I've been kicked around since I was born

And now it's alright, it's OK

And you may look the other way

We can try and understand

viii

John couldn't do this, he couldn't run. He thought the adrenaline would kick in and make the limp go away but for God's sake he couldn't do this. Every shuddering step sent an electrifying shoot of pain through his leg, jolting him to his core. His face was screwed up in pain and on the cold night, running over chilly welsh hills, he was somehow sweating. And he couldn't seem to get the little red light off him.

He'd ducked the first shot, just seeing the light flicker over his heart before it was fired. The evening had long been lingering, John one of the last people to leave the crime scene of yet another murder at Brecon Beacons. He'd wandered off to find a pub but had got lost on the hills when the roadside lights mysteriously went out. He should have caught on then but he didn't, he was too lost in his thoughts. And now it was all too clear that he was to be the next body that Scotland Yard would be investigating.

The pain in his leg was like a scream, ripping at his insides and making a sob collect in his throat. His breath rattled in his lungs. God he was unfit. Thin and limping, he was not cut out for this. He almost scolded himself for not exercising more. He'd never have to go out of his way to work out in the last few years, he did enough of that struggling to keep up with Sherlock's stride.

Here he was, running from someone with a gun once again but with no one to lead him to safety.

He hit the ground from pure exhaustion just as another shot is fired, and he could not believe his luck. It ripped his jacket shoulder as he went down. He inspected the damage, trying to discern what direction the bullet came from. The west, he decided, most probably. Then, in one swift movement, he was rolling down the other side of the hill. Out of range, he was sure, until the ground exploded beneath a bullet right next the his head. He feels blood wet in his fringe.

Bloody hell, the marksman was good. But where is he?

Suddenly he slammed into rocks, twisting his face away from them at the last moment but badly bruising his shoulder and cutting open the back of his head. Thank god, he hadn't cracked his skull. Just the skin. A lot of blood though. He was going to leave a damn trail of the stuff, lead the hit-man straight to him.

He ran between the rocky walls, heading back into the park. It was dark and deserted, not a police van or uniform for miles. There was nothing to do but hide.

John ducked into a crevice between hill and rock and gate, pulling loose wire mesh over his head and curling into a ball. It was pitch black in his hiding place, he couldn't see a thing. The darkness seemed to press into his eyes and he began to wonder if they were even open.

A shot fired next to him, ricocheting off the rocks and making him yelp with surprise.

Then another shot. Next to his head.

How was the hit-man even reaching him here?

A third shot.

It took a moment of confusion for John to realise the bullet was buried his shoulder.

He screamed in pain.

Then there was a crunch of feet on gravel. John had no idea who it was. But the footsteps were slow, in no hurry to come to his aid. Just biding their time in expectance of the inevitable. It was not one of Scotland Yard, that's for sure.

John looked up. There was a silhouette, just darker than the night, visible beyond the wire mesh that he suddenly can't escape.

A gun fired.

But the bullet didn't hit John. Instead, the silhouette was the one blown back by the shot and suddenly there were scuffling, hurried footsteps and hands hauling the wire mesh off of him. Strong arms are hauling him out but John wasn't taking any chances. As soon as he'd gained a footing on the uneven ground, he shrugged off the new man and punched him hard as he could. He didn't know what he hit, the man was tall and hunched over into an impossible to discern tangle of limbs, but John heard the groan and ran.

The first silhouette was lying on the ground covered in blood that shimmered in the light of the moon. Dead. John ran by him, limp still holding him down like a persistent child with their arms around his ankle. But now there was the tearing pain in his shoulder too. Exactly where he was shot all those years before. So long ago, before he'd had someone to fix him.

He hadn't the faintest idea what was going on when there was the bang of another gun, the bullet whizzing right in front of his eyes. It could not have been any closer to him without doing damage, but John couldn't stop to appreciate how scared he was. He powered on but suddenly arms wrapped around him and pulled him into the shadows.

He struggled but whoever it was was strong. Soon, however, it became clear that they were not there to kill John. There was a gun in their hand but they weren't pointing it at John. They were holding it at arms length over John's shoulder, pointing into the sky.

"What the fuck is going on-" John began to protest but the man spoke over him.

"Don't worry, they're not after you they're after me," the voice said, in a clearly affected welsh accent. Underneath it is a rumbling tone that John can just about recognise. "Well, they are after you actually but they're only after you because they want me dead."

"And?" John said.

"Unlucky for them," the man replied, losing the accent and a smirk in his words.

And before John could be surprised, the man fired the gun.