John shifted the grocery bag to his other arm and raised his hand to a taxi. It drove straight past him.
"Thanks," he grumbled. That was the third one. Hugging the bag to his chest, he turned down a small alley, hoping it would get him home faster. Soon he became aware of footsteps shadowing him. Speeding up, he tried to make it to the end of the lane-to other people-but they matched his pace. A figure, hidden by shadow, stepped out in front of him. John froze, wishing that he had his gun. Or Sherlock.
Trying to remain calm, he turned so his back faced the wall, keeping the two men on either side. "I-I haven't got any money," he informed them. They said nothing. Carefully, John bent at the knees and set the bag on the ground. "Look, I don't want any trouble. Just-"
Suddenly, the men rushed forward at a hidden signal. One caught John around the waist and slammed him into the brick wall. The other pulled a loaded syringe from a case while John struggled. Shoving the army doctor's head to the side, the needle punctured the skin and the attacker pushed the plunger down. Yelling and lashing out, John managed to slip away. During the struggle, he had managed to take a gun from one of the muggers. His hand clamped to his neck, John raised the gun and pointed it at the two dark shapes. His vision blurred, but he managed to fire off a single shot before slumping, unconscious, to the hard asphalt. The last thing he heard before slipping into the dark was a man yelling for help.
The phone went off in Sherlock's pocket, waking him from his boredom-induced nap. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes before pulling it out and inspecting the screen. Lestrade. What does he want? After a second's debate, he pressed the screen and held the mobile to his ear. "What?"
As soon as Lestrade spoke, Sherlock knew something was wrong. The detective sounded nervous and…sad. "Sherlock, you…you need to go to the hospital."
"And why would I do that?" he asked lazily. A quick glance around the flat revealed that John still wasn't home.
"Sherlock…something happened. There was a mugging. One of the attackers was killed, and so was…the victim."
The consulting detective yawned and stretched his legs out on the couch cushions. "That doesn't-"
Lestrade interrupted, "The victim's description, Sherlock. It matches John's."
Bolting upright, clutching the phone tightly, he demanded that the detective repeat himself.
"…we don't know for sure, but the body is on the way to the coroner. You…you need to go there and possibly make an identification. I'll meet you there." And with that, the DI hung up.
The mobile fell limply from his ear, clattering to the floor. No. Not his John.
Rising swiftly and scooping up his phone, Sherlock swept out of the flat and hailed a taxi. It didn't drive fast enough for him; all the way to the hospital, he desperately dialed John's number, but each time there was no answer. It seemed an eternity before St. Bartholomew's appeared in the window.
Molly met him in the hall. "The body just arrived, Sherlock. I'm heading there now."
Too distraught to comment, the consulting detective hurried down the corridors and burst into the autopsy room. On the metal table in the middle of the room, a corpse was covered by a blindingly white sheet. He couldn't bring himself to look at it just yet, so Molly stepped forward and pulled the sheet down for him.
His John was dead.