John whipped his head around in time to see Sam's fist plunge into Sherlock's face. Before Sam could break away and raise his machete over Sherlock, John grappled him around the shoulders. They went tumbling down on the concrete, the flailing of Sam's machete knocking over a nearby bucket of entrails. They spilled onto the floor like a thick soup, sprawling out across the ground as the both John and the murderer struggled to regain control.

"You dumb sod," Sam growled out, slithering out of John's grasp and striking with the machete. It made a hard sound against the concrete.

"I knew you'd show up eventually. After the little slip-up. You and Sherlock Holmes. I've read about you, you know. You should really learn to mind your own business."

The machete came down again.

John caught the shaft with the flat of his arm and parried it. In the few moments that Sam was thrown off balance under the force of deflection, John scrambled to his feet. He almost lost his balance on a slippery footing of animal intestines, but was ultimately able to pace back a few steps from Sam. He reached around to his side pocket.

No gun. Why hadn't he brought the gun?!