"STOP!"
John could barely see where he was going. The alleyway he was running through was pitch black and he could only faintly make out the shape of the man he was chasing.
His name was Truman; he had murdered three people so far. John Watson was going to make sure that he never murdered a fourth. He was a quiet man at first, and he held up a very good facade for a few weeks until Sherlock had spotted a tattoo on his left upper arm. It was a simple Celtic star. He almost let it pass until he spotted that the top of the star was pointing downwards. It was a possible sign of devil worship. After more re-search they discovered he had dedicated his life to the Satan, and that the innocent people he murdered were sacrifices.
John's lungs were burning and felt heavy in his chest; his breath was escaping his mouth in rags. He felt boiling hot despite the mid-winter winds howling through the narrow alleyways of London. There was no sign of Sherlock; John had lost sight of him a while back. He's pretty certain that Sherlock's alright. After all he's always disappearing, and most likely he's gone off to find a way to ambush Truman. He's probably jumping over roof tops right at this moment.
John was getting close now, closer and closer, this was it. This vile man's freedom was over. He was now reaching out to grab his back and force him down. Until he took an unexpected turn. Thankfully John's army training had taught him to have quicker reflexes and so he swiftly turned the corner, jumped and took both the murder and a second man down with him.
John looked down to see not only Truman but also Sherlock Holmes. He nearly smiled with relief until he saw that Sherlock's eyes were closed and that he was showing no signs of movement. In the heat of johns panic Truman had managed to slip out from underneath him and run down the alley and out of sight.
Though it occurred to John that he'd just let loose an insane murderer, the only thing that mattered at the moment was making sure Sherlock was alright. He could hear the faint sound of a police siren, slowly getting louder as it made its way up the street. It was Lestrade, Sherlock had told him to meet here.
John swiftly knelt up. He didn't know what had happened everything was so dark he didn't know Sherlock was standing there and he didn't know how hard he'd hit the ground. Though considering he was smashed against the concrete by the force of two fairly beefy men he knew it'd be enough to knock him out. Sherlock as graceful and daring as he is isn't exactly the strongest of men. John was staring at him looking for a simple twitch a flutter of eye lids anything, but he seemed almost beyond unconsciousness. It wasn't death but it was something so still. The normal glow of his porcelain skin had become a deathly grey. Johns breathe hitched as he cupped Sherlock's face in his hand, moving his head slightly to check for bruises or broken bones. He just seemed so suddenly fragile.
The weather was growing colder and John was afraid for a moment. Sherlock was freezing, he tried his best to wrap his friend up a little tighter in his blue trench coat, but it seemed that's all he could do.
He could see the blue police sirens now. Loud and flashing. Highlighting the stillness of Sherlock's features. The messy curls, the long eyelashes, the sharp cheekbones. He seemed so human and so much in pain.
"John? Did you catch him?" it was Lestrade. God was John relieved.
"Call an ambulance. Sherlock's hurt".
Fumbling for his phone in his coat pocket Lestrade was hit with a wave of worry and curiosity. It wasn't like Sherlock to get himself knocked out. He always seemed to have a strange sense what was going to happen before it happened. It was that level of observation and knowing that creeped people out. To see him on the floor looking so helpless and vulnerable scared the detective.
Time slowed down after the ambulance had been called. Lestrade had managed to get John to tell him which way Truman ran so he would send his troops in to search, after that the main priority was Sherlock.
Both men were crouched at either side of the deathly still sociopath. John cradled his head in his lap and Lestrade even dared to hold his gloved hand. John noticed that his temperature was rapidly dropping and by the time the ambulance arrived Sherlock was wrapped in both Johns and Lestrade's coats.
The paramedics took over and John found himself alone, Lestrade had to stay with the search for Truman, and as for Sherlock…well something just wasn't right. It was as if the accident had knocked Sherlock out of his body. His emptiness was scaring the doctor, Sherlock was usually so organized. John just couldn't work out what had happened, it all seemed like a quick flash of mixed up memories. He wasn't used to seeing Sherlock in pain. And he wasn't used to seeing Sherlock so lacking in life. If there was one thing John valued in his friend it's his vivid mood swings. John could always tell how Sherlock was feeling, that's why he has such good control over him, and it's why they have such a close friendship.
He felt useless. He's a doctor for Christ sake why couldn't he do anything. Everything but Sherlock became a fuzzy haze. An incoherent buzzing noise in the background. John couldn't even remember getting out of the ambulance and into the hospital. Cold and reeking of disinfectant, john was usually used to these places. But right now he couldn't stand to be there. Not now. Not when his dearest friend was fighting for his life. He'd do anything for them not to be there.
John was surprised to see how empty the waiting room was. He expected the room to be full of young drunk men and women who'd gotten into fights, or fallen over, or perhaps stumbled into an oncoming car. Instead it was just john and the frightfully skinny looking lady sat at the reception desk, tapping away on her keyboard. The phone would ring every ten to fifteen minutes and the faint buzzing of the lights above the army doctor was unnerving and distracting. John was trying to concentrate, on nothing but the ticking of the white clock, on the white wall, above the white chairs, in the sickly white waiting room.
In four minutes it would be 11:35pm exactly three hours since John and Sherlock arrived. He'd been sat down arms crossed and staring daggers at the seconds hand on the clock for exactly that time, counting every single second. 1...2…3…4…5.
The white walls somehow made the room appear larger and wider. The openness added a slightly gloomy chill to the atmosphere. It was clear as day inside, and the large automatic doors to the left of the clock displayed the pitch black night outside. It was almost like I giant painting, hung there to mock the army veteran. Showing him how the rest of the world was still. How the rest of the world was sleeping soundly and how the rest of the world couldn't give a toss about the health of his dearest friend.
John was contemplating the earlier events. Perhaps he could've held back a little. If he was looking where he was going he could've avoided Sherlock. He could've done something at least. This didn't have to happen.
Perhaps in another life they caught Truman. And they had already caught a taxi back to Baker Street. John would've probably had a cup of tea and gone to bed, he'd be drifting slowly into sleep listening to the sounds of that antisocial genius he called a flat mate, clanking test tubes together and occasionally plucking at his violin. To help him think.