LOL I meant to post this like two weeks ago when I put it on AO3 but forgot... well, better late than never.

This is heavily, heavily inspired by the premise and events of the tv show Forever (which was cancelled before its time to be frank), but you don't need to have seen the show to read this fic. If you have seen the show, you'll know what I mean when I say that Sherlock is Henry Morgan (not literally, but he's got the same thing going on). No copyright infringement intended. I don't profit from this anyway, so it shouldn't matter that I'm borrowing from Forever's brilliance (and Sherlock's too, duh). Anyway, you all should watch it; there's only one season but it's lovely. But read this first ;)

Sherlock Holmes was one of the most frustrating people John had ever met. He was stubborn and arrogant and far too intelligent for his own good. More often than not he seemed to go out of his way to try to John completely, irrevocably insane.

But all of that didn't mean John wanted Sherlock to die.

A single phone call was all it took. Just one call, barely ten seconds long, was all it took for John's world to shudder to a stop. Or perhaps to screechingly stop, then burst into flames. After that call, he was out the door a few seconds, med kit in hand and Sherlock's shaky words, laced with agony, reverberating in his ears.

"Crime bosses... Ambush... Need assistance... Alley in Soho."

It took Sherlock a few minutes to get a text with a more exact location sent, but by then John was in a cab, well on his way in the general direction of his mad flatmate.

The ride over seemed to take several eons, but finally - though it couldn't have been much more than ten minutes - John tumbled out of the cab and dashed down the dark lanes Sherlock had described. He at last spotted Sherlock, though it took a few aching moments of frantic running. The consulting detective was sprawled by a row of rubbish bins, half-hidden in the shadows between buildings.

"Sherlock," John called, breathless in spite of his medical training, panicking in spite of all his time as an army doctor. "It's okay, Sherlock, I'm here." He staggered down the alley and collapsed onto his knees next to his flatmate, who was gasping for breath and coughing feebly. John's eyes flew over Sherlock, assessing. What he saw was far from promising: a dark stain was spreading steadily across Sherlock's clothes, the blood shining on the man's slender fingers where it spilled over them, heedless of his feeble attempts to stem the stream. Scrambling, but taking deep breaths to steady himself, John yanked his phone from his pocket and dialed 999.

"Hello, yes, I need an ambulance," he replied to the operator, trying to keep his focus as he detailed their location. "I have a stabbing victim. Looks like one wound to the abdomen. Can't tell if the lung has been punctured, but breathing has definitely been affected."

The operator asked a few more questions, and John answered as calmly as he could, but his concentration was threatened by Sherlock's hand gently grasping at his sleeve, as if he were drowning and John were his only lifeline.

John hung up the phone and dropped it, moving closer to Sherlock and feeling a jolt of horror as he pulled back Sherlock's coat and examined the wound more closely.

"I believe it's too late, John," Sherlock choked out. There was a thin trickle of fluid at the corner of his mouth, and John yanked on his gloves stored in the med kit, forcing them over his shaking fingers. Any instinctive focus, reinforced from his time in Afghanistan, felt remote and unreachable as fear made John's heart hammer and his head spin.

"Hey hey hey, don't think like that," John said quietly. "It's not too late." He brushed away the blood from Sherlock's lips with a small square of gauze, then pressed his hands over Sherlock's, the scarlet creating a terrible contrast to the brilliant white of the gloves. Sherlock grunted softly, face contorting with pain at the heightened pressure.

"I'm sorry," John whispered. He slid one hand off Sherlock's chest and into the first aid kit, rummaging for something, anything else to help. "An ambulance is on the way. You'll get help, they'll fix you up, I promise."

But Sherlock just shook his head. "I doubt that. I took too long getting to the phone to call you." He reached up with a shaking hand and grabbed John's other wrist, trying futilely to tug it away. "John, just stop."

"What?" John was sure he was looking at Sherlock like he was mad. "No, Sherlock, you need me right now. I'm not going to let you-"

"John." It looked as if Sherlock were smiling, but that couldn't be. "Come on, just let go."

"No, no," John shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. You-you're going to be fine."

"John." Sherlock, despite his state, still managed to summon enough snark to roll his eyes. "You're an army doctor. Surely you've seen wounds like this before. You know I am far from fine."

"Dammit, where is that ambulance?" John murmured, looking toward the street. It had barely been four minutes since he had made the call, but surely by now...

"John," Sherlock's voice turned urgent suddenly. Not to mention weaker. "Please, listen to me. I shouldn't have called. I'm sorry. Let me go."

Without warning or bidding, John's eyes filled with tears. "I can't do that, Sherlock."

"You have..." Sherlock coughed again but forced himself to continue through what was obviously a fresh wave of intense pain. "You have... no choice. I'm sorry, John."

His eyes closed then, and John felt him take a shuddering breath, lungs sounding weaker by the second. "Run."

John blinked, confused. "No, no, you're... You're not making any sense. Sherlock, I'm not leaving you."

"...Please. Get out of here..."

He exhaled once more, and John waited, heart in his throat, for him to inhale again. "Sherlock," he stammered, hands tightening on the wound without volition. "Come on, please, don't do this. Don't you give up, you bastard. Answer me!"

But the detective didn't respond, or inhale. There was nothing, no movement in the body beneath John's hands. "Sherlock!" he cried, just as lights and sirens came blazing - at last - into view. His fingers fumbled at Sherlock's neck, groping for a pulse. "No, no, no..."

Nothing.

"No," he whispered, a tear sliding down his cheek. "Come on, Sherlock-"

But then, the impossible happened. Quite literally. One moment, John was holding his dead flatmate in his arms, and the next, he was clutching at nothing but air and shadows. Somehow, Sherlock was gone.

"Sherlock?" John cried, as if calling out would bring him back. He turned, scouring the dimly lit alley frantically, almost expecting Sherlock to leap out from behind a bin and laugh at the brilliant prank. But all he saw were the paramedics removing a stretcher from the vehicle. John whirled around in panic. Sherlock wasn't there. But he couldn't be gone. It was impossible.

What was John supposed to do now?

"Run... Get out of here." Sherlock's final words. Without considering other options, simply reacting as he always did in compliance with his friend's inexplicable commands, John turned away from the paramedics and dashed down the alley.

He wandered through London for what felt like hours, becoming increasingly lost. He'd never been in Soho on foot much, and his desperate flight from the alley had left his internal compass spinning. Not to mention being out this late into the night also meant virtually no foot traffic, and it seemed the cabs were anywhere but here. Somehow he couldn't even find a Tube station.

Eventually, when John's feet were aching and his hands shaking from the cold wind, he sat down on the steps of some unknown doorway and buried his face in his hands. He took a deep but unsteady breath and tried to convince himself it didn't sound like a sob. There were damp streaks on his face, and he brushed them away quickly.

"Sherlock," he whispered. "Where are you?"

Even as he said it he knew he answer. Sherlock was dead. He had seen it himself, felt the blood, the lack of pulse or breath. The fantastical and inconceivable thing that had happened after was just a result of shock; it was his imagination and nothing more. It had to be.

But the realization that John must had abandoned his best friend's body in an alley made him want to cry all over again. That wasn't what Sherlock deserved.

"Oh Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, John."

He whipped his head up so quickly he was surprised he didn't break any vertebrae. But that thought was chased away by what he saw before him. Sherlock stood there, looking just as he had earlier that day: clean, white shirt, dark suit jacket and trousers, his coat collar turned up and his curls in their usual artful disarray. He looked at John with an apologetic look in his eyes, an expression John might even call gentle.

This must be what going mad feels like, John thought.

A few seconds passed before John could remember how to vocalize words. "Sherlock?" His voice came out broken and small.

In response, the detective took a small step forward. "Yes," he replied after a pause, and nearly smiled. "Sorry about... earlier."

John reached up and grasped Sherlock's forearms, both out of a desire to touch the living warmth of the man he had been sure was dead and out of a need to steady himself. "I don't understand." His words came out hoarse and uncertain, but a bit stronger this time. He realized that at some point, he must have stood up, because his height on the step now equaled Sherlock's on the pavement below.

The expression that flashed briefly in Sherlock's eyes was one of concern and perhaps even sympathy. "John, I... I owe you a thousand apologies. This was not at all the way I intended to tell you, and-"

But John's grip tightened, and he gave Sherlock a rather violent shake as all the fear and anger boiled up to the surface without warning, pushing back the shock and confusion. "Apologies? You think you can just apologize for that and everything will be fine again? I watched you die, Sherlock Holmes! You bled out in my arms because I wasn't quick enough to find you! You died and I couldn't stop it and then I had to run away from you because you went and died on me, you bastard! An apology isn't going to fix this! I... I thought... I thought you were dead... I thought... you were dead."

He may have started out yelling and shaking his flatmate, but by the end, his voice had somehow dissolved into a whisper and his forehead was pressed against Sherlock's chest, his hands still gripping Sherlock's arms. Suddenly, unexpectedly, relief washed over him as he felt Sherlock's pulse, strong and steady, thumping away in his ribcage beneath John's forehead. That sensation, more than any of Sherlock's words or gestures, washed some of John's anger and fear away.

A few moments of the two of them being locked in this odd embrace passed, and then with an uncharacteristically careful touch, Sherlock pulled away, though he left his hands on John's shoulders where he had placed them. "I'm not dead," he murmured, though such a statement was rather unnecessary now. "It's alright."

John swallowed. "Sherlock... What is going on?" he asked in a weak voice.

"It's a long story," Sherlock murmured, eyes dropping to the pavement. A slight smirk seemed to be fighting for dominance on his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I don't care," John retorted. "I just watched you die. I need to know how the bloody hell you're standing here."

Sherlock looked back up at him, eyes intense, as if he were taking the full measure of John. Finally he nodded. "Come on then," he replied as he stepped away toward the street. "I'll explain everything. But first, let's go home."

By the time they returned to Baker Street, John felt that his shock had - mostly - worn off to a dull buzz, like he had taken a shot of adrenaline directly to the heart and was still coming down from it. Sherlock paced back and forth in the sitting room, running his fingers through his curls. Finally, John had had enough, and grasped his wrist. Instinctively, his fingers sought the taller man's pulse, and felt it thudding away, strong and steady as if nothing had happened earlier.

"Am I going mad?" John asked. "Did you give me some sort of hallucinogenic drug again?"

Sherlock smiled faintly, though something seemed off in his countenance. "No, not this time."

"Then what did I see? You couldn't have died."

Sherlock shifted but made no move to pull away, just shuffled his feet and avoided John's gaze. It occurred to him then that Sherlock seemed nervous. "What's wrong?"

"It's just... it's been years since this situation has happened, and the last time it did, the reaction was not exactly relief."

"What are you talking about? You were mortally wounded... or something! Since when would anyone express relief at that?"

"No, John," Sherlock whipped his gaze up, suddenly imploring. "I mean relief that I returned."

"Re..." John breathed, as the full implication of that sunk in. "You mean you really did die? And you... came back?"

Sherlock just looked at him, oceanic eyes soft and worried. He didn't move in protest as John stepped away, letting go of his wrist. "You died and came back," John reiterated. "I don't understand. I have to be going mad. This is ridiculous. It's impossible. It's... it can't be."

"It can," Sherlock said. "And yes, it is actually both ridiculous and possible. I could... prove it to you, if you'd like."

Before John could move to stop him, he stepped into the kitchen and picked up a small paring knife, which he lifted to his left wrist. Biting his lip, he glanced up at John.

But John was already in motion, jerking Sherlock's hand away and seizing the knife, tossing it toward the sofa, where it lodged itself deep in the cushion. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he yelled, shaking Sherlock. "I only just got you back! Maybe you're the one who's gone mad!"

Sherlock hushed him, leaning into his grip. "No, no, John, listen. I can prove it to you." He huffed, looking flustered. "It's just been some time since I had to do this after the fact. I'm a bit out of practice, assuming I was ever accustomed to this."

"You cannot ever do something like that again, do you hear me?" John snapped, hardly listening to Sherlock's resigned words. "I knew you were foolhardy, but..." He shook his head.

Sherlock watched him, clutching at his arms, as they had been doing for what felt like all night to John. "You still want proof?"

"Not that way," John whispered, eyes flashing to the knife then back. "What would you be proving, anyway?"

His flatmate straightened then, taking a breath. He met John's gaze resolutely, and then, with an oddly formal tone, proceeded to tear down John's conception of how the universe worked.

"I was born in 1782. I have died or been killed several dozen times since. As you can see," he nodded down at himself. "None of those deaths took any permanent hold."

John felt frozen. He stared at Sherlock, looking him up and down, his own body tense. He half-expected at any moment for Sherlock to give an abrupt grin and shout "April Fool's!" but the moment never arrived. Instead, evidence poured into his conscious mind as if of its own volition.

Sherlock's oddly elevated way of speaking. His disdain and misunderstandings of social media and modern slang. His frighteningly extensive and detailed knowledge of crimes and criminology, which spanned decades at least, if not centuries. His struggle to discern and exhibit accepted social norms and behaviors. Current ones, at least.

The way his pulse had stopped, the way he had literally vanished then reappeared looking not at all worse for wear.

John felt the ground sway beneath him and Sherlock's hands tighten around him. Then, darkness.

"John?"

He blinked, realizing in that moment that at some point, his eyes must have closed. Sherlock's face swirled into focus, forehead creased with worry as he gazed down at John, who was now slumped on the sofa.

"Did I pass out?" he asked, taking the glass of water Sherlock was proffering.

"Nearly. I'm sorry. It occurred to me that the last time I did this, the person in question had already been sitting." Sherlock shook his head, self-deprecating tone matching his exasperated expression. "I'm sorry for the chaotic way I'm going about this."

"Alright, you can stop apologizing now, it's getting a bit unnerving." John sat down the glass and shifted. Sherlock had evidently helped him to the sofa, though the detective himself was sat on the edge of the coffee table facing him.

"You did take it better than others have in the past."

John met his gaze. "How far in the past? Since apparently you're immortal? Could you elaborate on that, maybe, by the way?"

Sherlock smiled, though the warmth seemed superficial. "Shall I start at the beginning?"

John nodded, fingers finding Sherlock's wrist again, evidently of their own volition. "Please."

Sherlock shifted on the table, holding John's gaze. "In the summer of 1815," he began, eyes glazing over somewhat as he mentally traveled back. "An accident occurred which resulted in my death, which would prove to be the first of many deaths, though I was not to know it at the time."

"What sort of accident?"

"I had been working in Switzerland for a brief span, a favor to a family member, when I learned of a criminal plot that was being put into motion by another man staying in the same inn. Naturally, I stepped in to prevent it, but my interference resulted in a confrontation with this man by the side of a waterfall, and..." Sherlock scowled. "You can surmise what came next, I assume."

"You fell." John shuddered at the thought.

"The man, Moriarty was his name, managed to gain the upper hand, the footing was slick and precarious, and I took my eyes off him for a moment as I attempted to regain my balance. He seized that window of opportunity to push me backwards. And while I did pull him down with me, thus foiling the plot he'd masterminded, I still... died."

John stared at him, incredulity and denial clamoring for attention in his mind. "Sherlock," he murmured. "You realize what you're telling me doesn't make any sense. It isn't scientifically possible."

"You saw," Sherlock said, earnest and imploring. "Tonight, you felt my pulse stop, did you not? You saw me stop breathing, you saw me die, and then you saw me disappear."

"Yes, but-"

"I am well aware that there is no scientific precedent for this, but I cannot deny the evidence of my own body and mind. Something happened to me that night in Switzerland, which I believe resulted in my... condition. Unfortunately, I have never discovered the reason." Sherlock dropped his gaze. "It's not a curse I disclose to many, John, for it does have its... quirks."

"What, you mean besides the whole coming-back-to-life bit? What other 'quirks' are there?" John chuckled, though it came out half-hysterical.

Sherlock let out a bitter laugh. "When I return, I always awaken in the nearest body of water, my body renewed to its previous state, a healthy 33-year-old. And... I never have clothes when that occurs."

John blinked, the image of a very naked Sherlock (nothing he hadn't seen before, honestly) climbing out of the Thames River and attempting to navigate the streets of London without a stitch on his pale body. "Um..."

"Another way the homeless network comes in handy." Sherlock chuckled dryly. "They arrange for changes of clothing to be stored in various drop-points along the Thames. It's a luxury compared to having to simply muddle my way through, pretending I had been robbed and the like."

"I don't understand. Why... Why is any of this happening?"

Sherlock shook his head. "That is an ongoing investigation, John." He seemed to be putting conscious effort into avoiding John's eyes.

"So... your family...? From the 1700s?"

"Dead, of course. And after my journey to Switzerland, I did not return to London until well into the late 1800s. Nor can I stay in one place for too long, lest I subject myself to suspicion or persecution. And with the advancements in technology in the past decades, especially in terms of surveillance and government record-keeping, remaining inconspicuous with a believable cover identity has become increasingly problematic."

Sherlock's expression showed a flash of something then, something John would have missed entirely had he not been watching the other man with such intent. The look portrayed, for a mere instant, what seemed to be decades, or rather centuries, of loneliness and weariness. What must it be like, John wondered, to watch everyone around you live, age, and die, yet you remain the same? How can anyone make friends, knowing they will just lose them?

Then he realized what thinking in that way really meant. "Oh, bloody hell," he groaned, leaning back on the sofa.

"What?" Sherlock asked, voice laced with worry. Expecting rejection, contempt, who knew what else.

"I believe you. Bloody hell. Why do you always have to be so articulate and persuasive?" John rubbed his eyes, chuckling. "Or maybe I've just gone as insane as you."

When he looked back up, Sherlock was smiling too, just slightly, a gesture that was still overbalanced by the quiet melancholy light in his eyes. "Well, having an ally who is not Mycroft is a change for the better."

"Yeah, what about Mycroft? He's obviously not really your brother..."

Sherlock huffed. "He appears to be a great-great-great grandchild of a second cousin of mine, from what he and I have established about our family tree. Of course, no one would believe us if we were to tell people that, so to the rest of the world we are siblings."

"So he got you your current identification, I take it."

Sherlock nodded. "This entire arrangement was made easier by the fact that Mycroft is an only child and his parents passed away ten years ago, well before I returned to London. I had heard news while in France - my home prior to this flat - of a Mycroft Holmes who was rising in the British government's ranks, and I could not resist investigating further, especially with a first name like that. Our family has always been one with a penchant for unusual names. His reaction to finding out about my curse was, thankfully, more fascination than condemnation."

But John's ears had perked up. "So Sherlock Holmes really is your name?"

Sherlock nodded. "I have only used it in my first years of life before my initial encounter with death. I use aliases otherwise. After all, the name Sherlock is not exactly common, after all, which makes me even more distinctive a figure. Having Mycroft as family made returning to my true name feasible."

He stood, that tight, fake smile still on his lips. "Here, I have something to show you." John watched as he strode into his bedroom, from which shifting and rustling noises soon emanated. Sherlock returned with a large photo album, which he promptly laid across John's lap.

The binding appeared fairly new, but upon opening it to the first page, John realized that contents were anything but recent. Inside was an ancient newspaper clipping, detailing the incident of Sherlock's original death in Switzerland. The paper was yellowed and faded almost past the point of readability, but John could make out a word here and there, enough to glean the general message.

As he flipped through the next few pages, he saw that the book contained small bits of evidence, artifacts from certain times in Sherlock's life, or more accurately lives. There was the record of a ship journey to North America, a university diploma from a US university, then more compelling evidence: photographs. Sherlock appeared in a plethora of locations, over a massive span of dates, but in each he was unchanged. Certainly, he had varying hair and clothing styles, but his face was the same.

John looked back up at his flatmate, who was still peering over John's shoulder at the photograph of himself in the New Zealand countryside from what was labeled as the 1910s, an almost wistful glint in his eyes.

"I can't imagine what this must be like," John breathed, suddenly so very sorry. He rested his hand on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Thank you for not throwing me in a sanatorium."

John burst out laughing, though that was likely partially motivated by shock and not any humor in the feeble joke. He rubbed Sherlock's shoulder. "You'd burn down the place out of sheer boredom. There's no way I would subject the other patients to a tantrum like that."

Sherlock smiled, this time with genuine emotion, biting his lip and ducking his head. Self-conscious, but it was still a real smile. John felt warmth spread through his whole body at the sight. This night had been the most difficult of his life, no competition, but the fact that he knew this was trying for Sherlock too made it better. The man had just been murdered, then had to expose his greatest secret to his flatmate, whom he'd only known for a tiny fraction of his inconceivably long life.

So that smile seemed rather like a step in the right direction.

The path down the right direction proved a bumpy one, John discovered over the next few months. After the night of Sherlock's death, return, and subsequent revelation, the two flatmates attempted to return to some semblance of how their lives had been before. However, John found himself noticing the inevitable alterations.

The smaller things were simpler: John often stared avidly at Sherlock after spending time with his artifact album, trying to imagine what he may have been like a century ago, how he may have spoken or behaved. Had Sherlock always been like this, stubborn and curious and taciturn and passionate? And what evolution would a person's character undertake in two centuries, considering how intensely people could change during a normal life span? He tended to think it would be a vast change, but he declined from asking; that query just seemed too personal.

Sherlock did, however, invite John to ask him about the album, which John did eagerly. This led to many nights (ones without cases, of course) whiled away by the telling of stories of Sherlock's mad life. He had lived in over a dozen countries, visited over one hundred, and was fluent or conversational in ten languages. He returned to university periodically to acquaint himself with the thinking of the day, receiving a different degree each time but taking care to read some general classes as well. The adventures he had had were as wild and varied as his own knowledge, ranging from amusing to fascinating to exciting to saddening. John had a feeling that Sherlock had many other tales than the ones he shared with John, ones he did not share with anyone. John suspected, judging from some of the photos in the album - ones depicting Sherlock with people who might have been his friends - that they were tales of loss. It was no wonder, he mused often to himself, that Sherlock behaved so anti-socially sometimes; he appeared to fluctuate between social periods and stages of shielding himself from further grief as best he could.

This seemed to be the largest group of friends that Sherlock had had in ages - Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and John himself - and though Sherlock would insist on referring to them all as acquaintances, John knew better.

Only a handful of days after Sherlock's revelation of his true nature, Mycroft made an appearance at their flat, where he and John spoke for nearly an hour about the logistics of Sherlock's "situation," as well as to inform them both that the criminals responsible for Sherlock's most recent death had been sighted fleeing the city and incarcerated. John brushed off that information - good riddance to them, anyway - in favor of grilling him. According to Mycroft, there was a system in place in case of a sudden death on Sherlock's part, one which would enable Mycroft's men - well paid for their silence and discretion - to get to him as quickly as possible. Apparently, Sherlock had suffered more than one bout of hypothermia thanks to his reentry zone in the past, and Mycroft, fiercely dedicated to the safety of his "brother," was determined not to allow that to happen on his watch. When he left, John himself felt more protective of Sherlock than ever. Perhaps Mycroft's guardian sensibilities had set him off, but for weeks following that visit, John found himself looking for ways to defend Sherlock in any way he could, whether during cases or at Scotland Yard in the face of the officers' ridicule or from his bouts of debilitating boredom. The man had been through enough throughout his life without suffering more needless pain, even minor amounts of it.

But it wasn't as if Sherlock could really die, after all, he continually reminded himself. Regardless of what he told his own mind, four months later, John was still waiting for that protective instinct to fade.

Sherlock may not have been able to die, but that did not prevent him from still being composed of flesh and blood. This was a fact John was, at the moment, intensely aware of, as he watched Sherlock flinch and bite his lip in an attempt to not make noise. John heard a soft, sickening sound he didn't want to dwell on, and then Sherlock's hand was free of the handcuffs at last.

"Hold on," he breathed urgently, eyes shining with pain as he cradled his newly-wounded thumb to his chest. Within instants he had opened the cuff enclosing his other wrist and dashed to John's side. "Mycroft will be on his way by now."

"Will you at least admit now that we were right to warn him of our plan beforehand?"

Sherlock scowled at him even as he pressed his good hand to the bleeding wound in John's right leg. John cursed under his breath at the sudden pressure. "Well, I won't say I told you so."

"Shh," Sherlock froze then, head rising. "He's coming back."

Both tensed as Evans' footsteps approached. The criminal, a gun smuggler for a gangster operating in New York, had come to London to flee the United States task force but had instead inevitably found himself in Sherlock's grasp after shooting one of the consulting detective's best homeless informants in the knee. Unfortunately for Sherlock and John, Evans had not gone down without a fight, and had held the two men captive for the past three hours.

The gunshot wound was new, though, and it told them that Evans was getting desperate and scared. Not a good combination.

"Sherlock," John hissed. "Artery?"

Sherlock's eyes were too afraid for it to be anything else, and that combined with John's weakening body told him his suspicion was correct.

"Hold on, John."

As John lost consciousness, the last thing he heard was loud bangs and the sound of Sherlock yelling.

John came back to consciousness, somewhat, after what felt like an age. It felt as though he were moving in slow motion while the rest of the world rushed on ahead. Mustering all the concentration he could, he made out the sound of voices, one flustered but professional, the other familiar and peeved. The latter was speaking, voice strained.

"What do you mean, out of B negative and O negative? What sort of operation is this? He doesn't have enough time to wait for another shipment of either, look at him! He's lost at least a liter of blood, probably more. You cannot be out!"

"Sir, we need you to calm down. We've closed the wound, so he won't be losing any more blood. All we have to do is-"

"Take mine."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your supplies of blood are pitifully low or of the wrong sorts, time is of the essence, and my blood type is compatible with his. Therefore, take mine."

"You're offering to give him a transfusion?"

"Is he at risk of contracting hypovolemic shock?"

"... Yes, he-"

"Then take my blood. However much he needs."

There was a reply to that, but John was struggling to follow the conversation at all, let alone make out the soft response. He did manage to force his eyes open.

"Sh'lock?" Moments later he felt Sherlock's hand on his, and his flatmate's face swayed into view.

"John. Hold on, it's alright."

"Sher... Where am I?"

"You're alright, you're in hospital. We'll fix you up now, alright?"

John tried to move his lips to answer, to make his vocal cords work with his brain, but he felt himself fading from consciousness again. "Sh'lock."

"John, no. Don't leave me yet, alright? Stay awake."

"Sher..." But his eyes flickered closed before he could finish the name.

Hours later, or so it seemed from the darkness beyond the window panes, John regained consciousness. He lay there in the hospital room, the lights off, and wondered what had happened. The last thing he remembered clearly was mouthing off a bit too much to Evans, who had not taken it kindly. After that... mostly he remembered the pain, the numbness, the worry when he realized there was more blood than there probably should have been. And Sherlock, he remembered Sherlock.

Where was Sherlock? Had he been shot too? No, John recalled his voice earlier, something about staying awake. If Sherlock had been speaking, he could not have been dead. Then again, death and Sherlock had an unconventional relationship...

His faintly muddled train of thought was derailed when a rustling beside him made him start. "John?"

"Sherlock," John sighed in relief. "Still alive, I see."

"Very funny," Sherlock muttered. John heard more movement, and then a lamp clicked on, flooding the room in a soft, white-yellow glow.

Sherlock looked tired, but relieved. His skin seemed even paler than usual. There was a small cut on his cheek, a splint on his thumb - which had been broken during his efforts to escape the handcuffs and help John, he now recalled - and an IV in his arm, its contents scarlet.

"Sherlock," John frowned. "What happened?" He moved to gesture at the line, when a thin cord on his own arm gave him pause. His eyes trailed along its length to see where the two ends met at the bag, filled with more scarlet fluid.

"You don't remember? I thought not; you seemed quite incoherent when you woke last."

"I woke up?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Briefly."

"What happened, Sherlock?"

"After you lost consciousness, I managed to disable Evans. He really was unstable, hardly thinking straight, so it was not difficult. Some of Mycroft's goons arrived shortly after, and we were transported to the hospital." He gestured to John's leg. "The gunshot wound only nicked rather than severed your artery, it seems, so they were able to repair the damage with a minimal amount of difficulty. You did require a blood transfusion, however, but according to the doctors here, you will not sustain any lasting damage from this situation."

"You're giving me blood?"

He huffed, looking self-conscious. "This place was disappointingly low on the necessary types of blood. Some sort of clerical snafu, apparently, so I offered. You had lost too much, John, I had to do something." He looked away, shrugging nonchalantly, trying to save face it seemed.

John smiled at him. "Thank you."

Sherlock shook his head. "It was nothing."

"But you're alright?"

"Yes, fine, other than this," he lifted his injured hand. "And my disappointment. That case was barely a five in the end. And it had held such promise..."

"There will be other cases."

Sherlock nodded, lifting his gaze to meet John's. He leaned forward in his seat, clearing his throat. "It is not in my nature to say this, but... thank you, John."

Bemused, John gave him an uncertain smile. "For what, Sherlock?"

"Not leaving yet." Sherlock smiled back.