Lestrade was lying on the floor, groaning from the pain emitting out of the bullet wound in his abdomen. He had been chasing a thug when he had taken out a gun and pulled the trigger. He could see the shooter running away from him, but as he attempted to reach for his gun, which lay a few feet away from him, his wounds prevented him from doing so. He was using all his strength to stay awake, praying that someone would find him.
Sherlock ran in and stopped dead in his tracks seeing Lestrade lying on the floor. He dropped to his knees and almost shook him before realising that that would probably not be a very good idea.
"Lestrade! LESTRADE!" Lestrade could only whisper Sherlock's name. Sherlock got out his phone and screamed at them for an ambulance
"Lestrade, stop being annoying. Dying is annoying. Stop it. Stop it now." Lestrade laughed but suddenly winced at the pain it caused in his abdomen.
"H-He...got...away..." Lestrade managed to say. His mind felt fuzzy, and his vision slightly blurry from the blood loss. He didn't think he'd been so happy to see Sherlock in his entire life.
"That doesn't matter!" Sherlock spat out. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing mattered at all if Lestrade shut his eyes.
"KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN" He bellowed in Lestrade's face. If Lestrade died- No. No. He won't die. It's just a bullet. Ordinary people die of gun shot wounds. Not this man. Not Lestrade. No. Not this brilliant man who could do so much with the little intelligence he had. Sherlock let his mind drift to escape the pain. He remembered when he first turned up at crime scenes and Lestrade was amazed at what he could deduce. He remembered Lestrade feeling less and less amazed every time. He remember Lestrade cleaning Sherlock's flat to get him to quit cocaine. He remembered everything. Everything Lestrade had been there for. Every time Sherlock had turned to him for social advice. Even that one time, when Lestrade helped him discover that his feelings for John were more than just friendly ones. He was soon jolted out of his memories by the sound of an approaching ambulance siren.
Lestrade was trying to keep his eyes open, but he could feel his strength leaving him. He looked into Sherlock's face, and he looked genuinely worried. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't so tough on the inside. He felt some blood drip down the side of his head from a cut on his temple, where he had fallen. He then heard sirens, and heaved a small sigh of relief. He could also see police cars pull up by the side of the ambulance. It was weird, because usually he was in the police cars, not lying in a pool of his own blood on the ground.
The paramedics came in with a stretcher and started to lift Lestrade on it. The sudden movement sent pain shooting through his abdomen and he cried out loud. Sherlock started shouting at the paramedics until Lestrade whispered his name. Sherlock immediately shut up and turned to Lestrade. He followed them into the ambulance and stood next to Lestrade's stretcher as they rushed him to St Barts. Luckily, the abandoned house was only a few blocks away from the hospital. Lestrade looked into Sherlock's eyes and once again whispered his name, but much quieter than before. Then his eyes slid shut and he went into cardiac arrest. Sherlock screamed out his name over and over again and the paramedics immediately got to work. As he watched, Sherlock finally let the tears spill.