If you haven't seen the wholock youtube video 'Elysium' then you have missed some awesome stuff and you need to go and rectify it right now. Whoever made that has some talent. Bucket loads of talent. I would like to say that I mean no disrespect, borrowing this idea, I just loved it so much. Please go check the video out.

Don't own Sherlock.

Sherlock is hunched down next to the mauled form of the body, which looks as if it was torn apart by the claws of an animal. The skin drips red at the tears in the flesh and hangs off a skeleton that used to support a middle aged man. Caucasian male, dark hair, green irises. The eyes, perhaps the only part of the form that are still intact, stare wide and terrified. Not a pleasant death.

John can tell, even without getting up close, that the wounds were inflicted while the man was writhing and twisting and screaming. Blood has left splatters across the carpeted floor like some sort of morbid landscape, flicked as if from a brush.

John, with all his years as a doctor, can remove himself from the scene slightly, pulling into himself. He glances around the room; high, white ceilings, and warm, comfortable furniture in rather bland colors. There is a crack that stretches across one long portion of the wall. Nothing too thrilling. So why this house? Why this man?

And then he hears a soft growl. The fact that is sounds feral and distinctly animalistic does not completely rule out the chance that it might have come from Sherlock, but when John glances over at him, he has his magnifying glass out and is thoroughly absorbed in his work.

There is no one else in the room. Sherlock had kicked everyone out with the looming threat of a tantrum, and told John to stay behind. Apparently he is in need of John's medical expertise. This involves John watching Sherlock dance around the crime scene while occasionally throwing questions at him, and only half listening to his answers being confirmed.

John has almost convinced himself that he had been hearing things, when another growl floats across the air. Float is an odd word to describe a growl, but it's the word that fits inside John's head. It's as if it had come from a radio broadcast, or through a window. John scans the room for any kind of electrical device. Nothing but the blank television in the corner, which had been off the entire time. The remote control rests untouched beside it.

"Sherlock, did you hear that?" John shifts slightly.

Sherlock glances up momentarily, annoyance written in the twist of his brows, "No. Why, what was it?"

"It sounded almost like- no, it was a growl. Actually growls- plural. I heard it twice." John feels slightly ridiculous, because really, he's hearing growls in a virtually empty room, but the man had clearly been killed by some form of animal, there might be a correlation. Sherlock looks intrigued, as ridiculous as it is. He extends his limbs and adjusts his coat as he stands up, spinning to view the entire room. He strides up to John, completely ignoring the boundaries of personal space. It hits him in that moment that this friendship, this oddness, he is used to it.

And so he remains unaffected by Sherlock's slicing gaze at such close proximity.

Sherlock's attention is completely focused on him and his lips are just parting to speak, when a harsh light begins to pulse from the crack in the wall. He whirls around, the heavy fabric of his coat slapping against John's legs. Sherlock freezes for less than a moment before he is striding long and swift into the brightness.

John remains behind, even when Sherlock proclaims, "John, this is fascinating," and is completely absorbed by the glow.

"Sherlock." He cranes his neck slightly in an effort to view his erratic companion. When there is no answer, John takes a few steps forward, wary of this almost supernatural occurrence. "Sherlock, come on. Answer me." Nothing. "Sherlock."

And then the tendrils of blue seep back into the crack, and Sherlock is on the floor, moaning, confused. And a panic claws through John's organs and tightens one burning hand around his heart. "Sherlock!" John rushes forward, catching Sherlock's slack face between his palms. "Sherlock I need you to look at me. Look at me Sherlock. Tell me what happened, what's wrong?" John just manages to keep his voice smooth and calm, scanning the length of Sherlock, searching for any kind of injury to cause this.

Sherlock's hand attempts to grasp onto some part of John, resting on his leg. But even when he squeezes, flexing the muscles in his hand, all John can feel is a faint pressure. "John." He gasps, clinging to the only piece of John that he can reach. "John, my mind, its- ah," Sherlock winces across the entirety of his body, and the only thing that John seems to be able to do is cling tighter, running his thumbs harsh across Sherlock's cheek bones, his ears, his eyebrows. Searching for something, anything.

"Sherlock, Sherlock. I don't know what's going on, tell me what to do, tell me how I can help you." This is different from the panic and the death of the battlefield. This is confusion and no viewable solution. This is uselessness and the impending death of a best friend. "Sherlock, tell me how to help you. Please."

John can feel an insistent tugging at the edges of his consciousness, pulling, yanking. But John can't think about it now, doesn't have time to puzzle over it- pushes it to the back, away.

Sherlock's heavy eyes fix on John's and there is panic in them, below the sightless glaze. "John." Its raw and rough and dark. And John can only think of one thing to do.

"I'm calling Mycroft." And as he fumbles in his pocket for the phone, its a testament to Sherlock's condition that he doesn't complain.

The rings end with every harsh thump of Johns heart, and he keeps his eyes locked with stormy, swirling grey. "Sherlock, Sherlock look at me. Keep looking at me. Sherlock." John keeps one hand cupping Sherlock's jaw, thumb sweeping harsh strokes across as much skin as he can reach. "Stay with me, I'm calling Mycroft. If you die on me now, I will never bloody forgive you."

The light from the crack is a faint, steady glow now. Smooth and bright. Sherlock makes a choking sound that faintly resembles John's name and in answer, John runs the pad of his thumb over Sherlock's lips. "Shhh. Sherlock, don't talk. Stop. Just keep your eyes on me. Eyes on me Sherlock. Oh thank God." John nearly drops the phone in his relief. "Mycroft, its your brother. He's gone and almost killed himself. Some blue light came out of the wall and it just fucking- no Sherlock, don't close your eyes. Don't you dare close your eyes."

"John, I need you to remain calm. Tell me exactly what has happened."

Sherlock's eyelids have drooped even further, and he makes one last effort to catch hold of John, grasping desperately at his sweater with heavy joints. He manages to pinch the fabric lightly, and then his hand smacks to the ground. There is a flash and he is gone. Sherlock just disappears. John stares, jaw slack, at the emptiness in front of him, deaf to the smooth tone of Mycroft's placid tones (seeping a light suggestion of tension) in his left ear. When he finally gets his voice back, it crawls out of his throat, to a now silent Mycroft at the other end. "He's gone. He just-" John chokes slightly and he struggles to comprehend, dragging his hand through the space, grasping for the heavy press of a body that is no longer there. "He just disappeared."

And then Mycroft's voice appears, sharp and cold and interrogating.

"Who is this? How did you get this number?"

John doesn't even register the questions, all he can hear are his own words pounding with the blood in his ears, gone gone gone gonegonegonegone gone gone gone. And his thumb (still heavy with the suggestion of warm lips, stubble-rough skin) slips against the red button to end the call. His limbs are heavy, but his arms can only accept the impossible, and the emptiness of the room is crawling up his back. And John has never run away from anything in his life before, but he is running now, pushing through the team outside the door, shoving aside the yells of Lestrade and he is running, running, running. Because Sherlock is gone, gone, gone.

Well wasn't that just lovely.

Don't worry, the Doctor will be along to attempt to fix things soon. Yup. So yes.