A gunshot rang out loudly in the alley, followed shortly by a soft hiss of breath, but John paid it no mind, his back pressed up against the wall, his own gun clenched tightly in his hand. He trusted Sherlock not to get himself shot so he inched carefully along the wall, wishing the criminals that they were trying round up hadn’t been smart enough to drain the power from the block they were on, plunging them in complete darkness.
John gritted his teeth, trying to breath as quietly as possible. Hearing the crunch of gravel only a few paces from him, John handed his trust over to his instincts and leaped in the direction of the sound, tackling just the man they were looking for to the ground. The man let out a loud string of curses and tried to wriggle his way out from under John, but John held fast, pressing the man’s cheek into the filthy ground, pinning his arms behind his back.
“Good work, John,” Sherlock said, his voice coming from the darkness somewhere behind John. “I just texted Lestrade, he’ll be here in a few minutes.” His voice sounded tight, almost pained in a way, short, panting breaths cutting in between his sentences. John was just about to ask Sherlock about it, when the man under him somehow managed to spit towards where John suspected Sherlock was standing.
“Fuck you,” the man said, nearly struggling to breath from John’s weight pressing down on his back. “Fuck both of you, and fuck everything you stand for.” John could practically hear the sneer in his voice and pressed his face even harder against the ground. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was simply getting revenge.” He was getting harder to understand. “You know what? I’m so glad I shot-” he was cut off by Sherlock slamming his foot down on the ground, centimeters away from the man’s nose.
Shot what? He’s so glad he shot what?
“If you don’t stop annoying me,” Sherlock drawled, digging his heel into the ground right in front of the man’s eyes, “I won’t miss next time.” Something about Sherlock’s voice was still off to John, but he didn’t get the chance to say anything as he was, once again, cut off, this time by the police pulling up to the alleyway they were currently in. As Lestrade got out of the cop car and slammed the door, John got off the ground and dragged the man up with him, catching a quick glimpse of his dirt-smudged, sneering face from the flashing police lights.
“I’ll take him off your hands, thank you both for nabbing him for me. I couldn’t have done it without you,” Lestrade said, snapping a pair of cuffs on the man before handing him off to Sally. John nodded at him and looked around for Sherlock, spotting him after a few seconds, standing a couple of paces away from him. His arms were crossed, and bathed in the flashing red and blue lights, his face looked tight and drawn, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, jaw clenched.
“No problem, Greg. Sherlock and I will be heading home now, text us if you need us for anything tomorrow,” John said, nodding to Lestrade. Lestrade nodded back, and John turned to Sherlock before saying, “Shall we?” Sherlock smiled at John and nodded, turning to walk towards their flat.
The walk was silent apart from Sherlock’s slightly heavy breathing. The night was clear, the air cool, and John caught up to Sherlock and slipped his fingers around Sherlock’s, squeezing tightly. Sherlock, who seemed to sway unsteadily on his feet for a few seconds, squeezed back, running his thumb over John’s.
When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock flopped down onto his chair and rubbed his hands over his face, groaning quietly to himself. John could now see why.
Sherlock had gotten shot in the leg, and didn’t think it important enough to tell John.
His tros were ripped along the outside of his thigh where a bullet had obviously skimmed him, and blood was soaking into the fabric around the wound.
John clenched and unclenched his fists, wondering why Sherlock had felt it necessary to hide the wound from him, to keep it a secret. Then, he took a deep breath and fetched his medical kit.
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