It wasn't supposed to end like this. Of course, life never went as planned, not even when they choreographed chases, the criminals always going the one way they never planned for.
But this wasn't criminals and chases, not anymore.
John had been awake when Sherlock got there, skidding down the hall like a madman. Mycroft's influence had already reached the A&E where John was being treated, and he was in a somewhat private room.
"What happened?" he asked breathlessly. He didn't look too awful, just pale with numerous cuts, the beginnings of bruises, and a large number of abrasions.
"Oh, the usual," he said breezily.
Sherlock frowned. "I heard it was an explosion. There is no usual."
John sighed. "Nothing broken, concussion, lots of bruises, lots of cuts, not all of them needing stitches, and..." he trailed off.
"And?" Sherlock prompted.
John shifted uncomfortably. "Likely internal bleeding," he explained, motioning to the bag of blood on the IV stand. "They're taking me to surgery. They just waited until you got here, otherwise I know you would have burst into the theatre."
Sherlock smiled as John did, but it was forced. They both were.