May or may not change the title later on. As always, I own nothing.
A week-long chase had culminated here, in a labyrinth-like warehouse in the heart of industrial London town. John Watson picked his way through the cold corridors in silence, as did three other people in other parts of the building, blocking every possible exit route for this case's prey. The young man that had killed five girls over the past week had realized the coppers were on his tail; since flight was impossible, he had turned to hiding. It took the group less than an hour to pinpoint the hideout, thanks to the brilliancy of their tallest team member, but getting the suspect out of it was the tricky part. The warehouse was enormous, had four possible exits, thousands of hiding spots, and a very dangerous, very scared, possibly armed teenager captured inside. Donovan –whatever the woman might be, she was brave-, Lestrade, John and Sherlock would have to be very careful with this volatile criminal. Especially Sherlock.
Oh, God, Sherlock, pleaded John in a thought aimed at the impatient detective. Just this once, please…
John could hear the others' footsteps echoing through distant tunnels, carried to his battlefield-trained ears by the same cold air that turned his breath white. As soon as this case was over, John decided, he would indulge in a long bath and a large mug of special blend tea. But the criminal's capture was still a faraway event, so he pushed the thought of comfort aside and focused on the plan.
In exactly three minutes, he was to make as much noise as possible, to scare the murderous teenager to the center chamber of the warehouse, where the four main corridors interloped. Lestrade, Donovan, and Sherlock would be covering the other exits, and the pressure of being trapped and outnumbered would push the young criminal into surrender. At least, Sherlock thought it would. John hoped his flatmate was right.
The three minutes were over. John inched his way down the corridor a bit more, closer to where the teenager was crouching, unaware of John's presence behind him. Sherlock had sent John to cover that tunnel because of his soldier skills, no doubt. The boy needed to feel that something was not letting him return from whence he entered, but it had to be something invisible and silent enough that the boy wouldn't shoot. John couldn't tell if he was annoyed or flattered that Sherlock considered him well-versed in the art of being a ghost.
John grabbed a handful of screws he had collected along the tunnel and tossed them at a pipe. He saw the figure of the boy jump at the clattering, and as the shadow scurried away, John couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the lad. So young, so scared…
"Drop the weapon, son," he heard Lestrade say a few yards down and around a corner. John hurried to take his spot.
"It's over," Donovan added, her gun clicking. The boy's nervous breaths were the only things to break the silence… no, there was something else: a flurry of running shoes and a fluttering coat. For some reason, Sherlock had not made it to his position in time, and was now running towards the chamber, towards a cornered, armed teenager.
John didn't have to be an expert at deduction to know what would happen next. The boy would not return through John's tunnel, nor would he face the solid barriers of Lestrade and Donovan's presence. Cornered like a rat, he would dash to the only remaining option, and like a cornered rat, he would tear through any obstacle in his path. Sherlock may or may not be in place, may or may not have his gun ready, may or may not get shot at, may or may not get hurt. Or worse, killed.
It was a chance John would not take. He sprinted the final stretch, hoping that for once he could out-stride his long-legged friend, and rounded the corner. John heard Sherlock before he saw him. So did the teenager. He began aiming at the tunnel where Sherlock would appear in an instant. Donovan and Lestrade gave their second warning, and it sounded slow and hazy in John's adrenaline-filled mind.
"Oi!" he yelled. His voice pierced through the slow motion spell that had taken over the room. Everything else happened very quickly.
The boy turned the gun on him. The trigger was squeezed. An explosion deafened him. His chest caught fire. His legs gave underneath him. And in the tunnel opposite to him, Sherlock's horrified face appeared.
"John!" Sherlock screamed over the twin explosions of Donovan and Lestrade's guns going off, bringing down the suspect a second too late. The deed was done, John realized, gasping wetly through the blood that was suddenly everywhere. He was going to die. Oh, God, please let me live.
"John!" he heard again, closer this time, and he cried out in pain as a pair of long arms jostled him into an embrace. John's eyes struggled to focus on the figure looming over him, and then suddenly, he felt peace. He had saved Sherlock, Sherlock had not been shot, Sherlock was alive. He arranged his lips into a grin that he hoped didn't look like a grimace.
"Sh-Sherlock," he managed, his lungs burning with the effort of two syllables. He closed his eyes against the pain.
"No, John. Look at me. Look at me, John!" Sherlock ordered, one arm leaving John's shoulders to undo his own scarf and press it against the wound. It was close to John's heart, much too close, and the paramedics would take ages to get here. Oh, no. Please, please no, Sherlock thought, trying to hold down the dreadful sentiment clawing at his eyes to reach his first aid knowledge. He couldn't, though, and he snarled at himself in frustration.
"Sherlock," John breathed, his eyes drooping by the millisecond. He wanted to rest; oh, God, he wanted to sleep in Sherlock's arms forever, but not while the tall man was so distraught. John's doctor side kicked in. He had to comfort Sherlock. Sherlock caught John's hand and directed it to his cheek, holding it there. It was cold, too cold, but surprisingly steady. The one trembling –fear, anger, impotence- was the detective himself.
"It's okay," John said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Of course it's okay, John," Sherlock replied, nodding against John's hand as if rubbing in the lie to make it true. "You're going to be okay, and we're going to go home, and you can have a cup of that special blend you like so much. In the bath tub. How does that sound, eh?"
John chuckled, remembering his thoughts from only minutes ago. Already it seemed like a lifetime, his lifetime.
"You… mind reader," he whispered in awe. Sherlock caught the tone and smirked briefly, trying to fight back the tears that were attempting to steal the precious sight of John's face. If the hot trails coating Sherlock's cheeks were any indication, he was desperately losing the fight.
John's thumb wiped away one of Sherlock's tears.
"Sherlock," he muttered, his voice, eyes, and life slipping closed. He exhaled, and his hand gave one final, feeble flicker under Sherlock's. He was still after that.