Sherlock heard a pained grunt, saw John fall jarringly onto the pavement, smelled blood. And couldn't do anything, still frozen in place.
Another gunshot, twice as loud as the first. Sherlock flinched, feeling pain blossom across his chest, where his heart was. But when he looked down, he was unharmed. Psychosomatic, his scrambled brain supplied.
Lestrade lowered his firearm, barely glancing at the murderer's corpse before turning to John.
And suddenly Sherlock could function again, because there was no way in hell he was going to let Lestrade get to John first.
He slid down beside his best friend, totally ignoring the damage the rough pavement was doing to his dramatic coat. John was lying where he'd fell, coughing quietly.
Thank God he was still alive.
Sherlock turned him over, gently, gently, eyes scanning for the wound, desperate to know where it was, but equally desperate to not know just how bad it was. Because he couldn't bear knowing that John was about to die in his arms and there was nothing he could do about it.
"Ouch. That hurt worse than I was expecting…" John muttered, wincing.
"You were just shot John, stupidly protecting me, what on earth were you thinking, of course it's going to hurt!" Sherlock yelled, hands scrabbling to put pressure on the bloody stain growing in the middle of the pale wool of John's jumper. Two minutes, his brain said. Life expectancy two minutes without immediate invasive surgery. Delete delete DELETE.
"Don't do that, you'll make it worse!"
"Don't be ridiculous, John, I'm no doctor but putting pressure on the wound is basic first aid!" His vision was going black around the edges, he realized. Why? John was the one… dying. One minute thirty seconds.
"Well, I am a doctor and I told you to quit it. I'm fine, Sherlock, really. Breathe," John insisted. Oh, right. Breathing. Not boring. Because John had to keep breathing. He just had to, despite whatever Sherlock's brain knew to be true about gunshot wounds. One minute twenty-two seconds.
"And you're also an excellent liar when it comes to your personal well-being. You were just shot in the chest at less than three meters, there is no possible way that you are fine!" Sherlock fired back, fighting to get his hands back on the wound, to keep that precious blood inside John where it belonged. One minute fourteen seconds.
"There is, actually, if you'd give a bloke a minute. Help me get my jumper off, I'll show you," he replied calmly. Seeing that Sherlock had absolutely no intention of doing that, he grabbed his flat mate's stupid brilliant head, forcing him to make eye contact.
"Look at me, Sherlock. Do I look like a dying man? Breathe, damnit! Use your famous brain and make a deduction," John ordered, staring him down, forcing him to look, really look.
The countdown in Sherlock's brain slammed to a halt. John was right, of course, he always was with medical matters. Sherlock had seen John in shock, and this wasn't it. There wasn't near enough blood either. John might lie about how bad his wounds were on a regular basis, but there is no way to fake not dying. Sherlock remembered to breathe again. But his frantic brain still couldn't piece together how John could have a bloody wound in the center of his chest after being shot and still be ok.
"Now help me with this jumper, I might not be dead but I'm a fair bit sore."
Sherlock did, and there was the answer. The glaringly obvious, embarrassingly so, solution to this mystery.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
A/N: Wow! As of posting, this has over 30 follows! And I only have two (now three) chapters up! You guys made my day!
-Freakout over.-
We need more BAMF!Lestrade fics, btw.
Please note that I don't have a clue about getting shot or the medical procedures involved. PM me if my mistakes are too bad.
And for those smart cookies that have figured out The Secret, please keep it to yourselves! There's more to it than you think ;)
