Note: Unedited, unrevised, unnecessary. Sorry, John.
"Oh, Henry, no. No!" Sherlock shouts as they stumble down the slope. John stops beside him when they reach the bottom, his attention focused on the gun in Henry's hands.
"Easy, Henry. Easy," John says calmly, watching the man shake and stumble around. "Just relax."
"I know what I tried to do!"
John fruitlessly suggests that Henry put the gun down, but is ignored. He's worried he'll pull the trigger before Sherlock can finish explaining, and waits for an opening - in stance or reason, whichever comes first - but Sherlock needs to hurry up, because John can see that it won't take much to push Henry over the edge anymore.
Henry won't try to hurt them, but John would sooner shoot his other shoulder than see Henry Knight end his life.
It's that resolve that sharpens his attention. Suddenly the fog feels oppressive, and the lights are just a little bit brighter, and Henry has the gun very nearly lax in his right hand, pointed at the dirt. His expression is slowly becoming less anguished, and more confused. Fortunately, the confusion is tempered with dawning realization.
John waits for Sherlock to pause before he makes his advance on Henry. He can tell that the man is still on pins and needles.
Finally, when Sherlock stops, John lowers his light and steps toward the distraught man. Henry's gaze darts to him, and John nods minutely. He just wants the gun. "It's okay, mate."
John's reaching for the weapon when Lestrade's call of "Sherlock!" startles Henry.
John would be hard pressed to admit it, but getting shot wasn't on his list of the likely scenarios that evening. Despite being incredibly wary of the gun in Henry's hand, he didn't actually think something like this would have happened. He prepared for the worst, hoped for the best, and, apparently, expected nothing - didn't take the time to.
Of course, he thinks none of that now, because all that's on his mind is pain.
John surfaces, gasping over at Sherlock, who is shouting something and making demands over his shoulder. John must not have blanked for long after Henry fired the gun, because Greg's only just reached them, and Sherlock's still standing where John left him.
It's odd that John's still standing, he thinks, because his side bloody hurts, but he looks down, trying to take stock of the wound, and only manages to conclude that he'll probably live, unless something else unexpected happens soon.
John lumbers to the left, trying to find something to lean against, but Sherlock's come to him at last, in a flurry of black coat and frantic chattering.
"Are you alright? Of course not. Stupid, stupid-"
He grips Sherlock's forearms, and a giggle bubbles out of him. "S'awful," he wheezes.
Sherlock appears to be trying to take on John's weight, but he can't tell because, on look, here comes the aforementioned Something Else Unexpected.
The hound prowls along the top bank before it leaps toward them, seemingly yards at a time.
Sherlock's arms are full of John, restricting how far he can turn to see the dog, but he orders Greg into action nonetheless.
The Detective Inspector fires at the dog multiple times before it finally falls. When the ringing of gunfire dies, a new dissonance of overlapping voices arises from Sherlock, Henry, and someone distinctly not Greg.
Dr. Frankland has turned up out of the thickening fog, John realizes. He fails to get a good look at the man as his legs finally give out. His weight drags Sherlock low enough that he eases both of them to the ground.
John thinks that he says Sherlock's name, even though he knows there are other important things going on - Henry needs to understand, and Frankland needs to... needs to... something... He can't focus.
Sherlock's attention is already on John, though, because he can rip into Frankland's plan as well as tend to a downed friend, apparently.
John's got his head pressed into Sherlock's chest, breath coming out in deep puffs, when Frankland makes his escape.
Unwilling to strand John for any length of time, he commands Lestrade to give chase. Henry, sobbing and somewhat enraged, follows after another attempt at apologizing to John, who, Sherlock has already informed him, can't hear him.
John could hear them, of course, but it is obvious that very little is reaching him. Sherlock doesn't try to explain that to Henry; he has already wasted enough time explaining. Now he needs to help John - John, who's just convulsed and sobbed against Sherlock.
Sherlock catches himself trying to wrap his arms around John, but aborts the gesture in favor of trying to get a good look at the wound. He can't make out much in this position. However, he can tell that shock is setting in. He unravels his scarf to help staunch the bleeding.
"John," Sherlock tries, gripping his shoulders. "John, I'll get you-"
The explosion cuts him off.
John jerks his head up, but the movement is enough; he finally slumps into Sherlock, unconscious. Sherlock cradles him as much as he is able without putting too much strain on John's body, and continues to press his scarf on the wound.
Sherlock is saved from his impending worry over the well-being of the others when Lestrade and Henry stagger back down the paths.
"Frankland," Lestrade states, unnecessarily.
Henry comes to stand over Sherlock and John. "Is he-"
"Unconscious," Sherlock says huskily, trying to quell his fear for his friend, and failing. "We need to get him to hospital."
Henry's white as a sheet, but he manages to be of use, giving them clear directions to the nearest hospital on the drive.
They arrive faster than they could have hoped.
It says a lot about how far they've come that John isn't surprised when he wakes to find Sherlock keeping vigil in the corner of his hospital room.
Strangely, he finds himself hoping that, should he ever again find himself in this situation - God forbid - Sherlock would sit closer.
He's draped over the undoubtedly stiff chair against the wall, barely moving, but his eyes are open and boring into the ceiling tiles.
As it is, John can't spare much more thought for Sherlock. He's quickly becoming aware of how uncomfortable he is, and the pain in his side is still very present. He breathes deeply, and eventually forces out, "Not much cop, this caring lark."
Sherlock's head lifts from the back of the chair, and John imagines that it must hurt to have his neck bent backward in such a way.
Sherlock frowns at him. "Where else would I be?"
John drops his head back into his pillow and looks to the ceiling. "Shooting walls," John suggests.
John listens to the shuffle and scrape of Sherlock getting to his feet, as well as the subsequent footsteps that bring Sherlock into the corner of his vision. He's wearing his second best dressing gown, and appears to be barefoot, too, if John's hearing is to be believed.
"A bit casual, even for a hospital, don't you think?" John finds the sight strangely comforting.
"Oh, please. It's not as if I'm strutting about the halls."
"I'm surprised you aren't."
A soft expression settles on Sherlock's face. "Not now, no. I knew you would wake."
John hums. "And you're here because of your magical intuition?"
"Do you not want me here?" His brows furrow.
"No, of course I do." John wouldn't want anything else right now. "But what about all that - 'why don't you go cry by their bedside, see what good it does'?"
"This is different," Sherlock says sharply.
John snorts. "No."
"I rather think it is."
"It really isn't."
"You aren't dying."
"I could be."
Sherlock scoffs. "Don't be argumentative, John. You're above that."
"Sherlock, it's the same thing," he presses. "It isn't bad, though."
John immediately recognizes the deep frown Sherlock is sending him.
"I'm glad you're here," John tells him.
Leaving John's field of vision, Sherlock goes to pull his chair up to the bedside.
"I'm not. Lestrade got you shot."
John processes this. "Wait. Hold on. You're blaming Greg? Henry's the one who shot me, and even then-"
"Yes, alright. I'm not holding a grudge, anyway. It's wasteful." He doesn't think Sherlock truly believes that, but he knows Henry's not being blamed. John won't hold it against him.
Sherlock slings his legs over the farthest arm of his chair, and John's eyes are blinking shut for increasingly longer periods.
Noticing this, Sherlock says, "I suggest you sleep, lest we allow this drivel to continue any longer."
"Ha." John shoots Sherlock a strange look. "I am glad you're here, Sherlock. It helps."
Sherlock seems to realize the significance of his words, and mulls them over as John rests. He remains at his friend's bedside for hours before he moves again.