Sherlock sprinted down alleys and side streets, his long coat billowing behind him. He was running faster than he had ever run in his life and his body was starting to protest, his legs burned, his head spun, and even breathing was becoming painful; but he couldn't stop. He would not let his dream become a reality, he would get there in time to save his only friend even if it had meant running around the world twice. So he kept running. Now there were sharp pains in his sides and he had acquired a splitting headache. But he still kept running. Sweat was running down his face and stinging his eyes, and he started seeing black spots. But he still kept running. Suddenly his knee gave out and he was sent flying face first into the concrete. He had been sprinting so fast that at first the concrete didn't even slow him down, he almost seemed too skip across the ground as if he were a flat stone skipping on the surface of a calm lake. Finally gravity seemed to take hold and he crashed into the hard ground. He rolled a few more feet before he finally managed to stop and take a deep breath, only to find that he couldn't seem to make the air go into his lungs. He wheezed and tried again, and this time the air seemed to cooperate, he coughed and sputtered trying to get as much air as possible.

Sherlock lay face down on the pavement and after he had managed to control his breathing he tried to stand up. Pain, his vision went red and he could feel nothing other than the agonizing pain that was emanating from his left leg. Sherlock heard himself scream as if from a distance as he fell back to the concrete. His head hit the unyielding ground with a sickening crunch and his vision was slowly turning from scarlet to black, and he saw something red run across the pavement that looked suspiciously like blood. No, he thought, no I can't pass out now John needs me.

Gritting his teeth against the pain Sherlock gradually rolled over so he was lying on his back. Very, very slowly he propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at his leg. It was a mess, his knee was definitely not supposed to bend that way. He groaned in frustration at his own disability, how are you supposed to get to John now, Said a nagging little voice from the back of his head.

"Shut up," he said out loud to no one in particular. Come on Sherlock, John needs you, he thought as he tried to get up one more time, and was rewarded with more unbearable pain. It doesn't matter anyway, said the same nagging voice as he collapsed back onto the concrete, that tape was already about an hour old when Mycroft showed it to you. Even if you could be there right now you would be too late to save him. Sherlock started to despair, it probably was too late. He might as well stay here for all the good it would do.

Just as unconsciousness was about to succumb him he thought of something, even if he couldn't save John he wanted to be able to tell him how it was that he was alive, how he had missed him, and how he loved him. If John was going to die, he wanted him to die knowing that he, Sherlock Holmes, loved him with all his heart. With renewed determination and vigor he hoisted himself up and nearly blacked out from the pain. He grabbed the side of the building he had fallen next to and leaned on it for support. He chanced one more glance down at his crippled leg and was sickened to find that some of the bone had pierced the skin. Clenching his teeth he slowly hobbled down the rest of the street and turned the corner onto Bakerstreet.

He was so close, he could do this. He limped down the vacant street and glanced at the windows of his flat. They were dark which made his heart skip ten beats, was his nightmare becoming a reality? Picking up his pace he stumbled up to the door and unlocked it, he hurried inside and staggered up the stairs as fast as his leg would allow. Reaching the door he grasped the doorknob and leaned on it for support and opened the door.

Sherlock nearly fell before he managed to regain his footing and he anxiously scanned the flat. Nothing seemed to be wrong, yes it was unusually clean but it didn't seem to feel abandoned or vacant. He continued to look for anything out of place as he clumsily ripped off his coat and scarf and blindly hobbled into the kitchen. The dishes were done, the sink was free of any suspicious lab equipment, and the counter and table clear of everything except for an empty little glass bottle.

Sherlock's breath caught and his heart stopped. He ran to Johns bedroom, the pain in his leg forgotten, and ripped open the door. There was nothing there, no body, no dying John, everything seemed normal. For once in his life he was glad that there was no dead body in front of him. Sherlock just stood in the doorway in shock for a moment or so when he heard the door to the flat open.

"What a long day."

Sherlock stood stunned as relief flooded through him. He never thought that he was going to hear that voice again and at the moment there was no sound that he would rather have heard.

John limped into his flat and continued to mumble incoherently to himself as he started to walk over to his chair, when he noticed a long black coat and a blue scarf lying abandoned on the floor. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the pieces of clothing that were lying so peacefully on the ground, he would have recognized them anywhere.

"Sh-Sherlock?" John called out tentatively into the silent flat.

Sherlock started at the sound and wanted to desperately run to the doctor's side.

"Sherlock, are you here?" John called out again.

He sounded so sad, Sherlock thought, but he can't know I'm here. Snapped out his trance he quickly looked for a pace to hide. John's closet door lay slightly ajar and he quickly clambered into it trying to make as little noise as possible. He wedged himself in between some boxes and noticed that they were full to the brim with all of his old science equipment. Sherlock quietly closed the closet door and enveloped himself in semidarkness.

"Is there someone there?" John asked to the flat. Silence was his only reply. John shrugged and picked up the coat and scarf, if he had learned one thing by living with Sherlock Holmes it was never to make assumptions. It was silly to think that Sherlock was here, he was dead.

John took the coat and scarf into his room and made to go and put them in his closest with all the rest of Sherlock's things. He limped up to the closet door and pulled it open, revealing a very pale, blood stained, and slightly sheepish looking detective.

"Hello John." Sherlock said casually, as if he had only been gone for twenty minutes not 7 months.

John gaped at him, his mind refusing to believe what he was seeing. Sherlock looked even paler than before and he had definitely lost weight, you could almost see his ribs now. He was ragged and filthy and his eyes were rimmed with red as if he had been crying, but that was absurd, Sherlock Holmes never cried, not for anyone. His face was taught and his lips were pressed into a thin line and his dark hair was plastered to his head with sweat and blood, but there was immense joy in his eyes. All of this John noticed in less than a second as he tried to form a coherent word.

"Wha-how-Sherlock?" He managed to stutter out as he promptly fainted.