John crouched in the corner of the dilapidated old abandoned house, waiting for Sherlock's signal. They had been tailing their quarry—a serial burglar by the name of Nigel McQueen—for hours. The suspect was like a ninja, always a half step ahead. They'd nearly had him on the Tube an hour ago, but he'd evaded them both, leading the pair on a merry chase through the city. They'd taken Sherlock's rooftop shortcuts, naturally, and had managed to corner Nigel in this house—fenced off to the public because of a collapse warning and condemned to be destroyed. A breeze, cool and briny, blew off the nearby river. The house creaked loudly and John hoped it wouldn't cave in.

John was tired and he'd landed funny on his ankle following Sherlock over the roofs. He'd also shoved the man out of the way of a careening car, nearly getting run over himself. Fortunately, the car hadn't hit him, but the tires had sprayed him with an impressive amount of mud and oily muck. Now John was filthy and tired and his ankle had an intermittent throb. He stayed crouched though, and waited for Sherlock's signal. The sooner they caught this moron and passed him to Scotland Yard, the faster they could go home. John held his breath as the detective crept across the floor on the opposite side of the room. He was still somehow clean and mud-free, the bastard. John could just barely make out his shape in the shadows and the moonlight streaming through the broken windows and holes in the walls. McQueen was on the first floor, and they needed to get down there without alerting him. Sherlock raised his arm towards John, beckoning him to come. John stood, silently, and stepped forward, carefully picking his way across the crumbly ground. Sherlock took two steps forward…and crashed through the floor, disappearing with a loud bang and a yell.

"Sherlock!" John yelped, startled. Something thudded downstairs—no doubt Nigel running away—and John flew down the steps as fast as he could with his sore ankle, his thoughts with his flatmate. Fortunately, Sherlock had landed on an old sofa. Unfortunately, there were no cushions and most of the metal springs were poking menacingly out of the ripped fabric. Sherlock winced and hissed and stood up slowly, the springs clinging and tearing at his clothes.

"Hurt?" John breathed, glancing him over. It was hard to tell in the dark and with the coat.

"Fine." Sherlock said with a grimace. John knew he wasn't fine. His shirt and trousers were slashed and rivulets of blood were staining the fabric. "Come on, John. He's getting away." Sherlock's voice was half command, half excited and John dutifully hurried after him into the night. They ran out the back garden and saw the guy sprinting up the empty street, his silhouette rapidly shrinking in the moonlight. Sherlock took off running. John gave his ankle a mental apology and ran as well as he could after him. It didn't hurt too badly. Compared to getting shot, this was nothing.

They ran, gaining on Nigel—he must be hurt too—until they came to the banks of the river. Up ahead, John saw Sherlock slip on the sudden muddy ground and fall right on his arse. He grunted and John darted past, still pursuing the suspect. He knew Sherlock wouldn't want him to stop. A stitch started to form in his side as the guy ran up some steps and onto a bridge spanning the river.

"Stop chasing me!" Nigel yelled.

"Stop running!" John yelled back. He crested the stairs and saw McQueen stopped a good thirty yards in front of him, looking winded and irritated. John, glad for the reprieve, decided this shit had gone on long enough. He pulled out his pistol and leveled it at the man, thrilled he'd thought to bring it with.

"Not fair." He called, raising his arms.

"It wasn't fair of you to rob all those people, Nigel." John countered, slowly walking closer to the man.

"Aw, c'mon, it was just a bit of fun."

"Fun?" John said. He heard Sherlock behind him, breathing hard, and he felt pleased he was able to stop the suspect by himself.

"Easy, John." Sherlock rumbled behind him. John paused. "He may have a gun too."

"It looks like you got me." Nigel called, nonchalantly walking backwards as the pair advanced.

"Looks like." Sherlock said. "Why don't you just turn yourself in and we'll call it a night?"

Nigel stopped beside the railing on the bridge and slowly lowered his hands.

"Nah, I don't think so." He vaulted himself over the railing and was gone.

"Wait!" John yelled.

"Oh no you don't!" Sherlock ran three steps and flung himself over the railing as well.

The bridge wasn't too high, and John ran to the edge, hearing the immense splash as Nigel McQueen, then Sherlock landed in the icy Thames. He peered over the edge into inky blackness.

"Sherlock!" He screamed. Nothing.

Cursing, John grabbed his mobile and dialed the police.

tbc...