A/N: Inspired by a Tumblr post my sherlography.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. He belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, the lucky bastards, as well as the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle. I just like to play with the characters. It's fun.
Sherlock ran down the alley as the sharp night-time January air bit into his skin. The suspect ahead quickly turned the corner ahead. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't lost John. As ever, his faithful friend was keeping up with him.
Sherlock hurtled around the corner into another alley. His eyes swept the narrow street that was riddled with litter. The other man was fast, a sprinter based on his muscle tone. Sherlock continued to pick his way through the obstacles until he reached the end of the alley. He looked both ways, searching for any sign that the man had come through this way. He had lost him. Disgusted, Sherlock turned to see where John was. The shorter man was nowhere in sight. Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused. John had been right behind him moments ago. Sherlock squinted, trying to pick out John's figure through the gloomy fog that had descended on the city. He still didn't see any sign of the other man.
Sherlock hesitated for a moment. If he continued, he might be able to catch up with the suspect. Still, it was not like John to just vanish. He sighed as he turned and started walking back down the alley. He probably had enough information for Lestrade to track the suspect down anyway.
The alley was darker than the main street was, but Sherlock's vision was sharp enough that he was able to make his way through the sea of garbage with little difficulty. He scanned the ground and the walls looking for any sign that the suspect had been this way, but there was nothing. It caused an uneasy twinge in Sherlock's chest. If they man hadn't come this way, where did he go?
Finally, he was nearly back to the first corner. There had been no sign of either man. Sherlock pulled his mobile out of the inside pocket of his coat and reluctantly pulled his glove off so he could dial John's number. For a moment, all he could hear was the dial tone. He was about to continue around the corner when John's ringtone burst out of the pile of rubbish behind him. A thrill of pure terror shot through him as he turned and slowly made his way around the pile of rubbish.
The first thing he saw was a foot enclosed in John's shoe. Sherlock hurried around to find John lying on the filthy alley floor, a puddle of blood extending from a dark red gash that ripped through John's favourite striped jumper and into his flesh.
Sherlock's phone dropped from his numb fingers as he sank to the ground next to John's body. The pavement tore through the knees of his trousers and the blood soaked into his clothes, but he didn't care. John-his loyal, faithful, beautiful John-was gone. He was pale, paler than Sherlock had ever seen him. The amount of blood on the pavement-there was no way he could have survived that.
Sherlock reached down and brushed his fingers against John's hand. So cold. The whole world vanished as Sherlock tried to comprehend what had happened. John couldn't be gone. What would he do? How could he possibly continue without his army doctor? The man that forced him to eat and made tea for him. The one that treated his injuries. The man who nagged him to take better care of himself. The man who backed him up, no matter what. His John, who had killed for him.
The enormity of what Sherlock had lost washed over him as he wrapped his arms around himself and buried his face in his knees, trying to shield himself. Something, anything, to keep him from feeling this never-ending emptiness.
There was a sharp gasp, and Sherlock's head jerked up sharply. John was looking at him. Looking. John was alive. But how was that possible?
Sherlock suddenly realized that John was still bleeding. He ripped the scarf from his neck and bunched it up before pressing it firmly against the gaping wound. John inhaled sharply but did not protest.
"Is this what it felt like?" he whispered to John. "For you? When I-oh god. John. I'm so sorry. I am so sorry." Sherlock broke off abruptly, unable to say anything else. How could he have put John through that? Sherlock ignored the tears that started to run down his cheeks as he continued to put pressure on the wound.
"Ambulance," John said weakly. Sherlock fumbled to pull John's phone out of his pocket and called 999. He quickly barked instructions to the dispatcher and dropped the phone next to him.
"John," Sherlock said, his fear showing clearly.
"Yeah, Sherlock," John mumbled weakly.
"Don't," Sherlock started, his voice trembling. "Please don't leave me."
John slowly raised his hand to wipe a tear from Sherlock's face.
"Never."