John started regretting his decision to go out almost immediately. What if they asked him about...things? He wasn't sure if he was ready to answer. It'd been almost four months since it had happened and people were starting to wonder about him. They found it easy to forget Sherlock: the serial killer who'd kidnapped children and blown up an old, blind woman to boost his own ego. At least that's what everybody thought. John was never going to believe it. Sherlock had been an arrogant dick ninety percent of the time (okay, ninety-nine percent, maybe even a hundred), but he wouldn't have hurt those people. So why did everyone expect John to suddenly be okay? His best friend was dead. How was anyone supposed to move on from that sort of thing? Plus, if one more person asked him if he and Sherlock had been a couple he was going to shoot somebody. He wasn't gay. He really, really wasn't.

Very briefly, he toyed with the idea of asking the cabby to turn around, but there was no point in chickening out when he was already on his way there. He could do this. It was just one night. John shook his head. Since when did he have to give himself a pep talk to go have a beer? He inhaled sharply through his nostrils and set his jaw, frowning a bit. This was stupid. He'd been to war, for God's sake. He should be able to handle a pub. No, not should. He was going to and it was going to be great. After all, it was just a drink and Greg had been trying to get him out for ages. It would do him some good to see other people for a change. He'd have fun, and if anyone asked him about what happened or how he was doing he would just lie and say that he was fine. Nothing to it.

The cab jolted forward, tires screeching, and John had to throw his hands in front of him to keep from smacking his head against the seat. He heard the sickening thud of metal on flesh and his heart leapt to his throat. The driver sat rigid eyes wide with horror. Ignoring the dizzying rush of adrenaline surging into his limbs, John jumped from the backseat and hurried to the front. The driver got out and followed him, face pale and sweating. Thank God the place was deserted. The last thing they needed in a situation like this was people gawking.

"What the hell happened?" That sounded a lot harsher than he'd meant it to.

"It wasn't my fault!" the cabby answered, immediately on the defensive. "I-it just walked right out into the road. I couldn't stop...the rain."

It? John gave him a quizzical look. They'd hit somebody and this man was calling them it? But when John rounded the cab, he understood. Laying there, eyes half lidded and vacant, wasn't a person, but a large, white dog.

He sighed, kneeling down in front of the animal. Such a shame. It was a beautiful dog. He'd never been much of an animal person, but that didn't mean he liked to see them dead in the road. He'd run over a cat once, a long time ago and the poor woman who'd owned it had been so devastated. He tried not to think of the memory and focused instead on what was in front of him. His fingers brushed the sticky, red fur around the dog's chest and he frowned a bit. Odd.

"Looks like my uncle's dog," the driver remarked numbly. "I don't understand, it didn't even try to move. God, what am I going to tell my wife?"

John glanced back at him and that second of distraction was enough for him to nearly have a heart attack when the dog sprang back to life, snarling and snapping wildly at him. He jumped back with a shout, falling onto his butt. Instead of attacking him further, the dog fell back on its side and began to pant.

"Jesus, you alright?" the cabby asked.

"Yeah," John said with a quick nod, not even looking at him.

Alive. Not dead. It was alive. But it was in bad shape. It's (or rather her's, he realized) eyes were wide and frightened, but clearly unfocused. From blood loss or neurological damage? He honestly couldn't speculate. He was a people doctor, not a vet and this dog clearly needed one.

"It's alright," he soothed, cautiously reaching his hand out a second time.

She growled, a sound somewhere between anger and desperation, but didn't try to bite him again. John took this as a positive sign and carefully stroked the top of her head. For the first time, he noticed that her face was covered in scars, pink skin showing through in ugly slashes from many previous fights. There was a tear in one of her ears, not recent. He didn't see a collar. A stray then? It would make sense, but it didn't change the fact that she needed help.

"Shhhhhh. It's okay. You're going to be fine. Let's get you out of here," he said.

He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her before gently sliding his arms underneath her. He lifted her slowly, careful not to injure her further. She weighed almost nothing, certainly much less than he'd expected a dog her size should. So malnutrition as well then? At first she was tense, but then her body went completely slack and he might've thought she'd died if weren't for the bubbles forming in the blood around her nostrils. Not dead, but likely to be soon if nothing was done.

"I'm sorry, no animals in the cab."

John glared at the cabby, who immediately held his hands up in surrender. "If I get blood on the seats my boss'll kill me."

"Then maybe you should've been watching where you were going," John snapped, his sympathy for the other man evaporating. Ignoring the cabby's protest, he popped the door open and slid both of them inside. The dog was in his lap, slightly on her side, eyes completely closed now. The driver didn't seem to know what to do, so John shouted, "Nearest veterinarian, now!" and then added, "I'll pay you double."

That seemed to shake something loose and they were on their way. John watched the dog the whole time, counting the bubbles as they came. One. Two, Three, four. Five. Her breathing was shallow, too shallow. Right before they reached the vet, he took out his phone and typed a quick text to Lestrade.

-Cab hit a dog. Took it too the vet. Sorry.-

Well, that was one way to get out of it.