Yes. That was what that feeling was. Sheer and utter panic. Sherlock didn’t understand why that was what his mind latched onto, but during this moment it was perhaps appropriate, considering how it was the scene of a bloody car crash, one that involved his best frie- boy friend: John.
Many cars on the street were overturned, one of them being John’s car (2014 Mercedes-Benz E-Class E350, windows on the right cracked under pressure of impact, the left completely shattered, caving of the left side of the car shows that the truck had hit the car at about 90 kilometers an hour, due to the width and depth, causing the car to flip over, but had been slowed down from the original speed from the repeated impacts with numerous cars before John’s, as could be told by the first few cars that had been in the way) and a truck, most likely the one that had rammed into all of them, lay off to the side, being the only vehicle right-side up.
The consulting detective’s mind spun as his brain quickly made deductions for everything going on, but there was quite a lot going on, and he could feel symptoms of sensory overload coming on. He quickly dismissed them, however, as there was much more important things to do. He began to fidget with his coat buttons as he sprinted towards the scene, his scarf’s end fluttering behind him.
What Sherlock found odd was the lack of a driver for said truck, but he quickly reasoned that the man had already been caught and turned in by the police thanks to his rapid observations from his look-over (burly figure, 6 feet, wearing an unpopular rock band t-shirt, most likely his from his old college days as shown from the numerous stains that Sherlock didn’t want to mention, being shoved against one of the numerous police car’s door) and ran toward John’s car.
Emergency dispatch hadn’t been moving as quickly as he would have liked, so he decided to take matters into his own, perfectly not-so-capable hands. As much as he would have liked to debate over his certifications at hand, someone important to him was dying, and so he must take action immediately. He took a vow to protect both Mary and John, and one of the two died for him, so if he had to die of the last of the two, he would.
Sherlock began to run over to the right side of the car that faced the opposite direction that the police officials were in. He immediately fell to a crouching position, and peered through the cracked windows, trying to find John. He soon found the man, perfectly conscious through the glaze of pain through his eyes, and knocked on the car door gently, as to not disturb the glass but to catch John’s attention.
“John!” Sherlock called, and John slowly nodded in a quite pained response. “I’m going to get you out of there, and I need you to listen to me and do precisely as I say. Understood?”
John gave a weak smirk, inciting a feeling such as pity in Sherlock’s chest that mingled with the panic like old friends. Sherlock was so glad that he had stored the information into his mind palace since the taxi cab killings, as he never knew when another vehicle-based case would appear. He rummaged through his coat pockets to pull out a glass-breaker, something he always kept on him. “Al-alright, John, I need you to tell me if you’ve been injured.” John gave him a look that said, ‘Seriously?’
“Oh, do stop giving me that look, I never expected for me to be getting my damn lover out of a turned-over car! Now, are you injured? Any internal wounds, any wounds I can’t see?”
John nodded. He choked out, “I got bashed around a bit, got cut by the bloody explosion of glass from the other side. That’s about it. I’m just stuck.”
Sherlock was satisfied with that answer, as he didn’t need to worry about John being seriously hurt. The car seemed stable enough, he took note of when placing a hand on the side of the car, not looking as if it could flip at any second like some of the other, more seriously impacted cars, so he knew he could be less meticulous for small trembles in the vehicle. “You have your pocket-knife with you at the moment, correct?” He really hoped so, since John always brought it around with him in case of an emergency. His lover nodded once more, his face turning red from the blood flow going to his head.
“I’m going to need you to cut the seatbelt. Wait!” John paused in bringing out his knife. “Just know that when you cut the seatbelt, you will fall head first onto the roof of the car. Can you try to put yourself into a- a, uh, what was it called? Oh yes, a military press position.”
He did as instructed and began to saw away at the belt, and Sherlock waited with bated breath for John to crash onto the roof of the car, which he soon did after a few minutes. He asked for John to turn his head, as he was going to break the glass and get him out, and John did so too.
He used the glass breaker and watched as it rained down millions of tiny glass shards. Sherlock tugged on his thick leather gloves and began to swat the glass away from John’s car. When he deemed it ready for John to get out, he made John turn his torso toward him, and pulled him out through the window by his shoulders.
When the both of them were secure and away from the damn car, they met each other’s eyes and both began to chuckle together in both relief and most likely hysteria.
“We really have been through it all, huh, Sherl?” John wheezed in laughter, but winced in pain after (one of his bruised ribs ached) his side hurt.
Sherlock smiled in response, and brushed a stray curl from his own face. “Yes, indeed.” As he gazed on at the chaotic scene unfolding in front of him with police officers and ambulances and crying people, the symptoms of sensory overload came back, and this time, he let them sweep over him, mumbling a quick “I’m gonn’ pass out, too many people” to John before he blacked out and collapsed on the pavement.
John sighed, and waved over a paramedic.
"I have a few bruised ribs, and this man has suffered from a bout of sensorial overload. If you would kindly take us to the hospital, that would much be appreciated." The paramedic nodded, unsure, but did as John asked anyways after John stated his position in the army. As the three of them sat in the back of the ambulance together, Sherlock laying on the roller, John gently pet Sherlock's hand, and sighed.
What a normal day for the two of them.