Chapter 1
John's POV
John Watson watched as his best friend sprinted off after a suspected murderer. He swore under his breath as he paced the sidewalk. That was just like Sherlock. Not one word, nothing, just suddenly gone. There was no use in calling after him, either. Once Sherlock Holmes was committed to something, there was no stopping him. As much as John wanted to do the sensible thing, to phone Lestrade and let the police take care of it, the soldier within him urged him into pursuit. He sighed, exasperated, and jogged off.
John knew there was no way he could catch up to them now, he was far too slow for that, but he could definitely help Sherlock corner the man. He turned off to an alleyway and began to sprint, weaving around buildings in the direction the murderer had gone. It was late, nearing 1 am, and London was, for the most part, asleep. The alleys were dark, creepily so, with only the moon and the rare streetlight to illuminate his path. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the brick walls bordering the alley as he ran to Sherlock's aid. He stopped when he reached an intersection and listened carefully for evidence of Sherlock's whereabouts. It was painfully quiet, only the quiet hum of cars on a distant street could be heard. He panted, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly, a gunshot echoed off to his left. Immediately John's heart was in his throat and he could only think of reaching Sherlock.
Almost involuntarily, John sprung into action, sprinting in the direction of the gunshot. "Oh god," he thought, as his legs carried him faster than they ever had, "Please. Please don't let him be dead." Heart thundering, thoughts inundated his head. The idea of living on without Sherlock was unperceivable. The seconds slowly ticked by as he ran. His eyes flashed around, hoping for some sign of a person, but there was nothing. He ventured on, determined, silently praying for his friend's safety. The suspense was killing him. He was sure he'd go into cardiac arrest if he didn't find Sherlock soon. Finally, he heard distant voices, and tore off towards them. He rounded the corner to an open area, and there he stood. Sherlock. His best friend in the world. And he wasn't hurt! The taller man was standing in front of the suspect, cockily deducing everything there was about the murderer and the crime, coat flapping gently in the breeze. Relief flooded John, and his heartbeat immediately returned to its normal rhythm.
The second John came into view, Sherlock's eyes flew to him. A look of wide-eyed panic spread across Sherlock's face as the murderer turned to face John. John's eyes flashed from his friend to the gun the murderer was pointing directly at him. As if in slow motion, he watched as the gunman's finger slid to the trigger and squeezed. He watched as the gun recoiled and the bullet began to fly. He gasped. He froze. War flashbacks flooded his mind. All the times he'd been shot at, all the times he'd been sure he was a dead man. But this time he was sure. Absolutely sure. He would never live to see another day.
Then the bullet hit. It tore into his chest and through his lung. John was sure he'd never felt such pain in his life. Being shot in Afghanistan was nothing compared to this. He screamed as the blinding pain overwhelmed him, and fell to the ground in a crumpled, broken heap.