John entered the flat, a tin with candy canes all over the sides and a very plump Santa on the lid.
"Find anything?" John asked.
"Tess Nermon. Alyn Walker. Aiden Qustake." Sherlock replied
"Sounds like we are going to be busy tomorrow. You know what that means." John chided Sherlock.
"Some sort of dinner and at least four hours of sleep." Sherlock replied in a drawling voice. John winked.
"Bingo."
"I don't understand why when I am correct, people say bingo." Sherlock replied thoughtfully.
"They're telling you that you got the answer right on the nose." John explained. He had to explain a lot of sayings to Sherlock. His tall flat mate nodded as he swiped open the tin's lid and pulled out a crescent, taking a hesitant bite.
"It's a crescent made my Mrs. Hudson, not a bomb Sherlock." John sighed. Sherlock ate all of his food slowly and carefully, unless he was absolutely hungry. At that point, he ate like a force of nature, inhaling all nutrients in the immediate area.
"I know John." Sherlock huffed. "I'm not just really all that hungry."
"Of course you're not." John fought the urge to connect his palm to is forehead and set the elbow on his knee.
"I'm really not John. I'm not even tired either." Sherlock mused, probably looking for some excuse not to continue either task.
"Finnish four crescents, then take a long, warm shower, then change into your jam jam's and go to bed." John mocked gently.
"Never call my pajama's jam jam's again." Sherlock threatened. John grinned and snatched a piece of bread as he plopped down into his chair.
"Don't worry, I won't." John replied. Suddenly there was a frantic knocking at the door. Sherlock and John exchanged strange looks before the detective stood, still clad in his coat and scarf for an unknown reason. He walked down the stairs slowly, and muffled screaming was added to the pounding.
"PLEASE HURRY!" A male voice screamed from the other side of the door. A gun shot and a ping broke through the door. Somebody was shooting at the man. Sherlock jumped the last four steps and threw open the front door. Just as a face was revealed, another gun shot went off and the mans eyes got big. Scarlet blood began to quickly color his white shirt.
"JOHN!" Sherlock yelped as the man fell forward into his arms. A third gun shot went off, and Sherlock dove to the ground, the dying man beneath him. A fourth gun shot run and hit the floor at John's feet. The army doctor responded accordingly and jumped down the last seven stairs and flew the side. Sherlock shoved the near death man next to John. Now that his arms were free, though blood covered, he crawled a few feet across the floor and slammed the door shut.
"We need to get him upstairs, on the couch." John breathed. The gun shots hit the pavement out side. Every four seconds, another bullet his somewhere. It wouldn't be long before one could come straight through the door.
"What's going on, boys?" Mrs. Hudson shrieked at the dying man, then a bullet imbedded its self in the door. The landlady's face was pale, and she seemed waving on her feet. Another bullet hit the door.
"Come on, Mrs. Hudson. Our flat is safer!" Sherlock touched her arm reassuringly before rushing over to help John drag the bleeding man up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson trailed, refusing John's and Sherlock's orders to go first.
"Ohhhh" Mrs. Hudsen moaned as Sherlock slammed the door behind the three and the new patient.
John lowered the man onto the couch and rushed to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit. He came back out and threw the kit onto a kitchen chair, pulling it close and popping the lid open. He removed several kilometers of medical wrap that stuck to itself (thank god for it) and a bottle of aspirin.
"Sherlock." John handed the worried looking detective the bottle and he pried it open, setting three pills onto the chair. "Mrs. Hudson, please." John added. The old lady understood and rushed to the kitchen. She fumbled with the tab and a glass, filling it half way. She set a dripping cup next to the pills on the chair as John fought to tear the man's shirt. He only succeeded after thirty seconds of trying. There was a rather large hole near the man's stomach.
"The bullet didn't touch his stomach, he is still able to digest, intake things. Sherlock cut the liquid-capsules in half and put each ends of the pills into the water glass. Wait until it turns a light blue." John ordered. Sherlock grabbed the pair of medical scissors and positioned the first pill between the blades, held this over the cup and applied pressure. The scissors jerked and the pill spilled into the cup. While Sherlock worked to cut the remaining pills in the same fashion, John shoved gauze onto the wound and crossed his fingers. He put both hands over a wad of the cloth on the bullet wound and applied a small amount of pressure. The man cried out in pain.
"Mrs. Watson, get him a blanket from somewhere, in me or Sherlock's bedroom. A think one. He needs to stay warm. We don't want him going into shock." John grunted as he franticly changed the cloth and piled the bloody ones on the floor next to the chair. "Sherlock, there should be a force-feed syringe in the kit as well. Pour some of the water into the syringe and try to give it to him." Sherlock nodded and pulled out the syringe. He pulled the cap off and put the tip of the tool into the water. Sherlock forced the water to flood quickly. He bent over the patient.
"Hold still. Please, try to open your mouth." Sherlock instructed. The man's jaw waved open, and seconds before the man closed it again, Sherlock pressed the end of the syringe, and the water splashed into his mouth. The middle aged man chocked and coughed, but Sherlock held his jaw closed until he managed to swallow. The kneeling man continued to force-feed the pain killer to the man while John continued to force pressure on the wound. More and more cloths became filled with blood.
"Massive internal bleeding." John reported. "The blood would have died down a bit if the bullet had not hit anything." Mrs. Hudson draped the heaviest blanket she could find up to the man's wound, which was a couple of centimeters above his stomach.
"Wet cloth. Not cold water, not hot." John frisked Mrs. Hudson again. She plucked up the smallest rag and went to the kitchen sink as fast as she could without running or causing her old joints any discomfort. The tap turned on, then off, and Mrs. Hudson came bustling back. She positioned the nearly strangled rag on the guy's forehead, not covering his eyes, ears, nose or mouth. He began to gasp for breath desperately.
"It's not working!" Sherlock stated quite frantically.
"I KNOW SHERLOCK!" John snapped. He was about to loose a patient, one that had been shot at his door step and would bleed out on his own (well, Sherlock's) couch.
"Sherrrrlockkk" The man wheezed. The requested looked over the patient.
"Yes?" Sherlock asked and a shaking and unsteady hand flew up and grabbed his coat front.
"I….am…" A deep inhale "Not….bad…man…..I" a rattling breath, and a tear leaked out of the corner of his eye. "I…not…kill…. I….. am…." One more word, Sherlock knew. A name. "Aiden….." The man did not breath again. His hand fell from Sherlock's coat, but remained curled as it hit the floor over the side of his death bed. Aiden's eyes became distant, and John stopped applying pressure. Sherlock ran his hand over the newly created corpse and the eyes slowly flicked closed. The bullets stopped flying, like whoever had tried to kill this man knew he succeeded. Everyone sat there in a stunned silence, minds devoid of all thought, except for Sherlock. He was thinking about the words the man had tried so hard to get out.
"I am not a bad man. I so not kill. I am….. Aiden."
A/N I turned 13 on the 3rd :3