You and Sherlock

Can I Please Just Eat My Dinner?

There really was no other option, you told yourself as your feet pounded against the pavement, shins throbbing. If Sherlock had gone alone -- and you knew he would have -- there's really no telling what could happen. He could be hurt, you thought, vaulting yourself up stairs. You listened and watched as the taxi had driven off and Sherlock had figured out how best to catch the cab. Unfortunately, that meant a lot of running. A little behind, you heard John huffing and sprinting after you.

And anyway, you'd already run outside when Sherlock had haphazardly taken off and promptly been hit by a car. You tried to tell yourself that you were merely a little alarmed because you would be upset by any person getting hit by a car, but that wasn't quite true, was it? Your heart had quite literally stopped in your chest, and your breath got caught somewhere in your throat.

Not that your concern mattered, because Sherlock simply rolled over the bonnet and twisted back to beckon you to him. As the driver of the car slammed his horn, you'd skirted around the car to Sherlock's side.

John came up to you and Sherlock as the three of you watched the cab pull away.

"I've got the cab number," he painted out. Sherlock glanced at John flatly.

"Good for you."

You elbowed Sherlock and he caught you arm before bringing it down to your side, his face a mask of concentration. And then the commands were rapidly flowing out of his mouth.

"Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." He lifted his head and glanced over your shoulder. And then, his hand still gripping your arm, Sherlock Holmes was once again dragging you behind him.

You shook off his grip when Sherlock shoved a man out of a doorway, and you paused to apologize on Sherlock's behalf before chasing Sherlock up the stairs. Somewhere behind you,
John was pounding his way up the stairs as well, and then you followed Sherlock out onto the roof.

"Come on, John," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he checked to make sure you and John were still with him. And then Sherlock was running again,  flying over and sliding down metal stairs and then scrambling to the next building. You followed him almost blindly, not even stopping to consider the ramifications of your actions when you leapt across a gap between two rooves and stumbled. 

Heart stopping you almost missed Sherlock whirling around and catching your arm before he looked up at John, who was hovering uncertainly at the precipice, staring down at the gap.

"Come on, John. We're losing him!" Sherlock yelled, aggravated, and you watched John back up and then make the jump. Once he landed, you were running again, gliding down stairways and flinging yourselves off ledges and into alleyways before picking up the pace and sprinting again.

You needed to exercise more, you thought to yourself. This type of habit was not something you could uphold; your breath was coming in short spurts and your calves positively burned. This was why you'd gone to medical school, you reminded yourself, instead of becoming a personal trainer. Sherlock barrelled down the alleyway toward D'Arblay Street, and then you and he both emerged from the alley just in time to watch the taxi drive past the end, turning left.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock exclaimed angrily, not even breaking his stride as he suddenly veered right. You marveled at his ability to speak clearly as you doubted you'd be able to get more than a word or two out without gasping.  "This way, Y/N," he shouted, not turning to look at you, and then when John instinctively turned left, Sherlock yelled, "No, this way!"

"Sorry." John gasped out, turning to follow you and Sherlock. The three of you headed down more alleyways and side streets, running until you thought your lungs would burst and then running more. And then Sherlock was hurling himself ahead of you, into the street, and crashing into another car bonnet. You swore, cursing Sherlock and the taxi driver as the brakes squealed in protest. You worry turned out to be unnecessary; Sherlock scrabbled off the bonnet and reached into his left coat pocket, pulling out an I.D. badge that looked suspiciously similar to Lestrade's.  Sherlock flashed it at the driver as he ran to the right side of the cab.