SHERLOCK HAPPENED TO ME! I've always wanted to write about Sherlock getting hurt or something... don't judge. So this is just a little one-shot that came into my crazy head today. I was a little overwhelmed with other work so I scribbled this down. There may be mistakes, but it was just for fun. I hope you all enjoy this! Here's also a free jar of Nutella and cookies for you all! Hugs and lots of love! 33
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any characters.
Sherlock jumped to the side as the killers' knife hurtled towards him. "Not so fast," he smirked, dodging another swipe. The man who was clad completely in black growled through his clenched teeth and gripped his steel knife harder, his knuckles turning white.
"How did you find me?" the man gasped, repositioning himself across from Sherlock. Both were sweaty and tired, even after only moments of fighting.
"I'll keep that to myself," Sherlock said stubbornly. The killer growled once again, attacking Sherlock viciously. Sherlock was caught off guard as the knife broke through his overcoat and crisp white shirt, slicing a shallow wound on his skin. He grimaced in pain and the other man laughed in delight.
I need to focus, Sherlock said to himself as he gripped his arm. The wound did not feel deep, but it stung like nothing Sherlock had felt before. Not even the time he had accidently spilled 18 sulphuric acids on his thigh while experimenting. He had gotten a nasty burn on his leg and had to trash his pants, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as this scrape.
Sherlock continued to skip out of the killer's grasp, much to the man's distaste. Soon, his legs began to feel wobbly and his hair and forehead were completely drenched in sweat. The killer noticed Sherlock's weakness and began to attack more, despite his exhaustion.
In the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the flash of metal, then felt a burning pain in his right shoulder. He stifled a cry and sank to the ground, his knees digging into the cold stone. A dull, evil laugh filled his ears and the man appeared in front of him, the knife dripping with blood. His blood.
The knife came down again, piercing his side. The pain was numbing, running through his body. Blood coursed through his veins, flowing out of the gashes in his shoulder and side. In complete pain, he placed a hand on his side. To his surprise, he felt the blood drenching his fingers, running in little rivers down his arm.
He was vaguely aware of a breath in his ear, but his vision was becoming riddled with black spots.
"I'm going to leave you here," The breath turned into a voice, and the words formed. "To die, alone," The man who was now a blur stood up, dropping the bloodied knife next to Sherlock, who was now leaning against the alley wall.
Once Sherlock was sure the man was gone, he let out a small cry of pain. His breath now came in short gasps, the blood gushing out from his wounds.
John, he thought, wanting to retreat to his mind palace. A thought entered his – for once – confused mind. He fumbled with his coat pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. His fingers felt numb against the cold buttons, and he opened up his text messages, ignoring the strange feeling that had begun to settle on his body.
As fast as his fingers would allow him, he typed out a message. He knew some things had been spelt wrong, but sent the message, a small shooting sound coming from the phone. Now exhausted, he dropped the phone and leaned his head against the wall, the smell of metallic blood filling his nostrils.
PAGE BREAK
John plopped down on his chair, placing the groceries next to him in a heap. As he leaned against the leather, he noticed that Sherlock was gone. Of course, he had gone out on a case, and it was usual for him. Always running off, sometimes leaving a small note behind.
He felt a slight buzzing in his pocket and reached down, gripping his phone. He turned it on, seeing he had a text from Sherlock.
About time, He thought, opening up the text with a click. He read it, his eyes growing wider with each word.
Help nededd. In aan aley. Hurt. It read. The spelling was wrong. John was concerning, knowing that Sherlock never asked for help. And if he did, it was because he desperately needed it.
PAGE BREAK
Greg Lestrade and John jumped into the car, urging the man in the front seat to drive quickly. John was sweating, and small trembles ran through his body. Lestrade gave him a small glance, noticing how John's hands shook whenever he touched his phone. He knew why he trembled – it was that forsaken item that had told John that Sherlock was injured, possibly gravely.
Despite the fear they were now both experiencing, they moved quickly when the car stopped. They had managed to track the location of Sherlock's phone, in an alley just as Sherlock had said in the text message.
John hopped out, his feet hitting the pavement. He ran down the alley that was indicated, his feet thrumming on the ground like a set of fast beating drums. He stopped in his tracks when he saw a lone figure leaning up against the brick wall. It took John a moment to realize it was Sherlock.
Sherlock's curly hair was plastered to his face, which was pale and in a set state of constant pain. John noticed blood dripping through a small cut that had gone through his overcoat and white shirt. He shook of the small injury when he noticed a large blot of the crimson substance soaking through his shoulder, forming a splatter mark across his neck and chest. John knelt down next to him, taking Sherlock's hand from his side. He noticed as soon as he touched it that it was limp, and sticky. In shock, he peeled back Sherlock's coat to see his whole lower torso coated in blood.
"Lestrade!" John yelled, taking immediate action. He tore off his own jacket and pressed it to Sherlock's bleeding side, clamping the shoulder wound with his own hand. Blood quickly soaked his coat and hand, causing them to turn a sickly red colour.
In a moment Lestrade was next to John, and ambulance already on the phone. He took John's place by Sherlock's shoulder and placed his own arm over the wound, allowing his jacket to soak up the blood.
"Yes," he said to the paramedic on the phone. "We need an ambulance, come quickly."
John glanced down at Sherlock just as his pale eyelids fluttered open. Gray-green eyes met blue ones, and Sherlock let out a breath.
"J-John," he stuttered, blood seeping from the corner of his pale lips.
"Shh, Shh," John chided, touching his cheek and wiping the droplet of blood off his face. "It'll be alright,"
Sherlock nodded, grimacing in pain as John put more pressure on his stab wound. In the distance there were sirens, and John stiffened. "They're almost here," he said to Sherlock, pushing a brown lock of hair from his friends pain filled eyes.
Sherlock began breathe heavily, his chest rising a falling quickly. "Hurts…" he mumbled through clenched teeth, his back arching in pain. The stinging feel filled his body, numbing his arms and making him want to cry out. He whimpered slightly, feeling pressure on his shoulder and stomach. He knew he was losing blood – and fast. He began to grow cold, his vision blackening.
John noticed the change in his friend and took his hand, Lestrade placing more pressure on the stomach wound for John. John cradled Sherlock's head in his arms, whispering soothing words.
"S-stay," The words quickly left Sherlock's lips, his eyes becoming pale and lifeless.
John choked a sob, knowing his friend was fading fast. "You know I always will,"
Thanks for reading! As always, reviews are appreciated! Have a lovely week!