Your POV
The familiar flashing blue lights of the police cars and ambulances, illuminated the night sky of London. From the shadows of a nearby ally you saw the silhouettes of the police and investigators, buzzing around the sealed off crime scene. You had dropped the ball if you were completely honest. It was the single gunshot that drew your attention to the nearby library. Quite to your dismay, you had arrived later than you would liked. You usually arrived just before the torrent of police officers were arriving. This time you had arrived just for the clean up. How disappointing.
Among the hustle of it all, you noticed a familiar figure, that of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, and his somewhat new companion, whom you vaguely recognised. You had seen Sherlock many times before, as you were snooping around crime scenes. He had become quite a favourite of yours. He seemed to solve the most impossible crimes, as if they were child's play. Without access to a TV and an unwillingness to use drugs, this was your only source of entertainment. Shadowing this detective had become a hobby of yours and not one you were willing to give up.
The pair began walking towards another unknown figure, one in which Sherlock did not seem pleased to see, but that was none of your business ( arguably, neither was the crime scene). With a disappointed huff, you flipped up you hood, and was met by a familiar pain in your right shoulder. You gasped and stumbled a bit.
"Stupid thing" you cursed, as your rubbed your shoulder. You bullet wound that you had sustained in Afghanistan, had never seemed to heal. In fact it seemed to be getting worse, it was getting harder and harder to ignore. The lack of nourishment that street life had to offer wasn't exactly helping. You found yourself shaking and light headed most days now, but you tried to push that aside. "Things would get better soon" you often told yourself, but your optimism was wearing thin after 3 months.
Apparently your gasp had been more audible that you had initially realised, and the short figure next to Sherlock and the unknown male began walking towards you.
"Time to go" you whispered to yourself and attempted to turn away.
"Hey, are you okay?" a annoyingly familiar voice called out. You ignored him and began to walk away.
"Hey" the guy called again.
Your legs felt heavy and began to buckle
"Shit"
The man gained on you and was only feet away.
"I'm fine" you called out, before tripping up and tumbling onto the ground, with a thud.
" I don't think you are" the man stated, kneeling next to you. You turned your head away.
"I'll be fine" you reiterated, unconvincingly, attempting and failing to push yourself up of the ground.
" you need help, there is an ambulance jus-"
" I don't need an ambulance, it's just a old wound" you growled.
"Why not let me be the judge of that?" The man answered. That voice, it was irritatingly familiar, like a voice from a dream that you could not place.
You turned your head round and saw the greying hair of this individual. The kind but concerned face, you knew it. Through your now blurred vision, you saw this man's clothes intermittently change. You saw the dusty camouflage uniform and helmet of this man, and the faint sound of rapid gunfire, before blinking and returning to the street of London, with this stranger's ever growing concerned face.
Suddenly, it clicked, you did know him.
"John?" You whispered, before swinging round , grabbing his jacket. He looked rather flabbergasted at this. The sudden movement caused a blood rush to your head and the throbbing in your head worsened. The searing pain in your shoulder became worse than ever and you could feel yourself blacking out. The last thing you remember is John shouting, the sound of someone running towards you and the cold pavement on your face.
John's POV
"Sherlock" I called out. Sherlock, swung round from Mycroft and came jogging towards me.
"What happened?" he asked as he approached you and the now unconscious youngster
" I don't know" you admitted " she just passed out, she's breathing, but I think she is injured"
" Well put her in an ambulance and be done with" Mycroft chirped in " She's probably just some homeless drug addict, looking for some attention" he scoffed. I was about to protest that she didn't want an ambulance, but Sherlock interjected.
"No" Sherlock answered
"No?" Mycroft questioned.
" She isn't a drug addict" Sherlock inspected the girl's arms by rolling up the sleeves " No, marks on her arms or traces of residue on her fingers. Besides where do you think she would get the money from? Drugs are expensive"
"Well you would know" Mycroft sighed.
" She needs help, either way" I placed a hand on her forehead " she's burning up, I think her wound might be infected"
Sherlock frowned.
"She mentioned an injury, but I can't pinpoint it. She can't stay out here anyhow, we need to get her someplace safe and warm, where I can examine her properly. We need to take her to Baker Street" I announced standing up. I glanced at Sherlock and he appeared to approve under the circumstances.
" You can't be serious" Mycroft mocked. I turned on him, staring angrily.
"Mycroft, I believe your car is over there" Sherlock gestured to the large black car running at the end of the street.
" No point in paying a taxi, especially after tonight's events with the cabbie" He added.
You smiled at Mycroft smugly.
Mycroft shook his head in defeat.
" So be it. do What you want, brother mine. Just don't expect me to come running when your decisions come to back to bite you" Mycroft warned , before turning and walking towards the car.
Sherlock gave the biggest fake smile, before scooping the the bedraggled girl up and walking towards the car.
