John hobbled quickly to the edge of the bridge to see if he could catch sight of where the sack had landed, though his first instinct was to run after Sherlock. It was hard to see in the dark, far past the illumination created by the bridge's fairly new gas lights, but he hadn't heard a great, plonking splash, and they were near the bank, so hopefully it had landed in the muddy shallows or on the Westminster Stairs.
John looked again towards the direction Sherlock had run. The sack could be buggered. He set off at a slow gallop, moving as quickly as he could with his bad leg, cane hitting the ground every third or fourth step. He wasn't going to catch up with Sherlock's long legs unless the man captured or lost his quarry, but John didn't care.
Sherlock and his mark had fled straight down the road a ways, past the New Palace Yard, but John saw no trace of them further on past St. Margaret or King Street. John tried to follow the trail of disgruntled pedestrians, pausing at corners to judge whether Sherlock had turned or gone straight ahead. He had not caught sight of them, not yet, but he delved with abandon further into the rabbit warren that was London's streets. Still, there came a point when John slowed to a walk, feeling hopelessly lost and unable to find either Sherlock or his direction home. His chest heaved with exertion; his pounding heart made him feel a bit light-headed.
"Sherlock!" His bellow was met with catcalls and admonitions from the residents of the street. "Sherlock Holmes!" Blast the watch and blast the hour. John strode forward slowly, peering carefully down each narrow alleyway. Nothing, no one.
When his breathing had caught up with him, he moved forward a little faster, sick with worry. John could only pray that his leg wouldn't give out on him, that he could keep going. Just one more street. Sherlock surely must be around that next corner. He tried to pay attention to the people on the street; they'd helped him track Sherlock this far.
Most of the pedestrians at this time of night strode hurriedly towards their destination: servants on their way home or on some errand for their masters, couples to various entertainments or a late dinner, a few men to the pub or the home of their mistress. None showed signs of having just witnessed a chase or a fight. No fluster or calls for the watchman, no hurried steps away from the site of a scuffle.
John was about to open his mouth and vainly call for Sherlock again when he felt a tug on his coat-sleeve. Pickpocket was his first thought, though a decent pickpocket would perform a bump and run, not tug on his sleeve. He looked down to his left, finding a dirty urchin that reminded him far too much of the boy in the morgue yesterday.
"Two streets up and one that way," the boy whispered, gesturing to his left. A second later, he'd disappeared among the people and the darkness.
John didn't wonder for a second if the little boy's directions might lead him into a trap. He couldn't risk the possibility that Sherlock's little spies were truly everywhere. John threw himself into a run as much as he was able. He saw fewer people this direction, and finally a deserted street. Well, nearly.
When John saw his husband flat on his back on the ground and the large man from the bridge bent above him, he was still too far away to do much more than shout, "Sherlock!"
The villain lifted his head as John continued to lurch steadily towards them; his top hat had been lost along the way so his dark, rumpled hair was visible in the glow of the oil lamps that still lighted this part of the city. The blackguard gave John a teeth-baring grimace when he noticed him, but all John saw was Sherlock. Sherlock lying on the ground. Sherlock being held there by thick hands on his throat. Sherlock struggling, but weakly.
John calculated the distance between them. Too far, too far. He kept running towards Sherlock, and pulled the gun from his pocket. At just over fifteen inches, it fit into one of his long, narrow greatcoat pockets and was mostly hidden by the heavy weight of the wool. It was a smoothbore flintlock, which meant accuracy at this distance could be erratic. Closer.
John's father had purchased the Newland Pattern Pistol when he'd left for the war. Years of practice allowed John to load and fire it three times in a minute. He couldn't count on having more than one shot here. He had to make it count. And he had to avoid accidentally hitting his husband.
John pulled back the half-cocked hammer, pausing in his run to aim. The whole world focused down to the barrel of his gun and his target. The pounding of his heart and the heaving of his lungs were of no consequence. He'd fired this shot a thousand times in the last few years, despite being a surgeon. It was a battle just to get to the surgeon's tent some mornings. Breathe in, aim, breathe out, fire.
The flint sparked against the frizzen, the powder blessedly ignited, the ball flew towards its destination.
The flash in the night and the resulting smoke hid Sherlock and the brute from John's view for far too long. He dashed through the dissipating smoke only to see the lowlife running into the darkness.
"Sherlock!" John rushed through the final yards before collapsing to his knees beside Sherlock's prone form, dropping his gun to the cobbles.
Sherlock was still breathing, though in a pained, wheezing manner. John pulled away all constraint from his neck, scarf, knotted neck cloth, shirt collar. It was hard to see whether Sherlock's long white neck was damaged, though his pale skin would surely show brilliant bruises in the next day. Sherlock indicated he wanted to sit up, so John swept his arm under Sherlock's shoulders and propped him up. Sherlock leaned forward and gave a hacking cough, but his breathing seemed easier after.
"John, you left the bag," he rasped, barely able to squeak the words out of his injured throat.
"The bag, Sherlock? If I had stayed to get the bag, been even a minute later, you might be dead!" Sherlock wheezed in a breath and coughed it out harshly as if to prove John's point. "How can you for a moment have thought about that sack?"
"Evidence," he gritted out, coughing again. "We should go. That gunshot will surely bring the watch." Sherlock's voice was gravelly, but stronger.
John hadn't heard the shrill whistles of the watch at first, but he did hear the shouts and heavy boots striking the cobbles a street away.
"We should stay here, answer their questions if we must, and take you home to rest. You were nearly strangled, Sherlock."
"Nonsense, John, I wasn't even unconscious yet. We need to head back to the river and try to collect that sack, take it to the morgue…"
"Damn that sack, Sherlock! You almost died!"
"Why do you keep harping on that, John? You don't need to worry; I'm sure your provision in the case of my death is quite generous. You would be a wealthy widower, easily able to attract another spouse."
Sherlock struggled to his feet; John ceased to support him. In fact, John sat back on his heels and stared up at his husband's full height, plainly astonished.
"Sherlock," he breathed. Sherlock barely spared him a glance as he picked up John's discarded gun from the street. "I realize we haven't known each other very long, but that has to be the most horrible, vicious thing you've ever uttered in your life."
Sherlock blinked in surprise, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the arrival of the watch.
"Mr. Holmes, sir, it's you." Apparently Sherlock had a reputation among all the law enforcement in the city. Too bad that John didn't bloody care.
"Too late to be of any use, as usual," observed Sherlock. "The suspect has gotten away. John, where are you going?" John had struggled to his feet, his leg aching from hip to toe now that the adrenaline of the chase was wearing off.
"Fetch the blasted bag from the Thames yourself. Swim in the muck if you must. I'm going home."
John headed towards the last street he could remember where he'd seen a hack, hoping he could find one before his leg gave out entirely. Though he felt Sherlock's eyes on his back, Sherlock made no move to stop his leaving.
When John made it back to Baker Street, Matthews' raised eyebrow was all the indication of surprise he showed at John's turning up alone.
"You may as well lock the door, Matthews. I don't believe Mr. Holmes will be returning anytime tonight. If he does, he can scratch at the door like any other stray." John limped up to his room, his extended run taking its toll. He leaned heavily on his cane, even considered asking Matthews for assistance with the steps, but still had the strength left to slam his bedroom door shut. Then he turned the key in the lock for good measure.