A/N: I was writing Realizations, and this happened. It's actually set just before the chapter about John's mum, which I haven't quite finished yet. Brevity is not something I have really got a handle on, and this happened before I could even get her into the picture. I'm not sure how well it stands up as a one-shot, but IsOkayGood assured me it was fine, so address all complaints to her. (I'm kidding.) (Mostly.)
"Don't pull it out, Sherlock!" John said sharply.
"Of course I won't. I may not be a doctor, but I'm not Anderson."
If Sherlock's voice was sharper than usual, it was softened by the terror in his eyes.
"Good. Then you'll know that it's probably keeping me from bleeding to death."
They both stared at the ornate handle of the dagger that was currently protruding from John's upper thigh. About ten metres away, the former owner of said dagger was laying unconscious, half-in half-out of a rubbish skip. Neither John nor Sherlock paid him any attention.
"Where do you even get daggers like this in London?" John wondered aloud. It was beautiful craftsmanship, although he felt he would appreciate it better if it wasn't currently sheathed in his body.
"He forged them himself." Sherlock said automatically. "He's a blacksmith, but he specializes in Norse reproductions. His initials are right there-"
Sherlock quickly withdrew his hand from where he had absently tapped the initials forged into the dagger. As the dagger was still imbedded in John's leg, this hadn't been the best of ideas.
"Sorry, I'm sorry."
John raised an eyebrow. "It's fine. You weren't thinking."
"Well, I should have been!"
John took his hand. "Sherlock, I'm going to be fine. You called 911, and the ambulance is on its way. Besides, this is hardly as bad as getting shot, right?"
"John, I am… worried that you are being so very calm about being stabbed."
"It's just a flesh wound." John said with a half chuckle. Sherlock's head snapped up, and he looked searchingly at John's eyes.
"Are you quite sure you haven't been hit on the head? I can check if you want-"
"Sherlock, it was a joke! Look, I've always been calm when danger hits, you know me. And I've got so much adrenaline in my system that I can hardly feel it. If you want to help, just… put pressure on it or something."
Sherlock pulled his hand away from John's, and unwound his scarf. He hid it well, but John could tell his hands were shaking. He wrapped the scarf around the dagger a few times, and then awkwardly pushed down. John sucked in a deep breath. That was going to hurt in a few hours. And the breath had caught a bit, there must be something wrong with his chest. A broken rib? No, he would know about that. Probably just bruises. His attacker had a mean roundhouse kick.
"John?" Sherlock said. "John, are you all right? No, that was stupid of me, of course you aren't."
John smiled. Perhaps it had been worth it getting stabbed, to see Sherlock like this. He was obviously worried about John, and he clearly didn't have much experience with being worried about anyone. John didn't know whether to be flattered or exasperated with his attention.
"Well, my limp isn't psychosomatic anymore."
"It will heal, of course." Sherlock paused. "Won't it?"
John laughed, and Sherlock looked at him like he was insane. Well, maybe he was. "Yeah, it'll heal. You'll be spared the bother of finding someone else to come along on your cases."
"Very funny, John. If you were permanently injured, it might curtail the amount of running from gunmen we undertake. But most of our investigations would continue normally."
"And what if they couldn't, Sherlock? What if I couldn't come on cases with you anymore?"
Sherlock frowned. "I honestly haven't entertained the idea. I'd be lost without my blogger, John."
John leaned towards him. "Sherlock…" he said.
"I think you're supposed to kiss me now."
Of course, it was that moment that Anderson rounded the corner, breathing heavily.
"Oi! Knock it off you two, we don't need to see that."
Sherlock and John reluctantly broke apart.
"Anderson, we were married for a year before you even realized that we were dating." John called to him, not looking away from Sherlock. "You aren't really in a position to complain about public displays of affection."
"Right… well… where's the runner, then?"
"In that skip." Sherlock said. John pointed. "He's the murderer. He's got three more of the daggers in his jacket."
"In the- help me get him out, then!"
"Anderson, I would be delighted to come to your aid, but I'm currently busy keeping John from bleeding all over the pavement."
Before Anderson was able to formulate a reply, Donovan came tearing around the corner. She quickly assessed the situation.
"Shit, John, are you all right?"
Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to make some sort of sarcastic retort, but John cut him off.
"I'll be fine, Sally. I'm in no danger and we've called an ambulance."
"Thank heavens for the small miracles. You're going to get yourself killed someday, you know that?"
"I find your lack of faith disturbing."
Sally snorted. "You're crazy. Right, so did you at least catch the killer?"
"He's in the skip." Sherlock said. "Be careful; he might wake up, and he's got no qualms about violence."
"He's not going to wake up." John cut in. "Sherlock got him in the back of the head with a two by four; he's lucky if he doesn't have brain damage."
"A two by four? Isn't that a bit excessive?"
"He stabbed John in the leg." Sherlock said, as if that explained it. And really, it sort of did. "The ambulance is going to arrive in less than a minute, so if you want that man to be on it, I suggest you pull him out at speed."
"Right. Anderson! Help me with this would you?"
"Sherlock?" John said quietly.
"I'm getting a bit dizzy. No- don't worry, I'll be fine. But… call my mother, would you? I don't think I'm going to be able to make it up to Brighton to see her tomorrow."
"I- yes, of course, John."
"Thanks. And- oh, look there it is. And don't fight with the ER workers, they're just doing their jobs."
"I can't promise anything."
John laughed. "I love you, you idiot."
"And I you, John."