John...can you hear me?
John!
JOHN!
John's eyes snapped open, ears ringing sharply. He had a nasty, ear-splitting headache, and the voice shouting at him from above was not helping. He looked around as carefully as he could without triggering anything painful, trying to discern why he was lying on the ground in the middle of...an alley? Interesting. He gingerly raised a hand to the left side of his head, fingers coming away with blood.
"JOHN!"
There was that bloody voice again. He had an on and off relationship with that voice, yes indeed he did. Frowning, he slowly got up, feeling an extra pair of hands helping him stand. "Are you okay?" the voice kept asking. He waved his hand absentmindedly, brushing off any piece of gravel that had decided to stay on his coat.
"I'm fine, Sherlock. Really, I am," John said as he heard more footsteps approaching. He looked up, head finally clear, to find a startling pair of blue eyes boring a hole into his soul. He stared back, accustomed to the stare. Sherlock's eyes, however, were strangely at his eyelevel. "Come on, he's going to get away if we don't actually start moving, you know." John attempted to move forward but was held back by the consulting detective.
"The case doesn't matter as much as your well-being, John. Besides, the detective inspector can handle him, won't you, George?" Sherlock said, directing the last bit to the approaching (and very out of shape) DI Lestrade. He pointed behind him. "He went that way, heading towards the Thames. You can't miss him, really. He's carrying a head."
"It's Greg, and thanks," Lestrade replied. He turned to his team. "Alright, he's heading for the Thames! We can cut him off before he gets there, let's move!" They all took off running, heading different directions.
John stared after them for a moment before the dull throbbing of his head brought him back to reality. He touched the side of his head again. "Sherlock, what exactly did our case do to me?" Sherlock looked down at him, his concern showing for a quick second before it became masked by his usual indifference. He slowly led John to main road, hailing a taxi. "Let's get you back to Baker Street."
~l~
"What the bloody hell do you mean he shot me?!"
"I mean what I said, John. He shot you. Granted, it was a very poor shot due to the luggage he was carrying in his other arm, the angle at which he had turned around to shoot you, and the fact that he was a terrible shot. Of course, he wouldn't have been a very good shot if he had been standing still, seeing as he had never held a gun before let alone shoot one. His parents never had the money to teach him either, and apparently they never taught him that it's rather rude to steal a head. Honestly - "
"Sherlock!"
"Ah, right. It's just a mere scratch, John, you'll be fine. Would you mind putting the kettle on? I'm feeling the need for tea."
"Yes, I know I'll be fine, I'm a bloody doctor after all." John walked out the bathroom, a bandage wrapped firmly around his head twice, causing his hair to stick up in different directions. "Of course, you couldn't possibly be bothered to make some tea for once in your life. I mean, you're just lying there on the sofa, in your bathrobe, staring at the ceiling while I, the injured one, am forced to make some tea. Brilliant, Mr. Holmes, brilliant." And as usual, John commenced to make tea and Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling in his nonresponsive way.
With the water safely boiling in the kettle, John turned around to speak to Sherlock - but stopped. Sherlock was...asleep? That was a first. At least, it was the first time John had ever seen Sherlock sleep. In the three years he had shared a flat with him, he'd never seen the infamous Sherlock Holmes fall asleep, let alone on the couch in front of him. It was intimate in its own strange and extremely weird way, and John couldn't help but stare at his flatmate for a brief moment. He took in the finely-featured pale face, perfectly framed by the curly, pitch-black curls that never seemed to be out of place. His eyes absently wandered down the length of the stretched out figure, observing the thin, long hands clasped over a surprisingly strong-looking chest. John had never noticed how fit the consulting detective was, but he shook his head slightly, not exactly liking where his thoughts were going. He turned back to their tea. He was straight - there was no doubt about it. He'd dated plenty of women, and there wasn't anything that would stop that, especially Sherlock bloody Holmes.
John poured the tea into two separate cups, placing one on the table next to Sherlock, and curled up onto his chair, just as things should be.