A/N: Hi guys! I kinda just joined the Sherlock fandom, and I'm TOTALLY done for. This is just a cute drabble thingy. There could follow more. (Depends on reviews, they make my Internet work ;) ) Also, my first language isn't English, and I don't have a beta yet. So if there's wrong grammar, tell me!
WARNING: MxM
There will be more hugging, kissing, snogging perhaps... slash? in later chapters. I take prompts but first I'll finish this two-chaptered one-shot. :)
Pairing: John W./ Sherlock H.
DISCLAIMER: No profit is made out of this. I also don't own the characters. I just toy around with them a bit.
Thanks to ~the-vampire-goddess for proofreading this story. Go look me (~EmmaPH) and her up on DeviantArt!
EDIT: Hi! it's been about 2 years and 3 since I last wrote this, but I read it again, got rid of some mistakes and tried to clear it up a little whilst still keeping as much of the younger me's work intact!
Sherlock tried to raise his head, but immediately an icy blast hit him. He pulled the collar of his shirt even higher. He walked quickly, sometimes pushing people out of his way. He had forgotten to bring his coat and scarf this morning because of the lovely weather,
but it had changed dramatically during the day and he couldn't get a cab.
That meant he had to walk two miles in the gushing wind and rain.
In a linen, button-down shirt.
He was shivering really badly but kept on walking none the less.
He tried to walk at an even quicker pace and cursed the criminal he had been chasing.
He had tried to shoot Sherlock, but instead of hitting the detective in his belly, the bullet had scuffed his thigh. It wasn't a severe wound - he had seen worse - but he had tripped and landed on the street, causing it to get worse. He was pushing himself to his limits, and he knew John would practically kill him for going out on his own.
Finally, Baker Street came into view.
The shivering detective ran the last few yards. He pushed the bell, and immediately sat down, trying to hold some of his body heat.
He heard footsteps and then the sound of a lock that was being unlocked.
John opened the door, muttering a curse under his breath.
"What is-"
He abruptly stopped mid-sentence, seeing the consulting detective's frozen form.
"Sherlock!" He exclaimed, horrified, before pulling his lover inside.
This was bad. Sherlock was even paler than normal and shivering horribly. His clothes were soaking wet, and a feverish blush was slowly settling on his cheeks. And his leg... what the hell had happened to his leg?! It was bloodied and his trousers were torn.
John's doctor instincts kicked in, and he rubbed his hands along the other man's arms.
"We need to get you up, okay?" He asked, trying to lift Sherlock carefully.
Sherlock nodded. When John threw an arm around him, he looked at him questioningly.
"But..." he croaked, trying to not bite his own tongue, "But... you- you'll... get w-wet," he stated.
John gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about me, love. We just need to get you some dry clothes, a nice hot cup of tea, and a warm bath. And then I'll look after that wound, alright?"
Sherlock nodded again. His voice was too hoarse to talk, or even to make an attempt.
They climbed up the stairs and when they reached the living room, John immediately laid Sherlock on the couch before putting the kettle on.
"You wait here and I'll be back in a minute."
Sherlock just curled up in response, trying to bite back the pain. When he was walking he didn't really feel it since because his brain was busy with getting him home. Now he didn't have anything to distract himself from the pain and it hurt like hell.
He bit his lip, drawing blood.
John came back over to him and wrapped three blankets around the detective, rubbing him dry, before he started to undress Sherlock.
Sherlock whined as John took off his trousers. His lover looked up, anxious.
"You need to tell me how much it hurts, on a scale from one to ten. Do you need more blankets?"
Sherlock shook his head in denial.
"Um... eight?" he croaked, ending it with a question mark.
John nodded and opened his first-aid box, gathering some cotton balls and a bottle of rubbing alcohol before he turned to Sherlock, seeing the anxious look in his eyes.
"Don't worry..." John purred as he sprinkled a bit of alcohol over a cotton ball. "I promise I'll be careful."
Sherlock licked his dry lips and nodded, clenching his jaw.
John slowly dabbed the wound, ignoring Sherlock's whines and groans.
He looked at the wound, deciding Sherlock would have to take a bath before he could bandage it up.
"Come on, let's get you upstairs."
Sherlock opened one eye. Wasn't John going to stitch him up? He looked around quickly. No evidence of a needle with sterile thread. Not yet, anyway. Why did he have to move? He was actually quite comfortable where he was. Seeing the look on John's face, Sherlock turned around to make a point... and screamed.
John never wanted to hear that scream again. He fell to his knees, reaching for his belt. The wound was bleeding fast as Sherlock turned even whiter.
John quickly undid himself of his belt to wrap it above Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock looked at him, questioning him despite his current state.
"It's a make-shift tourniquet. Now, Sherlock, how long have you been walking with your leg like this? I need to know." John said calmly while he put a few blankets under his lover's leg. Mrs. Hudson would kill them if they got any blood on her upholstery.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
It had been eight o'clock when he had left Scotland Yard. He had found the criminal's hideout in about half an hour. He'd waited fifteen minutes for the guy to show up. (Yes, he'd been so excited he kept on looking at his watch). The guy had drawn his pistol and shot it off two times. They'd both missed. The chase had been three minutes long before the criminal had turned back and shot once more, this shot being the one that grazed his leg. That would have been around 8.50 a.m.; it was now one o'clock.
"About four hours..." Sherlock muttered, fearing an angry John.
He got one.
John's face turned red. He raced to the door and grabbed their coats.
He jerked the detective from the couch - still being careful, though - and fastened his belt around the sociopath's leg.
"You complete idiot! Why didn't you go to the hospital!? Or came to me?! Now we need to go there anyway! God, Sherlock, you can be such an ignorant twat sometimes!" John cursed the detective under his breath.
John helped Sherlock down the stairs and grabbed a wooden chair from the hallway leading to Mrs. Hudson's door. He pointed towards it.
"Sit." He ordered, glaring at Sherlock.
He ran out into the street, shouting, "TAXI!"
A cab stopped in front of him quickly. John then hurried to the driver's side.
"My friend is wounded; he needs to get to the hospital."
The cabbie was about to tell him to get lost, but John pulled one of the many IDs Sherlock had stolen from Lestrade out of his pocket.
Seeing the badge, the cabbie shut his mouth and grumbled a bit about how he wished the police would pay for the cleaning after instead of leaving poor cabbies to take care of themselves. John ignored it and ran to the door, only to see Sherlock walking towards him. John sighed frustratedly.
"I told you to sit down."
"And I did, but I deduced that you would've pulled Lestrade's ID already, so shall we go?"
John huffed. Badly wounded and still Sherlock managed to uphold the same attitude about his transport.
He helped Sherlock into the cab before he got in and closed the door.
Sherlock sighed. Of course, the London traffic had to be worse than ever that time of day.
He winced as the cabbie took an unexpected right turn.
Wait, unexpected? He had memorized the map of London four years ago! Couldn't he remember the route anymore? This was bad... even worse than he thought.
He tapped John on his shoulder.
"John?"
His friend - and lover - turned to face him.
"I can't remember the route anymore..."
He saw the concern on his blogger's face. He knew that John knew what it meant.
"It'll be fine. It's just around the corner, here. "
John gave him a kiss on his temple, caressing his hair.
Sherlock looked out of the window and saw St. Bart's. He clenched his jaw, waiting for the vehicle to stop.
As soon as it did, John opened the doors and lifted Sherlock out of the cab bridal style.
A few people stopped, looking horrified.
Sherlock clung to John's jacket, fisting the material.
His leg was hurting terribly at this point. This was worse than being choked into a state of near unconsciousness.
He whimpered as the warmth of the hospital hit his leg. This cold-warm mixture wasn't really helping the pain.
He felt really weird now, actually; almost like when he was choked in the house of that girl from their last case. Soo Lin Yao, was it?
The next thing he heard was John calling out to someone.
"Somebody, help me! He's been shot in his leg! He's lost a lot of blood!"
He looked down, seeing Sherlock close his eyes. A cold hand wrapped around his heart.
"Sherlock?"
No answers. He quickly took his pulse.
Oh God.
"He's DYING, for fuck's sake!"
Finally, three doctors and a nurse came running towards him with a gurney.
"Dr. Watson! What happened?" a female doctor asked as they laid the pale detective on the gurney.
"I don't know exactly, but we need to get him a proper bandage, and he's lost a lot of blood, so he may need a blood transfusion. I'll have to call Mycroft."
The doctors nodded as they rolled him into a room. John pulled his phone out of his pocket when somebody tapped him on his shoulder. He turned around and saw the older Holmes brother, smiling in a sad way.
"I believe you were going to call me?"
John opened his mouth to ask how, and why, Mycroft was already here, but closed it again. Mycroft's network, of course.
"How is he?" Mycroft asked, and John wasn't totally surprised that there wasn't much worry in his voice.
"I don't know. He fainted a moment ago. He's lost a lot of blood, so we might have to do a blood transfusion... Would you...?"
Mycroft nodded. John sighed in relief. He then walked to the room in which they had placed Sherlock in.
A nurse tried to keep him out, but as soon as she recognized who he was, she let him pass.
Sherlock didn't look too well. An I.V. needle with painkillers had been injected in his left arm and they were busy cleaning and bandaging the wound. Everything was being monitored. He looked at the monitor and, to his horror, saw that Sherlock's pulse wasn't back to normal. Instead, it was about 55. They had given him an oxygen mask to help him breathe.
John knew they had to do the transfusion immediately now. It would be only a matter of hours before Sherlock would drop into a coma if they didn't hurry. After the coma…No, not now; he shook his head, clearing it a bit.
"He needs a blood transfusion. His brother's here; we need to do it now. How many does he need?" John asked one of the doctors.
"About two pints, but what about blood difference? Do the brothers have the same blood type?"
John sighed.
"I'll take a look at their documents."
He walked out of the room, searching for Mycroft. He was sitting in one of the plastic chairs, umbrella leaning against it, and he was on the phone.
John didn't want to be rude, but, knowing Mycroft, he could go on for quite a long time.
"Mycroft, come with me please."
Mycroft nodded and ended his conversation with an icy goodbye that was only known to be from the Holmes brothers.
He rose to his feet and John motioned him to come with him.
~oOo~
"Alright, Mycroft," John said while checking all the tubes and hoses again.
"You might feel a bit faint after this, so I'll have to ask you to stay here a bit longer, that way we can keep an eye on you."
The older Holmes nodded, shrugging. He wasn't planning on going anywhere.
John checked everything one last time and then turned the machine on.
The hoses were slowly filled with blood, and John checked the monitor. If Mycroft lost his blood too fast, he would go into a coma too from severe blood loss.
After two and a half hours they had two pints of Mycroft's blood.
A nurse carefully closed the transfusion bags as a nurse gave Mycroft a medicine against fainting.
Mycroft swallowed it and washed it down with the last bit of his tea.
John ran out of the lab and headed for the surgery to give the blood to the doctors for Sherlock.
Entering the surgery, without fuss this time since he had on his uniform now, he quickly glanced at the monitor.
Sherlock's pulse was still at 55.
He gave the bags to a nurse who immediately hung them on a peg. She then put a hose into one of the bags and injected yet another needle into the detective's pale arm. As soon as the blood started to enter Sherlock's body, his pulse started to rise.
After an hour, and one and a half pints of blood, his pulse was now at 65, which was a good start.
His leg was bandaged now and, luckily, there was no infection.
They moved Sherlock to a normal room, and John checked on him after an hour or so.
He was greeted by an irritated Sherlock and a grinning Mycroft.
A/N: Yay! Sherly has awakened! Sorry for the almost-death scene. I was listening to the music they used for the Reichenbach Fall (Why, you idiot?) and I thought: Than John can really take care of him after this, and who doesn't like a rebellious Sherlock, right? ;)
Next chapter should be up soon. (Again, reviews make my Internet work.) Thanks for reading!