His brain actually has to play catch up; everything slows, molasses thick and he’s underwater and a thousand different metaphors for not being of right mind and body. Limbs heavy, heart racing but somehow, miraculously stopped and everything drags and hangs and pulls from moment to moment.
It is gray, nearly everything is gray and it takes a long beat before John’s eyes stop rolling in his head and he’s able to gaze on the scene properly. A quiet sort of spectacular carnage. He imagines Sherlock, for a second, a fraction of-”Oh John, oh brilliant, look at this… this madness!” tearing off towards the stained sidewalk with confident, excited strides.
He sees Sherlock seeing his own crime scene. And, bloody fuck…