I lay there, soaked in my own blood. I was more than terrified. I was... Was there even a word for it? Longing for Sherlock, to put an end to whatever I had started. Sherlock. That was all I could think of.
And then he was there. He had simply appeared, and I didn't care how he got there because before I knew it I was clutching the back of his skin tight suit, digging my nails into his flesh to check it really was him, clutching fistfuls of his dark curly hair, burying my face into his neck, breathing in his scent, ignoring the pain in my beaten chest and reaching up to him, hugging him tight, and with no desire to let go, ever, ever, because this was Sherlock, this was my dad and I loved him so very much and a world without him would be too much to bear, even after death, even after I have departed. I smiled for the first time in days. I felt his hand on my back, clutching me to his chest, his other hand in my hair, mussing up the black mess, his chin on my shoulder, his deep, soothing voice muttering in my ear about how much he missed me and how I scared him like hell and how I can never ever do that again to him, but the words were lost as joy overcame him, overcame me, and we got lost in the moment, struggling to hold each other tighter, slipping then pulling back, and never, never letting go. Never.
I pulled back after a while, not because I wanted to but because I had to. My chest had started to restrict my breathing. He looked at me with an expression I had never seen before on his face. Was it... Longing? Hurt? Or... Joy.
"Sherlock, I-" I started, but he silenced me. Still with an expression of complete and utter happiness on his face he called Lestrade over, who had been watching us from a distance, and said:
"Watch Moriarty." Lestrade nodded once and obliged.
I wanted to hug Sherlock again. I was pretty sure he wanted to hug me too, but I had serious wounds, and before I could do anything Sherlock had called John over with a first aid kit (but a little more advanced than a few plasters) and I felt hands on the gash. Wait- two pairs of hands. Sherlock was helping.
I groaned in pain, twitching. It was hurting like hxell now, drowning my joy out by sending rivers of boiling pain up through my body, making me let out a single scream of agony, but then one of the hands stopped working and Sherlock was there, and the pain dulled slightly as he injected something into my arm. It was barable now, only just though. Occasional groans kept escaping my lips, and the odd yell, but I was OK. A second pair of hands set to work again.
Then the rivers of boiling pain came though the mist of anaesthetic, hitting me again with brute force and knocking another scream out through my lips. Then Sherlock was there again, but this time he didn't inject stuff to make the pain go away, he just sat there, holding my torso in his arms, gripping me like if I let go I would go forever and still I felt the hands inflicting pain to make me feel better.
I groaned loudly, letting out an 'ah' and moving my right hand up to Sherlock's shoulder. I felt like I wanted this to end, all of it, right here and right now, so that I could spend every second of my time with Sherlock. I... Needed him.
I screamed again. John had just found the bullet imbedded in my thigh. This was gonna hurt.
I screamed again, and carried on screaming, though my screams turned into 'Sherlock' and he told me to calm down and stop being silly it was just a bullet. I breath laughed at his joke, then screamed again.
I carried on groaning as John stitched up the rest of the gash, clearing blood, and basically doing what had to be done to save my life. I would thank him for that later.
Obviously I couldn't walk, and so Sherlock carried me to the van, hands gently holding me so the gash wouldn't hurt. He lay me down in the back of the van as it speeded off to get to the hospital, and my last thoughts are of being watched by Sherlock as I fell asleep.
