Today's drama comes from Atlin Merrick's b-word suggestion – blood.
It had finally happened. Sherlock's luck had run out, and he'd met the wrong end of some thug's alarmingly big knife. John had laid Sherlock on his back in the alley after knocking the brute unconscious with his gun and zip-tying his limbs together.
He pulled off his jumper and pressed it tightly to the wound in Sherlock's side. He was incredibly pale, paler than normal, but the look on his face was comfortingly familiar. He rolled his eyes and muttered up at John. "I'm fine, you're being silly. It's just a flesh wound."
Despite himself, John laughed. "I didn't think you'd seen that, let alone committed it to memory." Sherlock looked confused. "What?" John shook his head. "Nevermind. Relax, the ambulance is on its way. We'll get you sewn up and you'll be fine. Stay with me." Thin eyelids fluttered over grey eyes, but Sherlock fought it and opened them again.
The doctor sighed in relief as the ambulance wheeled into the alley and the technicians hopped out, efficiently stabilising Sherlock and strapping him to a gurney. John was too frazzled to think about proper medical protocols and procedures. As they were wheeling Sherlock into the ambulance, he thrust his arm towards one of the technicians. "We've been tested, just in case. I'm a match. Please, give him my blood."