Tallner lunged for Sherlock and grabbed the phone, knocking the detective to the ground. Sherlock gasped as his wound hit the pavement and pressed the bloody scarf hard into his side, biting his lip at the intense pain.
Tallner searched desperately through his sent texts. He found the one Sherlock had just sent. It was to a John Watson. Stabbed in an alleyway half an hour from Baker Street; come get me.
Tallner walked over to Sherlock and loomed over him. "Who is John Watson?" he yelled. Sherlock didn't reply. Tallner kicked the wounded man in the side again, earning a hoarse yell of pain. "Who is he?" Tallner screamed.
"My…my boyfriend." Sherlock whispered.
Suddenly, the phone buzzed. Incoming Text, the screen read.
Tallner slid the lock and opened the text. He read it and laughed cruelly. "Well, your boyfriend doesn't care for you much, does he?"
Tallner held the phone up in front of Sherlock's face for him to read the text.
Something inside Sherlock died when he read it.
Nice try, Sherlock. But I'm not falling for that one again.
Shit. Sherlock never should have pranked John last April fool's day.
Tallner threw down the phone. "You're a fool, Sherlock Holmes. That's what I want you to die knowing; you are a fool. Nothing more."
Suddenly, at the opposite end of the alley, a figure appeared. As it got closer, Sherlock recognized it as Greg Lestrade, holding a gun, with his whole team behind him.
Tallner grabbed Sherlock by the collar, agitating his wound again, and held the bloody knife to his throat. "Don't move!" he shouted.
Greg stopped running and put his hands in the air.
"Greg…" Sherlock rasped. "Just let…let me die…" he coughed and spat blood onto the pavement.
Greg's eyes went wide. Sherlock never called him Greg. He decided to try negotiations first. "Okay, Tallner. Let him go, and you can go free. Otherwise, we're taking you down to the station and booking you for the murder of Sherlock Holmes."
Tallner pressed the knife closer against Sherlock's throat. "I want more than my freedom, copper."
Greg sighed and scratched his head. "Okay. Okay. What do you want?"
Tallner stepped forward, dragging Sherlock with him. He earned a moan of protest from the wounded detective. "Four hundred quid, even. Unmarked. To be delivered to this address." He dug into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
Greg took the paper from his hands and read it. He stuck it in his pocket. "Deal. Now let him go."
Tallner got a mischievous look on his face. "Oh, I don't think so. You see, what guarantee do I have that you're going to deliver the money?"
"You have my word as a policeman." Greg said seriously.
Tallner shook his head. "I've known too many policemen. No, Mr. Holmes is going to come with me. Then, when the money's delivered, you'll get your little pet detective back."
Greg smiled ruefully. "No. I think we'll get him back right now."
Tallner felt something bash into his head and fell to the ground, unconscious.
Sally stood behind him, shaky hands still holding the trash can lid aloft. Sherlock slumped forward, nearly unconscious.
"Thanks, Sally." Greg said as he rushed forward to Sherlock's side.
"Sherlock…can you hear me?"
Sherlock's eyes fluttered. "Of course I can hear you, you idiot. My hearing wasn't affected, thank you."
Greg laughed at Sherlock's wit, though he was actually very concerned about how weak Sherlock's voice was. "Sherlock…what exactly did he do to you?"
Sherlock's hands were trembling. He gripped Greg's wrist, unable to speak, and pulled his hand down to the scarf pressed against his side.
Greg touched it and was alarmed by the amount of blood on it. "Sally, call an ambulance."
Sally gaped. "What happened?" she gasped.
"He's been stabbed." He looked up at her. "Now!" he urged.
She pulled out her phone and dialed 999 while Greg applied pressure to Sherlock's side.
After a few minutes, she hung up. "They'll be here any minute."
"Good," Greg said. "Now come over here and apply pressure to this while I call Mycroft."
Sally kneeled down and took Greg's place. "Who's Mycroft?" she asked while pressing the scarf into Sherlock's side.
"Sherlock's older brother." Greg said. He dialed the number and waited for him to pick up.
Sherlock was gasping for breath. "Sally…" he whispered.
Sally looked down at him, the man she had called a freak so many times…the man who was now dying in front of her. "What, Sherlock?" she asked tenderly, trying to make up for so many insults and names she had tagged him with over the years.
"Tell John…tell John I love him…" he whispered.
Sally let out a thin sob. "You can tell him yourself. You're going to be fine, Sherlock!" she said desperately.
"He…he doesn't know about…about this. Tell him…it wasn't his fault. Will you do this for me?" he asked urgently.
Sally nodded, too overcome to speak. "Sherlock…"
Sherlock's eyes closed.
Sally yelped. "Sherlock?" she looked up at Greg, on the phone with Mycroft. "Lestrade, he's unconscious!"
Greg leaned down quickly and slapped Sherlock. "Come on, mate…" he said quietly, "Wake up…"
Sherlock sucked in a breath and began to shake violently, eyes never opening.
Greg took his pulse. "He's still breathing," he said. "Just make sure he keeps breathing."
Finally, they heard sirens getting closer, and the ambulance pulled up next to the alley.
The rest of the time passed strangely, as if they were observing it from far away, like watching a movie. It was like they weren't there.
The paramedics got Sherlock onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. With promises to meet Greg and Sally at the hospital, the emergency vehicle drove away, siren lights flashing into the darkness of early twilight.
They walked to the police car and got in, moving robotically, numb from what they had witnessed. For several minutes, they sat there, unable to speak, or even move, consumed by the guilt of what had happened to Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.