It was evening and John sat in the ambulance, a blanket around his shoulders. The lights on top of the police cars and the ambulance flashed through the rain that fell from the dark grey London sky. A shiver ran through him and John pulled the blanket tighter, though he wasn't cold. If anything, it was too hot. It was stifling.

Everything was too hot, too close, too oppressing. It was like a tsunami wave hundreds of feet tall was crashing down on him every moment, never letting up or falling away but returning as if on a loop; a broken record of an event.

He watched the police officers scurry back and forth, talking to one another and the witnesses that had been on the street when-

John let out another raspy sob, trembling again.

Everything was a blur since he'd seen Sherlock on the top of St. Barts. He remembered watching the fall, unable to move as if the air was thick as mud. Then everything had sped up, and he'd tried so hard to get to him.

The world had gone silent, save for the rushing of his own blood, his own breathing, his own life force beating so strongly within him, a crude juxtaposition to the scene that was unfolding.

He'd fallen over the biker, then dodged around cars and a truck in a daze. He vaguely remembered his own words: "I'm a doctor, I'm his friend" were all he remembered. And they had held him back, restrained him.

The first thing he'd seen, even before forcing his way through the people who were in his way, was the blood. A sickly red pool of blood that ran down the street.

It was probably washed away in the rain.

His eyes had followed the blood to its source of their own accord, and had reached his pale face without his permission. That was when he'd fallen and the world had gone into sharp focus, every detail occurring to him.

Sherlock would've been proud.

He'd fumbled for a pulse. He'd done it so many times before, especially in the clinic. He remembered pressing his fingers down on the vein and prayed with every fiber of his being that he would feel something – anything. He would even settle for the tiniest beat of blood beneath the skin. Just – anything.

Nothing. Not a single thing.

The lady with the silver watch had prised his hand off of Sherlock's wrist, and he'd fallen backward. He remembered them rolling the body over, lifting the limp c-corpse onto the gurney.

"Oh Jesus, no. God- no."

There had been blood across his face, and his eyes were shut. But it wasn't as everyone said the dead were – as if they were sleeping. It was horrible and grotesque. It was an abomination.

He had let the bystanders hold him back, let them restrain him. His knees had gone weak and he had nearly collapsed onto the pavement himself.

Then they had wheeled the body away.

John felt a shudder shake his body and he pulled the blanket tighter in vain.

"I'm in shock, look – I've got a blanket."

The words came to him all of a sudden and he very nearly laughed. It was a choked sort of chuckle, cut off as if it were afraid to be let loose.

The sound of gunshots. "Bored! Bored, bored, BORED!"

He hadn't told Sherlock about the terrible moments after he'd heard the shots, when his mind had gone back to Afghanistan and to the men he'd seen die. He'd thought Sherlock was dead for a moment, for one terrible, heart-stopping moment.

No, just bored.

Again, he let out a chuckle. It seemed so pathetic, so pointless now. Who cared about gunshot holes in the wall, really?

"The wall had it coming."

He actually did laugh, though it was a bit high pitched. He could tell he sounded insane. He knew it.

Maybe he was insane. A psychopath or something. Probably was.

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

John bit his lip hard.

He glanced up and saw Lestrade and some other officers approaching, plastic bags neatly labeled and evidence tucked away for inspection. The Detective Inspector's car was right next to the ambulance, and for a single moment, John had thought it was simply Lestrade coming to tell him that Sherlock would only be another minute at the crime scene, that he'd be out soon.

'But why am I not in there with him?' John asked himself a second later, before realizing the truth. A sharp pain shot through his chest. Yeah, definitely insane, a part of him said scathingly, while another (more logical) part said No, it's just shock.

He saw a dark bundle of cloth in Lestrade's arms and was up and out of the ambulance before he could even think about what he was doing. The blanket fell off his shoulders and onto the ground. The lightening rain blurred his vision. His leg hurt like it hadn't in months, but he limped over to intersect the procession of officers.

He wished for his cane.

They all saw him coming, he could tell, but he purposely ignored them. He didn't want to see their pitying looks, he knew that much. He'd never liked it after Afghanistan either.

Lestrade seemed to know what he'd come for, and held out his free arm to support John.

"You know that, technically, it's evidence, don't you?" he whispered, meeting John's eyes, any malice toward the veteran forgotten.

John looked into the steely grey eyes and nodded. "I don't care," he whispered back, a few more tears coming to his eyes as his leg almost gave out again. Lestrade held him up.

The Detective Inspector examined the blonde-haired man, giving him a twice-over before nodding brusquely and silently and handing over the dark fabric of the coat.

"Thank you," John muttered, feeling the texture beneath his fingers as he clutched it tightly. He forced himself to take deep breaths, but more tears came and he couldn't stop them. "Thank you, I just-"

"I know."

Lestrade led him over to a bench on the curb, beneath a tree that sheltered it from most of the raindrops.

"Sit here."

John sat and stared at the coat in his hands for a moment, as if he'd never seen it before. He shivered as a breeze swept down the street and, in a split-second decision he pulled the coat around his shoulders. It was a replacement for the blanket.

"I'm in shock, look – I've got a blanket."

More tears came as John smelled the distinct scents of Sherlock – various chemicals from strange experiments and a slight hint of aftershave. John dropped his face into his hands, shoulders shaking.

Lestrade turned away, an ache forming in his chest at the sight of the man – once so strong, now so lost – reduced to tears yet again.

He continued to the squad car and one of the rookie officers who had just joined the force ran up to him. "Sir, you can't let him have the coat!"

Lestrade fixed the young man with a stern eye. "I know what I'm doing, Peterson."

"But sir-"

"He gets the coat, Peterson."

Sally Donovan watched on, Anderson close behind her. Neither of them said a word.

"But Detective Inspector Lestrade, sir, it's evid-"

Lestrade silenced him with a raised hand. "He's been through enough. Leave him be."

Peterson opened his mouth to protest some more, but Lestrade had already walked away, passing by Donovan and Anderson on his way to the car. He glanced at them as he passed, and something she had said once popped into his mind. He'd only overheard, but he knew she had to be thinking it.

"And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

He thanked the gods she stayed silent.

A minute later he sat in the front seat of the car, listening to the soft pitter-patter of rain on the roof. Looking out the window he saw that John was still under the tree.

A taxi pulled up at that moment, and he recognized the aging woman who got out of it as Mrs. Hudson. She made a beeline for the bench John was sitting at and Lestrade let out a quiet sigh of relief. John was in good hands.

He started the car and drove away into the darkening night, thick as it was with rain. He resisted the urge to look back.

Aw... Poor John. :'(

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