EmmaPH

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John shouted as he ran up the stairs to Sherlock’s room. John had been sitting in his armchair when he heard a loud bang from Sherlock’s room. He opened the door, revealing an empty bed, with the covers pulled half-off. Sherlock’s head suddenly popped up from under the sheets while laying on the floor. “John?” he whispered, rubbing his hand over the back of his head. “My God, Sherlock, what have you done?” John knelled next to his friend, helping him to sit on the bed. He looked at Sherlock, who winced a bit. “Can I have a look at it, Sherlock?”

"John!" John's head popped up, looking for the owner of the voice. Sherlock ran in to the room at the exact same moment. There was a excited glint in his eyes and a grin plastered on his face. "Yes, darling?" John asked, folding his paper as he was already preparing to leave. "I've been summoned. We've got a case!" Sherlock said enthusiastically. He was practically squealing. John sighed and went to grab his coat. Sherlock wore his already and was putting on his scarf. He gave John just enough time to grab the brown leather jacket before grabbing his sleeve, pulling the doctor with him down the stairs. "Come on, John! We need to get to Lestra

Sherlock was laid out on the couch in his usual position. He was wearing his lazy pajamas and his blue dressing gown that matched. John had gone out to do the shopping so now Sherlock was simply scrolling through Lestraude's text messages on his phone. It was a sad thing when the detective could solve all the cases with only text messages and photos from the crime scene. He was writing down a solution for a murder case, it definitely was an easy one, when he heard John coming up with approximately 4.2 pounds of groceries. "Don't worry about me, I can manage…" He heard from the kitchen. There was something off about John's voice. Norm

Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered as he opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was a numb feeling of pain in his leg. He looked around. White, sterile room, two chairs, a few hoses and… Mycroft? Ah, two red-coloured bags on the left side of the bed told him that there had been a transfusion. (Had he lost so much blood? He couldn't remember.). So they would have needed a relative of his. That was probably the reason why Mycroft was here. He wasn't the sentimental type. But there was something odd. Why did he need a transfusion? He certainly hadn't been injured that badly. Mycroft coughed, as to tell Sherlock he knew that he was a

Sherlock tried to raise his head, but immediately an icy blast hit him. He pulled the collar of his shirt even higher. He walked quickly, sometimes pushing people out of his way. He had forgotten to bring his coat and scarf this morning because of the lovely weather. But the weather had changed dramatically, and he couldn't get a cab. That meant he had to walk two miles in the gushing wind and rain. In a linen, button-down shirt. He was shivering really badly, but he kept on walking. He tried to walk in an even quicker pace, and cursed the criminal he had been chasing. He had tried to shoot Sherlock, but instead of hitting the detective