Author's Note: Here's the next installment of "The Science and Deductions of the Alphabet". G is for gunshot. It's not exactly all fluff...
I'm not quite sure if the next installment will be fluffy or angsty or a mixture of both, as H is for Hero.
Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome!
Happy Reading!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. The show belongs to BBC and the books belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Gunshot
Sherlock was running. He was running as fast as his legs could take him. He didn't care who he ran into or in front of. He just had to get there. He had to get to him.
No, it wasn't the gunshot that had Sherlock running. It was the scream he heard afterward.
John's scream.
"JOHN! JOHN! JOHN! ANSWER ME, JOHN!" Sherlock yelled as he ran to his best friend's side.
"Sh-Sherlock? Is-is that you?" John's voice came out weak and fragile.
"It's me, John. I'm here." Sherlock looked around. Red was all he saw. So much blood. So much red.
"Help me, Sherlock. Call the police. Call an ambulance. Help me. So... much... pain..."
Sherlock almost couldn't handle the pain in John's voice. But he managed to pull himself together long enough to get out his phone and call an ambulance and the police.
"Thank... thank you, Sherlock. For everything. For helping me come out of my slump after coming back from Afghanistan. For being my best friend. For being there." John sounded like he didn't think he was going to make it long enough for the ambulance to get there.
"Don't-don't talk like that, John. We'll get you all fixed up in no time." On an impulse, Sherlock grabbed his hand. "You'll be all right. You'll be okay."
"Sherlock, come closer." Sherlock complied. "A bit closer." Sherlock once again leaned closer. He was close enough for John to whisper quietly in his ear, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock didn't have time to respond before John fell unconscious.
"I love you too, John. I always have," Sherlock whispered sadly.
Sherlock was still holding John's hand when the ambulance got there. He never let go, not once.
They had to force him away from John when they had to operate.
Sherlock didn't sleep. Sherlock didn't even sit down. He just paced in worry, unconsciously whispering John's name from time to time.
Sherlock couldn't hide his immense joy when the doctors came out saying that he could go see John.
He almost ran to the hospital room John was in. When he went in, his was shaking with happiness. John was alive. His John was alive.
"John," he breathed.
"Hello, Sherlock."
"You're okay. I told you that you would be." Sherlock came over and grabbed his hand once more.
"I'm all right, Sherlock. I really am."
They sat like that in silence for awhile until Sherlock broke the silence by saying, "I have a response to what you told me earlier."
John's breath hitched. "You do?"
"Yes. I love you too, John." Then he brushed his lips lightly over the smaller man's.
Later, Sherlock and John both awoke from nightmares of gunshots and red, but they had each other to wrap themselves up in, and that allowed them to always sleep soundly.
