He ran. He ran as fast as he could, no he ran even faster. He ran to the small crumpled figure on the floor. The small crumbled figure called John.
Sherlock stopped next to John and kneed down. He pulled John onto his lap and examined him. There was blood, so much blood. His stripped shirt was stained red, a hole right next to his heart. Sherlock's hands were trembling. The blood was flowing out of the hole. Large droplets of blood rolled down Sherlock's hands as he tried to stop the blood flowing. But it just wouldn't stop.
How do I make it stop?
Sherlock's mind just went blank. He couldn't think, couldn't deduce. The only thing on his mind was John. Loving, loyal John, who was bleeding to death. Right in front of him.
Stop! You need to help him. Control! Get yourself under control!
Control was good. Control was what he needed. Sherlock looked down into John's face which had gotten very pale in the last minute. What did that tell us? Blood loss. Right John was losing blood.
Of course he's losing blood! He got shot! Stupid! Stop being stupid!
Sherlock took Johns hand and felt for his pulse. It was weak but there. Sherlock tried to think about what he should do, but he couldn't. He just couldn't think. He saw it again. He saw how he and John had been following a criminal when the man unexpected pulled out a gun and shot. He saw how John fell to the ground. He heard the gun echoing through the street.
"John?" he whispered. John didn't move. Sherlock's heart made a leap. What if John di-…?
No! Don't think that way!
Then he suddenly remembered what to do, because he couldn't let John die. Not like this. Not here. He ripped of a piece of his shirt and folded it together to press it to Johns wound. While he pressed down he pulled out his phone and dialed 999.
"I already called an ambulance." Sherlock turned towards the right where DI Lestrade was standing. He had a phone in his hand and looked down to Sherlock with worry and sadness. Sherlock nodded and then returned his attention back to John. John was breathing irregular and it seemed hard for him to do so. Shot through the lung. Blood in the lungs.
"He's not breathing right! He can't get enough air!" Sherlock shouted suddenly back in panic. He grabbed John even tighter.
"John! John, please. Open your eyes! Say something! John!" Sherlock shouted. He was frantic. He couldn't lose John. He didn't want to lose John. There was still so much they needed to do and say.
John there's something I should say; I, I've meant to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.
Sherlock remembered that day just too well. Why didn't he say it? Why hadn't he told John? Three simple words. And now he might never say them. Sherlock looked down. The shirt that was pressed against John's chest was now red, his hands were covered in blood and the blood was still oozing out. John was only breathing very light now. He was sweating and very pale.
Not good. Not good at all.
"John you can't die here! I'm sorry. Please don't die. I…I can't lose you." Sherlock could hear voices behind him, but he didn't care. The only thing that was important now was John.
"I can't lose you, because I… I love you." Sherlock's voice trembled. He couldn't believe he just said it. After all these years. John's eyes opened for just a second and stared up to him before they closed again. Sherlock tried to smile in that precious second, but it turned out to be more of a grimace. After John closed his eyes again Sherlock started to sob. He pushed his face into John's cold shoulder and breathed in John's scent. He quietly sat there sobbing on the cold floor, in a dark street with his love dying right in front of him.
Somewhere behind him someone asked where the fucking ambulance was. And to be honest Sherlock also wondered where the fucking ambulance was. The blood still didn't stop flowing. The front of Sherlock's white shirt was now red. He whispered John's name over and over while holding him. Begging him to stay. To stay with him.
"John. John. John. John. John." His voice was barley a whisper now. Sherlock couldn't really remember what happened but somehow he found himself in a hospital later. Lestrade was talking on a phone nearby. Sherlock didn't understand a word he said. He could only think about John. John dying on the cold street. John bleeding to death. Sherlock sitting next to him, doing nothing. He was in shock. He knew that. He didn't acknowledge when people talked to him. He didn't notice how much time passed by. He just sat there still as a stone. He didn't cry. He didn't speak. He didn't observe.
The only thing he noticed was how the blood on his hands and shirt was drying.
"It will kill him." Mycroft said with a steady voice, looking over to Sherlock. Sherlock was sitting on a white plastic chair starring at the ceiling in front of him. He was covered in dried blood.
"Yes." Lestrade agreed with him. "I don't know what to do." He sounded tired.
"Maybe we just have to let him go. I know that my brother is unstable. I wish I could save him, but I can't" Mycroft told the Inspector sadly. He just nodded. Mycroft let out a sigh and slowly walked over to Sherlock caring a light brown file. It said:
Dr. Watson, John Hamish
Deceased