PART SOMETHING OR OTHER BY THE GORGEOUS AND FANTABULOUS SADLITTLECLOWN.
The door slammed behind John as he stormed out of the house, the sound swallowed and muffled by the house. "Fuck you, Sherlock. Fuck you," he muttered as he stomped down the drive, feet leaving angry prints in the gravel. He could hear people scurrying out of the house behind him, their ruckus and worry, but he didn't care. They could come after him all they wanted, beg and plead to have their John back, their friendly pet John. But he wouldn't give in.
He continued to tell himself this as he walked down the side of the highway. The miles back to 221b loomed ahead of him, but he was taking it one step at a time, bare feet aching on the pavement as he had kicked off his shiny shoes in anger. Cars zoomed back, various drivers shooting him assorted odd looks. He knew how strange he must look, a barefoot man in a fancy sweater stumbling along the shoulder of the freeway. So he wasn't startled when a car pulled up in front of him. He was more surprised when Sherlock got out.
As soon as the Mycroft's door had slammed behind John, Sherlock turned to his brother and demanded a car. Mycroft had given him a set of keys, and told him to hurry, promising to take a protesting Mrs. Hudson home in a different car.
The entire ride there, Sherlock had urged the car faster, ducking through traffic and ignoring people's angry shouts through open windows in pursuit of his flatmate. He could see John's tan sweater moving slowly along the road against the foliage backdrop, but kept getting cut off by minivans out for revenge. Eventually, he managed to get ahead of the tangle of cars, and pulled up just in front of John.
"Piss off," John spat, and Sherlock could see that he still wasn't entirely sober.
"John, let me just give you a ride—"Sherlock pleaded, realizing that a drunk John on the side of the highway was wont to get himself killed.
"No." John leaned against the guard rail, pretending that the sharp metal wasn't hurting his ass. "I managed eight months without you, and I can do it again."
Sherlock snorted involuntarily. "Managed? Please, John. You call that managing? You were a drunken slug, a lump of wasteful flesh gathering dust while I was gone, waiting every day for your poor, precious Sherlock to—"
Sherlock's description of him, all too vivid in John's mind, had earned Sherlock a vicious slap and a pink stain across the cheek where John's hand had hit. "Go away," he growled. "Leave me alone. I did my waiting, my fair share of groveling and whining. But I'm past that." He stepped back, so that he was inches away from the cars. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."
As soon as he stepped into the street, his body was swept up by the muzzle of an oversized SUV, limp form thrown forward into the bumper of a station wagon. Horns blared, traffic stuttered to a reluctant halt, and Sherlock darted in between the cars to where John lay.
His body seemed hopelessly mangled, no more than a tangle of twisted limbs and torn knitting. The entire scene was drenched in blood, almost surreal crimson dripping from everything except for Sherlock himself. People were cautiously climbing out of their cars, waving cell phones and screaming. But he ignored them. All he could think about was the fact that John, his John, was lying mangled in the road after attempting suicide, and it was entirely his fault.
He pulled out his phone slowly, dialing 999 and holding it to his ear. When the tinny voice on the other end answered, he could not bring himself to speak. "John…" he stammered, at a loss for words for the first time in his life. "John… hurt…"
"Please state your emergency," the woman instructed.
"John is hurt!" Sherlock blurted. "John got hit by a car and I don't know what to do and you have to help me anything you can do has to be done he's going to die my John is going to die you won't let him die will you?"
"Please state your location."
"I don't bloody know!" Sherlock stood up, holding the phone against his shoulder and gesturing at the gawking crowd. "Well?" he demanded. "Where the fuck are we?"
One brave soul stepped forward and, stammering, gave their location to the woman on the phone, hanging up after and gingerly returning the phone to Sherlock before scurrying back into the crowd.
Sherlock knelt again by John, listening for the sirens of the ambulance. He could see what was left of John's mutilated chest rising and falling, albeit lightly. Wiping the blood off of John's face with his sleeve, Sherlock settled on the pavement to wai