees by the man's side.
"John, I've got this." For the first time in a dozen minutes, Sherlock spoke.
"What? Sherlock, we need to keep this man alive-"
"John, I said I've got this. Step back."
John gave him a quizzical look, and then stood up and took a step behind Sherlock.
In one swift movement, Sherlock drew a gun from his coat and shot the man square in the chest. "BLOODY HELL!" John shrieked, rushing to the man's side once more. Before he could attempt CPR, Sherlock grabbed John by the neck of his shirt and pulled him up and away from the man.
They knew he was going to die. Within moments, the man coughed up blood, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his head lolled and dropped to the side. It went silent, apart from John catching his breath and the rush of sewer water in the distance. John watched in horrified silence.
Suddenly, as if pure magic, the man lurched awake. He coughed and gasped and wheezed, his eyes sprang open and he pounded desperately on his chest to settle his lungs.
John gasped. He was frozen in his tracks. A second ago he had watched this man DIE after behind shot and stabbed in the chest. Now he was standing up, dusting himself off, and shaking hands with Sherlock. All traces of any wounds were gone.
"Thanks. I needed that." The man smiled at Sherlock.
"My pleasure." Sherlock frowned for a moment. "Mr...Harkness, did you say it was?"