John could feel his heart beating rhythmically in his ears as he slunk around corners, trailing slightly behind Sherlock. It was almost uncomfortably silent, his own footsteps quiet enough to not be heard, and his partner's unnaturally hushed. The duo backed against a wall, Sherlock signaling for them to split up.
They were on a case, naturally. A minor drug cartel with a newly created and highly dangerous modification of cocaine that was based in the basement of a protein powder mixing factory. Sherlock had insisted that they visit the headquarters and put a stop to it before any more of the local teenagers were sucked into the operation.
John nodded, pulling his gun from the inside of his jacket, and heading off in the opposite direction of Sherlock. He weaved through towering wire shelves loaded with containers of powders and liquids of suspicious origin. It all looked rather movie-set-ish and overdone to him, but he didn't doubt the price of some of that stuff was the reason so many kids had given away their lives away.
Rounding a table piled high with makeshift tools and more of the plastic containers, and then a corner with his pistol raised, John nearly froze in his tracks. Three of the six high schoolers who had disappeared were sitting in front of him. The stacks of cardboard boxes around them made a sort of square cubicle, the trio sat dejectedly in a line, leaning against one of the walls as they passed a paper-bagged bottle between them. There was one girl and two boys, their clothes ragged and dirty. He recalled their names dimly, Annabel, Matt, and Jake.
They blinked up at him and his extended gun, looking distant and addled at his presence. Cautiously, John lowered his gun slowly, tucking it into his waistband. "Don't be afraid, I'm here to help you. I'm going to get you all out of here and home to your families," he said slowly, trying to sound as soothing as he could manage.
When none of them moved, he stepped forward, preparing to help them up if necessary. As soon as he took that one step though, the boy on the end shakily stood up -Jake-, driving his fingers into the gaps between their makeshift walls. He was scarily skinny, and the threadbare clothes clung to his arms baggily.
"Why would I- why would we want to go home?" he slurred, digging his hand into the waistband of his jeans and returning with a .9 handgun. John tensed at the appearance of the weapon, resting his hand on his own just in case.
"Why would you want to stay here?" John asked, keeping his voice perfectly level as to not set off the boy.
"Here we got drinks, and our parents aren't anywhere around. Plus they showed me how to shoot a gun. I even got my own." He smiled crookedly, waving the thing as evidence of his ownership.
"Yes, I can see that. How much do you get to drink?"
"As much as we want!" he cheered, looking to his companions for support. Matt just smiled dazedly, Annabel looking lost with the whole conversation.
"What about the product you guys make? The drugs. Do they give you any of those?" The standing boy's smile faded.
"We aren't 'sposed to talk about it," he muttered.
"Oh come on you can tell me. I won't tattle to your boss," John chided, deciding that he wasn't going to try to get them out of there until Sherlock met back up with him. He just needed to keep the kid talking and hope whoever had taught him about guns had given him a lesson in trigger discipline.
Suddenly Jake was yelling, his voice shrieking throughout the room. "What do you think I am? A fucking little kid? I don't need your God Almighty attitude!" the kid's face was screwed up as he waved his gun in John's direction, who promptly backed away with his hands raised slightly. Obviously he had sampled a bit of the new stuff, violent mood swings being the main side effect.
"Hey, hey, calm down. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Just put the gun away, yeah?" John tried to speak slowly, using whatever inklings of negotiation techniques he had learned at one point or another.
"Don't fucking tell me what to do!" the kid screamed. He stood stock straight and seemed to be ticking off steps in his head. His hands were shaking crazily, and John kept backing away, speaking words of calming. Before he could even scream for Sherlock to hurry his arse up, the unmistakable sound of a gun firing echoed through the huge room.
The pain didn't come to him immediately, and he felt like someone had just jabbed him a little too hard. Almost not believing it was real, John looked down at the blood that was starting to soak his shirt. He gasped when the agony hit, feeling as though someone had just stabbed him and then shoved their hand into the wound. A groan of shock floated out of his mouth, and he clasped his hands to his abdomen, falling to his knees. The offending gun clattered to the ground, a steady stream of frantic apologies hitting his ears softly, as though muffled by some great huge thing.
John put a little effort into not falling directly onto his face, but he was still breathing in the cold dusty air that came with being mere inches from cement flooring when he barely whispered,
"Get.. Sherlock." He could feel bile rise in his throat, but he swallowed it down petulantly.
Jake was hovering above him with shaking hands,and looked positively terrified. He seemed to want to help and complied with John's request, screaming 'Sherlock' at the top of his lungs. Not that it was necessary. As soon as the gun went off, the aforementioned Holmes was sprinting in the direction of the source.
There was quite a bit of shouting above him, but John was rather involved in the difficult process of staying awake when the only thing that was really clear to him were the excruciating pangs that echoed through his body and the blood coating his hands and running onto the floor.
He thought: I am going to die. He thought: This hurts so fucking much. He thought: I don't want to die. Oh god, please, I don't want to die.
When Sherlock rounded the corner, he nearly froze in shock. John was crumpled on the floor surrounded by a growing crimson circle, a teenage looking boy crouched at his side. Sherlock rushed to his companion, shoving the one next to John aside roughly, barking to get out of the way and call 999.
John vaguely noticed the change in scenery as he was rolled carefully onto his back, the incessant apologies replaced by a slow and steady voice that he knew so well.
"John. John listen to me. You are going to be fine. Alright, John? You're going to be perfectly fine," Sherlock insisted, carefully working the jumper up past his ribcage. Sherlock's expression was such a complicated cocktail of rage and worry that he looked almost silly to John, but he couldn't find the words to tell him.
"There's a lot of blood," John slurred sleepily. Sherlock didn't seem to have anything to say to that, but he quickly undid the buttons of John's shirt and hissed angrily. "Bad?"
"No. No, you're going to be okay," Sherlock glanced at John, who looked just as terrified as he felt. "Put yourself to some use and call an ambulance, you putrid swine stomach!" Sherlock screamed in the direction of the bystanders, tossing his phone roughly.
"I got shot," John said simply, not sounding too concerned with the whole matter.
"Yes, that's correct," Sherlock confirmed, unravelling the scarf from his neck and using it as a makeshift bandage to properly apply pressure to John's seeping torso.
"It hurts." Sherlock grimaced at the words, glancing over at the boy who was distressedly talking to the emergency operator. When he looked back, John's eyes were fixed on his face.
"I know. Not for much longer now, the hospital will have sufficient painkillers." John smiled slightly at the remark, pain veiled for a precious second. Sherlock placed the back of his hand against John's cheek, and quickly pulled away.
"You're freezing cold. Shock may have set in; are you feeling dizzy or anxious at all?" Sherlock placed his fingers to John's neck and ground his teeth at the faint, hopping thing beneath John's clammy skin. He nodded in answer to the question, but only the tiniest of head movement.
His eyes seemed to scream of determination to stay awake before they drifted closed.
"John, please," Sherlock begged, not caring how pathetic he sounded. He was rewarded with John's eyes opening and staring up past Sherlock fuzzily. Everything about him seemed very resigned to the idea of being conscious.
"Where's the goddamn ambulance!" Sherlock screamed at the boy holding his phone.
"She said they're coming. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to shoot him, I'm so, so sorry!" Jake was sobbing his apologies now, and Sherlock just growled at the noise.
"I don't want to die, Sher. I don't want to go," he cried quietly.
"John, I want you to listen to me. You are going to stay awake, and we are going to take you to a hospital, and you are going live through this. I'm not letting you go anywhere anytime soon." John groaned feebly, not sounding too thrilled at the notion of staying responsive in his state.
"I love you, Sherlock," he stammered, his voice was reserved, but the strangled tone was evident.
"And I you, John," Sherlock stated smoothly, fiercely shoving down the uneasiness that appeared when the bundle of fabric under his hands started to feel wet. He needed to stay rational now. Logic was his best bet.
The average response time for an ambulance was eight minutes, that gave them about six until the team arrived, plus however long it took them to find John downstairs. Moving John would cause him to lose too much blood. He just needed to keep him conscious for nine or so more minutes, and they would both be fine.
"John, do you think you can stay with me for ten more minutes?" Air hissed out through John's clenched teeth. He nodded tightly. "Good, because there is no other option."
"That's your opinion," John breathed. The panic was making him feel jittery, but he just kept chanting Sherlock's words in his head, I'm not going to die. Sherlock is here. Everything is fine. He moved his arm around rather helplessly until it connected with Sherlock's, and he clutched at the rough fabric, holding himself to the world by his fingernails.
"How's the pain?"
"Why don't you use your deductions and figure it out?" John growled lowly, gripping the other's forearm tightly.
"Only a few more minutes now, John. Everything is going to be alright." They were silent for a few moments; Sherlock kept total eye contact, and frequently tapped John's cheek lightly to make sure he stayed awake. John struggled to keep himself up, as the pain seemed to be the only constant thing, everything else softened into a dull blur of muted colors and sounds. He was aware of Sherlock's hands pressing down on the epicenter, the slight changes in pressure reminding him with jolts of how much it actually hurt.
With what looked like quite a lot of struggle, John spoke. "I can't... I'm tired. I want to sleep," he said softly, sounding a bit pathetic really.
"You can't sleep, John. Not yet at least. But I promise you can sleep as soon as you're full of tons of lovely painkillers, yes?"
"When?"
"Just a moment more, I promise."
"Please," John moaned, the pain taking over in a stone-age style of Life and Death.
"John, listen. Just one more minute, and those bloody fools will arrive. All the pain will be gone, alright? You just need to hold on for a bit more," Sherlock said quickly, trying to swallow the panic rising in his throat.
"I don't want to die again."
Sherlock didn't have any time to react to the statement because at that moment, there was shouting upstairs. "DOWN HERE! YOU DAMN FOOLS, HE'S BEEN SHOT!" The detective didn't think he'd ever been as loud as he had in that moment.
The next few moments happened in a fogged frenzy. The paramedics had arrived and John was being carried away on a stretcher and there were police asking questions and uniformed officers moving the three teenagers about. One of the only things Sherlock remembered distinctly was arguing his way into the ambulance, and sitting by John's side as they rumbled their way to the hospital.
The medics buzzed around him, and Sherlock knew he was probably in their way, but it was better than not knowing what John's status was. They were finally starting to calm down after a few moments, and John turned his face to the other man, who was clutching the blood-soaked scarf carefully. Sherlock watched as his lips carefully made the words, and leaned in to hear him through the oxygen mask.
"Can I sleep now?" Sherlock smiled a little, breathing out in absolutely pure relief. He nodded a bit before the words actually came.
"Yes, John. Yes you can sleep now."
He could have sworn John quirked a smile just as he went under from the drugs.