Hello! Sophia here once again with a somewhat feelsy little one shot. Rated T for slight language (better safe than sorry right?). Johnlock if you want to see it that way, not if you don't. I didn't really intend it either way. Anyways, please, as always, be a dear and review and follow. I love hearing from you all, good and bad. ^^

And of course, the only thing that's mine is the story, the original post and inspiration, and the characters don't belong to me.

Is This What It Felt Like?

Based off a tumblr post by Sherlography

(Original Post can be found at the end)

Breath and blood rushed through his veins, pumping and throbbing in a perfect, rapid, synchronized rhythm. It was exhilarating. There were times where John Watson wanted to deny all this. This love, this addiction for the dangerous lifestyle, especially that kind that came when you tagged on the heels of one Sherlock Holmes. It was actually fairly often that he wanted to continuously refuse his infatuation with the adrenaline that came with chasing dangerous criminals, especially now that he had had two years to settle down and had Mary to do it with. This wasn't him anymore. This wasn't his life.

So why was he once again in a dank back London alleyway, alongside the man he once thought dead, staring straight into the eyes of a killer as a gun laid trained on his chest? There were explanations for these situations that John couldn't quite uncover without fully and unabashedly accepting the truth. That this is what he lived for.

It was a truth he knew, but wouldn't accept. A truth he didn't want. But with the killer's shaking finger wrapped around the trigger, it really wasn't the time to think about what he was doing with his life.

"Sherlock…" John warned as the taller man took a cautious step forward, his arms raised to the level of his head, palms out.

"Stop! Stop right there!" The killer cried, whipping the gun to point it at Sherlock instead. The man was young, probably late twenties, practically still a kid. John could see the fear, the quake in his hand, his frantic and panicked reactions, the quiver in his lips and the gloss in his eyes. He almost felt bad for the man, but he also knew that fear made a person unpredictable. He only trusted that Sherlock knew what the hell he was doing.

"Put down the gun Thatcher. You don't want to kill anyone else," Sherlock said slowly, taking another step forward, forcing Thatcher to take a step back.

"What do you know? I've killed before! What makes you say I won't do it again?" the man said with a shivering tone.

"Because the first kill was out of rage, now you're on the run and you're scared. You don't want to kill again, you just want to stay out of trouble."

"What I did was right! He had no right being there! She didn't want him!"

It was John's turn to speak. He was always better with the emotional aspect of things and he knew that if he didn't intervene now, Sherlock was likely to screw things up and lose Thatcher, or worse, get one of them, if not both of them shot. He slowly stepped forward as he spoke.

"Thatcher, your sister is safe now. If you just put the gun down and come with us, we can—"

There was a cry of denial, just as soon drowned out by the sound of a gun firing. It was louder than he remembered, perhaps he just wasn't used to the sound anymore, maybe it was the brick walls that amplified the sound. And that pain. In his chest. He's felt pain like that before. Everything was moving in slow motion as the world tilted back until he could see the dark sky that lingered above his beloved city.

"John!"

That was his name. Someone was calling his name. Sherlock. Was he alright? Thatcher had fired the gun at… no. He had turned when John started speaking and now the bullet was in his chest. He heard his name again but this time it was distant and echoey, like someone yelling down a long pipe.

More pain.

This time it was in his head. Sharp, yet blunt, immediately sending a painful, stabbing-like throbbing through his skull, causing his vision to blur and go spotty.

He groaned, but even that seemed faint and distant. He tried to move but all he could manage was to turn his head, catching a blurred image of Sherlock kneeling beside him. Where did Thatcher go? He tried to sit up to see but Sherlock pushed him back down. He couldn't hear what he was saying but at this point he didn't care. Sleep was sounding better and better. The pain was starting to become overwhelming. He didn't know what was worse. The sharp pain every time he took a breath or the pounding in his head that made him want to tear his brains out? Both of them made it hard to concentrate on anything. Then to his relief, everything started to fade and then, to his great comfort, it wall disappeared.

The pain. He couldn't understand it. It ripped through is chest like a tiger clawing its way furiously into the organ filled cavity while delicate hands came and wrapped and iron band around his heart and lungs, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Why couldn't he breathe?

Sherlock fell to his knees beside John. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't a doctor! Think. Think! He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was hard to focus. Right! Stop the blood flow! He tore open John's shirt, before pulling off his scarf to press it to the wound. John wasn't moving, his chest barely shifting.

And God it terrified him.

He had let the killer go, calling the ambulance in the two steps it took for him to reach John's then-nearly unconscious body. But even now, he heard no sirens and he could tell John's breath was slowing.

He wasn't going to make it.

Oh God. He wasn't going to make it.

He, Sherlock Holmes, had personally gone out and got the only person he accepted as a friend killed.

He pressed a little harder on the scarf. There was always a chance. There had to be. John Hamish Watson was too good a man. Too wonderful and wise of a man to die here, like this, bleeding out on an alley floor.

Now if only that damn ambulance would show up.

The lights were dim, but still they were blinding. John let out a small groan as the throbbing in his head instantly made him wish he could sink back into unconsciousness.

There was a pressure on his shoulder and as his eyes focused, he struggled to remember what had happened.

As he tried to move, the figure next to him shifted.

Sherlock.

Right, he had been shot. From what he could tell, it had hit above his heart, missing any vital organs. Thank the Heavens.

The blogger's eyes finally focused and he found himself face to face with the most worried eyes he had ever seen on Sherlock Holmes.

"John? John, are you alright?"

"Mm?" John replied, trying to sit up. But Sherlock wouldn't have it.

"Just lay back, rest, I'm staunching the blood flow, help should be here soon. It's probably best if you don't move."

John nodded but the knife in his head immediately reminded him that that was a bad idea and he resorted back to humming.

"Is this what it felt like? Is this what it was like when I—Oh God, John, I'm so sorry."

John looked over to see hurt, mixed with painful understanding and sincere apology and something close to regret in the eyes of his companion. It was the most emotion he could ever remember seeing in the multicolored colored orbs and he couldn't help but smile slightly. Whether it was out of delirium from the shock and pain, spite, or actual joy and happiness, John wasn't sure he would ever know.

"Yes Sherlock. This is what it felt like. Except you were actually dead, at least I thought you were." The words were surprisingly hard to get out, his throat feeling dry and his lungs feeling tight.

"John, I—"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, causing Sherlock to look at him. "Shut up. You're going to make this awkward. I've already forgiven you alright? Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

John could tell the detective wanted to say more but he gave it great effort to keep his mouth shut.

Sirens sounded in the distance and both men gave a sigh of relief. A few more minutes and this would all be fixed. John would be patched up and healed in the next few weeks and this would all be over.

But then again, things never really end, do they? Not in the lives of John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective and his faithful blogger. The duo who's lives are run by danger and who wouldn't have it any other way.

Original Post:

"What I really want is for John to get really badly injured during a case and to be knocked out and for Sherlock to think that he might not make it, even for just a second, and for John to come to and find Sherlock sitting on the cold alley floor next to him, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth and for Sherlock to quietly whisper "is this what it felt like? For you? When I- Oh God, John, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."