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Unexpected Outcomes of Cases

Part 1

They were following the suspect. Or the murderer, probably, who had fled from the crime scene after Sherlock had deduced everything about him right in front of Lestrade.

And now they were following him, running. Pursuing.

John could already feel his lungs starting to burn and he knew he was about to lose him. And to lose Sherlock, who was directly behind.

Not good.

Where was Lestrade? Had missed one turn, probably, and was now somewhere entirely else. No-one knew the city as well as Sherlock did, and that was why he was still close to their suspect.

"Come on, John!" he heard his friend shout from quite a distance. "We're losing him!"

Losing him. Brilliant. At the moment, John was more concerned about breathing. Drawing breath into his protesting lungs.

Breathing's boring, a voice echoed through his mind.

"Damn it," he hissed between gritted teeth and tried to speed up a bit. Or tried to convince his muscles to contract at all.

The sound of his own heartbeat and his own panting was the only thing he could still hear. Jesus, he was getting too old for these kinds of things!

He rounded a corner and could catch a glimpse of Sherlock's coat not too far ahead of him. Finally. Finally.

John willed his legs to another short sprint and was suddenly able to see both Sherlock and their murderer, still running from them. Running towards a road.

Run. One step after the other. Jesus, maybe he should indeed start doing some workout.

They were really losing their suspect, he realised within split seconds as the man crossed the road, Sherlock about hundred feet behind him.

John almost stumbled because he had been focusing so hard on the other two men that he had not bothered to look at where he was running.

Neither did Sherlock, apparently.

Sherlock who, as John noted within an eyeblink, made for crossing the road, too, not gazing sideways, not noticing the car approaching.

For a moment, John's body ceased to function, simply stopping. And staring in horror at what was happening.

In the next second, the air was filled by the sound of brakes screeching and something solid hitting the car. Sherlock.

"SHERLOCK!"

It took John what felt like an eternity to be able to move again, to start running towards the road where the car had finally come to a halt and where Sherlock was, somewhere, lying on the concrete, run over by a car… An eternity in which the only thought John could form in his mind was: God, please, let it not have been his head. Let it not have been his head.

Because if it had been Sherlock's head making that sound upon hitting the front window of the car, then all was lost. Then John had to prepare himself to see his best friend lying on the concrete with his head smashed open. Again. And John didn't think he would ever get over that, again.

"No, Sherlock, don't," he mumbled to himself as he was running towards the street, the pain in his lungs and the stiffness in his leg muscles completely forgotten.

Please, let it not have been his head.

John needed far too much time to reach the road, far too much.

Horror was building inside his veins as he came ever closer, and each step made it more painful to breathe.

Sherlock.

The car was blocking his view at first, Sherlock having been hit by it and then having landed on the other side of it, on the side away from John.

God, there was blood on the car. Sherlock's blood. If he had hit his head…

No.

Without slowing down or paying attention to the driver sitting, apparently in shock, on his seat, John rounded the car, only to find his worst assumptions confirmed.

Sherlock. Lying on the concrete. Perfectly still. Not moving. And bloodied.

No, was all John could think. No, please…

He skidded to a halt next to Sherlock, falling to his knees, not caring that he was bloodying them on the rough concrete, and reached out a trembling hand towards Sherlock. Sherlock of whom he could only see the back of a head, dark hair… and blood.

No…

No…

John briefly closed his eyes, pausing in his movement, forcefully being reminded of the only other time he had seen Sherlock like that. On the concrete in front of Bart's. Blood on the pavement.

He still had his eyes closed when he heard shouting from somewhere, someone demanding for an ambulance to be called… and a moan.

His eyes shot open, and his hand finally reached Sherlock's neck.

Another moan.

"J'hn?"

Oh God. Oh God.

Relief he had never felt before flooded through John as he quickly crawled forth a bit, his fingers not leaving Sherlock's neck where he could clearly feel a pulse, to see his friend's face.

Relief which was quickly replace by worry.

"Ah…"

Sherlock's eyes were open, but terribly unfocused, and in the minutes since the accident he had turned chalk white. And there was still blood on the concrete, blood coming from his head and…

From his shoulder, his left shoulder, looking horribly dislocated. Broken, John knew at once, even without lifting Sherlock's thick coat. Shoulder, certainly, and maybe even clavicle.

But alive.

Sherlock groaned again, his eye lids fluttering. "Jhn…," he slurred, the word barely understandable.

John's heart was in his throat as he removed his fingers from Sherlock's neck and rested them on his cheek instead. "I'm here, Sherlock," he assured, "I'm here. It's alright, it… no, don't move! Simply lie still."

Sherlock had tried to move his head a bit, resulting only in weak convulsing of his neck muscles and another whimper. A whimper. John bit the inside of his cheek.

Whiplash, most likely. Head injury probable, judging by the bleeding. Abrasions in his face.

"What's happened here?" a familiar voice suddenly called. Oh god Greg. How could he have forgotten about Greg?

"Let me through, police, let me through…"

John looked up, not letting go of Sherlock, and for the first time perceived the crowd having formed around them. The crowd staring at Sherlock on the pavement, barely conscious and in pain.

Greg paled the instant he understood. "Oh my god, John!" he exclaimed and hurried towards them, shoving a few of the bystanders out of the way. "John, what the hell happened? Is he…?"

John returned his gaze to Sherlock and felt his heart miss a beat. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his breaths seemed far too flat. He shook his head and at the same time urged: "Sherlock, open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me. Yeah, that's it. Fine. You're doing fine."

He was sure Sherlock would have shot him an annoyed look if he had had the strength to do so, but instead, he simply groaned again.

"H'rts, J'hn…," he mumbled, sweat showing on his forehead.

Fuck.

"Greg, somebody call an ambulance. Now!" John snapped and then turned back to Sherlock. "It's alright, alright. Easy. Just look at me. Look at me. Don't close your eyes, Sherlock. You'll be fine, I promise."

Carefully, he attempted to remove Sherlock's coat from his left shoulder, to cataloguise the injury better. Sherlock hissed in pain at John's touch and tried to roll over which John quickly prevented by softly, as softly as possible, steadying Sherlock in the somewhat awkward position - half on his side, half on his back - he was lying in. His prodding seemed to hurt his friend further, prodding at the now blood-soaked shirt beneath the coat, and what his fingertips could feel there made John's blood grow cold. An open fracture. Of the shoulder, of the clavicle, of God knew what else. Possible nerve damage, or damage of…

No. Stop it.

Why couldn't he do something? He was a doctor, for god's sake, and his best friend was in bloody pain, and yet there was absolutely nothing he could do. Nothing more than wait.

"Ambulance will be here in about fifteen minutes," Greg reported while kneeling down besides John, almost hesitatingly grabbing Sherlock's hand.

Fifteen minutes.

Greg shot John a worried look. "That's fifteen minutes too long, I suppose?"

John found he could only nod.

Sherlock lost consciousness before the ambulance arrived, passed out from the pain, hopefully, and not because of a concussion, sparing John to have to listen to his pained whimpering. That way, John pressed his fingers to Sherlock's neck all the time until paramedics came and shoved him aside, fussing about Sherlock, still lying on the cold concrete, in recovery position John had carefully, very carefully, rolled him.

He watched distantly how Lestrade and a few other officers having been on the case with them were busy keeping the curious crowd at bay, the crowd where rumours about 'Sherlock Holmes, remember? The fake genius? Dead?' were already spreading, or how one paramedic was putting a breathing mask on Sherlock's face which indeed did fog unsteadily, or how another one put up an IV line, injecting something, probably, hopefully, painkillers.

As the paramedics were done there, apparently, and slowly pushed the stretcher towards the ambulance, John of course followed, still somewhat dazed, only to be told by one of the paramedics that he was not allowed inside.

"Come on, John," Greg tried to encourage him. "I've got a police car - almost as fast as them."