A/N: I am aware that John is on the receiving end of these bad-happenings and can only apologise to the good doctor, but … well, I cannot help how the random ideas take form, heh.

Chapter 04: Those rooftop chases are such dangerous things … a serious-but-funny moment in John's life that is seriously not funny … Dedicated to all the lovely ladies in MHK for their kind welcome.

Sherlock © ACD and BBC

One Small Step

John followed the frayed jacket and woolly hat like a determined canine chasing a well-flung ball, the pounding thuds of his shoes hitting concrete interrupted only by the gaps between buildings.

And they weren't little gaps … no. They were wide, yawning pits of darkness which beckoned him each time he drew closer. His success at avoiding them, surprisingly, was credited to their fleeing target. Whenever he jumped, John jumped. The doctor never looked down … though who in their right mind would?

So far he was doing swimmingly. It wasn't every day – night – two companions took an evening jog up fire escapes and over rooftops chasing criminals. However in the life of Sherlock Holmes no day was ever the same.

Some distance behind him, Sherlock was shouting words of encouragement which did nothing to lessen John's nerves. He wanted to turn around and tell the detective to shut the hell up, but that would mean losing precious oxygen and sight of the frayed jacket which, apparently, belonged to the next potential Olympic long-jump champion.

John's advance on the man was only due to the fact that he had been the first to find him. Perhaps speaking with him on a rooftop had not been the best course of action, but when the guy fitted roofs for a living, well … it didn't take a genius to deduce where he spent most of his time. In hindsight, John probably should have waited until Sherlock had arrived. He regretted his actions now, and made a mental note that the next man he accused of murdering his wife would be a man who worked on the ground; at least then when he shot off John had a fair chance of catching him immediately.

Sherlock had joined the doctor mid-pursuit. He was still some ways behind, but that was okay. John had finally caught up with that woolly hat.

He closed the distance, an arm's reach from the man and his abominable jacket. He thrust out his hand, missed the material by a hair's breadth and went plunging down a gap the same instant their quarry vaulted over it. The cry that managed to escape his throat was abruptly cut like a live sound wire.

Oddly, comically, his first thought was, I'm flying! The revelation was brief, however, and the sickening, churning, undiluted fear that immediately followed was an emotion John never wanted to feel again. He heard Sherlock shouting his name, the voice clear and crystallised as it reflected the terror in his own veins. John closed his eyes so he couldn't see death approaching and prayed and pleaded and begged for a quick, painless end.

As it turned out, John's end wasn't quick ... in fact, his end wasn't an end at all.

Though it was painful. The impact shook his skeletal structure to its very core, and a yell was unceremoniously ripped from his vocal cords as his body collided with … something.

The doctor's next thought, rationally, was, I'm alive! By rights he should be paralysed or broken or dead – but he wasn't. He was alive. For one brief, ridiculous moment he mentally catalogued what he was going to do with his life in future that didn't involve rooftops … all those possibilities … going to church being one of them, as praying obviously worked and he had been spared death a second time. Yes, church, John considered, dazed; salvation, God … all things bright and beautiful. He would also seek out the owner of this wonderful vehicle and embrace him or her for their choice of parking location and this disgusting, dirty, smelly, beautiful mattress.

He had managed to roll over onto his back and was still lying in the lorry's skip when Sherlock found him, his footsteps echoing gloriously familiar on the other side of the metal box of heaven that had saved John's life.

"John."

Sherlock said his name without the terrified edge John had heard so plainly moments before; no doubt he had witnessed the doctor's 'safe' landing and any panic on his part had vanished.

John lifted a hand and rapped his knuckles against the side of the skip. "Here, Sherlock."

"You alright?"

No, I nearly had a fucking heart attack! … I think I still might have a heart attack. John shook his head, took a deep, shuddering lung full of air and breathed, "Yes."

There was movement to his right. Sherlock's head appeared over the edge of the skip.

John turned his head, met the detective's gaze. "Buckley?"

The curls shook briefly. "Gone."

"Go after him."

"No need. I've informed Lestrade … he could do with the exercise."

John exhaled and closed his eyes. "Right … sorry." He had no clue what he was apologising for. Between him being alive and Buckley escaping, he had no reason to doubt Sherlock wouldn't prefer the former.

After a moment Sherlock asked, "Can you move?"

John nodded.

"Can you climb out?"

"Probably … think I may have broken my wrist."

"Angle of the fall, no doubt."

John swallowed the laugh of tightened hysteria threatening to surface. He did not answer. Trust Sherlock to say the most irrelevant, unhelpful, unemotional thought that came to mind. They might as well have been discussing the weather.

There was another pause, then, "John?"

"What?"

"Whilst I appreciate you must be in some pain, you cannot stay in there forever. I suspect whoever owns this vehicle will not want to offload a doctor when it comes to emptying the skip."

John opened his eyes, stared at the detective. "You know … you're utterly crap at showing concern."

Sherlock seemed only mildly surprised at this. "Okay."

John laughed then; a mixture of shock, hysterical joy and relief washing over him. He sat up slowly, stiff and bruised and battered and alive, and extended his good hand to Sherlock. The detective grasped his wrist as John grasped his, and only the tightness of the grip and the slight tremble in Sherlock's fingers indicated to John that he felt anything at all.

~o~

End

~o~

A/N II: I actually checked online to see if there was a skip-lorry company based in London (unsure how common they are) … there is. :-) What can I say, I like to do my homework (though I don't advise jumping off any rooftops trying to locate their vehicle).