John ran. He ran as far and as fast as he could, taking as many shortcuts as he could remember from his time dogging criminals through the twisting London streets with Sherlock. His lungs burned and his shoulder stung with each pained swing of his arms, but he didn't care. He could have hailed a cab, but he didn't care for that either. The pure adrenaline pouring from his brain, racing through his veins, felt enough to power the whole of Smithfield for centuries. There was no greater catalyst than fear and uncertainty, and both emotions were washing over him in almost palpable waves of panic.
It took him 22 minutes to reach the hospital, and he nearly collapsed, spent, at the foot of the King Henry VIII Gate – but no. Sherlock was still in there somewhere, possibly dead, lying murdered by a psychopathic forensic pathologist with an uncommon hatred of trans men. And Sherlock's own stupidity and heedlessness had brought him there: no. There wasn't time for anger yet. The rage could come later, if Sherlock survived. And that wouldn't happen if he wasn't there to save him.
He paused for only a second to shoot off a quick text to Lestrade –
St. Barts. Sherlock drew out killer. Assailant armed. Ambulance. Back up.
– before continuing his chase.
Slamming through the doors, shoving a frightened orderly aside, John raced downstairs, taking the steps two at a time, his body thrumming with panic. He reached for his service weapon in the waistband, only to come up empty. He cursed. No time for that now. He could take the man down with his bare fists if necessary. All that mattered was getting to Sherlock – now.
His brain was working on autopilot, the muscle memory of years of walking these same hallways leading John straight to the forensic pathology lab in the basement of the building. He slammed open the doors, only to find Sherlock facing down the murderer with a cold, calculated expression – and John's gun aimed squarely at Hank's face. A slight shift of Sherlock's eyes told him that he had been acknowledged, and then John leapt upon the massive man, knocking him sideways with the force of his impetus.
"RUN!" he screamed to his partner, who paused only for one agonizing second before dashing out of the room. He knew that John could take care of himself: despite his small stature, he was army trained and already recognized his assailant's fighting style. Sherlock, on the other hand, was relatively defenseless against anyone heavier than him, by dint of his slender build and amateur knowledge of hand-to-hand combat.
Hank shook John off like a bear throwing away a pitbull, turning on his heavy heel to pursue Sherlock. The ex-soldier desperately grabbed the murderer's leg, clinging with all his might as he was shaken heftily from side to side. "NO!" he screamed, his voice husky with testosterone as Hank gave up on shaking him, running down the hallway with John attached firmly to his leg.
Up one flight of stairs was the nearest emergency exit: John could hear Sherlock's light and frantic footsteps in the stairwell ahead of them, and he prayed that his body weight would be heavy enough to slow Hank and allow his partner to get to safety. However, the murderer slammed his foot down on John's right hand, causing him to cry out and let go, cursing himself immediately. The doctor stood, chasing Hank down as he clambered up the metal steps, his footfalls ringing out in the enclosed space.
They both burst out of the emergency exit nearly simultaneously, John close enough to grab Hank's arm, but not fast enough to keep him from raising his gun and aiming it squarely at Sherlock's slim form as he ran down the alleyway.
Sherlock's entire body recoiled with the sharp retort of Hank's gun, and he crumpled limply to the ground within seconds, curling up around his left leg like a snake. He moaned softly, pressing a shaking hand to the wound, as John dropped down beside him.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you conscious? Speak to me. Talk to me. Breathe in, come on, breathe out," John murmured desperately, batting the detective's hand away from the crimson pool forming on his trouser leg. Leaning in close to look in the dull light of the alleyway, he saw with horror that the wound went straight through the femur, splintering it. Sherlock may never run again, he noted. The stress fractures reverberating throughout the bone would take care of that.
The man in question was taking great gasps of air, panting as if he couldn't breathe, and his skin was growing a ghastly blue color, cold to the touch. Shock was setting in, all of Sherlock's adrenaline spent from the chase throughout St. Barts. John grabbed the man's cold hands and pressed them against the wound once more, pulling off his own coat to add more pressure.
"John," the wounded man moaned, his eyes latching on to his doctor's.
"You need to hold this here, okay? I need to go catch that fucker," John whispered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's, kissing his pale lips. "Don't move. Not even an inch. The paramedics will be here soon."
His partner merely nodded mutely, all the fight drained from him.
"Please don't die on me, Sherlock, mani," John begged, using the pet name he had given to Sherlock in honor of his time in Afghanistan. "You can't die on me. Please."
"Go catch him," Sherlock replied simply. "Gun." He gestured weakly to John's Browning lying on the asphalt beside him.
With a nod and one more kiss, John complied, scooping up the weapon and running as fast as his shaking legs could take him. The strength of his rage fueled him for one last second wind, sprinting furiously down the alleyway until he came upon the killer, trying desperately to open the door to a nearby warehouse.
John didn't even consider his action: he merely leapt, arcing gracefully above the ground before landing somewhere near Hank's midsection and latching on, wrapping his legs tightly about the burly man's waist. With a practiced, unconscious movement, he clicked off the safety of his gun and pressed the muzzle sharply against the man's skull.
"I have beaten the hell out of you once. I will be happy to do it again. Or I could shoot you on the spot. It's your choice."
Hank turned slightly, and John caught the glint of his maniacal smile. His voice was pudding-thick, retaining a Scouse gruffness that belied his youth spent in the vicious North. "Be a pleasure."
"No, no. I think that's too fucking good for you, motherfucker. If there is a Hell, you're not going to it. God himself will want to torture you for eternity." John smiled, resisting Hank's attempts to throw him off, and shot his partner's assailant right through the shoulder. "Rache," he hissed as Hank screamed.
Sirens approached, and John slipped down from the murderer's back, leaving him writhing helplessly on the ground. Sherlock was already on a stretcher as he wavered down the alleyway, occasionally leaning against the wall for support as the adrenaline left his body in waves. He pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply, and stood up straight to join his partner beside the ambulance.
It didn't look good. Sherlock was a ghostly, mottled blue in the sweeping lights of the paramedic's torches, taking quick, shallow breaths as his body attempted to process the cortisol flooding its pathways. John immediately took up residence beside him, offering soft murmurs of comfort as the consulting detective struggled to focus his gaze upon his partner.
Lestrade, dispatching two strong-armed bobbies to handle the criminal, stood beside the gurney, concern etched heavily in his features. "Is he going to be okay?" He asked, somewhat rhetorically, to the paramedics busily snipping Sherlock's trousers from his legs.
"Oh, fuck – no, do you think you could not?" John pleaded, realizing their intent. The paramedics merely ignored him. Sherlock, catching John's gaze, offered him a look of resigned displeasure before closing his eyes and passing out entirely. John would have liked to pass out too, knowing what was about to be revealed.
After several weeks of their intimacy, John had admitted that the incongruence between Sherlock's expected genitalia and the actual physicality of his sex organ was intensely erotic to him in a way he couldn't explain; thus, Sherlock had hastened out to buy the sheerest, sexiest lingerie that Fenwick sold, often in outrageous and very indecorous colors. Sherlock had worn a lacy green thong that morning, the type that left little to the imagination. They had planned on spending that night in bed, making triumphant love to one another while listening to classic symphonies on John's iHome. Obviously Sherlock had not had the time to change out of the thong before dashing out to take on his attempted killer.
A tight crowd of police officers – including Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson – had congregated around the gurney, watching as, snip by snip, Sherlock's gruesome injury was revealed. Even John winced: deep black bruises were already ringing the border of the wound, and the jagged trajectory of the bullet stood out starkly against the pale white of Sherlock's skin. But worse were the varying looks of shock and confusion as the trousers were fully cut away, and the detective's half-transparent underclothing was revealed. It was clear to anyone with eyes that Sherlock most decidedly did not have a penis.
Sally Donovan's jaw looked about to dislocate itself, and Anderson gaped unabashedly, his eyes squinting in confusion.
Lestrade, to his credit, merely shrugged, dismissing it as unimportant, but not without a smirk at Sherlock's choice of apparel. "Come on then, folks. Let's let the paramedics handle it. We've got a murderer to arrest." He led Donovan from the scene, and she followed him compliantly, stealing a glance over her shoulder at John, her expression unreadable.
Anderson stood for a moment longer, looking from Sherlock to John and back again. John stared back, hoping his glare would melt a hole into Anderson's brain, allowing him to perform a sorely-needed lobotomy.
"So. . . " Anderson started, then stopped to look again. He leaned in close to John, who moved away. "Does this mean I can't call him a dick?"
John let out a deep, angry sigh. "Anderson. I will put a hypodermic needle into your eye. Leave."
The officer backed away quickly, fear stamped on his features, and the doctor smiled, a tacit threat hanging in his eyes. Then he turned back to the unconscious Sherlock, brushing his hair out of his eyes and looking up at the paramedics, who were busily putting in IVs.
"Is he ready to take in?"
"Yes. Thank goodness he chose to get shot right outside of a hospital."
"Very good." John nodded, his shoulders sagging as he pressed his left hand deeply into the foam of the gurney in an attempt to keep himself upright. Whipping out his phone, he texted Mycroft, using the last strength in his (trembling – they weren't before, but now the adrenaline's gone, damn) fingers.
Safe. Arrest. Sherlock shot – St. Barts. Come if convenient. Or if not.