The Johnlock continues! Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any characters, brands, etc. I may mention later on. Reviews are welcome, negative or otherwise. The situation is created from my own mind, but let me know if you feel I am taking them out of character so I can fix it. Let me know if you would like another chapter as well! Thanks for reading!
"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock, stay with me! Dammit, Mycroft, I'll kill you if he dies!" John's furious yells stabbed into Sherlock's mind. There was a sensation of rising out of a body of water, and Holmes' eyes flashed open.
"Sherlock!"
Brilliant lights stabbed his retinas, the wailing of sirens making his eardrums rattle. His body ached, a blinding pain in his side. Something hot and warm covered his torso. His trench coat was gone, as was his mauve dress shirt. He sat, shirtless and coated in what he assumed to be his own blood, in what he deduced to be a vehicle traveling at high speeds through the crowded streets of London. Judging by the sirens it was an ambulance with an entourage of police cars.
"John?"
Watson breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out, grabbing his best friend's wrist. The skin was cold and clammy, covered in an icy sweat. It didn't bode well, but John buried his feelings of worry, letting himself relish in the fact that Sherlock was alright, if only for the time being.
"W-what happened?" Sherlock moaned. He tried to sit up, but John's firm hand pushed him back down.
"Stay down you idiot," John huffed. "You were shot. You must not remember. We were on a case. We were scoping out that old warehouse, when we heard gunfire. We ran, but they caught up, and you got shot. Mycroft appeared with his men, and they took down the shooters. We're in an ambulance, going to the hospital. Mycroft is in the front seat, and Lestrade is behind us in a police car." John kept the summary quick and easy, not wanting to relive watching his friend getting shot like an animal. He tried to ignore the dried blood on his clothes and the dried tears on his cheeks. It was all too terrible to remember. Even in the war, he'd never broken down and lost it like he had as he watched Sherlock cry out and fall to the ground, blood pooling around him.
"Why were they shooting at us?" Sherlock asked, voice barely higher than a whisper. Emergency Medical Technicians bustled through the small space, cleaning and wrapping his wound, taking tests, adjusting tubes in his arms, and overall invading his personal space.
"Mycroft had followed us. They apparently don't like him much, so they figured killing us would be a good way to get back at him."
"Mycroft... tends to... do that... to... people..." His words came out too slow. Sherlock was a fast-talker, his words never faltering or coming out with difficulty. John chuckled, but he couldn't help but be concerned.
"Sherlock, are you alright?"
Stupid question, John thought. He's been shot. Of course he's not alright.
"I-I'm f-" His sentence cut off. His head, which he'd managed to raise, flopped down again, his eyes fluttering shut. The machines hooked up to Sherlock began to beat wildly, frantically. The wrist John clutched went limp, and he swore it got a few degrees colder.
The EMTs went into a frenzy. Even as a seasoned doctor, John had no idea what they were doing. He didn't care. All he knew was that his best friend was in trouble. His best friend was dying.
"SHERLOCK!"