He had been keeping track of John over the years. He had been busy untangled Moriarty's web of villians along with others, and it had taken him longer than he anticipated, which annoyed him greatly.
He was so astonished, and so proud of his friend for figuring out who the killer was in this last case. It had been a hard one too, probably at least an eight on his scale of importance. 'Nothing less than a seven, John.' he smiled at the memory, but it quickly went away as he stalked along the rooftops, watching the mad chase. Lestrade and Donvovan soon fell behind the surpisingly (to them) speedy Doctor Watson. Sherlock knew how well built he really was, even if it didn't show often. He heard his dear blogger call out, "Oi! Stop! You can't keep running!" and scarily watched his friend on the planted weapon.
His heart raced as he watched the murderer circle around the dark alley way, and he knows John realizes it's too late, he's done for. Sure enough, James snatches the old nail gun, holding it to John Watson's skull.
Rage engulfed the detective. He had been working his hardest to keep his friend alive, help him move on with his delicate life, and yet the bastard murderer had ruined it all. There was no choice but to take this into his own hands. Sherlock swooped down a fire escape behind the two men, staying silent, eyeing his soon-to-be prey.
He approached James. "I suggest you put that down." he growled, kicking the nail gun out of his hand and yanking him off of John.
"What the-!" He sputtered, and tried to pary Sherlock's blows, which amused him. 'How cute.' He thought as he landed a fierce blow to Jame's ribs and slammed his own forehead into the killer's, knocking him out cold.
"Lestrade! He's over here! He will be out for probably about half an hour, I suggest you hurry up!" he shouted, already hearing the approaching footsteps of the detective insepctor.
He turned to John, who's eyes were boring through him like he knew his own eyes tended to do to others.
"You." The man hissed, alarm showing in his body language. He watched his friend turn tail and start pounding back the way he came through the alleys, zigzagging, trying to shake Sherlock. 'Damn, he really is fast.' Sherlock was following, never taking his eyes off of the army doctor.
"John! Stop!" he screamed, but to seemingly no effect. He pushed himself and lunged, finally grabbing hold of his loyal friend. They skidded to a halt, almost toppling over. Sherlock steadied himself and the shorter man, waiting to see what would be John's next move.
"You lied. You killed me." John said, poison dripping from the words. Sherlock felt his breath catch. He did, didn't he? Killed his friend? He had been too blind and stupid to see what he had done to John. Literally, no, he wasn't dead, of course, but Sherlock knew excactly what he meant. His eyes fogged for a moment, but he blinked the salty tears away. Now was not the time.
"John let me expla-" He didn't even get to finish the words as the doctor cut him off.
"No. You can't just come back and...and..." his old friend stopped talking, and Sherlock rushed forward, stopping John's head from cracking on the hard cement as he fainted.
"John!" He quickly checked the doctor's pulse, and pulled him in close for a moment, brushing the hair off of his forehead. "John, you are so daft sometimes!" he knew he was basically talking to himself, but he knew he wouldn't be eventually. He scooped John up, wanting no one to come between them, wanting to slip stealthily back into 221B.
And so he did. He left he new crime scene with his friend haning limplessly across his shoulder. He dug the keys out of John's pocket and creeped into the flat. It smelled the same, it looked almost untouched. His experiments were gone, of course. But all of his papers, relics, artifacts, and personal possesions seemed to be timeless. He laid John on the old couch, and walked into the kitchen.
After returning with a cold, wet rag he started dabbing his blogger's forehead, hoping he'd wake soon.
"I missed you John. I've been keeping my sharp eyes on you. You were supposed to find out, but I couldn't let you die. It's always been my goal to keep you safe...I'm sorry for not noticing how much I've hurt you inside. I've hurt a lot too." He rambles, telling John things he wouldn't dare say if his friend were awake. Sherlock just wanted to get his feelings off of his chest, so he did. He went to the once cluttered kitchen to put the cloth away, sighing.
He returned, put a blanket over John and sat in his chair, watching.
John felt the damp cool feeling across his forehead. He didn't open his eyes, not wanting to see. He was so angry, and so lost. In the past he had been close to offing himself even, when things were that bad. He'd been abandoned, broken and battered by his best friend.
So when he heard Sherlock speak he was shocked. He didn't make any notion to show he was in fact, awake, but instead acted like the sleeping man Sherlock thought he was.
His eyes burned, and he kept them shut. He would not cry, would not reveal emotion. John calmed himself, relishing in the fact that Sherlock did not know that his old friend had heard every word he had just uttered, and that he would most likely, never forget.
I was going to go straight to the next part, also in John's view but I decided I wanted a tiny, little filler. Mwuahahhaa. Please comment, tell me what you think! I'll at least update tomorrow, if not later tonight, don't worry! :) Thanks for all the support, and favoriting! The next chapter will probably both of their points of view, but it will keep going, instead of showing a point of view as the same time as the other persons, like this one. - C