A/N WOW, I'm really good at forgetting to post. I'm sorryyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Also, WE'VE REACHED FIFTY REVIEWS! WHOO! CONFETTI!

Thanks to johnsarmylady, Call me Mad, Lover of Emotions, Sendai, and ThisDayWillPass

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXIV. No Time

"Don't let them take you."

John's voice is pleading, his eyes wide with fevered desperation as his gaze whips up and down the dank alleyway. His hands are hot on Sherlock's shoulders, racing pulse somehow managing to reach his very fingertips. The criminals they've been tracking for over a week now will be appearing at any moment, ready to take Sherlock to their base.

"John—stop, look at me, listen," he demands, his voice cold and quick. He waits until the other man meets his eyes before continuing. "We agreed on this earlier, we won't give them a chance to hurt me… Lestrade and the next are positioned, they're ready to follow. Remember that we're trapping them, not the other way around—John. John."

But the doctor is shaking his head frantically, back and forth, not accepting Sherlock's words. His impulsive, frantic grip on the detective's shoulders tightens impossibly, crossing the line from firm to painful. "Something could go wrong… the police could lose track of you, or not arrive on time… how do you think I feel about risking you like this? Don't you remember the bodies? I don't want—I can't stand to imagine that happening to you, Sherlock!"

He does remember the bodies, of course he does—unfortunate victims of this alarmingly violent gang of serial killers. Distorted, disemboweled, bled out and sliced to bits—

"That's not going to happen to me… calm down Breathe." He takes ahold of John's upper arm, fingers brushing the cold, damp stone of the wall they're backed up against. "You know I'm too clever to let that happen. We won't even let them get close. Now stop shaking. They don't expect you to be here, only me, so you'll get a chance to run. Are you listening?"

"Let them take me instead. Please. It will be so much easier… please, Sherlock."

"I couldn't do that," he scoffs in response, because the very concept is ridiculous—John isn't disposable. A thin smirk materializes on his pale lips, and a hint of amusement creeps into his voice. "I'd be lost without my blogger, remember?"

John's response, however, is dead serious.

"You think I wouldn't be lost without you?"

The air seems to crystallize. Something heavy and powerful is shifting in Sherlock's chest, and it's robbing him of his energy, leaving him exposed, confused, not ready for the quick thinking he'll have to pick up when the killers get here, which is surely only seconds away now. He gives a quick, sharp shake of his head, taking a deep breath, trying to kick-start his brain. "Stop it. I'm not going to die."

"Sherlock—"

John's hand moves to his neck, pulling him in closer. He can feel the doctor's fast-coming breath on his lips and cheeks, see nothing but those wide, terrified eyes. Their chests are brushing together, his heart is hammering against his ribcage and tears are gleaming along John's lashes—

A rough, fierce hand curls around Sherlock's collar, yanking him backwards. He stumbles, slipping on the wet brick ground, and by the time his vision rights itself again, there's the thin prick of a knife teasing his windpipe. John is frozen against the wall, his expression confused and blank.

"Run!" Sherlock snarls, forcing himself not to struggle against the wide, muscular arms of the murderer restraining him.

Their eyes remain locked for a brief yet eternal instant, then John runs.