John ran as fast as his legs could carry him. His leg was aching, but he tried his best to ignore it. Goodness knows what could be happening to Sherlock...

Suddenly, he heard gunfire, and a woman was rushing towards him, down Baker Street, curls bouncing as she past. She held two guns. Watson made the logical assumption that she had fired the shots and attempted to stop her, blocking her path. After wrestling him for several moments, she slipped out of his grasp, bounding down the street. He fired after her, shooting her in the feet. She stumbled and fell to the ground. He dialled 999, then rushed to her, hauling her up by her arms.

"Alright, you scoundrel, who are you are what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

She snickered as her operatives stepped out of the shadows.

"Now why should I tell you that?"

"You honestly think that brought me down? This entire outfit is lined with Kevlar. I don't even have a scratch. Oh, but Sherlock? Your precious little flatmate? Mmm, well, he and his brother aren't doing so hot. But there's nothing you can do about it."

"Yeah, well, you can tell that to Lestrade. And your cell mates. Because I just dialled 999 and I'm sure that they've already traced the call. It'll take them a matter of minutes to get here. Oh, wait, sorry, looks like I'm wrong- they're already here."

John indicated the police cars surrounding them.

Lestrade stomped towards Victoria.

"It's over."

Victoria smiled.

"No, it's not."

Victoria dashed off, her associates firing their previously concealed handguns. The policemen ducked behind their cars. John took the opportunity to escape, crawling his way to the sidewalk and up to 221B. Once at the door, he stood up, opened the door, ran up the steps, slamming the door behind him.

"SHERLOCK!"

As he reached the top of the stairs, he took in the sight with horror. Sherlock and Anthea had been shot and Mycroft, although he hadn't been shot, looked the worst for wear. Mycroft had lost weight, was covered in burns, cuts, and bruises, had multiple broken bones protruding through his skin, and looked filthy. The poor man must have an infection, as well, judging from the swelling and redness of the cuts and the sheen of sweat on his brow... (Thankfully, Mycroft was unconscious, spared the pain for a time.) Sherlock was merely sitting there, his eyes glassy, applying excessive pressure on both wounds, but they were still bleeding- more than John would like them to. Sherlock obviously shared this concern. Anthea was breathing deeply, trying to remain calm. (She had only been grazed by the bullets, but it was still a rather traumatic experience for her, psychologically, if not physically.)

"Oh my god..."

John felt like he was going to be sick.

"John, could you actually be of use and get Mycroft down to the EMT's? I can hear the sirens."

Sherlock, even when grievously injured himself, cared about his brother. More than he liked to admit, but being that his brother was unconscious, and there was no conceivable way that he could assist him further, he asked John for help.

"I don't think it'd be safe for me to move him without assistance- don't you even think about it, Sherlock. Don't you dare move. I'll bring the EMT's to him, not the other way around."

John rushed downstairs and saw that the EMT's were just outside of the main entrance. He pointed them upstairs, and waited.

A/N: Hi! Annoying American Author has returned! I know, evil cliffhangers. It really is extremely obnoxious, and I know it is. But it keeps you begging for more, and that's the whole point. I need an audience that is large enough that I can have: people who have tips to improve my fics (I love you lot, although I don't always show it. You guys are my Watsons, and I really do like you, and need to show it more. No disrespect meant when I don't show that affection- you often actually give me fantastic ideas that I do use! I just want to thank you for everything that you do.), people who give me moral support (heck, you guys are awesome. I love you guys, too!), and the very occasional... person who gets on my nerves! (but I would regret it if you ever disappeared. I need someone to yell at me. Hurling insults can be a good thing. Seriously. It makes me write better to prove you wrong. Not joking. I mean it.)