I suppose this one-shot could become a fanfiction of it's own, however I'm lazy and only want to do this much of it. XD


Feet pounding on pavement, trench coat flying. Footsteps echoing off the alleyway walls. Metal on leather, the sound of knives of some sort being drawn.

"Ready John," Sherlock whispered to his friend who was running alongside him. John nodded his acknowledgment of Sherlock's hushed words and drew his gun, running into a nearby, convenient doorway. He quietly pulled the trigger, ready to shoot their pursuers.

Finally they came into view just as Sherlock ran around a corner, his footsteps echoing away. The two men following them were wearing ragged coats and threadbare clothes, and were probably living on the streets or in an old house that was no longer used.

A shot rang through the crisp night air, biting into the first man's leg. A second shot pinged! off the stone walls of the alleyway. A third sent the second man to his knees.

John stalked over to the two groaning thieves, wondering how they could possibly be a part of one of the biggest drug traffics in London. After all, they were ragged in appearance and unskilled in chase.

He shrugged it off, knowing that Sherlock would take care of it.


Sherlock continued on, hearing three quick shots. Obviously, John missed one. He'd been forewarned to only injure them so that they could be questioned later. After all, Sherlock thought with a grin, dead men tell no tales.

He dodged a puddle lithely, still thinking about how he should interrogate them. Because he was so wrapped up deciding between a classic neck torture and a nice iron chair, that he failed to see the glass bottle. After all, he was more worried about any possible pursuers sent to catch them unaware and how to get information.

Sherlock skidded, his foot flying upward, and consequently, his head flew back. His shoulder slammed into the near wall of the alley and the back of his head cracked sharply against the pavement. The momentum he had built up from the slide upwards forced his lower half to continue over, resulting in a somersault-like motion.

Just before his head hit, he had come up with a lightning-fast solution to change the angle that his head hit to avoid a concussion on his most important part of his brain, the left half, responsible for logical thinking. However, in the process he instead hit the sector responsible for memory.

You never can think of everything, can you?


"Sherlock?" John called out, having taken care of the two drug-dealers. "Sherlock?"

Of course he was used to Sherlock disappearing, however he hadn't done it in a while. All John could do was jog along the alleyway in hopes to stumble across the sociopath.

A while along his jog, he did stumble across him. Quite literally, actually. He had just turned a corner when he found Sherlock lying, face-down on the dirty stone. He only just managed to not fall over his still body.

A second after John righted himself from jumping over him, he realized what it meant. Either Sherlock was badly hurt somehow or…

No, not again. He wouldn't go through that a second time. Sherlock would not be dead.

Then his training kicked in and he bent down beside his friend's body, checking for a pulse. It was there, albeit a bit fainter than it might normally be. He then searched for a wound. A few minutes later after careful examination he found the source of the problem- a blow to the head. A quick glance behind him showed an old glass bottle that could've been slipped on.

"How do you always manage to get yourself into these situations, Sherlock," John muttered as he dialed for an ambulance.


Pounding.

A very persistent pounding.

Now that he thought about it, the pounding pain in his skull flared up with each beat of his heart.

Sherlock groaned quietly, moving his hand up to rub the back of his head. Quickly assessing the room he saw that there was a middle-aged man sitting on the right side of the bed he was on. Other than that, there was nothing of interest other than the wilting rose on the table to the other side of him.

Sherlock internally ranted about this whole situation.

What am I supposed to do in this sorry excuse for a room, go insane? There's nothing to do. Ugh, it's so boring. The rest of his speech was not worth going into detail about. Let's just say it included death, sanity, and 'how could anyone possibly heal in this boring hellhole?'.

He groaned again, this time not from pain but from the immense boredom, and leaned his head back onto the pillows. That woke up the man to his right.
"Sherlock, how are you feeling?" he asked. Sherlock kept his face cold as he assessed him.

No animals, recently been outside- dirt on the knees, not much care for outward appearances-

"Sherlock," the man said again, this time edged with worry.

"Why am I here," Sherlock asked, though it was phrased like a statement.

"Because you slipped and hit your head," the man said. "You've got a concussion."

"I don't care if I've bloody got cancer, why am I here?" Sherlock snapped. He wasn't asking for the injury, rather why he was here and not back at the flat groaning about it to Billy the Skull.

Obviously, the man had finally figured out what he really meant by the question. "Because a concussion is serious and could cause death if not properly cared for."

"Boring," Sherlock stated, dismissing the matter. He then attempted to get up, but the man stopped him. Sherlock let out a huff of air and fell back onto the bed which jostled his head. Pain flared up, however he kept the walls he considered his exterior to be up and strong.

"So," he said to cure his burning curiosity. "Who are you?"