John ran. He ran as fast as he could after the tall figure in the long, flowing coat as they ran down the alley in the night. Why was it always an alley? Why was it always night? Could the criminals of London not escape the cliché?

The man they were chasing was a triple murderer. They'd been on his tail for three days until Sherlock had finally tracked him down, which had lead to the chase in the alley. Lestrade had come round to Baker Street in a panic. Apparently the guy was moving quickly and so far his team had been able to pick up nothing. Sherlock had immediately headed straight for John and Mary's flat, picked up his friend – leaving John only a small amount of time to explain the situation to his wife - and they'd arrived at the scene within minutes. Sherlock had explained very little to John as the case progressed, only conveying some thoughts out loud whilst keeping the rest firmly locked away in his mind palace.

"John! We'll lose him!" John sped up, running faster than he ever thought he could. One foot in front of the other. The light from his torch was dancing all over the walls as he struggled to keep it steady in an attempt to keep up with Sherlock. His throat was on fire, he needed air. But they needed to catch the killer more. John continued to race after Sherlock, who was always just a few paces in front. The murderer turned round a corner. John saw Sherlock's coat whip around at the sudden change of direction before…

There was the deafening, sickening sound of an impact of something crashing into something else. John turned the corner. The murderer was running down, away from John, but this is not what caught John's eye. Sherlock was crumpled in a heap on the ground, face down, not moving, not even making a sound.

"Sherlock?" John kneeled next to him, panic rising in his chest. It was not uncommon for one or both of them to be injured in a chase, but this was different. "Sherlock!" The panic seeped into John's voice. He examined Sherlock, checking for a pulse – a wave of relief crashed over him as he felt the faint flutter of a heartbeat - and then searched for the cause of the damage. Impact to the back of the head, forming a large and ugly looking lump with purple bruising beginning to blemish the pale skin, knocked him out like a light. There was a heavy looking pipe just next to Sherlock's lifeless form, so that's what he had heard. The murderer must have hit Sherlock with it as he turned the corner. John looked up, but the murderer was long gone.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone and dialled Lestrade's number. It rang for only a few seconds before the man on the other end picked up.

"John? Did you find him?"

"We found him, Greg. But that's not important-"

"Not important? John, the man's killed three people! Where's Sherlock? Put him on the phone and maybe I can talk some sense into-"

"That's what I'm phoning about. Greg, Sherlock's hurt, badly. He's unconscious and needs medical attention from someone who is not shaking quite so badly." It was true. As the severity of the situation dawned on John (a murderer still walking free in London and the world's only consulting detective lying in the middle of an alley), his body began to react. He'd started to shake, and nausea was rising in his stomach. He was no use to anyone like this. "Please Greg, send and ambulance and get your team on it."

"Shit. Right, I'll be right there. Don't move, where are you?"

John gave their location to Lestrade, who promised to get there as soon as possible.

John tried to turn Sherlock over so he could see if there was any more damage. With a great effort, but making attempt to not hurt Sherlock anymore, John turned him over. He opened each eyelid and shone the light from his torch, forcing his hand to steady itself as he continued to shake. Sherlock's pupils were slow to react. Too slow. He'd be concussed when he woke up.

He heard the footsteps before he saw the people. There were four of them. One was Lestrade, who beckoned for the other three – paramedics by the look of their uniform - to move forward. Two of them were carrying a stretcher between them. They placed it on the ground next to Sherlock and lifted him onto it. Sherlock's hand fell over the side and hung limply in the air as they lifted the stretcher up. It made John think of a ragdoll, so lifeless. Sherlock looked vulnerable, and this is what upset John more than anything. Sherlock was a constant source of strength that John relied on. And now, he wasn't even waking up.

"He's still breathing, his heart's still beating, he's still alive." John reminded himself under his breath. The third paramedic, whom John had neglected to pay attention to, wrapped something around John before easing him up from the alley floor and propelling him forward. John's eyes never left Sherlock. He could hear noise coming from the four people around him, but he did not even register what they were saying, his only concern was his best friend.

They arrived at the mouth of the alley within minutes, Sherlock still unconscious in the care of two of the paramedics, John being guided by the third an Lestrade behind them. There were flashing blue lights everywhere, and John felt very disorientated as he struggled to register what was happening around him. More people were poking at him, shining lights into his eyes and talking words at him that John could not hear. There was a ringing in his ears. His chest felt tight as he felt the others surround him, invading any and every space that John considered his personal bubble. It was getting harder to breathe. There were too many people. It was too loud. Where was Sherlock?

Where was Sherlock?

John turned his head and found him, being loaded into the back of an ambulance by yet more paramedics.

"John?" Lestrade's voice broke through the haze that had been clouding John's senses. A firm hand took hold of his upper arm, and John noticed that he had moved forward towards the ambulance, towards Sherlock, without even realising. He turned to face Lestrade, whose face was lined with worry and concern.

"Greg." John breathed. "I need to- I- Please." John's voice broke on the last word as he quietly begged his unspoken request.

Lestrade sighed and then nodded. He released his grip and let John climb into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics tried to stop him, but after John spent a few moments just looking at them with a confused expression, Lestrade stepped in and explained the situation. Finally, John was allowed access into the vehicle. He sat down across from Sherlock, who was now being seen to by two different paramedics. The doors closed and they began to drive away, swaying with the movements of the ambulance as it made its way through the streets of London.

It was only then, in the back of an ambulance, that John looked at what was wrapped around his shoulders. A bright orange blanket covered him, and as John looked back over to Sherlock, the tears began to silently spill over John's cheeks.