The shot rang out in Sherlock's ears, but he barely noticed it. All he could notice was what was going on in front of him. All he could do was see. He could not move. His limbs were frozen with shock; they felt like they had been glued in place permanently or were made of cement. Everything had happened so quickly, he was unable to react properly. He was merely an observing statue, breathing, feeling stone that longed to reach out and stop this.
Sherlock watched in sheer horror as John Watson jumped in front of him, shielding him from the bullet from Moriarty's gun. Sherlock's mind, like many of his various muscles and workings, was not working the way it normally should. It was as though it had been ripped open, exposing raw emotions and a side of himself that he and others rarely saw. This part of him was feeling, throbbing with emotions. Though his logical side reined victorious most of the time, this part of him was still there, waiting and watching patiently. Now, it was out in the open, and there was no way to shut it up again. Not now, at least.
Basically, his mind was not functioning normally, to say the least. He could have deduced that John's wound would not be fatal, not for the time, easily. Finally, things began to function again, but slowly. His hearing came first, and the first thing he could hear was John's quiet, constrained yelp. It sounded like a dog that, after years of being kicked around, had just learned how to quiet itself, had learned to just take the beating and be as quiet as possible.
The sound broke Sherlock's heart, if he had one. Was this what it had been like in Afghanistan when he had been shot? Had he trained himself for something like this? Or was he used to the pain? Was he used to hiding it? Time had been moving so unbearably slow up until now, but at this point it picked back up. John hit the floor, footsteps echoed through the building, and then it was silent.
Sherlock did not for a second think of chasing after Moriarty. Any other time, he would have done so. But any other time, John Watson would not be lying on the floor before him, crimson liquid streaming from his chest in rivulets. Instead, he was instantly at John's side.
"John! John! Don't you dare die on me!" He hissed. He shook John's shoulders, which seemed ineffective with the blank stare John was giving him. That stare, it haunted him down to the core. It was emotionless, devoid of anything at all. This was not the John Watson he knew. He was fading quickly. Sherlock got out his phone and quickly dialed Lestrades' number. He knew it would be quicker than actually calling the police.
"Ambulance! Now. Pool that Carl Powers was killed in." He spat into the phone, hearing Lestrades' stuttering voice on the other side of the phone. He hung up, ignoring the man, and turned back to John. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted.
NO!
"John! Don't you dare!" He yelled. He slapped John's cheek gently. John moaned a little. Sherlock noticed how white and sheen his face was with sweat. Even so, with the implication of the pain he must be feeling, his face was strangely neutral. Sherlock sighed and took his jacket off. Pressure will help to stop the bleeding. He thought. He balled it up, and then pressed it against the raw and bloody wound. John flinched at this, but tried desperately to cover it up.
Sherlock scoffed. He realized what was going on. He wiped John's face carefully with his sleeve. The motion was kind, almost motherly in a sense. "You don't have to be a soldier for me." He said quietly, locking eyes with him as he wiped his face gently. Of course, trying to play strong for him. He should have known better. John Watson was no mystery to him, there was no deduction needed to tell that he was a brave and moral man. Sherlock sighed heavily and looked down. "God John. Why? Why did you feel it was necessary to go and do that?" He croaked. His voice came so crackled and it sounded foreign in his throat.
He was not expecting an answer, but he got one. "You…You're the only one who can catch him. You're brilliant Sherlock. You can catch him." John wheezed. His breathing was strained and quick, and the blood was pumping faster.
"Hush. Don't talk, your moving will speed the bleeding." Sherlock replied. He was quiet for a moment before muttering, "And besides, I couldn't do it without you, Doctor Watson" His exterior was beginning to crumble. Sherlock was just beginning to consider the possibility of losing this man, his gentle and sweet companion. He realized he never wanted this to happen. So of course, both he and John were stunned when tears began to trail down his cheek. He was never one to show much emotion, but that crack, that fracture in his mind had allowed this one thing to slip out.
"I…" he began to say, but he could not find the words to explain himself. Things like this, mysteries like this could not be explained. No amount of words could justify what had happened today. Crying for his companion was just about the sweetest thing he had done as of late.
John shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his pained face. "Sherlock, don't worry about me, I'll be fine." He earnestly replied. Even through his pain he was still the doctor, the one who protected and reassured others. He reached out to pat his hand, the gesture strained with pain, but was surprised when Sherlock grabbed onto it and squeezed it tightly. He needed that lifeline, that kindness. He held onto John's hand as if it was his last hope of living. The moment was brief, both observing the other. The warmth coursed through John's veins and to his head, and as he slipped into a sweet, velvety unconsciousness, he was comforted with this tender gesture.
Then, Sherlock heard the shrieking of the ambulance. "They've come for you, soldier." He said, a small smile on his face. John did not respond. Sherlock panicked when he realized that the 'soldier' had passed out. Even after the paramedics (attempted to) reassure him, he refused to leave his comrade. However, when they got to the hospital, they ushered him out of the room. The last glimpse he got of John was a weak, feeble looking creature in desperate need of medical attention, and that worried him deeply.
He was stuck in the waiting room for the next hour and a half. The time passed like eternity to him, and he found himself constantly running his hands through his hair or wringing them. He felt so unbearably guilty. He was responsible for this. John had put himself on the line for him, and he knew that. But why? Why did he do it? Sherlock could have easily jumped out of the way. It wasn't necessary for John to do that. And besides, Moriarty could have aimed it at him either way. John's sacrifice could have been wasted.
Oh. He understood now. In John's mind, one person would be shot by the end of the night. The odds of it being him or Sherlock was high. He had decided that Sherlock's life was more important, even if it wouldn't last much longer than his. He had been trying to give Sherlock the chance to escape, to perhaps get away. But he couldn't have left, even if he had wanted to. (Which he hadn't.)
"You're brilliant..you can catch him.." He had said it himself. He had deemed Sherlock as more important. That was the logical answer…but was it the right one?
Sherlocks' thoughts were interrupted when a doctor came up to him. "Mr. Holmes, I assume. You can come back with me now." They walked through the doors. "We were able to remove the bullet. It was lodged pretty deep in his chest, and he lost a lot of blood." He explained. Sherlock nodded. The fact that John had lost a lot of blood was hindering to his survival.
"How did you know I was Sherlock Holmes?" He asked.
"Well, Mr. Watson muttered your name and looked right at you when he went through those doors. He wouldn't stop saying your name until we gave him the sedative, in fact. If Sherlock's paler complexion could have supported a blush, he would have been as red as a scarlet rose by now. However, only his ears turned pink.
"So, what would you say are his chances of living?" He asked tentatively, trying to not seem too interested. The doctor paused in front of a door, and looked at him.
"Well, you are the famous Sherlock Holmes, you do the math." He said gently. He opened the door, allowing Sherlock to go in. Inside, he found the ghost of John Watson. He was hooked up to many machines, and he was so pale. His face was twisted slightly in pain. Sherlock was instantly at his side again, giving him a concerned once over. He noticed a chair on the left side of the bed and went to sit down, scooting it to the edge of the bed. Sherlock did the math, and found that the odds were in John's favor, but not by much.
He sighed deeply, his mind filled with different, obscure thoughts. Jim Moriarty…what should he do about him? Well, the obvious answer was to find him and end him, but how? What if John did..die? He shuddered at the thought of it. He had not realized how attached he had become to John, and he feared the affections ran deeper than he knew.
He didn't honestly know whether he was straight or not. He had never had a girl friend, and never had really been interested in girls. Then again, he had never been interested in men either. But John was something different. While others stayed away, he timidly weaseled his way into Sherlock's mind, and perhaps even his heart.
He knew of course that he had a heart, realistically speaking. He did have feelings too. He knew he did. He was excited by murders; angered by inane people, and saddened when the case was solved. But John, he made him feel something different. He was truly happy when he was with him. Idly, Sherlock checked his watch. 3:05 AM. He was exhausted, but he didn't want to leave John. Sleep, he realized, was not an option. He wasn't going anywhere.
