A/N: An old bingo prompt: blood, gun, amnesia, road. I took liberties with "road". ;-)
San Francisco Shindig
Only the vaguest of memories drop into his head. Yelling. The smell of blood.
He knows he was gone for a length of time, and that he's scaring Scott. Which, it must be said, is a hard thing to do. But Scott is swearing at him while he drags him along the ground by the collar of his jacket. His sleeves are riding up and tightening into a bunch under his shoulders and that's not good. The left one is burning fierce. He tries to dig a heel into the ground in order to help his brother and take some of the pressure off, but Scott's not being gentle and they're moving too fast.
There are shadows down past his feet and suddenly, his head is bouncing off the cobblestones. Scott's pistol is going off: Crack! Crack! and he can smell burnt gunpowder.
Silence, and Johnny can hear breathing. He doesn't know if it's his, or Scott's. He can't distinguish between the two, but there's panic in the breathing and he knows neither of them are prone to it. He fumbles at his shirt trying to pull it down, but there's something damp. When did he get wet? He lifts his head and peels away one side of his shirt…oh. That's the smell. Blood. There's a lot of it.
He doesn't remember what happened.
Scott grips Johnny's shirt, and he wants to say Stop because he's not ready to move again. But his mouth is too dry, and his thoughts are too slow. Soon enough, the heels of his boots are stuttering off the cobblestones and Scott is swearing.
Shit, how strange. His brother rarely swears.
The End