Hans Schmidt, wanted thief and murderer, fled down the alley, package in hand. The contents of the package were unknown, but of extreme value to Mycroft for some reason. Something about the security of the free world being once again threatened by careless people leaving valuable documents lying about. Either way, Sherlock had only agreed when he heard the name of the suspected thief who would no doubt try to leave London in the next few days.
Hans Schmidt had never been caught, but left enough evidence at his previous crime scenes that they were able to trace the fingerprints to his job record at a security firm, which he used to rob people before being found out. The prospect of catching him had been enough to intrigue Sherlock into agreeing.
The first bit of the case had been easy enough, mostly just tramping all over London to find clues. It had been early this morning, though, when Sherlock had found his breakthrough, and deduced where Schmidt would be likely to appear. They had been hiding near his hiding place - in an abandoned building that they couldn't enter without possibly losing him for good - ever since, disguised as hobos. There had been no sign of movement the entire day, until nightfall. When they both heard a scraping sound from the side of the building.
Sherlock casually lit a cigarette, strolling aimlessly down to that side of a building, playing the part of a homeless junkie to perfection. John, stationed on the other side, sitting against a building with an empty bottle in hand, placed his hand on his gun hidden in his coat. Schmidt was a murderer who killed for fun, and needed to be brought down at all possible costs.
The plan had been carefully thought through, their disguises perfected, and ensured that no word of it was leaked. But when Schmidt left the building, he took off running in the opposite direction down the alley without even having taken a glance at John or Sherlock. John immediately ran toward Sherlock, before they both raced down the alley together, before coming to a two-way split.
"Go left!" Sherlock ordered, cutting around to the other side. John nodded, pulling out his gun before racing down the alley after their target. He had just reached the dumpsters near the end, still trying to stick close to the wall, when a shot rang out. Darting behind a nearby bin, he aimed at the general direction of the shots and returned fire. At first, he didn't feel anything. Maybe a minor twinge from his shoulder acting up. But he ignored it, trying to keep Schmidt trapped against the alley.
But then one of the return fire bullets hit as he was leaning around the side of the dumpster to shoot. Instant blinding pain hit him as he realized that he had been shot. In the shoulder. Again. He had a brief flash of annoyance at the fact that it was the same shoulder, before his legs gave out and all his thoughts turned only to the consuming pain that racked his body.
He hit the dirty pavement just as Sherlock came racing up, a horrified look on his face. "John! Are you all right?" Sherlock demanded, as he knelt down beside him.
John could hear the footsteps of their Schmidt as he fled, and tried to get Sherlock to go after him. "Sherlock, he's getting away!"
But Sherlock refused. "I'm not leaving you!" Ignoring all of John's further attempts at getting him to leave, he took off his coat, laid it under John's head, and used his scarf to apply pressure on the wound. When John groaned at the pain, he instantly let off the pressure and looked at him with a worried look on his face.
"Are you all right, John? What do I do? I've already texted Lestrade, but it will take him at least eight minutes to get here. What do I do?!"
"Sherlock!" Sherlock looked at John, breathing heavy. "Calm down." John ordered. "Just keep the pressure on the wound. Lestrade's on his way. Just keep the pressure on, and keep me awake. Got it?"
Taking a deep breath, Sherlock nodded. He wiped his face of all emotion and said, "All right, John. Why don't you tell me about your college years? Who was your first professor?"
Keeping pressure on the wound, he looked to John, as if for reassurance. John nodded encouragingly. "That's it. Keep it up-" Just then another round of agonizing pain hit, and his body arched upwards.
"John? John, stay awake!"
Panting, the sky growing darker, although he could still see Sherlock's form, John managed to answer, "Don't worry. Just a bit of pain. I've had worse." He had to pause for breath here. "I'll be fi-" but then his world went dark, and his body went limp on the pavement.
He heard Sherlock's agonized cry of "John!" And then his body gathered up by Sherlock,he felt him bury his face into his neck, and felt warm tears dripping onto him. The very last thing he heard was Sherlock's agonized weeping as all pain - all knowledge of everything - left him.
A throbbing headache was the first thing that John knew. The second, was that whoever was shining that bright searchlight into his eyes needed to stop. It took him a minute to realize that his eyes were shut, and there was no searchlight shining into his eyes, just some very bright overhead lights. He slowly managed to open his eyes, but immediately had to shut them again because of said lights. He waited a minute or two for his eyes to adjust, then tried again. This time he was able to keep them open.
He looked to the right, and the first thing he saw was a very scruffy-looking Sherlock, lying fast asleep in what looked to be a very uncomfortable position in a chair that he had dragged up next to John's bed. Judging from the dark purple shadows under his eyes, it had been a while since he had had any sleep. He also looked as if he had lost some weight. John frowned, worried for his friend.
His eyes moved around the room, taking in all the cards, the flowers from Molly and Mrs. Hudson, and - he had to smile a little at this, even though it made his head hurt, it must have been Sherlock's idea of a get well soon card - Sherlock's skull. A sudden voice made him turn his head to the left - an action he immediately regretted, as it made the pounding in his head turn into war drums - to see Mycroft sitting calmly in a chair, looking much more stately and dignified than Sherlock did at that moment.
"He hasn't eaten since you were shot," Mycroft said softly. "He didn't sleep either. He's only asleep now, because I managed to place a mild sedative into a glass of water we managed to get him to drink today - the first thing he's drunk in several days."
At this, a question popped into John's head. "How long have I been out?"
"Two weeks" Mycroft said solemnly. "It's been one week since the doctors declared you out of danger, and all throughout that time, my brother has refused to leave your side until he knew you were safe. Then he went after Hans Schmidt. The results were rather," Mycroft grimaced. "Grim, from what I am told, but the package has been recovered, and Hans Schmidt will no longer be a menace to society, according to my brother."
John couldn't help but smile a little at this. But then his mind went to another issue. "Wait. You said two weeks, I've been unconscious. Two weeks?! And he hasn't eaten or slept at all in that time?!"
Mycroft made an elegant gesture that may have been a shrug. "You know my brother. He goes long periods without sleep. And the human body can survive up to three to four weeks without food. We were able to get him to drink water, by telling him that you would be immensely upset to wake up and find him in a hospital bed next to you for dehydration."
John frowned. "I may just be upset with him anyways. Refusing to eat or sleep at all? Just to wait by my bed until I wake up? As soon as I'm well enough, you can rest assured that he WILL be sleeping and eating AND drinking properly until he's back into proper shape."
Just then another voice broke into their conversation. "No doubt you will at least attempt to, John. However, considering that you will be confined to your bed for at least another three weeks, it is highly doubtful that you will be successful at such an attempt any time soon."John turned his head back to the right to see Sherlock sitting up, pale and exhausted, with previously non-existent stress lines etched on his face, but also with a warm look of joy and relief on his face.
"It was about time you woke up, John. Honestly. I know you encourage sleep, but I do think this was a bit excessive."
John smirked at his friend, understanding his need to lighten the situation, and the fear he knew Sherlock had felt. "Maybe I was just trying to keep up for the both of us. You hardly sleep as it is. I mean, look at you! I go to bed for two weeks, and you become an absolute mess!"
Sherlock smiled and leaned forward. "Your memory is as wretched as always. I told you once, didn't I, that I was lost without my blogger?" And John, understanding, as Sherlock knew he would, that Sherlock, always afraid to show too much emotion, replaced blogger for friend, smiled back at him
The End
A/N 2018: Have you ever looked back at your earlier writing, and just cringed? I'm just here to do some minimal grammmatical editing, and whoo boy, this is awful. Kudos to anyone who actually managed to read it before I added the bare minimum of grammar to this. I'm sure at some point I'll come through and re-edit this again. In the meantime, thanks for reading the very first (and it shows) story I ever wrote and published. (The very first story I ever wrote was a Star Trek story that will never, ever see the light of day until I edit the crap out of it. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle I ain't.)