A/N: I wrote this for CobyFrog on deviant art, a fic for the wonderful Sherlock: Find Me. Enjoy :)
Sherlock races down the dark street after the gunman, long coat swirling around his ankles as he pushes past people without so much as a by your leave. A quick breather as he looks left and right, considering which way he would have gone, and Sherlock is on the move again. In the back of his head, a small voice is going 'You left John, Lestrade will kill you, you left John, Lestrade will kill you', but he's as effective as shutting this voice up as he is at shutting out his brothers boring drivel whenever he is deigned with Mycroft's presence.
Leaping across the bonnet of the parked car blocking his way, he runs down the side street, leaving the blaring car alarm behind, following the glimpse of the gunman's long scarf (Who would wear a long scarf if they're being chased, its just a stupid idea, Sherlock's brain supplies uselessly). Unbeknownst to Sherlock, the gunman is a lot cleverer then he had thought (well, he would have to be, to be in the employ of a one James Moriarty), and he is in fact being led into a dead end. When Sherlock's brain finally catches up with this - he had been sure he was missing something, and with all the data in there, it took a while to sift through everything - he stops dead, but it is too late.
He barely hears the bullet before it rips through his stomach. Stumbling against the wall, he scrapes his cheek on it, unable to balance himself using his hands, both preoccupied with trying to stop the copious amounts of blood issuing from his side. Sinking to the floor, leaning against the cold bricks, he scrabbles for his phone from his jacket pocket, managing to type a text to John even though he can barely see the screen for blood. Dropping the phone to the floor, he presses his hand back over his wound, a wry smile crossing his face. For all the times John has been with him when he icould /i have been injured, and now the one time he actually is, he left his doctor behind.
John knows something is wrong when he recieves the text from Sherlock.
'inhured. help. dont know where i am. dind me. SH'
The man who usually texts with impeccable grammar and no spelling mistakes has done both in one short message.
"Lestrade. Look at this." he hails the DI easily, showing him the text. Lestrade blinks a couple of times, before raising his voice.
"Looking for Sherlock Holmes. He is hurt and possibly confused. You all know what he looks like, get going. Keep in contact!" He waits for three squad cars to go speeding off before turning on his heel "John, you're with me." The good doctor follows the DI, hoping beyond hope that they are the ones to find Sherlock, before it's too late.
Through the haze and the blinding pain, Sherlock hears a sound he never though he would be glad for. Police sirens. Doors slam, and a voice calls, torches sweeping the opening to the street. "Sherlock? Sherlock?"
John. It's John, thank god it's John.
"Sherlock." John says again, seeing the lanky frame of his friend leaning against the wall, red hands pressed into his stomach.
"John." Sherlock mumbles, not able to manage anything louder than that.
John forces a swallow at the state of the detective. Running down the street, he falls to his knees, pulling his hands from the wound for a second, before replacing them and covering with his own. Moving around, trying not to jostle Sherlock, John manages to get so he is resting against the wall, and pulls Sherlock around so his head and torso are lying on his legs, both pairs of hands pushing down hard on the wound.
"You found me." Sherlock murmurs. "You found me."
"Always." is John's quiet reply.