Bullets
The gunshot tears through the air like solid glass and shatters the peace into a million shards. John's body jerks beside him and Sherlock hears a noise, a frightening noise, something between a groan and a shout, coming out of John's mouth. The man falls and slips silently out of Sherlock's grip that he has on his arm, a minutes ago talking to him face to face about something of importance. It doesn't matter now.
Sherlock blinks, because it has all happened so fast. He looks down at John's leaking body while stumbling back, making the noise he makes when everything is too much. He falls stupidly, catches himself on his bells and throws himself towards John. His dark, inkish locks drag against John's cheek as Sherlock leans over him, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. John's hand is suddenly there, pulling Sherlock's frantic ones away and smiling a stupid smile, and says with his eyes, "It's alright, mate."
Sherlock keels. No. No, please. Please no. His hands are shaking as he draws them up to hold John's face. Please god, no.
John is making noises of pain. Sherlock has often heard them coming from the lips of many people. He has never really cared, however cold that may seem. But from John, from Sherlock's John, it was the most terrifying thing he had ever heard in his unfeeling life.
The curls move up towards short, sandy strands, and they mingle and touch each other. Sherlock gathers John into his arms and pulls him in tight, as tight as he could, tighter than ever, and resolves never to let go. No, no. No.
These words seem to be making their way out of Sherlock's mouth now. "No, oh please, god. No. No, no, no, no. No."
John screws his face up like delicate paper. "Uhck, Sherl...it's okay, Sherlock. It's going to be okay, you git. Stop it, you're scaring me."
Sherlock says nothing. He closes his eyes, hard. Tears escape. He presses his mouth to John's eye. Nothing, nothing. Please, no. He cries while John dies.
"Oh, god. I - I..." John's breathing is laboured. He is stopping.
Sherlock draws a long, painful, shuddering breath through his tears. He squeezes the almost-broken body and presses his whole face against John's cheek. His exhale escapes in a huge ugly sob.
"Sherlock...you idiot. I'm sorry. So sorry."
Oh god, please no. "No, no no no no."
"I have to go. Listen, mate, you listen," John reaches up a weak shaking hand and puts it on Sherlock's head. "Love you. Okay?"
Sherlock's breathing stops too. With his last, John whispers, "You got that? All right?"
Sherlock nods minutely and tries to breathe, pulling his arms tighter and kissing everywhere on John's head that he could reach. His lips, his eyes, his nose, his forehead, his hair. "Alright."
John smiles, and everything stops.