Chapter One: Priorities

They were running.

It wasn't anything unusual, chasing criminals through the dark, cool night in London. They loved the thrill, craved the adrenaline, and the danger felt terribly wonderful. Sherlock had solved a case of theft just the other day, a gang of robbers plotting to steal an absolutely expensive emerald ring owned by a very wealthy lady.

Her cousin arranged the whole robbery, obviously.

Tonight, they caught them red-handed. Their immediate reaction was to make a run for it – and a very quick one. So there they were, Sherlock and John speeding through alleyways in chase of two of the gang members. Or rather, Sherlock speeding through alleyways in chase of two of the gang members with John trying to catch up behind him.

At one point, one of the robbers yelled something to the other, and they ran separate ways. Sherlock growled in frustration and chased after one of them, while gesturing towards the other one.

"John," Sherlock yelled to him.

"On it," John received the command with a nod, chasing after the criminal to the other way.

This one was a tad bit slower than his companion, which was something John was grateful for. He was absolutely sure he had no energy left, his quick breaths were uncontrollable and his legs were starting to hurt. But he pushed through – let the adrenaline flow and it would all be fine.

John hadn't noticed where he was running to until the criminal swore very loudly. He gained up on him and slowed down with a grin.

A dead end.

Marvelous.

"No way out," John announced and ran up to him. "Turn yourself in or you won't like how this will go."

John grabbed him by the shoulder when the criminal pulled out a gun, utter panic written all over his face. The safety clicked off, but John quickly knocked it away and twisted back both of his arms, restraining him to place.

He was still panting from the running, but managed to breathe out a victorious, "Nice try."

He was about to find a way to keep him restrained while calling for Lestrade when a loud, agonized scream shattered through the air. John had his breath caught on his throat.

"Sherlock."

His grip loosened in the distraction, and the criminal struggled free. He quickly turned around and gave John a hard kick on his chest, sending him flying to the wall.

The alleyway was once again wide open and the criminal ran out, escaping to the busy streets of London.

John got on his feet with a groan, holding his pained chest as he gasped for as much oxygen as possible. The scream rang out again and John listened with a frown.

He knew the criminal would already escape, but his eyes scanned his surroundings anyway, just to make sure of it. Gone – but maybe if he ran again, fast enough and with the luck of getting the right direction, he might still be able to catch up.

But he wouldn't.

Sherlock comes first.

John jogged out to the side of the streets, still gasping. After scanning one lane after the other, he finally found him – a lump of coat and dark curls slumped on the ground.

"Oh God," John whispered and ran to his side. He slowly and carefully turned him over and checked for injuries. A large bruise stood out on his cheek, and multiple cuts decorated his chest and shoulders, blood seeping from his wounds. John took off his jacket and pressed it against his chest as Sherlock moaned in pain in response.

"Why are you never careful with knives?" John whispered as he kept the pressure. "I'm calling an ambulance this time."

"No," Sherlock choked out. "No hospital."

John glared at him. "Sherlock. You're losing blood, you need medical treatment."

"And I have my own doctor."

"I'm serious."

"It's nothing you can't stitch up."

John tried to glare even harder, but finally gave in. "Alright, fine, but if it gets any worse, I will call an ambulance."

After he successfully folded and tightened his jacket around Sherlock, he gently guided him to sit up and lean on the wall until he regained enough energy.

"Did you get the ring?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

John looked up and muttered, "What?"

"The ring," Sherlock repeated. "It wasn't with her cousin; it was with the other one you were chasing."

John blinked. "But her cousin took the—"

"Yes, but obviously at some point, knowing that it was him we were mainly on to, he had to hide it on his companion, the ring would still have a chance if he ever got caught," Sherlock explained. "You didn't get to him?"

"No, no, I did, I had him restrained."

"…And?"

"And, well, I heard you scream…"

"You let him go."

"No! I mean, I didn't mean to," John confessed, then sighed. "He struggled through, broke loose, then I ran to look for you—"

"You still could've got to him."

"It was your voice screaming!"

Sherlock leaned back his head and let out a noise in exasperation. "It'll take weeks to find them again!"

John ran a hand through his hair and buried his face on his knees. Of course he was disappointed, but had he not gotten to Sherlock sooner, who knows what would happen to him.

"Look, I'm sorry about the ring, but you can't expect me to hear that and just… ignore you," John argued. Sherlock looked away and chose not to answer. John couldn't believe how impossible this man was being.

They managed to get a cab and went safely back home. Sherlock sat on the sofa, holding an ice pack on his bruised cheek, still refusing to say anything. John was next to him, cleaning and carefully stitching the cuts on Sherlock's chest.

They were in silence for a long while, until John finished his work and cleaned up. He decided to start a conversation. "These are really bad. Should've called an ambulance…"

"They'd both be out of town by now," came Sherlock's grumbled reply.

"Right," John muttered. He stood up abruptly, the anger fueling inside him. "Will you please just let go of that?"

"We'll never find it now."

"I didn't go after him because you were in trouble, Sherlock, I would've done otherwise if that wasn't the case," John yelled, his voice raising. "I did it because you are someone I consider far more important than burglars running around with a ring. I thought you'd appreciate, or at least understand."

Sherlock stared at the coffee table, his eyes narrowing, not looking at John.

"I thought you'd do the same, but," John continued as he climbed the stairs to his room, "You're Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock didn't move until he heard the door to John's room slam shut. He removed the pack from his cheek and threw it to the floor, cracking the ice inside. He lost the ring, he lost the whole gang, and now John was upset with him.

He really didn't like it.

Sherlock tried to lean back but immediately winced as the wounds on his chest prevented him to. He gazed accusingly at the stitches and then frowned.

Appreciate – he did, he really did, but not enough to show. Understand – he couldn't. No. He could, but he always refused to.

John was always there. He made tea, stitched up his wounds, and chase down criminals with him. There was absolutely nothing he wouldn't do for Sherlock. He would take any risks, he would go through any danger, and he would do anything for Sherlock's life.

Nobody else would do the same.

Sherlock felt that he had to say something to him. He had to fix it, but he couldn't bring himself to it. After minutes of debate with his own mind, he decided to turn on the telly and drown himself in it.

Not that it worked, though.

Hours later, still unmoving from his spot on the sofa, Sherlock heard the sound of muffled footsteps going downstairs. Then, a pause.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

He heard a sigh, there were hesitant footsteps approaching him, then a flop to the chair across the sofa. "Sherlock... I'm sorry, for bursting out like that. I shouldn't have yelled," he started. "I know I should've chased him down while I could. I'll help you out tomorrow, tracking him down and everything."

"No."

John looked up. "No?"

"It… It wasn't your fault," Sherlock mumbled. "You did the right thing. And I do appreciate and I do understand. You were there, and you always were, and it wasn't right for me to act like that. I'm sorry."

John gave him a look, trying to figure out if he really meant what he said, so Sherlock continued.

"Nobody else would do the same."

"…Save your life?"

"And put me at the top of their priorities."

John couldn't resist smiling. "Your life is worth saving."

Sherlock returned his smile and leaned back, the pain on his wounds now forgotten.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I'd do the same for you."

A widened smile. "I know."