Fic: Priorities
Title: Priorities
Author: brate7
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: PG
Word Count: 725
Summary: The chase isn't always merry.
Note: Originally posted at thegameison_sh for the prompt "new."
Priorities
By Brate
John ignored the pull on his leg muscle, just as he tended to ignore everything else when running after Sherlock. The only thing he could focus on was not letting Sherlock get so far ahead that he lost track of him. Especially not with the sort they were chasing, blokes who didn't mind getting rid of innocent-or not so innocent-bystanders.
Irritatingly, the two men they were after seemed to know the city almost as well as Sherlock, leading them on a merry chase through the streets and alleys, before abruptly splitting up and heading in different directions. John wasn't particularly fond of Sherlock haring off without someone to watch his back, but there was little choice... John would never hear the end of it if he let "his guy" get away.
Pushing himself faster, John whipped around a corner, saw a flash, and heard the crack of a gunshot. Military reflexes didn't save him entirely, but they did manage to lessen the damage. He staggered back against the brick wall of the alleyway, feeling the burn of a bullet along the side of his neck.
Hearing fleeing footfalls, John cursed. He dug in his pocket for his handkerchief and pressed it against his neck, trying to staunch the blood sliding beneath his shirt collar.
Still might be able to catch him. But as John tried to move away from the wall, his body decided a steady surface was essential at the moment. Providing a convincing argument was swirling grey dots in his vision, so he acquiesced, sliding down the brick to rest on the ground-just for a moment, just until he got the dizziness under control.
He hadn't been sitting long when he heard hurried footsteps approaching. John fumbled for his pistol, in case his attacker had doubled back. His name was shouted by a familiar voice, and he allowed his gun to drop.
"Over here," John croaked, letting it trail off into a groan at the strain on his injury.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, breathlessly.
John looked up, confused. "Did you already get yours?" he asked, trying not to let jealously cloud his tone.
"Don't be obtuse." Sherlock squatted beside him.
"But-"
"Are you all right?" Sherlock repeated, holding John by his arms.
John started to nod than thought better of it. "Yeah, it's just a scratch. But he got away."
Sherlock ignored the statement as his eyes took in the rapidly darkening cloth. He scowled and removed his scarf, placing it over the handkerchief as he applied more pressure.
John flinched and did his best not to pull away. Great, not only did he let a criminal escape, he'll have ruined Sherlock's favorite scarf. Maybe he could stay at Sarah's tonight to avoid the impending rebuke.
Or maybe, John thought, his eyes drifting closed, I could just sleep here. He dropped away to the sound of Sherlock yelling at someone about an ambulance.
*****
Without opening his eyes, John knew he was in hospital. And somehow Sherlock knew he was awake.
"If you insist on getting hurt, you should at least, as a doctor, have the acuity to grasp when the wound requires urgent medical attention."
John struggled to remember what had put him here. Oh, yeah. He tried to move his head and found it encased in bandages. A straw was brought to his lips and he sipped gratefully, letting the water slide down his parched throat. "But it just grazed me."
"It took a five millimeter gouge out of your neck," Sherlock corrected, "a body part fairly essential to your survival." He placed the glass on the table and stepped back, hands clasped behind his back.
Embarrassed, John tried to shift Sherlock's attention. "What about the men we were chasing?" he asked.
Sherlock waved a careless hand. "Lestrade can do something useful for once and track them down. You were bleeding out, John."
John blinked, feeling a flush of warmth go through him. He watched as Sherlock's eyes drifted again to the bandage, mouth turning down in a frown.
"Looks like I'll have a new scar," John observed lightly.
Sherlock tilted John's head to the side and lifted the bandage. He looked beneath it appraisingly, as if committing it to memory. "I'll add it to the list," he said.
John didn't think he was joking.
end
Author: brate7
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: PG
Word Count: 725
Summary: The chase isn't always merry.
Note: Originally posted at thegameison_sh for the prompt "new."
Priorities
By Brate
John ignored the pull on his leg muscle, just as he tended to ignore everything else when running after Sherlock. The only thing he could focus on was not letting Sherlock get so far ahead that he lost track of him. Especially not with the sort they were chasing, blokes who didn't mind getting rid of innocent-or not so innocent-bystanders.
Irritatingly, the two men they were after seemed to know the city almost as well as Sherlock, leading them on a merry chase through the streets and alleys, before abruptly splitting up and heading in different directions. John wasn't particularly fond of Sherlock haring off without someone to watch his back, but there was little choice... John would never hear the end of it if he let "his guy" get away.
Pushing himself faster, John whipped around a corner, saw a flash, and heard the crack of a gunshot. Military reflexes didn't save him entirely, but they did manage to lessen the damage. He staggered back against the brick wall of the alleyway, feeling the burn of a bullet along the side of his neck.
Hearing fleeing footfalls, John cursed. He dug in his pocket for his handkerchief and pressed it against his neck, trying to staunch the blood sliding beneath his shirt collar.
Still might be able to catch him. But as John tried to move away from the wall, his body decided a steady surface was essential at the moment. Providing a convincing argument was swirling grey dots in his vision, so he acquiesced, sliding down the brick to rest on the ground-just for a moment, just until he got the dizziness under control.
He hadn't been sitting long when he heard hurried footsteps approaching. John fumbled for his pistol, in case his attacker had doubled back. His name was shouted by a familiar voice, and he allowed his gun to drop.
"Over here," John croaked, letting it trail off into a groan at the strain on his injury.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, breathlessly.
John looked up, confused. "Did you already get yours?" he asked, trying not to let jealously cloud his tone.
"Don't be obtuse." Sherlock squatted beside him.
"But-"
"Are you all right?" Sherlock repeated, holding John by his arms.
John started to nod than thought better of it. "Yeah, it's just a scratch. But he got away."
Sherlock ignored the statement as his eyes took in the rapidly darkening cloth. He scowled and removed his scarf, placing it over the handkerchief as he applied more pressure.
John flinched and did his best not to pull away. Great, not only did he let a criminal escape, he'll have ruined Sherlock's favorite scarf. Maybe he could stay at Sarah's tonight to avoid the impending rebuke.
Or maybe, John thought, his eyes drifting closed, I could just sleep here. He dropped away to the sound of Sherlock yelling at someone about an ambulance.
*****
Without opening his eyes, John knew he was in hospital. And somehow Sherlock knew he was awake.
"If you insist on getting hurt, you should at least, as a doctor, have the acuity to grasp when the wound requires urgent medical attention."
John struggled to remember what had put him here. Oh, yeah. He tried to move his head and found it encased in bandages. A straw was brought to his lips and he sipped gratefully, letting the water slide down his parched throat. "But it just grazed me."
"It took a five millimeter gouge out of your neck," Sherlock corrected, "a body part fairly essential to your survival." He placed the glass on the table and stepped back, hands clasped behind his back.
Embarrassed, John tried to shift Sherlock's attention. "What about the men we were chasing?" he asked.
Sherlock waved a careless hand. "Lestrade can do something useful for once and track them down. You were bleeding out, John."
John blinked, feeling a flush of warmth go through him. He watched as Sherlock's eyes drifted again to the bandage, mouth turning down in a frown.
"Looks like I'll have a new scar," John observed lightly.
Sherlock tilted John's head to the side and lifted the bandage. He looked beneath it appraisingly, as if committing it to memory. "I'll add it to the list," he said.
John didn't think he was joking.
end