Happy New Year, everybody! Sorry this fic isn't really festive, but oh well. *shrugs*
Watsonmybae gave me this prompt. :)
"Sherlock, slow down!" John yelled into the night, his voice reverberating off of the empty alleyways lining the equally empty street and sidewalk.
The detective running ahead of him came to an abrupt stop; whether it was so he could catch up or simply a part of whatever plan had been set, John didn't know. But he was still grateful.
He jogged up beside his flatmate and slowed to a stop, placing his hands on his knees and bending over to catch his breath.
"We've... we've lost him," John said. "Just accept it."
"I find your lack of optimism disturbing, John," Sherlock scoffed.
"Was that reference intentional?"
The taller man raised a confused eyebrow.
"What?"
John rolled his eyes.
"Never mind." His heart having slowed down considerably, the doctor straightened himself up again. "What do we do now?"
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "I need to think."
The detective pondered the situation for a moment before looking up at the nearby rooftop. Narrowing his eyes, he could barely make out a shoe sticking out from behind the roof duct.
"John," Sherlock whispered. "Wait beside the next alley up. If or when you hear a crash, ready your Browning."
John grabbed the man's sleeve before he could run off.
"Wait, what? What's happening?"
Sherlock's eyes darted up in the direction of the roof, giving his companion enough of a clue.
"Right," John nodded. "Go on."
The doctor sighed and watched his flatmate run down to the end of the alleyway they were positioned beside and climb up the fire escape as quietly as he possibly could.
And, surprisingly, he was pretty quiet.
After taking a deep breath, John darted off to the next alley, placing his back flat up against the wall perpendicular to it.
He could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck as he placed his hand on his gun; he wanted to be ready.
Suddenly, he heard shouting up above him, most of the vulgar exchange being led by the criminal he and Sherlock had been chasing.
And there there was the sound of gunfire.
"Sherlock?!" he screamed.
There were a multitude of grunts combined with muffled swearing. A gun audibly clattered on the ground, and John let out a sigh of relief.
At least Sherlock was okay.
There was a crashing sound in the alley along with the sound of a man groaning, and John jumped out into the open as he pulled out his gun.
"Police!" he yelled. "Get down on the-"
He let out a sigh at the sight of Sherlock slowly rolling onto his back on top of a pile of rubbish bags.
"Jesus," John muttered.
He jogged over to his friend and climbed onto the pile, grabbing the man's hand and lifting him onto his feet.
"John, where is he?" Sherlock said. "Where's he gone?"
John shook his head.
"I only heard you come down. Are you alright?"
Sherlock growled and stepped aside.
"That doesn't matter! Where-" He looked up. "John!"
Before John could make a move, the criminal had jumped from the roof and tackled him down to the ground, sending his trusty gun clinking down the walk.
"Son of a bitch!" John cried out as he wrestled with the man on top of him.
He managed to pin the man down by the wrists, but was quickly weakened when the elder man kneed him in the crotch.
"Agh!"
Sherlock, meanwhile, had grabbed the gun and pointed it at the duo.
"John, subdue him! What are you doing?" he shouted.
John punched the criminal in the jaw and struggled onto his feet.
"What do you think I'm doing?"
The criminal tackled the doctor again from behind, this time getting him into a chokehold while simultaneously yanking his left arm behind him.
John cried out in pain.
"Ooh, sorry, Watson; does that hurt?" the criminal sneered as he tugged harder.
"Good enough," Sherlock mumbled. "Let him go," he commanded as he pulled back the hammer of the L9A1.
"And why would I? If I do you're just going to shoot me," the criminal hissed.
Sherlock's gaze remained stoic.
"You seem to peg me as a cold-blooded killer, Mr. Thompson."
John fought against tears that had begun to brim. Thompson's grappling hold was angled just perfectly that it aggravated John's bullet wound from years ago, putting the poor doctor in a crippling amount of pain; he could barely move to defend himself.
"What happened there, doctor? You don't seem to be fighting back," the criminal questioned John, genuinely curious (yet morbidly so).
John gritted his teeth.
"Bastard."
Thompson licked his lips and grinned as he yanked back the doctor's arm, this time producing a cracking sort of sound.
"Fu-agh!" John cried.
Sherlock visibly shifted his weight forward, as if longing to run to his partner's aid.
"Looks like I found a weak spot," Thompson chuckled. "What is it? Weak arm?"
Sherlock scowled.
"None of your business."
The criminal shrugged.
"No need to be rude." He gripped John's forearm tightly. "Now, here's the deal: you put the gun down and let me go, or else I break your mate's arm."
Sherlock gave John a wary look as he thought through the situation.
"Well, Mr. Thompson," he said as coolly as ever, "It seems as if we've reached an impasse."
Thompson narrowed his eyes.
"Says you."
He pulled John's arm a bit more, and the doctor whimpered in response.
Sherlock's eye twitched.
"Wait, wait!" John yelled. "Just hang on."
Thompson gave him a sceptical look.
"What?"
With as much force as he could muster, John threw his head back, nailing Thompson right in the nose.
The criminal yowled in pain, his hand releasing some of its pressure, but only so much. Angrily, he dug his fingers into John's right shoulder and left forearm, and then drove the doctor into the left wall of the alley. There was a loud crack, and John fell to the ground with a breathless scream.
Sherlock immediately aimed the gun at Thompson's foot and fired, sending the man to the floor along with an expansive slew of vulgarity.
The detective then marched over to the criminal, bent over, and pistol-whipped him across the temple, instantaneously knocking him unconscious.
John watched through blurred vision as Thompson flopped limply onto the hard ground of the alley. The blinding pain from his shoulder was practically paralysing, and breathing seemed impossible.
"John?" he heard Sherlock say his name. "John, look at me! Are you conscious?"
John swallowed and tried shaking himself out of his stupor.
"Wha...? Oh, Jesus," he groaned. "Yeah. Ow... Christ. Okay."
Sherlock grabbed John's right arm and lifted him into a sitting position.
"Ah! Ffffff-!"
Sherlock knelt down beside the doctor and held him upright by his right shoulder.
"Your left shoulder; it appears to be dislocated," he stated.
John nodded quickly with tightly shut eyes.
"Mhm. S'what it feels like."
Sherlock bit his lip.
"Should I-"
"Yeah. Should. Just..." John breathed in and out. "...just give me a minute."
He blinked a few times, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable.
"Okay," he muttered. "Alright." John nodded toward his trousers. "Belt..."
"To bite down on, right," Sherlock said.
Without much hesitation, the detective unbuckled his flatmate's leather belt and pulled it out from the loops, then proceeding to double it over to layer it.
"Open," he commanded John.
The doctor obliged, shakily opening his mouth and letting Sherlock slide the belt in between his teeth. He then bit down.
"Y'kna wha te da?" John asked as he swallowed again.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Though you are quite incoherent, I can imagine what your question is; I know exactly what do. You did lead me through the process last year when one of Lestrade's officers fell through an old flight of wooden stairs."
John let out a breath and turned his head away from his messed up shoulder, closing his eyes tightly.
"I'll count to three," Sherlock told his friend. "One..."
He slowly lifted John's arm up in front of him and straightened it out.
"Two-"
With an abrupt and hard push, the doctor's shoulder popped right into place.
John screamed through the belt, feeling his molars bite down hard on the leather; in the back of his mind, he was sure he had broken through both layers of fabric.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, his vision going from grey, to white, to black, and then to grey again.
Though his eyes finally rolled into the back of his head, nearly plunging him into unconsciousness, strong hands kept him from falling to the ground, and he could barely make out the sound of Sherlock's voice.
"...ohn..."
John felt the belt get pulled out of his mouth, his jaw having gone slack. He felt a string of saliva cling onto his bottom lip as the belt was pulled away.
"John..."
His ears felt as if they were full of cotton.
"John... okay..."
The doctor reached his right arm out to catch himself from falling on his face as he spit up what little he had had to eat that day.
He felt Sherlock's one hand keep a firm yet gentle grip on his left shoulder and his other hand on his back, rubbing smooth circles in between his shoulder blades.
"...alright, John," Sherlock soothed.
John blearily opened his eyes, seeing his lunch on the pavement.
"Ugh..." he moaned.
The stuffy feeling in his ears seemed to clear up, as he could hear his friend quite clearly now.
"Are you alright to move, John?"
John took a shaky breath and nodded.
"Mhm."
Sherlock lifted the doctor back up, resting the man's back against the wall.
"You'll need a sling," he said. "And then I'll contact Lestrade; he'll phone an ambulance."
John sluggishly licked his lips.
"'Kay. What're you-"
He hardly had a chance to finish his question before Sherlock had whipped off his own scarf and fashioned it into a makeshift sling.
The detective gently adjusted John's arm so it rested in the scarf/sling.
"How is that?"
John chuckled.
"Your scarf?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"Of course. What else would I use?"
The taller man pulled out his phone and sent out a text to Inspector Lestrade with trembling thumbs.
Thompson groaned from his position on the ground.
"For God's sake," Sherlock groaned. "John...?"
The doctor brushed off the impending request with his right hand.
"S'okay."
Sherlock crawled over to the criminal and brought the man's hands behind his back before sitting down on top of them.
"Gavin will be arriving shortly," the detective said.
John rolled his eyes and laughed.
"Jesus."
"What?"
"Forget it," the older man said with a shake of his head.
Sherlock looked closely at his flatmate's shoulder with evident distaste.
John narrowed his eyes.
"What?"
"You are in an incredible amount of pain."
"Yeah. No thanks to the war. Or to this arsehole," the doctor gestured to the unconscious man pinned beneath the detective.
Sherlock tightened his lips.
"I was going to effectively handle the situation and avoid this outcome, had you not taken matters into your own hands."
John snorted.
"No you weren't. You miscalculated and you know it."
Sherlock blushed.
"You have no proof."
The doctor couldn't help but smirk.
"Whatever makes you feel better." He looked down at the ground. "But thanks."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Such gratitude is unnecessary, John." The detective smiled. "But since you seem to think it is; you're welcome."
"Surprised you actually remembered what I taught you," John smirked.
Sherlock heard the man beneath him groan and he elbowed him in the back, making him howl.
"You assume that everything you tell me goes 'through one ear and out the other', as that saying goes. But you've never stopped to consider the possibility that your credibility as a doctor does not go unnoticed by me. I've retained most of the medical knowledge that you've passed on to me throughout our time as flatmates. For example; CPR in the event of a drowning situation-"
John held up his hand.
"Alright, alright; point taken." His smirk turned into a tired grin. "Didn't know you paid much attention to what I say."
Sherlock smiled again, this time a bit more playfully.
There came the sound of sirens wailing in the distance, and the two flatmates seemed to share a sigh of relief. The cavalry had finally arrived.