Blood speckled the concrete floor, swimming in and out of focus in a sickening way. His eyes did not want to focus; he blinked repeatedly. His head throbbed in a way that he knew he would hurt for days. His right foot was bleeding, why he had no idea. His train of thought completely derailed when he attempted to remember what happened. Whatever it was, it had left him handcuffed to a metal structure in an seemingly abandoned warehouse, bleeding out onto the floor.
He tried to lift his head from its position, leaning against the metal beam, and instantly regretted it. His vision went black, and he felt like the world was spinning around him, tugging him in all directions. Everything was fuzzy after that, He couldn't focus on anything. Not even the short statured figure running towards him, its footsteps banging through the empty rooms of the warehouse.
Suddenly, the man was right there, in front of his face, checking for a pulse and getting him to open his eyes. Up close, he'd be an idiot not to recognize this face.
"J-John... ?" Sherlock choked out, bewilderment in his voice and fear plunging in his stomach. The man looked up into his eyes sharply for a second, disbelief mixing with sorrow and hope. He quickly averted his eyes and focused on closing up the artery that had been savagely slashed open on Sherlock's leg. The blood stained his hands as he tried his best to keep the pressure on the wound.
"John... how... how... did you..." Sherlock attempted to form a coherent sentence but was quickly silenced by Doctor Watson's free hand pressed to his lips. John had a look of fear in his eyes that Sherlock had never seen the likes of ever before. He might have looked the same when Sherlock had jumped from the rooftop, a meer year and a half before, but Sherlock couldn't know for sure. John was scared. Scared that he would finally find his flatmate only to loose him once more.
"Jo-hggn, em usht onna eep awelking..." Sherlock slurred through John's calloused hand. John removed his hand with some trepidation, and began to wrap Sherlock's leg with strips of cloth that looked faintly like one of Sherlock's old scarves. John was trying very hard to stay detached so he could properly look after Sherlock. It wasn't working so well.
"I'm sorry. I had to. There was no choice, It was to protect you." Sherlock spoke slowly, enunciating every word carefully to insure his message was received perfectly. If John had been undone by his first words, he was a ruined man by the end of Sherlock's last. He couldn't stay detached, it wasn't possible anymore. Not now that the tears cascaded down his cheeks and his breathing quickened and hitched in his throat, threatening to choke him. The lump in his throat had grown like an unwelcome tumor and now seemed to close off his only way of breathing.
His hysterics only escalated when he saw Sherlock's eyes begin to drift shut, a sign that he was fading. He drew in the biggest breath he could and severed himself from his emotions, in order to save Sherlock, he must do this. He quickly repositioned Sherlock so that he lay flat on the ground, and made sure that the blood was clotting where the artery had been severed. He did a quick once over, checking for any other scrapes or bruising. There were many.
Almost all of them were not serious enough to be looked at in depth right in that instant. There was one or two though, that needed attention. There was a large swelling and bruising effect around the right temple of Sherlock's face, giving him a possible concussion. John stripped off his coat and balled it up, using it as a pillow for Sherlock's head. He couldn't have Sherlock lying flat with a possible concussion. The second was the odd angle at which Sherlock's arm was bent, not natural. He soon found that they must have stomped on his arm, shattering the bones in four or five places. He was surprised Sherlock wasn't driven mad with pain, it worried him how Sherlock seemed to have no realization of the pain at all.
He didn't dare attempt to assess Sherlock's mental condition. He simply hoped in the back of his mind that the brilliant mind that drew him in in the first place, was still all there and relatively unharmed. He came back to the present course of events, focusing on Sherlock, then on the handcuffs.