Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock
Barrel
Sherlock tore down the stairs, nearly tumbling over the steps in his haste to reach the bottom. He'd tackled Moran just as the murderer had pulled the trigger. Anger had flooded his consciousness, and his only coherent thought had been KILL. Then Lestrade had pulled him away and cold fear had replaced the rage. Sherlock had to get to the street and find John, to make sure he was alright. If he wasn't…
The detective slammed through the front door, then barreled directly into a figure on the other side. Sherlock fell to the ground, bringing the other form down with him. Glancing over, he was relieved to see a familiar pair of startled eyes looking back at him.
"Sherlock," John gasped, slightly winded. "You okay? Heard a struggle—"
"Fine, fine, it was nothing," Sherlock breathed distractedly, looking John up and down for any hidden injuries. "So, what brings you to Baker Street?"
"Dunno," said John as he and Sherlock got to their feet. "But I wasn't expecting to be rugby tackled for my troubles."
"Get here more punctually next time and that won't happen."
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't talk about being 'late' if I were you."
Sherlock paused.
"Was that supposed to be a joke about my death?"
"Faked death… too soon?"
"No. It's been quite long enough."