It was dark. Clouds swarmed in the sky like an angry nest of hornets. First, a few drops. Then a drizzle. Then a pouring rain that would make anyone run for shelter. Not Sherlock Holmes though, he was running straight into the eye of the storm.
His feet pounded against the slabs of pavement underneath him. The rain and wind slapped him in the face as if it had the strength of the ocean. He ran and ran until his feet could no longer bear the weight of his own body. Sherlock came crashing down with a thud.
His vision became blurry and a struggled scream ripped from this throat.
"Rosie!"
As if God himself was vexed with the situation, a loud clap of thunder shook the earth beneath Sherlock's feet. He fumbled to regain his footing and was off again. He ran for his dear life, for Rosamund's life. From the corner of his eyes, he saw him. A brute, shadowing figure turning into an even darker alleyway. Muffled screams came from the small child in his grasp. The man's strength and resistance finally gave way and the child easily slipped out of his grasp.
Sherlock's body moved on its own accord, first running to the little one then scooping her up in his arms. It wasn't a hug, no. He embraced her with all his might, shielding her from the unknown.
John wasn't far behind them, he had been watching guard a block away when he heard the gunshots and then a thrilling screech. He bolted towards the sound of pure terror. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, all he could think about when he was running was the thought of his little girl lying dead with a bullet through her head. John turned the corner and his heart dropped immediately. Lestrade's men had already surrounded the brute of a man who now on his knees with his hands behind his head.
There laid Sherlock, unconscious on the ground with bullet holes scattered all over his body. Two of Lestrade's men tended to Sherlock while another swept Rosie away from the horrific scene. John ran to Rosie on instinct and scooped her up. They stayed there for a minute, Rosie crying softly on her father's shoulder with John whispering soft reassurances into her ear.
"It's okay, Rosie. You're alright, no one'll hurt you now — daddy's got you." John stroked her hair while he brought her back to sanity.
"Papa, I don't want Shezza to die! Please tell me that he'll be alright," she sniffled. Her eyes were clouded with fear and worry. John glanced back at where Sherlock was to see a stretcher now carrying away his limp body. An oxygen mask was fastened over his mouth and his arm partially dangled off the stretcher while the medics tended to him. Guilt filled John's chest as he spoke, he hated lying to Rosie.
"Of course he will sweetheart, he'll be better in no time."
