[ THIS STORY IS WRITTEN FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF JOHN WATSON . HE IS REFERRED TO AS 'I' , AND SHERLOCK IS REFERRED TO AS 'YOU'. EVERYONE ELSE WILL HAVE THEIR NAMES USED. ]

THE NIGHT IS YOUNG. It's just you and me here, running down a dark alleyway, our breathing harsh and in tandem. That's how it's always been, really, just me and you. Well, except when it's me and a woman, and sometimes, you show up there, and it's awkward. If I invite her over, you start deducing her the moment she walks into the flat, and most of the time, she ends up leaving. I should be mad at you. I am, sometimes, but most of the time, I pretend. I know she wouldn't be as exciting and interesting as you are, and sometimes, I feel like you've saved me from regret.

So, here we are, running through the dark streets of London, feet slapping the pavement and hearts racing. A man with a gun, a serial killer, is right on our heels. He's angry. You made him that way. And while I do love a good dose of adventure, running for my life isn't really a way I want to spend my evening. But that's okay. You're here with me, so everything will be fine.

But no, you're slowly slipping away from my side, your longer legs giving you the advantage. My leg hasn't acted up in weeks, but now, it feels wobbly, like it isn't going to hold me up for much longer.

"Sherlock! Wait!"

You don't turn to look at me, you don't even stop. You can't, I understand, but I really wouldn't like to be left behind with this man and his gun. Maybe you didn't hear me, maybe the wind's roaring too loudly in your ears. But you're pulling away, farther, and maybe it's me who's failing to keep up the pace. Maybe I'm slowing down.

"Sherlock, for god's sake-"

BANG!

The sound of my voice is immediately cut off by the sound of a gunshot, and I slow, eyes wide. Is it you? Are you hurt? But I don't see you up ahead, you probably disappeared around the corner. Where did the gunshot come from? Where did the bullet go? My chest is heaving with the extra efforts to breathe, so I rest my hand there in an attempt to soothe. My fingers come away sticky, the acrid stench of blood reaching my nostrils.

Oh.

It was me. I had gotten shot, I had gotten hurt. I hadn't been quick enough, I hadn't been able to keep up, and now look what's happened. The gunman is running away now, not wanting to get caught at the scene. I can hear his footsteps, hurried, as he skids on his heels and turns the other way.

It takes me all of ten seconds to realize this, and another five until I collapse onto the pavement, my lungs screaming for air, my heart still beating. It's a quick flutter under my fingertips, and my free hand goes to my pocket to grab for my mobile. I know blood is already smearing all over the screen, but I need to dial 999 before it's too late.

BANG! BANG!

Did the gunman come back to finish me off, maybe? Maybe he did, maybe he didn't want me to live to snitch on him. But no, it's a different gait, a different set of footsteps. It's you, Sherlock. You came back for me. You're shooting at the gunman, but I don't think you really care if you hit him or not. You're there, suddenly, kneeled at my side, lifting my hand away from the wound to see the damage done.

"John." your voice is hoarse, and I can dimly see your face in the moonlight. "John, listen to me. I need you to stay awake, alright?"

You look like you've gotten a fright, and yes, I suppose seeing me here on the ground would've done that to you. But I've never seen your emotions this clear on your face before, so raw and open. Getting shot isn't new to me. That's exactly how I'd gotten discharged from the Army. But it's never been so close to a vital organ.

"Yes. Alright." I say, and you're taking my mobile from my hand. "Sherlock, I've already-"

You know I've already dialed, you're speaking very harshly to the person on the other side of the line. I catch snippets of words like 'come quickly' and 'he's been shot', but I don't pay attention, my eyes on the stars. Stargazing calms me, and I count the different constellations in my head. There's the Big Dipper, and there's-

Ouch. Someone's pinched my arm. Oh, it's you, and you have an urgent look on your face. You were trying to get my attention, trying to make sure I didn't shut my eyes by accident. I understand. I've been in your position before, Sherlock, I know the drill.

"I'm a doctor." I calmly tell you.

You frown, your nose crinkling. But then you laugh, a small smile appearing on your face, and I breathe out another exhale.

"Yes, John, you certainly are a doctor." you reply, resting your hand on my arm.

I can swear I hear you say 'my doctor' underneath your breath, but I'm not quite sure whether I hallucinated that, so I brush it off. So, we're here in silence, only filled by the sounds of our breathing. Exactly where we started, except now I'm on the ground, and you've stopped moving. I focus on the heat of your hand, warm on the sleeve of my jumper and the skin underneath. It feels nice. You've been resting your hand on me a lot lately, and I never noticed that until now.

I manage to not fall asleep, and the sirens come before I know it. The ambulance is suddenly there, and I'm being lifted, strapped down. Although, I keep my eyes on you, and you do the same to me. But the doctors are trying to hold you back as I'm put into the ambulance, and you look furious.

"Let him ride." I demand, my voice loud enough to hear over the endless wailing of the sirens. "He rides with me."

The doctors pause, staring, but you take that chance to push past them, settling beside me in the ambulance. You're there again, worried, and your presence relaxes me. You're there, and I can take another breath. Your hand comes to rest on my arm again as we ride to the hospital, and you talk to me, your voice low.

"You're going to make it through this, John, I know you will." you say, your voice firm, confident. "You aren't going to die. Not today."

I hope you're right, I really do. I want to go on more adventures with you, I want to feel the adrenaline in my veins. I want our quiet mornings on Baker Street, our tired nights in the living room. I want your violin playing, and I want your severed body parts in the fridge. I want everything, so badly, and it would hurt so much to give them up just because I've gotten shot.

I feel so tired, and my eyes are closing. You're yelling, now, your voice in a twist. You're shaking me, but I ignore it. I'm exhausted, I want to sleep. You don't understand. Everything is slowing around me, and I can hear other panicked voices. But yours is the one who stands out most, barking orders at everyone there in the ambulance.

I can tell when we're at the hospital, I can hear the doors open. They're wheeling me out, but they're going quicker this time, and I know they're running because I can hear their feet slapping on the linoleum floors. I can hear you, too. The doctors are telling you to go to the waiting room, but you don't want to listen. Why can't he stay, I want to ask. Oh. They're probably taking me to surgery, so that's why. But I want you there anyways. You've broken rules to do what you want before, why not now?

I need you here, Sherlock, with the warm weight of your hand on my arm.

And that's the last coherent thought I have before I fall into unconsciousness.