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Rating: G verging on PG for violence.
Pairing: John/Sherlock (UST, pre-slash)
Summary: Written for a word prompt over on bbcsherlock_fic.

 

The Byzantine gang were long gone. Painfully, Sherlock began the seemingly endless crawl from one end of the warehouse to another. By the time the police got here, there would be no sign that the gang had even been there. Sherlock cursed as his ribs twinged. His knees and palms hurt too- there was broken glass on the floor, and now it was in his knees. His questing hands found the upright strut of a shelf.  Slowly, wincingly, he pulled himself up. One leg threatened to give out on him completely, twisted when he fell through the roof. Using the shelf as a support he pulled himself to the fire escape, and limped out. Outside, in the alleyway, he stopped to lean against the wall. Breathing hurt- probably some idiot’s boot had cracked a rib, how tiresome. He straightened up, and pitched forward as his leg finally gave out on him. He rolled over, laboriously. He was aware he was lying in a puddle, but for now, he was quite content to watch the few stars that had made it through the smog and light. They swirled like milk in coffee, which Sherlock realised (with the sort of detachment that comes from not enough sleep and a blow to the head) didn’t usually happen. His phone beeped. Unread messages, some missed calls.

From JW: I’m coming home- anything from the shop?

From JW: Please can you not leave that sort of thing festering in coffee mugs.

From JW: Lestrade just called, where are you?

From Lestrade: We’ve found our man, he might have something for us. Want to see?

From Lestrade: Can’t wait any longer, let you know what I find out. Learn to answer your damn phone or get a secretary.

From JW: Well, I’m glad you don’t need my help or anything. I’m going to the pub with Bill.

From JW: No, really, where are you?

Sherlock sighed, though he wasn’t exactly displeased. He focussed on the screen. It took a lot more effort than you might think.

From SH: Im a gutver. Direcions om on computes. sH.

From JW: Are you drunk?

From SH: No. Dn’t drhnk.

From JW: I’ll be there soon, try not to get into any more trouble.

Sherlock let the phone fall from his fingers, brittle sound of plastic on damp gravel. Carefully he drew himself upright. Little stars and bursts of light went off behind his eyes, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. He decided not. If he could stand up, he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. He started pulling himself up the wall, inch by inch. He could feel dirty water trickling out his hair and into his collar. He shivered. His phone went off.

“Holmes,” he grunted.

“Sherlock? Where are you?” It was Lestrade. “We’ve got the affidavit we need, we can move now,”

“Well, don’t come here, there’s nothing-,” Sherlock stopped talking and looked at the door where he had come out. Lestrade was saying something, but Sherlock cut off the call impatiently. He definitely knew where the loot was. Definitely, even though every thought felt a bit like it was coming from a badly-tuned radio. He limped back into the warehouse. There was the safe, hidden behind the picture of the Queen. The safe had a combination, and Sherlock briefly wished he’d bought a stethoscope. His head hurt. He laid it against the wall, which was wonderfully cool.

From JW: I contacted Lestrade, are you inside? I will be there quite shortly.

From SH: Y

He simply had to get the safe open, even if it felt like he was trying to think with cottage cheese instead of proper gray matter. He spun the wheel carefully, pressing an ear to the safe door.

“Oi!” the speaker was dressed as a security guard, but had no doubt been sent to check that Sherlock was either gone or dead. He moved quicker than Sherlock had pegged him, but he still managed to dodge the first blow, which slammed into the safe-door. It popped open, revealing its contents. Sherlock blinked and looked at the other man, who was shaking out his fist, and looking murder at Sherlock. The next blow hit home. Sherlock felt a crunch of bone in his nose and then exploding black and red stars clouded his vision. But he hadn’t fallen over, he felt like that was a small victory. The security guard was winding up for another blow so Sherlock did the only thing he could think of, and kicked the man square in the crotch. It was not the most honourable move, but the bigger man curled up so satisfactorily, it seemed worth the pain that had exploded in his knee. Sherlock could hear footsteps. In the safe were the jewels, flawless diamonds, rubies glowing crimson, crystalline emeralds, set in delicate gold, and shining silver. A king’s ransom. Sherlock thought: ‘Right, well, that seems to be about it,’ and allowed himself to fold up onto the floor as John came bursting through the door.

--

“Oh, (cough) the hospital,” Sherlock’s voice sounded husky. John folded up the paper.

“You’re an idiot,” he offered, by way of confirmation and greeting, and handed Sherlock a glass of water. “Two cracked ribs, a nasty knock on the back of the head, so concussion too, sprained knee, broken nose, not to mention broken glass pretty much everywhere and innumerable bruises. And you took on Dangerous Wee Gary. He’s still not walking right though, so good job there,”

“You might want to tell Lestrade that he’ll want to talk to Whelk-Boy- what charming names these people have- to either arrest him or put him under protective custody. All that about killing women, it was a clue, not a threat,”

“Tell him yourself, he’ll be by shortly,”

“Oh, no, I can’t. I have a concussion,”

“Don’t care,”

“Yes you do,”

Silence, except for the sound of the hospital functioning around them. John leant on the back of his chair.

“Yes, I do. But you’re still giving the statement.”

“But-,”

“No buts. You had me worried sick! Do you know how much you bleed?”

“I have a good idea,” Sherlock picked at the gauze covering the palms of his hands.

“Don’t do that,” John reached out and slapped his hands. Sherlock grinned, and then winced as it stretched his nose. He reached up to touch it. John held his hands down. “Really,”

Sherlock smiled up at him, close enough to kiss. John moved back quickly, wiping his hands down his jeans. Sherlock looked down.

“Yes, well, it doesn’t matter what I think,” John said, grumpily. “You’re giving the statement, or I’ll tell Mycroft you’re awake, apparently you stopped a rather nasty international incident,”

Another moment of silence.

“Fine,” Sherlock folded his arms, and slumped back against his pillows. John hid a smile.

“If you’re good I’ll get you an ice-cream,”

“Shut up,”

 

Date: 2010-10-22 10:26 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] niennahirilfea.livejournal.com
Do like. *nods* :D What they *points up* all said. The little exchange in the hospital made me grin, lol Mycroft threats.

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