Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to track down a murderer on your own.

The thought echoed in your head, sharper than the pain coursing through your leg. You could almost imagine Sherlock standing over you, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in that condescending way of his, lecturing you about how reckless—no, how utterly stupid—it was to hunt a serial killer at night, in the grimy underbelly of London. But there was no time to dwell on regret.

You gritted your teeth, dragging yourself toward the nearest wall. Its rough concrete scraped your back as you slumped down, your hands pressing hard against the bullet wound in your thigh. Blood oozed between your fingers, warm and sticky, staining the already filthy ground beneath you. The alley was eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of the city, and you couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh at the absurdity of it all. What a mess you’d gotten yourself into.

You exhaled slowly, pulling out your phone with trembling fingers. Scrolling through your contacts, you found Sherlock’s name. Who else could you call? Right now, he was your only shot at making it out of here alive. With a reluctant sigh, you pressed call.

It didn’t take long before his familiar voice, gruff and unimpressed, came through the line.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" he grumbled, as if you’d just woken him from an afternoon nap, rather than being in mortal danger. But before he could say more, you cut in, quickly explaining the situation between labored breaths.

The line went silent for a heartbeat. Then, in that sharp, no-nonsense tone you knew all too well, Sherlock responded.

"I’m coming."

And just like that, the call ended. You knew that when Sherlock said he was coming, he meant it. Right now, he was probably grabbing his coat, calculating the fastest route through London’s winding streets.