John ran through the woods, careful to not run into a stray branch or high strung root, watching his breath come out in cloudy puffs. He could hear Gladstone barking, her loudest that she could. An 'I'm over here, come see me second-in-command-human!' sort of bark. As he neared her, he slowed down, arriving just in time to find Sherlock on the ground, the man they had been chasing a good twenty feet away, and a knife in between them. Sherlock was just beginning to tense up, the tonic phase of the seizure he was about to go into.
As John jogged over, he came to the conclusion that Sherlock looked like he was being electrocuted. Not that John had seen someone being electrocuted before, and he didn't dare mention it to Sherlock for fear that he would feel the need to do an experiment. (Sherlock had already gotten it in his head to do seizure experiments, a point at which John firmly drew the line. Or perhaps spray painted it. Or maybe bricked a wall up on it. Either way, he made sure Sherlock knew that would not be allowed.)
Shaking those thoughts out of his head, John knelt down next to Gladstone, who had already managed to nudge Sherlock onto his side despite the tremors.
"Good girl," John soothed her as he took Sherlock's head into his lap to cushion it from the frosty ground. Content that John was doing a good job, she stood back a little, occasionally looking over at the other man and growling. John knew he was there, but couldn't be bothered to attend to him while Sherlock was still seizing. Thankfully, the tremors soon slowed and stopped right around what John assumed to be the three minute mark.
Once he was sure Sherlock would be alright, or at least safe, he turned his attention to the man they had been chasing. Unconscious, likely from the bruise developing on his forehead. Probably concussion, but whether it was from falling, or Sherlock striking him with something, John couldn't tell. There was a slit in his pants that had a growing patch of red surrounding it. Stab wound, upper thigh. Lovely. John yanked his pants down to visualize the wound. Bleeding steadily, but not gushing. No major arterial involvement, which meant he could actually survive this. John did what he could, wrapping the wound with a gauze pad and winding a bandage tightly around it before hiking the man's pants back up. All he needed was to get frostbite on top of a stab wound.
Sherlock was still motionless, and Gladstone was content to sit beside him observing.
John checked his phone. No signal.
"Of course..." he sighed.
He couldn't leave Sherlock there, even with Gladstone. The man was a murderer after all, and there was no way of telling who would wake up first. He wouldn't be able to carry both of them, and really, out of the two of them, who would he rather be keeping an eye on?
The decision was simple.
John bent over and heaved Sherlock onto his back, adjusting his grip so the detective was in a relatively comfortable position. Then with Gladstone following attentively, he gave one last look to the man lying unconscious on the ground, and began to head back up the same hill they had only just hiked down.
"This is just such a typical Sherlock behaviour, isn't it?" he muttered, shifting the detective slightly as he hiked up the hill, Gladstone following closely at his heels. "I mean, one of these thing on their own would be enough, either getting us stranded at the bottom of a stupid hill with no mobile service after chasing after a criminal or the seizure would have been enough for one day, but to throw in both?" John shook his head. "You never fail to amaze me."
Gladstone whined at John's heels.
"Oh, girl, not you too," he sighed.
John had gotten to know Gladstone well enough over the past couple of months that he could recognize her tells, and this wasn't a seizure alerting one, or an angry 'put my human down' one, but more of a 'my poor little puppy feet hurt' whine. And he couldn't blame her for that, because the ground was half frozen and rocky, which made for better gripping for John, but not so nice for Gladstone, whose feet were bare.
John paused for a moment to look at her. He could probably carry both of them under better conditions, if Sherlock was awake to grip on, then he could use his arms to carry Gladstone. As it was with Sherlock still completely out of it and limp, there was no way that was going to happen.
"I'm sorry," he said to her, and she acknowledged it, trotting on ahead as if to remind him what they were supposed to be doing.
John resumed trudging up the hill.
They finally reached the top of the hill, not near the road, not by a long shot, but out of the valley that was banked by heavy forests on either side. John shifted Sherlock before sliding to the cold ground, back against a tree, Sherlock slouched in his lap, still unresponsive. Gladstone sank to the ground appreciatively and kept a keen eye on her stupid human.
John dug his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. Finally, a signal. He pushed number two on the speed dial.
"Hey Lestrade. We need an ambulance at... where ever the hell we are. And you should probably come too, damage control and such."
"Is Sherlock hurt?" The alarm in his voice was evident.
John looked at the detective. "Not really. Really grumpy, as per usual. Postdictal. Otherwise fine."
Lestrade sighed. It wasn't really a sigh of relief, since it wasn't exactly good news, but a sort of lesser of evils sigh.
"Then why do you need an ambulance? Sherlock won't take it."
"Yeah, it's not for him. Remember that dead body Sherlock had you ship to the morgue?"
He could hear Lestrade looking exasperated. "Yeah, the accidental poisoning victim."
"Well, we found the killer. And he's sort of at the bottom of a hill bleeding out from a stab wound. So... ambulance?"
"On its way. I suppose I'll come too."
And with that, Lestrade hung up.
Sherlock stirred and Gladstone watched over him carefully.
"Dammit..." he muttered.
John half smiled. "What?" he asked, tone playful.
"I w's making a record."
John nodded. That explained the tally marks he'd been seeing everywhere. Apparently Sherlock couldn't be bothered to keep them in one place, instead scattering them all around the flat. "Ah. And what did you make it to?"
Sherlock had to think about that for a moment, which John forgave.
John nodded. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock only growled at him, which was answer enough. He was quiet for a few minutes, and John had begun to wonder if he'd fallen asleep.
"Why don't you have any juice?" Sherlock grumbled.
John glared at the back of his head. "This is not my fault. At least I had my cell phone. Otherwise things could have been a lot worse. Maybe the ambulance will have juice when it gets here."
Sherlock grunted. John wasn't holding out too much hope either, but he didn't know what else to tell him.
Gladstone sighed loudly and shifted, settling her head on Sherlock's leg.
Sherlock was silent for not even a moment.
"What're we doing here?"
John rolled his eyes. "Murderer? Not so accidental poisoning. A small incident of a stray knife on your part."
Sherlock frowned. "What?"
John shrugged. "I wasn't there for that part. I assume you stabbed him in self defence, although I can't be sure. Got him in the thigh, no major arteries, but he needs to go to hospital for transfusions. Left him at the bottom of the hill with his leg wrapped up. You also managed to knock him out, probably a concussion. And then I carried some skinny clot up a hill."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but slammed it shut as he figured it out.
"Not feeling so clever right now, are you?" John commented. "Now you know what it's like to be one of us mere mortals."
Sherlock muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like juice.
"Don't," John warned.
Sherlock crossed his arm and shifted his position slightly in John's lap, making space for Gladstone to sit on him, which she happily did.
Lestrade showed up just after the ambulance, which showed up just after Sherlock fell asleep, his breathing evening out and his body going slack in John's arms. Until the ambulance came of course, sirens blaring, and Sherlock woke up as cranky as ever.
Thankfully, Lestrade's glove compartment was still stocked with orange juice, and Sherlock slurped on one until he passed out again in the back seat, hand clenched in Gladstone's fur.
Lestrade drove them home, and left them, saying he had to go to the hospital and check on the man that had been stabbed.
John called him that night, looking for an update on the patient. He was told that he would recover fully, but in prison, as he had confessed. He also added that Sherlock had started jerking his arm around, and had stabbed him. John made a decision not to tell Sherlock that he'd attacked the man while in the midst of a seizure, and managed to win. But he would tell him about the charges placed against the man.
At least, he would have if Sherlock had been awake rather than fast asleep, Gladstone protectively wrapped around him on the couch.
John bought Gladstone little boots that week, glaring at Sherlock as he tried them on her in the flat, daring him to say something. Sherlock was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, but couldn't hold back a grin.
John had to admit, she did look a bit silly.
But very weather proof.
AN- 'Ego Portabo' is Latin for 'I will carry you'. I finally had inspiration for another one in this series, and there may even be a bunny for another one sneaking up on me. We'll see. Again, if you have any ideas, let me know.