John pushed Sherlock into the lift before their suspect came around the corner. He followed the detective in, urgently pressing the button that would close the doors. He then pressed the emergency stop with a sigh of relief.
There was a jolt as the lift stopped. It didn't take long for him to hear the suspect angrily hitting his weapon of choice against the wall when he realised he couldn't get to them.
A weapon which, not five minutes ago, he had managed to strike Sherlock with. Repeatedly.
John had watched from his position on the floor- trying and failing to catch his breath- as Sherlock doubled over in pain and the suspect hit him again and again with a baseball bat. The detective moved to protect his abdomen, which taken the brunt of the beating, and John watched as his arms and legs suffered a barrage of hits as well.
The anger and fear built inside John as he lay helpless on the floor. He was angry at himself for not bringing his gun along tonight. He could've ended this whole thing a long time ago with a single, well-placed bullet between the man's eyes. But they had rushed out of the flat once Sherlock figured out who the next victim would be, and he'd been worried that if he took too long the detective would leave without him.
He felt useless, breath still heaving after being strangled by their suspect's partner who now lay unconscious on the floor. But he had to get up. And soon. He could hear Sherlock's struggles growing fainter, his pained grunts getting quieter, as the bat was brought down again and again. The noises he was making were making John sick to his stomach, but it turned out that the silence was even worse because it meant that with each passing moment Sherlock was getting weaker.
Which was why he was so surprised when the detective suddenly moved like lightning, sweeping the suspect's feet out from under him and grabbing the discarded baseball bat from the floor and hitting the suspect right on the head.
John felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as he watched Sherlock. He got himself off the floor, quietly wheezing as he made his way over to help his flatmate. John didn't let himself be lulled into a false sense of security- it was clear that Sherlock's actions had taken a lot out of him. The detective's legs buckled, and he barely managed to get his arm around John's shoulders before almost collapsing on the floor.
John eyed the stairs wearily, accepting that Sherlock was in no state to manage them. They struggled down the corridor, Sherlock on the phone with Lestrade finally relaying their location while John looked for a way out.
He finally spotted the lift and decided that, if they couldn't outrun the man, they would have to hide until Lestrade could get to them. He was under no impression that the suspect would be dazed for long, but fighting wasn't an option right now- Sherlock could barely hold himself up and was in no condition to be running down the streets of London to get away from these men.
And now here they were, sitting on the dirty floor in the relative safety of the lift, listening as the two suspects tried to co-ordinate their efforts to bully John and Sherlock out of the lift. They would soon give up and leave. But hopefully not before Scotland Yard arrived.
In the meantime, all they could do was wait. Sherlock was sitting in the corner, slumped back against the wall as he cradled his abdomen. John, now able to breathe semi-normally, was going through all the possible injuries that Sherlock had sustained during the attack.
He watched the detective closely. Sherlock's face and head had been blessedly spared, but he looked even paler than usual. His breathing was fast and shallow, and he didn't seem to have the strength to hold his own head up. John could see the tension on his shoulders, pain written all over his face.
After performing his visual assessment, John kneeled in front of his friend. "Sherlock, can you look at me?"
He watched as Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and tried to focus on John. The doctor added sluggish response to his ever-growing list of symptoms as he tried not to let the concern show on his face.
"What's hurting the most?" John moved towards Sherlock, putting his hand on the detective's arm and trying to move it out of the way.
"Le-ggo," Sherlock slurred. He recoiled from John's touch and clutched his abdomen tighter. His breathing became visibly more laboured.
"Sherlock, you need to let me have a look at you." John pulled Sherlock's arm toward him so he could feel the detective's abdomen, but as soon as he let go of the arm it dropped like a stone.
"Sherlock," John sighed, exasperated. He was quickly distracted by the sound of his phone ringing. He took the call when he saw it was Lestrade.
While on the phone he kept eyeing Sherlock worriedly. He could see the sheen of cold sweat on the detective's face, which was getting paler by the minute, and worst of all the erratic breathing which kept getting faster and faster.
Something was wrong with Sherlock, and there was absolutely nothing John could do while stuck in this awful lift. But it wasn't like he had many options. Above and below them, just on the other side of those doors were now violent, very angry and armed suspects and John couldn't fight them alone.
Once he finished the call he dropped the phone back in his pocket. "Sherlock," John slapped the detective's cheek lightly to get his attention, "Lestrade is going to be here soon. I told him to call an ambulance, help will be here soon."
"M'fine," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his arm, which John could see was swollen.
He tried not to roll his eyes at how flippant Sherlock was being. "I thought you were supposed to be smart, I think it's pretty damn obvious you're not fine."
"S'just my… jus' my claustrophobia," Sherlock explained.
"You actually expect me to believe that after the beating you just took?" John scoffed, "You can't even stand. What does that have to do with claustrophobia?"
He watched as Sherlock slowly unfurled himself from his corner of the lift and made a big show of standing up, albeit very slowly. He almost made it without wincing. "See?" Sherlock declared proudly once he was on his feet. "I'm fine."
"Un-fucking-believable," John muttered angrily.
Sherlock swayed almost imperceptibly but managed to stay standing. John might have missed it if he wasn't looking for it, but things were never that simple with Sherlock and he wasn't convinced the detective had come away from the attack unscathed. John had been a doctor long enough to know the difference between a panic attack and signs of shock.
He ticked the symptoms off in his head as Sherlock's eyes glazed over for a moment and his knees buckled. He rushed forwards just in time to wrap his arms around Sherlock and lower him slowly to the floor. "Claustrophobia, huh? How stupid do you think I am?"
"Do you really want me to answer that?" Sherlock panted as he leaned back against the wall. He stared around the lift, noting for the first time how small it truly was. He had been distracted by John's nagging at first to really notice, but now he couldn't stop thinking about it.
He was in a confined box, with no windows in sight and a door that wouldn't open. Even better, he had two deranged idiots constantly pounding on the doors.
It felt like his very bones were shaking along with the rhythmic pounding reverberating through the lift. He couldn't stop imagining free falling in this horrid metal box, completely helpless. He was half convinced he would die of asphyxiation before the fall killed him. There simply couldn't be enough oxygen in such a small space. It wasn't possible. They were going to die in here.
Sherlock could feel his heart pounding against his chest. He could feel the chill running down his spine. Dizziness took over him and his head lolled from side to side until he felt John's hands grasping his face on both sides. It didn't do anything to stop the room from spinning around and around.
He took a shuddering breath in, trying to calm himself but it was no use. His body was betraying him. His muscles wouldn't obey. His lungs wouldn't fill with oxygen. His hands were shaking.
In some far away part of his mind Sherlock knew that he was breathing too quickly. He needed to slow it down or he was going to pass out. The body simply wasn't designed to sustained breathing like this for any length of time. But he couldn't do anything to change it.
He could just about make out a blurry shape in front of his face and through the buzzing in his ears he thought he heard his name being called, but he didn't have the strength to answer.
His chest was too tight.
His lungs were burning.
His whole body was shaking.
His last thought before darkness engulfed him was that he could no longer hear that awful banging on the doors.
John watched worriedly as Sherlock's head lolled forwards and the detective fell unconscious. "Sherlock?" He slapped the detective's face but got no response. He then squeezed Sherlock's shoulder tightly and managed to get a weak moan out of him.
John heard the commotion going on outside and could only assume that Lestrade and the cavalry had finally arrived. But right now Sherlock needed a doctor.
It took a few seconds, but John's medical training finally kicked in and he laid Sherlock as flat as he could manage in the tight space.
"Okay," John muttered to himself as he checked Sherlock over. "Airway is clear. Breathing is –" He watched Sherlock's chest move, relieved that, while still shallow, his breathing was much slower, "shallow but adequate."
He stripped Sherlock of his Belstaff. "Oh God, Sherlock," he exclaimed as he exposed Sherlock's chest and abdomen, "what have they done to you."
"No chest trauma. Obvious signs of –" John took a deep shuddering breath in. He had to keep going. He tried to pretend this wasn't Sherlock. Tried to detach himself from the situation as much as possible, think back to all those times he kneeled on the hot desert sand, doing the exact same thing he was doing right now as he went from soldier to soldier and decided who would live and who would be left behind.
But this was different. He was not going to leave Sherlock behind. Lestrade was just outside these doors and he had help.
He kept going.
"Obvious signs of internal bleeding," he continued, not needing more than a look at the purple bruising and swelling on Sherlock's abdomen to know what was wrong. He felt Sherlock's pulse, which was weak and thready. "Signs of poor perfusion, reduced GCS –"
He was interrupted by the lift doors opening.
"Oh, thank God," he exclaimed as the doors opened to reveal Lestrade with two paramedics right behind him.
John wasted no time addressing the paramedics. "He's going into hypovolemic shock due to blunt trauma to the abdomen. He collapsed about two minutes ago and he's only responding to pain."
John quickly got out of the way and let the paramedics work on Sherlock. Normally he would prefer to patch him up himself, but what Sherlock needed right now was to get to a hospital as soon as possible. This wasn't something that could be fixed with a few bandages and a stern warning never to scare John like that again.
He sat with his back against the wall watching as the monitoring was attached to his friend, felt relief at the steady beeping coming from the machine and tried to ignore the numbers on the screen. Sherlock's body was working overtime to keep everything running, but it wouldn't hold out forever without help.
One of the paramedics was trying to get a cannula into Sherlock's arm when suddenly John's vision was blocked by Lestrade kneeling in front of him.
"John, are you okay?" he asked worriedly. Everyone was focussing on Sherlock, and it would be just like John not to say anything about being hurt so that Sherlock was seen to before him. "Are you hurt?"
It took a while for John to reply, but eventually he shook his head and then pushed Lestrade out of the way. He didn't want to see Sherlock like this, but at the same time he couldn't look away. Even knowing Sherlock was in good hands, he wanted to be there by his side.
He struggled to get up on shaky legs, but Lestrade was there to help him and he finally managed to stand. "I'm going with them," he nodded towards Sherlock and the paramedics. "I'm not leaving him."
Within five minutes they were all loaded into the ambulance, the sirens wailing as they rushed Sherlock to hospital.
John sat by Sherlock's side while the paramedic worked around him, asking John questions as she did. Sherlock had deteriorated quickly and there was an aura of concern and urgency in the ambulance.
They both kept trying to get Sherlock to respond to them, but the most they managed to get out of him were pained moans. At one point he opened his eyes for a few seconds, but John didn't even get a chance to speak to him before Sherlock closed them again.
Opening his eyes had been a bad idea, Sherlock decided. His vision was blurred and useless, and the brightness was too much for his eyes to handle right now so he shut them again. He tried to figure out where he was, but his senses were too overwhelmed.
He could feel his body being jolted from side to side, which was painful. There were noises and beeping cutting through the haze in his head, and he could hear voices around him but couldn't make out what they were saying.
The next time he's aware of his surroundings all he can see is the blindingly white ceiling above him. The fluorescent lights cause him to shut his eyes once again, but this time he's sure he's in a hospital.
John was going to be so mad at him. They had a talk about this not even a month ago when Sherlock had been knocked out by a suspect which, according to John and Lestrade, he shouldn't even have been chasing. It's not like it's his fault that they're too slow compared to him. Sherlock realised he was going to run and wasn't about to just let him get away after all the work he'd done.
Regardless of the reason, John generally frowned upon Sherlock being hurt. It was on his list of 'not good' things. Especially when it was something that John couldn't treat at home.
As if summoned by the power of Sherlock's thoughts, John was suddenly by his side. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he asked.
Sherlock tried to nod but he was just too exhausted. John seemed to realise this.
"If you can hear me squeeze my hand."
It was only then that Sherlock felt the heat emanating from his hand, felt John's steady hand holding on to his own.
Sherlock tried to squeeze it but wasn't sure if he had managed it. But he saw a small smile on his roommate's face and figured he must have done something right.
John was soon replaced by someone he didn't know asking him questions he couldn't understand. His brain was scrambled. He figured this was how normal people usually felt and wondered how they even managed to get through the day.
After that darkness took over again.
When he woke up he could make out quiet voices around him. Moving was too much effort at this point so he decided to just lay down and do nothing.
The blurry shape in front of him approached again and called his name. "Sherlock, you're in the hospital," it said. "You've just had surgery to repair some damage to your abdomen. Are you in any pain?"
Sherlock nodded his head as slowly as he could manage and soon noticed his vision blurring even more and an overwhelming urge to close his eyes. So he did.
When he opened then John was next to him. "Hi," he smiled at Sherlock, relief clear on his face. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but his throat was so dry and painful that he couldn't get the words out.
"You were intubated for the surgery. Your throat probably feels awful." John quickly poured Sherlock a glass of water and held it up to his lips for him to sip.
"Wha' 'appened?" he croaked.
"What's the last thing you remember?" John asked.
"Calling you an idiot."
John chuckled. "I don't think those were your exact words."
"It was implied."
Sherlock sniggered when he saw the look on John's face. It was a mixture between amusement and exhaustion. "You're the idiot. Only you would have a panic attack while also bleeding internally."
"Mother taught me never to do anything by halves, John."
John couldn't contain his laughter this time. He had spent hours waiting during the surgery, worried that Sherlock wouldn't make it, trying to convince himself that he couldn't have done anything differently. But all that mattered now was that his friend was awake and was going to be fine. He didn't need to be John Watson, army doctor. He could just be John, Sherlock's roommate, his blogger, his best friend.
"Like I said, you're an idiot," John replied, smiling. "You're my idiot."