Shattered Bedside Lamp
John walked into the flat and was immediately hit by the stench of blood.
The living room seemed fine but he could see a few drops on the carpet, leading towards Sherlock's bedroom. Oh god, Sherlock.
John sprinted through to the detective's bedroom, dreading what he would find there. He wasn't expecting the curled up body of an attacker, blocking the doorway. With a grunt, he shoved the door open and stepped into the room. Suddenly he felt a searing pain in the side of his head and staggered backwards, glass raining down on his clothes.
The raven-haired detective stepped out of the corner of the dimly lit bedroom, a shattered bedside lamp clenched in his hands.
"Jesus, Sherlock." John seethed, touching the back of his head. Sherlock smiled, apologetically before a few tears dripped down his cheek. He sunk to the floor, staring at John with wide eyes. The ex-army doctor had never seen the detective look so vulnerable and scared. John bent down and pulled the shivering detective to his chest, stroking his hair comfortingly.
He bent down and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.
"Its okay, Sherlock. I'm here." He whispered to the detective, peeling the shattered bedside lamp out of his fingers.