The shot rang out in the auditorium, the bang echoing off the walls, drilling the sound into John's eardrums. The bullet soared through the air, across the room, coming to hit Sherlock squarely in the chest, missing his heart by a couple feeble inches. John heard Sherlock thump to the floor and ran blindly in the dark room to the sound of Sherlock's labored breathing. He heard the criminal's feet hit the floor and another shot rang out, but John had no idea where it would land. Halfway to Sherlock, something hit him in the back so hard, he fell over.

Then there was pain, hot, angry, searing pain. I've been shot, too. John realized. He had to get to Sherlock, he pushed the pain out of his mind and forced himself to listen, since he couldn't see a thing. There was the clattering, fading footsteps of the criminal running away and Sherlock's labored breathing about two feet away. John, painfully, got on his hand and knees and concentrated all his energy on crawling over to Sherlock.

Once he got to Sherlock, he pulled out his phone and directed the feeble light onto Sherlock's body. There was a small hole in his chest, but his blood was gushing out of it as fast as it could. John sent a text to Lestrade through a daze and put the phone away. He shed his jacket, throwing it to the side, and shirt, bunching it into a ball. He found Sherlock's wound with his fingers and put his bunched up shirt over it. Then, trying very hard not to pass out from the pain and strain, he put all his weight and energy into putting pressure on the shirt, to stop Sherlock from bleeding to death.

I felt like John sat there for hours trying to stop the bleeding and fight the darkness threatening to take him. He was exhausted and sweating from the effort, but he knew he couldn't keep this up for long. He heard a beep from his phone, but didn't dare move his hands from Sherlock wound to check it. Suddenly, he heard sirens in the distance, getting closer every second. John could feel he'd pass out any minute. I can do this. I just need to hold on for a couple more minutes and then the police can take me and Sherlock to the hospital. John thought panicked. But it felt like hours until he saw Lestraude running through the blue, double doors and he blacked out.

. . .
When John awoke, he was lying on a cot in a speeding ambulance. He looked to his right and saw Sherlock lying on a separate cot next to his. Sherlock's skin had turned a grayish-white at the loss of all that blood and an IV was strapped to his wrist. John could just faintly hear his labored breathing, the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest was virtually undetectable. Someone had taken off his scare, jacket, and shirt, exposing Sherlock's tightly-bound chest. The bandages were going from white to light pink and even though they were tightly wrapped around Sherlock's upper body, some blood still managed to slip it's way under the bandages. John shifted slightly and winced. His middle section was also bound tightly with bandages, but not quite as heavily and Sherlock's. He had a flash back to when his arm had been shot in the war, but shook it out of his mind. He didn't want to think about it. He noticed a small nurse sitting next to Sherlock's cot looking at him worriedly. He tried to sit up and ask about Sherlock, but the pain that shot up his back made him black out again.
. . .
Again, John awoke in a cot, but the amount of white dazzled him momentarily. White walls, white floors, white drapes, white sheets, white tools, white tables, white everything. Once he regained his sight he knew exactly where he was A hospital John thought immediately, there's no other place I could be. The first thing that he noticed was that there was no Sherlock. Where's Sherlock? John screamed in his head panicked and worried. He tried to sit up, but the pain made him groan and collapse.

"Take it easy, John." Said a soft voice. John's head shot to the left side of his bed, startled. He turned toward the D.I. and, ignoring the pain, sat up and faced him.

"Lestraude? What are you doing here? Where's Sherlock?" John said quickly in a raspy voice, chocking on Sherlock's name. His throat felt soar as though he hadn't talked in years. Lestraude handed him he class of water on his bedside table saying.

"Here, Drink this. It'll help your throat." John gulped it down as fast as he could, feeling refreshed.

"Well?" asked John, his voice better, but not completely back to normal. Lestraude looked exhausted and his stomach rumbled quietly from lack of food. He looked pained and worried.

"I came here after I wrapped up the crime scene to check on you and Sherlock. I've had to keep swiching rooms every other day. Sherlock's in the Emergency Room a couple halls to the left." He said slowly, letting the last sentence sink in. John barely let a second pass between Lestraude's answer and his next set of questions.

"How is Sherlock? How long have we been here? When can we leave?" he said quickly. Lestraude leaned back in his chair.

"You and Sherlock have been here for two days. They cleaned your wound and gave you surgery the first day and you slept here through the second. The stiches have had enough time to sit, so you can leave any time you want as long as you take painkillers every couple of hours." Here Lestraude paused and sighed. He leaned forward and out his head in his hands. "Sherlock on the other hand isn't doing very well. He woke up when they were starting to clean his wound, but he refused to let them touch it. He snarled and threw a fit losing more blood in the process. The doctors didn't want to risk it so they backed off. In the end they came to an agreement where Sherlock would let them change his bandages and administrate him painkillers. He keeps telling them he wants you. He wants you to fix his wound and decide what the doctors do." Lestraude looked at John grimly. "He won't last much longer if he doesn't get treatment. Three days at most..." Lestraude broke off. John had gone white.

"What room is he in?"

"441."
John grabbed the shirt on his bedside table, jammed it on his head, an bolted out the door of his room. He ran. He ran because his life depended on it. He ran until he saw a room with the golden numbers 441 gleaming on it's white door. He opened the door and rushed in. Sherlock was lying on a cot, the IV still attached to his wrist. His grayish-white skin gleaming with sweat, his bandages a rosy red. His eyes were darting behind closed lids, his hands clenched, his muscles tight, and his veins popping. The monitors attached to him were blaring and a nurse was trying to calm them down. John plumped down on a chair beside Sherlock's bed and whispered "Oh, Sherlock." John reached out and put his hand over Sherlock's. Sherlock's muscles clenched tighter and his heart beat faster sending the machines into a full out frenzy and making the nurse cry out. John ignored the nurse and the machines. He scooted closer to Sherlock so his whisper would carry to him.

"Shhhh, Shhhh. Sherlock, it's me. John. I'm here, calm down. It'll be all right.." He repeated this a couple times and Sherlock's muscles slowly relaxed, his heart beat slowed, ans his eyes became still under their lids. The machine became quiet and the nurse turned to John panting and looking bewildered. John had no idea if Sherlock had heard him or if the fit had just passed. The nurse walked over to John and looked at him.

"Excuse me." She said, clearing her throat. "Who are you?" John had been looking at Sherlock, lost in his thoughts. Her words jerked him out of his ravine, startling him. He strongly felt like she was intruding, though he wasn't sure why.

"What? Oh, um, I'm Doctor John Watson. I'm Sherlock's, Sherlock's flatmate." John said quietly looking back at Sherlock after he talked. He felt like the word flatmate was wrong. They were so much more. He couldn't describe it. It's like they were somewhere between Best Friends and the unknown. They always introduced each other as colleagues, but John felt like that was wrong too. The nurse was looking at him surprised, but pleased.

"So you're the doctor he's been going on about. Well, Thank God you're finally here. He won't let us do a thing to him and he's not gonna last much longer without treatment." She looked at Sherlock exasperated and annoyed. Sherlock stirred, He opened his eyes and saw John sitting next to him. He smiled slightly as he looked up into John's worried face.

"Good, my doctor's here. Now get to work and fix me up doc." Sherlock said softly, his skin paleing slightly from the effort. John smiled.

"Alright, Sherlock." John said, reassurance and worry sharing his voice. Sherlock nodded and fell unconscious again. John let og of his hand and started to clean Sherlock's wound.

"How's he been?" He asked the nurse, who was watching him steadily.

"Not good. He can only stay awake for a few minutes at a time and he has fits in his sleep. They usually go on for ten minutes and all we can do is to wait for it to pass, but I must say you calmed him down faster than anything we tried could." Here she paused and gave John a thoughtful look. "We've managed to stop most blood from leaving his body, but he lost a lot of blood to begin with. In addition, he refuses to eat." She finished irritated at the way Sherlock had been acting. John's worry grew and he nodded. Over the next couple of hours John examined and cleaned Sherlock's would, talked to other doctors about Sherlock's options, and observed Sherlock on the monitors. The bullet had severed a main artery and a couple capillaries. He had lost so much blood that it was a miracle he was still able to breathe. When he was unconscious, Sherlock sometimes had fits where his heart beat faster, his eyes rolled behind their lids, his fists clenched, his muscles tightened, his veins popped, and he sent the monitors in a frenzy. In these cases John sat next to him, help his hand, and whispered
"Shhhh, Shhhh. Sherlock, it's me. John. calm down, It'll all be alright." and Sherlock would relax.

Over the day John was able to coax Sherlock into eating and his natural skin tone returned. He was able to stay conscious for longer amounts of time, He was able to move easier (though he was confined to his bed), and he seemed more alert. They had scheduled Sherlock's surgery for 11 O' Clock the next morning. That nigt when everyone, except John, was leaving for the night a Doctor Griffith approached John.
"Ahem, Doctor Watson could I please speak to you in the hallway?" Dr. Griffith said politely, but nervously. Slightly unnerved, John nodded and followed him into the hallway.
"Yes?" John said fidgeting slightly
"Well, Dr. Watson, I wanted to talk to you about Mr. Holmes' surgery." He paused and John thought it was weird to refer to Sherlock as Mr. Holmes. "I know you're close to Mr. Holmes' and I wanted to warn you. A lot of things can go wrong in surgery since the wound is so close to his heart. I just don't want you to be surprised if something goes wrong tomorrow. I want you to know what you're getting into." Dr. Griffith finished nervously. It was obvious he hadn't wanted to be the one who had tell John. John wasn't surprised, he was a doctor after all. He had heard of accidents and things happening in surgery. He had been worrying about it for a couple hours now.
"Thank you, Dr. Griffith. I know the risk, but we don't really have a choice. I understand your concern, though." John replied politly, hiding his worry. Dr. Griffith nodded at John and walked down the hall, rounded a corner, and vanished
John leaned against the wall and took some steadying breaths before re-entering the room next to Sherlock. He had woken up while John was in the hall talking to Dr. Griffith. John smiled at him and was glad he had awaken and they were finally alone. Now, he flet like they could really talk.
"How are you feeling?" John asked Sherlock; he couldn't keep the worry from creeping into his voice.
"Fine, fine." Sherlock said, waving off the question. A silence crept over them and John had a mental war between whether or not he should tell Sherlock that he could die tomorrow. He decided on the former.
"Um, Sherlock?" John said, Nervous and squirming
"Hm?"
"I feel you have a right to know...you could die tomorrow.." John said breaking off. He felt guilty. Sherlock had gone pale and rigid, his eyes wide and his muscles taut. John could see Sherlock's walls cracking with the four words.
"Why?" Sherlock whispered stiffly, his lips barely moving. John leaned back and closed his eyes
"Because your wound is so close to your heart, things can accidentally happen in surgery. The might puncture a necessary vein or a fatal substance can enter the blood stream, stuff like that. " John said softly. His throat tightened, he didn't want to think about Sherlock dieing. John opened his eyes and gazed at Sherlock. He hadn't moved, but John could see his mind working inside his head and he could see the fear flitting through his eyes. This surprised John, but he made no comment.
"Oh, love, we're gonna make it out. It'll be alright." John said softly, but reassuringly putting his hand over Sherlock's. Sherlock visibly relaxed. John's hand was so soft and warm, his voice was so calm. It felt like someone had wrapped Sherlock in a soft, warm blanket of serenity and he smiled at being called "love". John had never called him "love" before, but the way he said the word was just...right. He realized he couldn't get through this without John. Sherlock turned and gazed at John.
"I don't want to be alone." He said in a chocked whisper
"You won't have to be." John said tightening his grip on Sherlock's hand. Sherlock smiled down at him and his eyes pleaded with John.
"...Stay with me." Sherlock said softly. His hands were shaking and he was honest to god scared.
"Until the end." John replied without hesitation. He kissed Sherlock on the forehead and sat next to him on his cot.
. . .
The next morning John woke next to Sherlock. They were leaning against each other in the same position that had been when they fell asleep. Sherlock looked so peaceful, laying there. He looked...vulnerable. John felt like it was his job to protect Sherlock, now. He knelt down next to Sherlock ans prayed Please God Let Him Live.

In the hours until Sherlock's surgery was filled with doctors and nurses checking on Sherlock and getting him ready. At 10:30 a doctor came into sedate Sherlock so he'd be unconscious form the operation.
"Stay inside my line of sight. Don't look away. If this is gonna be my last glimpse of the world, my last glimpse of anything, I want it to be of you." Sherlock whispered to John , low enough so nobody else heard. John nodded trying desperetly not to cry. He had to be strong for Sherlock. They looked at each other intently for a while, their eyes saying everything words couldn't, until Sherlock closed his eyes to a smiling, shiny-eyed John. Moments later they wheeled him away to the operation door with John holding Sherlock's hand 'till the last possible second.
. . .
John paced the hallway outside for half-an-hour before Dr. Griffith appeared looking grim. John turned to him, but the look on his face made John's heart sink.
"Well?" John asked desperately, his voice cracking. Dr. Griffith looked down at his feet.
"In the middle of the operation," said taking a deep breath,"his heart just stropped. We had no warning or anything, it just stopped. I have no idea what went wrong, but the only explanation is that some bone marrow got into his blood stream and stopped his heart. I'm so sorry." John crumpled to the floor. He had no words, just tears and emptiness.
. . .
A week later, John was in a cab on the way to the funeral. His blond hair was disheveled and he hadn't shaved in a couple days. The stubble on his chin was slowly growing and he had lost a few pounds because he had eaten in many days. He was looking out the window without really seeing, feeling, or thinking. His hearing had become like a radio, tuning in and out for certain conversations. A girl's voice came on the radio and John recognized the song immediately. He heard it when he first met Sherlock and it had reminded him deeply of his beloved friend and the situation john had been in when he first met him. Now some of the lyrics reflected his feeling now. He let the lyrics and her voice wash over him.

You took the wind right out of my sail

set it on fire

and watched as I fell

oh life you know that

you're bringing me down

Holding me under

to watch me

drown...

I've been coming up short

here on the road

so far from anything I could know

and I need your voice singing out loud

calling me u just to say you're proud...

Take me away

Take me away

'cause I wanna know where you are

It's been so long

I started falling apart

You were so strong

said it would all fall in place

If I followed my heart...

John looked to his right and he could almost see Sherlock sitting next to him, smiling down at him. He saw Sherlock point toward the sky and say
"I'm up there John, just follow the star."
John looked up and saw a star shinning brightly even though it was day time, he looked next to him, but Sherlock was no longer there.