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It's sometime after midnight on a friday night and John Watson is running across a rooftop after his insane flatmate who is chasing a desperate murderer.
He has his gun in his hand, because their prey has already shot at them twice, the first bullet just a sharp crack beside his right ear and the second, a ricochet off a cement siding that struck sparks and sharp bits of shrapnel across his left cheek.
This is where Sherlock's madness is the struck match to the spilled gasoline of his own insanity. Never mind the cold drench of terror that violence always births; never mind the righteous anger he feels toward this butcher of innocents; never mind the blood and the ache and the sting of his wounds, old and new, he can't deny it, he *loves* this. The exhilaration of risking everything to win it all, the visceral joy of action. He hates it too. The heart-stopping moment before he know's they've both survived, the foreknowledge of how devastating the inevitable losses will be. But this: Love and hate stripped of everything but the adrenaline, the breath and blood of him pumping hard, the clench of his jaw, the clarity of his mind at these moments:
This moment:
The killer reaches the lip of this flat roof and un-hesitating, launches himself, flailing through the air to land hard on the adjacent roof. He skids in the gravel, stumbles, turns even as he's falling, weapon in hand, back towards Sherlock who, now at that same rooftop's edge, no less confident than his quarry, leaps -- a graceful grand jete, coat billowin -- is in mid air when John sees the muzzle flash, hears the crack of the bullet leaving the gun.
His own next steps shake him with their force. He sees Sherlock's flight abruptly stopped just short of landing, the crude opposing force imparted by the bullet spinning him gracelessly out of momentum's natural arc and gravity's merciless hand snatches him from the air. Sherlock disappears from view and John, one knee dragged on the tar and gravel, the other a brace for hand and gun (already coming into position as his forward motion stops.)
The killer has recovered from his skidding fall, rolled to his feet, and squeeze off another shot that goes wide from lack of care as he turns away and starts to run. John has a clear shot now. He takes the necessary seconds to aim, breathe in, breathe out, and squeeze. A perfect shot only the target has banged through the door that will lead down from the rooftop to the stairs. John's bullet follows him through the door but there's no way to tell if he's hit or dead or running free. John cannot bring himself to care. He's up again and running to the edge.
They're four stories up. A fall is survivable, perhaps, but the likelihood of spinal injury is--
Sherlock is clinging by his left arm, to the outside railing of the fire-escape two floors below. His right arm hangs uselessly. He is attempting to swing his right leg up on to the edge of the stairs but without proper leverage (and likely with the onset of some degree of physical shock) his leg gains no purchase and slips repeatedly off, leaving him swinging ever more precariously.)
"Sherlock," John yells, hoarsely. "Hang on."
"John," Sherlock gasps, almost losing what's left of his grip as he jerks his head back to see John. "Did you get him?"
"I don't bloody know," John calls back, half-mad with frustration. "For God's sake, Sherlock..." So many things he wants to say, but time is of the essence.
It could be a matter of seconds or of minutes before Sherlock loses his tenuous hold on the railing. It won't be more than that.
John looks at the ridiculous distance between the rooftops -- it has to be over two and a half metres across, a distance vaultable by Sherlock's and even the killer's long legs but not his, not even as pumped up as he is, not even with a good long run up to the edge. He'll have to sprint down the four flights of stairs to the ground level, hop across the alley, get the bloody ladder down to the ground and dash up the three flights of stairs to where Sherlock was already losing his one-handed grip.
"Right," he says, running back the way he came…
…until he has what seems like enough runway for his flight. He'll never make it all the way to the other roof, but if he's lucky he might get as far as the fire escape just below it. The chances of missing are pretty high but this, this moment, this instant between one breath and the next, this trigger squeeze…
John's legs are already pounding out his forward motion and with a shout he's over the edge and tracing the path of his own non-Sherlockian trajectory -- up, up, a pause at the highest point of the arc where he can feel the bottom drop out before it does and then, inescapably down.
God, he hates this. He loves this.
He laughs as he falls.