A gun fire sounded and Sherlock was knocked off balance, blood pooled around him like the shadow of death. Heart hammering in his chest, john ran to the consulting detective, tears blurring his vision.
"Sherlock! Sherlock!" john screamed panic in his voice, "come on, Sherlock, WAKE UP! Please I'm sorry, don't be dead, don't do this to me again!" the smell of gun smoke reached his nose, curling up in a ball he threw his gun. Why had he shot Sherlock? His head started banging, john covered his ears and screamed, the banging got louder on going, never stopping and then finally...
John woke up in panic to see his door knocked down and Sherlock standing there with a gun.
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON, SHERLOCK!" john yelled at the top of his voice,
"I heard screaming; I thought you were being attacked,"
"WELL I AM CLEARLY NOT!"
"Well, don't be so loud next time." As Sherlock spoke, John looked into his eyes, I won't be cliché and tell you John saw a glimmer of sadness or a spark of hope, although from what he saw, he wished those were there; no, John saw nothing, nothing but solid darkness.
Coming through (fully dressed in his favourite cream woolen jumper) ten minutes later, John found Sherlock lying on the sofa in his usual prayer stance,
"John, we're out of milk."
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if you want milk, GO AND FUCKING GET IT!" John had always accepted Sherlock's laziness but after this morning…
Sherlock shut the front door, to go and get the milk.