John's POV
I watched as Sherlock dropped to the floor clutching at the horrid, bleeding hole on his chest. I daresay that I have never known so much misery in my life as I feel now watching the face of my best friend contort in pain. I wanted to run to his side as quickly as I could, but the ground had me anchored and my legs would not move. To tell the truth, I despised the thought of crouching down next to the tragedy that would be embedded in my mind for the rest of my life. That feeling that I would never be able to loose or not feel. Scratching my eyes out would not even get rid of the sight. No, I stayed where I was in the dark alley. The rain had started to fall over me, but I couldn't feel it , nor could I smell it with the overwhelming iron scent that was clogging my nostrils.
Sherlock, my best friend. He needed me and I, horrible me, rejected him and all of his anguish. I almost believed for a vile moment that the excruciating hurt I felt was worse than the pain a bullet was giving so gracefully to Sherlock.
Had I not listened to his complaints and woes of not having an interesting case in days, we would not be here right now. Anguish would not be lingering in the air. Damn him and his woes. Such a wretched man he is. Mean, impatient and many other dislikable features.
I still could not move and the air around me became cold as I watched hurt consume him. He was on his knees reaching out to me. My hand twitched at my side in response, but that too was stuck.
Really, Sherlock only has himself to blame. People will say he deserved this. Deserved to be shot.
His eyes grow wide as he falls the rest of the way to the ground. I see him mouth my name and for the first time I am able to move.
My hands detach from my body and glance down at them. Crimson blood has coated my hands and my heart sinks. I feel the hole in my chest and pain explodes from me. Somehow I am on my side and I can feel the wet concrete against my skin. I raise my eyes up. Blurrily, they connect with Sherlock's. A man has his arm wrapped around his neck and Sherlock seems to have given up struggling.
Sherlock is unharmed. No blood drains from him and no bullet has penetrated him.
"John," Sherlock cries, an expression clouds his face that I have only seen a few times before from him. Fear.
Then I see the gun. The gun that shot a hole in me. The man holds it with shaking hands.
Realization hits me. Pain consumes me. And then I wake up.
A/N Please let me know what you thought.