"JOHN, I'VE HAD A BAD DAY!"
John Watson sat in his cozy recliner, completely null and void. He didn't want to move, or talk, or think at all. He wanted to take a long nap under an afghan, and perhaps drink some tea a little later on. Most of all, John CERTAINLY didn't want to listen to his flatmate.
Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes was not used to being ignored.
"John!" He yelled again, this time putting his face too close to John's for anyone's comfort. "This is serious!"
"Go away."
The words were wasted on the detective, who swiftly picked up a tooth pick and jabbed it into John's eyebrow. "Ow!"
"Good. You're awake."
"I was never sleeping!"
But Sherlock wasn't listening. "We have a case, John, a BLOODY CASE!"
Realizing that Sherlock wasn't going away (and making sure his eyebrow wasn't bleeding), John stretched and stood. He meant to walk straight away and hit the loo, but there was something in the way.
A bloody case.
"...Sherlock?" John asked, looking at the black briefcase, coated in a red mess of blood. It was seeping into the carpet. "Who the hell does that belong to?"
"Who indeed."
Sherlock stood up straight, making his dark curls fall into his eyes, ever so dramatically. Something about him suddenly struck John as different.
Maybe...
"New scarf?" He asked, noticing checkers on Sherlock's favorite accessory.
"What?" He asked distractedly. "Oh, yes. Mine was a bit tattered... Acquiring this case." Suddenly, his eyes made contact with John's. "You noticed?"
Of course he noticed. Sherlock didn't exactly branch out from his usual attire. He was rather stuck up that way. But John didn't say that. Instead he smiled and kept silent, looking at the case to hide his stupidly childish blush.
But Sherlock noticed. He always did.
"Where did this come from exactly?" Asked John.
Sherlock threw a hand over his eyes and leaned against the wall. "A desperate attempt to tempt me."
Tempt him? John shook his head. "From WHOM? From WHERE?"
"A woman. Dying in the street."
That stopped John short. "I'm sorry?"
"A woman. Dying. In the street." He furrowed his brows. "What is hard to understand about that?"
John was used to this reaction, but it didn't stop him from become the tiniest bit agitated. If anyone else was to say something with such an unaffected tone, they would be ostracized. But he was Sherlock homes. He got away with it. Always.
John sat back down in a heap. "Yeah; I know it was a woman dying on the street. I want to know the circumstances surrounding her death, thank you."
"Stupidity. A knife. Masked man in the street." Sherlock thought about the obvious details. The man was 5'7, angry, and covered in an expensive Armani cologne. One Sherlock had recognized. "Irish."
"No..." Said John, his eyes bugged. "You can't be serious?"
"Moriarty is alive."
John stared at Sherlock with absolute fear. Absolute fear. His body actually began quaking. Not
Moriarty. Moriarty was dead. Totally dead. Undeniably dead.
His brain matter was stained into the roof of St. Bart's for God's sake!
"I... Don't... How? How is that at ALL possible?"
Sherlock only sighed as he unbuttoned his coat, revealing a his purple shirt. There was a bloodstain on the right side, large and ominous. It still looked wet.
"MY GOD, SHERLOCK!"
"I told you that I had a bad day. Well, it... It most likely won't get better for awhile."
John had just reached out to grab his friend when Sherlock's eyes unfocused and lost sight completely. Like a movie scene, John saw a slow motion clip of his friend's pale pallor and fall onto the barely carpeted floor.
Unconscious.
"Sherlock!" Cried John. "Sherlock! MRS. HUDSON!"
The tiny woman ran in, her arms flailing. "What's with all the shouting, John? You know I'm listening to the Tel- WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH SHERLOCK?!"
"He's wounded! Call an ambulance. Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?!"
Mrs. Hudson rushed around, looking for the phone. "Where is the-"
"In the refrigerator! Left drawer, second down!" John's hands went to Sherlock's side. It was bad. Blood dripped in rubies on the carpet. He shrugged out of his jumper and tore off Sherlock's buttondown. The slash was three inches long and deep. Very deep. The skin was raw and red. "Oh God, oh... God. You'll be okay, Sherlock." He applied pressure to the wound, pulsing with his hands.
John was shaking, and his eyes were starting to leak a little. "You'll be okay, sherlock." He repeated. "Please be okay, sherlock..."
Mrs. Hudson ran back into the living room. "The Paramedics are on their way John, it's alright..."
"Fine, fine..." But John could barely hear her. His eyes betrayed him. Tear after tear descended down his cheek, echoing his fears. Would Sherlock die?
Maybe.
Would Moriarty return?
Possibly.
And worst of all... Who was responsible for the bloody gash on the man in John Watson's arms?
John bit his lip as he pressed the now beet red jumper harder onto the wound. Yes, he would have to do something. Anything. This was the man he adored, believed in, marveled at. Skillful, wonderful. A dick at times, but so was John.
He'd make it.
John couldn't lose him again.