For a prompt. The places over there are really gross, but you can scoop up awesome plots to write and I needed a short break from Ropes.

Friendship here/no slash

Lestrade was chasing the kidnapper, he'd Lt. Freeman, Sherlock, and Dr. Watson with him, but the majority of his troops were either far behind him or heading around to find a way to cut the man off, preventing him from prolonging this ridiculous chase any further.

The thug cursed as he came face to face with a brick wall, there was nowhere to go. The alley was a dead end and Lestrade, Freeman, Sherlock, and Watson blocked the only exit out.

"No where to go." The DI huffed, "Give up already."

The man shook his head frantically and suddenly he had a gun in his hand, directed at them, "No! I'm not going back." He hissed, "Not going back!"

Lestrade noticed John'd brought his own military issued SIG with him; it was poking out the back of the rim of his pants. It would only take a short while to grab the gun, and even less time to shoot the maniac in the kneecap. Why was it common practice for a copper to not carry a gun?

He slowly reached for the gun pokig out of John's pants and gripped it without the thug noticing anything. John must've felt Lestrade grabbing for it, but he wasn't letting on thank the stars. Then again, he must've gone through this a hundred times by now.

He slid the gun out and gripped it firmly in his hands, still hidden behind John's back. His finger was already on the trigger.

One

Two

Three

He suddenly pointed the gun at the man and fired. Two gun shots went off. The thug went down, bullet in his chest, bleeding rapidly. He had less than two minutes.

Lestrade was the next to collapse to his knees. His hand gripping his shoulder as blood squirted out. He felt light headed and dizzy before falling backwards.

John was about to run to the assailant, to treat him when Lestrade went down. John had then spun around and was immediately at his side instead, ripping open his shirt to take a look at the wound. Screw the thug, Lestrade was of more concern to him.

Sherlock was already calling the ambulance, but they wouldn't get here for at least six minutes if the traffic wasn't too bad.

John immediately set to work, starting with applying pressure to the wound, having already removed his jumper and using it to staunch the bleeding.

Lestrade looked up at John with empty eyes, eyes that John had seen far too often. They were eyes that didn't see, that were empty and alone. He'd seen his best mate go down, looking at him with those same eyes.

John hated those eyes.

"You're going to be fine." John shouted pressing firmer into the wound, "What's the ETA?" He asked Sherlock.

"Eight minutes, maybe ten." John let a string of curses slip from his mouth that was about double what John had originally expected and triple the time Lestrade had left. The DI was never going to make it if John didn't act now.

"Lieutenant! Go to the nearest restaurant, get a first aid kit, and make sure it has disinfectant, needles, thin sharp knife, tweezers, and thread."

Lt. Freeman gave a curt nod before running off, much faster than John would have normally thought possible.

Sherlock watched the man go before kneeling down beside John, "What can I do?"

"Nothing." John was frank, "Nothing until Freeman returns." Sherlock nodded in understanding as he watched Lestrade lie on his back as John tried to keep that crimson liquid inside the DI's body. Sherlock placed his hands over John's and pressed down too.

A minute went by like that when suddenly Lestrade began to cough and wheeze. Blood pooled out of his mouth and John pushed Lestrade onto his side, so as to prevent the man from drowning in his own blood. Despite being on his side, John kept the pressure on the wound, Sherlock however had jumped back, he was startled and maybe even in shock. He'd always had the impression that no one could get Lestrade, that he was… immortal? Mortality was a topic upon which Sherlock never pondered, at least not until now.

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock suddenly asked, taking another step forward.

John swallowed, "He's not going to last ten minutes with a hole through his shoulder." He gave a ghost of a grin, "So I'm going to plug the hole."

Sherlock nodded again, smirking. John was confident that Lestrade was going to survive this. The way he held himself, the tone of his voice; both Lestrade and Sherlock noticed John's attitude about this and were reassured.

Freeman was back a short while later with a red bag in his hand and rum in the other.

"What's that for?" John asked taking the bag and opening it to remove the disinfectant. He had been talking about the alcohol.

"In the movies, the guy always drinks alcohol. It's supposed to help?"

John rolled his eyes. "It was an old wives tale, and is absolutely ridiculous. The alcohol, if anything, would've been best used as disinfectant if something cleaner wasn't available. Drinking it would only thin blood and cause him to bleed out faster."

Freeman nodded, placing the bottle off to the side as John poured the non-beverage disinfectant all over the gunshot wound.

Lestrade screamed in pain as the alcohol seared through the sensitive skin, cleaning as it went.

"Watson-!" Lestrade hissed in pain, biting his tongue.

"Sorry, Detective. I need to clean the wound." He replied, with an apologetic smile.

John then grabbed the kitchen knife Freeman had brought with him and eyed it. It was perfectly thin, however, it wasn't sharp. Not sharp enough for field surgery anyway. It would have to do though, leaving the bullet in there was not an option, especially if he wanted to stitch the thing closed, so John straddled Lestrade while he motioned to Sherlock to hold the DI's shoulders down.

"I'm going to need you to try to stay as still as possible." John informed as he placed a gag into Lestrade's mouth, "Bite this if you need to."

Lestrade nodded, and John began by weighing the knife into the wound, weaving it around the arteries and the flesh searching for the bullet, clearing a path.

Lestrade was moaning in pain, biting down hard on the cotton in his mouth. The pain was immense; beads of sweat formed on his brow, his eyes were clenched shut. Maybe even a few tears were squeezed out, it wasn't possible to tell, it could've been perspiration.

Then he found it, the bullet. John pulled out the knife and reached in with the tweezers.

"You're doing great." He smiled, "Just a little bit more."

The prongs entered the wound and Lestrade screamed hard into the scarf. It was getting so much worse and the blood wasn't helping much either. It made the bullet slick and grabbing the sucker would be the hardest part.

John's tweezers clung to the bullet as he began to weasel it out, but it slipped and sent a sudden jolt of pain to the DI. "Sorry."

John reached back in, grabbed the bullet and pulled again. It slipped. More pain.

The next time around, the tweezers stuck, and the bullet was removed, causing a renewed flow of blood. John tossed the bullet and tweezers to Sherlock with one hand and grabbed the needle and thread, while with the other he pressed firmly into the wound. If John didn't hurry, Lestarde would be a goner far sooner than he would have been if the bullet had remained.

John held the needles like a professional in his left hand as he took it to the flesh and pushed through. That little sting of a pain was nothing to what Lestrade had felt before, so he was much more lax than earlier. Sherlock pulled the gag out of his mouth as John took back his original position at the DI's side, still stitching closed the wound.

"Thanks." Was the hoarse reply.

"Of course."

With enough time the bleeding had lessen tremendously, and with pressure it was like it wasn't leaking at all. John was done, at last. The paramedics would have an easier time this one around. John had already done all the heavy lifting.

"Done?" Lestrade asked, still in pain.

John nodded, "Yeah, you're going to be fine." He patted the man's shoulder and smiled. Lestrade huffed as his head ran back into the pavement.

"And Wilkins?" He asked again.

John and Sherlock peered over to the other man on the floor. He hands were placed over the wound in his chest, but he wasn't moving. A pool of blood was around the man, it was his own.

"Dead." Was Sherlock's reply. He'd died alone, in pain, bleeding profusely.

He almost doomed Lestrade to the same fate.

Lestrade sighed and closed his eyes for a short second, "Shame."

Was it really?

Please review! :D