First off, I'm not a big fan of these editorial notes but... Yes, there is a pretty big but, because I wanted to say thank you to Ballykissangel for her AMAZINGLY thoughtful review :) and to ghostofqueenqueg for having enough faith to follow this fic. Thaaaaannk yoooooouuuuuu.
Oh! Also want to thank the faceless 100ish visitors for reading anyways, (All this in under 24 hours of posting! Yay internet!)
What the hell just happened?
John sat back on his haunches, pressing his free hand to his mouth in horror. That voice. He'd heard it before...
The masculine voice with a undisguised Irish accent belonged to Jim Moriarty.
John glanced down at Sherlock, his elongated limbs were twitching violently. Discarding the sodden jacket John clambered onto him. As Sherlock squirmed around in his own blood, John hastily tried to restrain him. John used his hands to steady Sherlock's flailing arms and pressing his knees into Sherlock's thighs. The affinity would have been quite awkward if not for the dire circumstances. Cradling his phone between his shoulder and cheek John stared down at Sherlock.
" John! H-h-help!" Sherlock croaked loudly as he thrashed from side to side. John was roughly thrown around but he forcefully renewed his grip anyway. Warm blood splattered in all directions.
" John?" Sherlock gasped, " John, it hurts. Everywhere hurts!"
Sherlock's face was so bloodless, so pale that his bright eyes seemed to bulge from his skull. Staring deeply into John's eyes he whispered,
" Where were you John?" There was no accusation nor any anger. It was only a plaintive question but to John it may as well been a dagger thrust deep into his heart.
" Why didn't you stop him?" He asked again with blood tripping copiously down his face.
" I'm sorry Sherlock but I couldn't stop him." John choked out his ill-chosen answer in hope that the truth was preferable to a lie, "I just couldn't." Sherlock sagged at these words and averted his gaze, blinking rapidly.
Is he...crying?
He must think himself a fool for trusting me... I've failed him...
His eyes, they were so full of despair and disappointment. But most poignant of all was the utter desperation. He was desperately trying to live, trying to think, trying to forgive and trying to forget my treachery. It was all to much...
John willed himself to say that everything would be alright.
It was easy to reassure a dying stranger, there was no bond for Death to break. But Sherlock Holmes was no outsider. He was more than a flat mate, more than a friend and altogether something more intimate. It couldn't possibly be explained, only felt.
Sherlock and John were almost nose to nose. Their eyes locked together and Sherlock gave him a small grimace. It could have been the start of a smile but the pain dragged the corners down instead.
But John couldn't do it. He hadn't the strength to lie about it, Sherlock Holmes was going to die.
His face crumpled.
Perhaps there's still time...
John began to dial 999 again but stopped short at pressing the last digit. The emergancy services would take too long but he knew who to call. He dialled in the new number.
John pressed the phone so hard against his ear that it hurt. He waited and waited. He began to mutter every colourful obscenity known to man. Sherlock groaned, his breathing patterns oscillating dangerously; almost bordering hyperventilation and then changing to resemble that of the deepest sleep.
John heard the phone being picked up, there was a deathly silence on the other end.
" Mycroft?"
" Yes. John Watson," replied Mycroft, "to what do I owe this honour?"
The news of Sherlock's injury tumbled from his lips. It was a waterfall; a mix of fact and fiction spawned from the overwhelming fear bubbling within him. Expecting it to fall onto disinterested ears John fought back tears, Mycroft was his and Sherlock's last hope.
" I'll assemble a medical team now. I'm aware of your present location so stand by."
John jerked upright, relief reddening his cheeks. A small "Thank you," was all he could manage in return but he doubted it was heard over the whirring helicopter propellers. He hung up the call.
A warm glow radiated from his chest. John thought it was Hope.
Slowly, he looked down to see a dark red stain on his light, brown cardigan.