John was late and angry, and to cap it all off he still hadn't managed to get rid of all the smell in the flat. Bloody Sherlock. Bloody experiments. He squeezed the cloth out one more time and threw it and his gloves in the bin. He scrubbed his hands only three or four times, because he didn't have time for anything else, and left a note on the fridge telling Sherlock to remember he was due for dinner at his and Mary's tonight. Not that John had any desire to see him after the mess he'd just been forced to clean up. For some reason, he decided to skip having tea; his throat felt vaguely sore, as if it had been burned, although he didn't remember eating or drinking anything too-hot within the last twenty-four hours.

"John!"

Sherlock's voice came from somewhere at the back of the flat, near the kitchen. John hesitated, one hand on the door handle. Sherlock sounded angry – no doubt he'd noticed what John had done to his experiment.

John didn't have time to argue with him. It was just an experiment, and a pretty toxic one at that – Sherlock might be angry, but John was more so, and if he waited any longer, he would miss his bus. Sherlock hadn't yet made it into the hallway. John took his chance and slipped out, locking the door quickly behind him. As it clicked shut, he heard Sherlock's voice again.

"John! Make sure you answer your phone!"

John was halfway down the stairs before Sherlock could call out again, wondering what the hell he was talking about. He hopped onto the bus a second before it left.

Two cancer scares, four screaming children and a vomiting teenager later, and John wanted to cry. His office stank, but as he was about to leave to force a sandwich down his throat in the waiting room, he heard his phone buzz.

Incoming call: Sherlock

Usually, he would have let it ring – he was fairly sure that Sherlock only wanted to whine about his experiment – but then he stopped. Sherlock had said something about his phone this morning. He couldn't remember but perhaps…perhaps it was important. If it wasn't he could have a good shout at Sherlock for bothering him at work, and if it was…well.

He pressed answer.

"Sherlock?"

"Thank god, John, thank god…"

"What the hell is wrong with you today? You sound like you've been running a marathon."

"Listen to me, please."

"Sherlock-"

"Please. Trust me."

John fell silent. Sherlock took a panting breath that rattled like static over the line.

"I thought it was a dream, a crazy dream, but I got the call again today, for the third time. There's a bomb, in the surgery."

John felt his face lose its colour. "What?"

"Get out. Set off the fire alarm, something, get everyone out. This has happened twice before, you need to leave. You've got about ten minutes."

"What do you mean, twice before?"

"John!"

"You're sure there's a bomb?"

"Trust me."

"Alright. Stay away, Sherlock. If there is a bomb, I don't want you getting mixed up in it too."

He hung up before Sherlock could reply, heart pumping. Jesus. Right. Area assessment. He slammed an elbow into the fire alarm, breaking the glass, and ran out into the waiting room. Sarah, a box of salad balanced on her knees, looked up as he began to wave his arms.

"Get out! We've got a fire, everyone outside. Get as far away from the building as you can, everyone, now!"
They shuffled out in a haphazard mass, like melting ice-cream gathering in bunches on the pavement. The weather was warmer than he'd expected. Sarah grabbed for his arm.

"Where's the fire?"

He pushed past her, trying to herd everyone further and further back. Shouting. Chaos. Civilians. The fire alarm was making his head pound.

"John!"

John jerked his head up in time to see Sherlock speeding toward him, his white shirt rumpled and his hair flying.

"I told you to stay away! What the hell is happening? Did you call the police?"

Sherlock skidded to a halt on the pavement. John, standing in the road, felt even shorter than usual, chin angled as he tried to see Sherlock's expression.

"I…" Sherlock was panting like a dog. Sweat ran down his collar. "I got…a call…a threat…bomb…"

"In my work? Why? Who? And what do you mean, twice before?"

Sherlock shook his head. John pressed his hands to his eyeballs and forced himself to breathe as lights popped out behind his lids. A dull ache gathered in his pupils.

"The car!"

John dropped his hands and looked up. "What?"

"John, get-"

Sherlock got his hand onto John's collar as the car – black, big windscreen – rounded the corner with a screech that fell dully on John's ears. He had a bizarre, frame-by-frame moment that stretched into one or two heartbeats. A fair man raising a hand to his mouth. The driver's face. Sherlock, desperately trying to pull him out of the way, hand tangled in his shirt and his knuckles white.

The metal tore through John's legs, breaking the bone. His spine juddered against his skin as he was flipped, dragging Sherlock with him, into the air, feet dangling. The roof of the car was like concrete – he actually felt his ribs being crushed as they bounced on it for a second, two seconds. He was too far gone to feel the road a second time. He had a glimpse of the car swerving into a bollard. Someone screamed. The fire alarm continued to wail.

Sherlock was staring at him. Or rather, he looked like he should have been, only his eyes were in the wrong direction and his neck was at an angle John knew was twisted in all the incorrect places. He wasn't bloody; just a single red line from a split lip. Fancy that. A broken neck, and all John could see at a glance was that single, tiny splash in the corner of his mouth. Mary would have thought it strange too, if she'd been here. Was she here? He couldn't remember.

John opened his mouth to say something. Blood filled his throat, bubbled between his teeth, and burst in a wave over the pavement. He tried to move a hand, but nothing was working except his brain and even that was…was…was…

Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!

To be continued.