Sherlock and John walked out of the pub on a Friday night. John was completely wasted, stumbling, almost on the edge of vomiting. He was a wreck. Sherlock, on the other hand was perfectly okay since he doesn't drink very often. John's arm was wrapped around the taller man's neck as he helped the shorter one walk straight.
Sherlock had a feeling though, feeling that something terrible is going to happen. He craned his neck, hushed John's babbling, and listened carefully to the empty streets of London at 1am. He forcefully pushed John into the cab.
"Are you going to be alright alone?" Sherlock asked John, who was already half asleep, "I'm going to walk and of course you can't."
He gave Sherlock a funny look. Sherlock knocked on the cabbie's window and informed him, "I hope you can deal with him, he's a bit intoxicated. The address is 221B Baker street." The cabbie gave Sherlock a knod and drove off.
Now, I can concentrate. Sherlock thought to himself. Nothing really seemed to happen though, sometimes his instincts do backfire. He can feel it though, a presence that someone is in danger. And of course Sherlock shouldn't care. Why would he care? Caring is not an advantage, is what his brother, Mycroft Holmes would always say.
Sherlock took a few more steps, the flat was just around the corner until he heard a rustling and a thud echoing in the nearby ally across the street. There it is, the woman in danger. The murder that Sherlock was just thinking about. What is he doing standing there? Get her! Sherlock did what his very weak and negleted conscience told him to do. His long legs sprinted across the the street.
"HEY!" His voiced boomed down the ally. The murderer ran away before he could catch him. Sherlock bent over the injured girl who was on the ground, against the wall.
"Are you okay, are you hurt?" He asked, the girl knodded, guesturing her hand over her side. "Can I look?" Sherlock asked. The girl was obviously too weak to speak but he knew what she was trying to say. He carefully lifted her hand off the wound, revealing an ugly gash. "Please hang on a while longer, I'll call the police." Sherlock pulled his phone out and dialed Lestrade's number. He takes extra shifts on Friday nights.
---
Lestrade's police force and the paramedics arrived in the matter of minutes. The paramedics rolled the girl into the ambulance while Lestrade was asking Sherlock questions.
"Which way did the killer go?" Lestrade asked.
"Left." Sherlock guestured his hand down the pavement.
"And did you ask for her name?"
"No." Lestrade held his head in his hand.
"You're coming with me tomorrow morning to the hospital to ask the girl a few questions. I hope that's not a problem."
"Not at all Detective Inspector." Sherlock replied.
"10am sharp. BE THERE!" Lestrade pointed at him, walking back to the police vehicle. Sherlock knodded and walked towards the his flat. He felt good for once. Like if he did the right thing and he was actually proud of it.
Sherlock arrived back at his flat not long after. John was passed out on the floor. Sherlock stepped around him, trying not to disturb the sleeping drunk and made it to his bedroom. Of course Sherlock didn't sleep because he wasn't that kind of person but he did have many hours to think to himself before falling to sleep for only a short time.
