Author's Note: Shameless angst ahead. And fluff. I'd love to hear your feedback. Thanks always for reading!
"Sherlock, I think we should wait on Lestrade before we go in for this one…"
"Hm," Sherlock mumbled, hardly acknowledging John at all as he walked toward the warehouse.
"Sherlock!" John said loudly. Sherlock stopped and looked back at John, eyes narrowed.
"Yes?" he asked, giving John a look that was absolutely loaded with annoyance.
"I think we should wait out here. Just, you know, in case. I've got a bad feeling."
And he did. He could feel a churning in his stomach. He felt uncomfortable, like a storm was brewing. Something here was off. Something was very wrong.
"Nonsense," Sherlock said, completely oblivious to the discomfort that John was feeling. "The killer is in there, John!" he said, as if this proved all the more reason to enter the building. Sherlock grinned a manic grin and slipped through the warehouse door before John had time to stop him.
"The killer… that's exactly what I'm worried about," John grumbled to himself. He ran a hand quickly over his forehead in exasperation before resigning to his fate and following Sherlock into the building.
When John stepped into the huge warehouse he saw hundreds of large cardboard boxes stacked throughout the building. They sheltered his view, letting him only see small areas of the building past their height. John had only entered seconds after the detective, but there was virtually no sign of Sherlock. He had already disappeared into the depths of the warehouse, surely weaving his way in and out of boxes without a care in the world, as if there wasn't a cold-blooded killer hiding somewhere in his midst. John had asked him countless times to wait up. It wasn't safe to go after murderers alone, but Sherlock never seemed to acknowledge, or eve hear, the request.
John pulled out his gun and stepped carefully through the building, listening intently for any sound of Sherlock, or the murderer that they'd been tracking down for days.
He'd been walking lightly around boxes for several minutes in silence when a gunshot rang out through the warehouse. John could physically feel his heart skip a beat as he took off towards the noise, gun out and pointed straight ahead. He had no way of knowing who had been taken down.
John turned past a stack of boxes to see a body sprawled on the ground. The attacker was gone, probably out the backdoor by now. John drew a ragged breath and approached the body.
He looked down at the figure and saw his worst fear before him. Sherlock Holmes was motionless on the ground, in a pool of his own blood. His eyes were open, and as panicked as John had ever seen them. They scanned hurriedly over John's face, like Sherlock was drinking in the image.
"John," he choked, trying to raise his shaking, bloodied hands to apply pressure to the wound in his chest. "I appear to have…"
"Gotten yourself shot, damn it. Yes, I can see," John mumbled, dropping to his knees and pressing his hands to Sherlock's chest. The bullet hole was clean, straight into his upper chest, but John knew this kind of wound. He'd seen it too many times in the war. He couldn't treat this, not here without supplies. They'd called Lestrade but it didn't matter; he would never get there in time, no matter what. There was nothing to do but wait.
Sherlock's intakes of air were ragged and forced. John could see the pain in his friend's eyes, the pure terror.
"It's going to be fine, Sherlock. Okay? Just fine." But John was a doctor. He was a trained professional. And he knew that he was telling Sherlock a lie. This wound, this amount of blood loss… it wasn't going to be fine at all.
Sherlock attempted a huff of laughter but it came out as more of a strained cough. He saw right through John's lies. Of course. Didn't he always? Sherlock was smart enough to know the extent of his own injuries.
"You're lying," he managed finally, pushing through his pain to give John a knowing look.
"Now would I ever do that? Lie to a genius like you?" John tried his best at a smile, but it had to have come out as more of a grimace. He had never, in his entire life, felt less like smiling.
"You're," Sherlock paused and gave a small cough. He winced visibly. "Now you're just trying to make me feel better. Calm me down before I… succumb. Soothing words… boring," Somehow, even with a hole in his chest, while lying in a pool of blood, Sherlock was able to analyze John's every move, and be his usual self.
John squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment before looking back at Sherlock. "Don't talk, alright. I'm not lying. I'm not. You… you'll be fine, okay. Sherlock. You have to be fine. For me."
Somewhere in his words John realized, with a sinking feeling, that he believed them. Sherlock would be fine. He was always fine, no matter what. He didn't know how it was even possible, but he had to be. Because a life without Sherlock, God, John couldn't even entertain the possibility. Not even for a second.
"I am sorry, John," Sherlock said, his voice small and growing weaker with every passing moment. "Should have waited for you, I suppose."
"Are you admitting that I'm right? I should record this," John lifted the corner of his mouth and tried his best at using a light tone, but his voice was shaking despite his efforts.
Sherlock coughed again, a small, frail noise that cut straight through John. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, so quietly that John had to strain to hear him. And then Sherlock's eyes were fluttering shut. His breathing was growing quiet. Too quiet.
John shook his head furiously. "No," he said, realizing what was happening and pressing his hands tighter against the bullet wound. "No, no, no. You're going to be fine, Sherlock. We'll go back home. I'll make tea and get on my laptop. I'll type this up in a silly blog. You can do your experiments and I won't even question you if you leave strange body parts in the refrigerator. I won't even mind at all. Everything will be fine. It will be normal and just… just fine." He was rambling now, inarticulate, completely unable to control himself.
"John," Sherlock said, weakly lifting his hand to place it over John's. "Stop."
"Damn it, Sherlock!" John yelled, his voice echoing throughout the warehouse. Tears were filling in his eyes and he tried desperately to blink them away. Sherlock gave his hand a weak squeeze and John grasped it, as if holding on to Sherlock's hand tightly enough could save his life.
"What the hell am I supposed to do, Sherlock?" John said, looking with despair at the fading light in Sherlock's eyes.
"Be fine," Sherlock choked, his voice barely audible. "You'll be fine," he repeated after a pained breath. "John," he said quietly, once more. And then his eyes were shut and his chest was still.
"No," John was numb as he pounded on Sherlock's chest, trying desperately for a miracle. "You can't leave me," he said, voice shaking as he leaned in to breath his own air into Sherlock's mouth.
But nothing worked and Sherlock remained lifeless. John spiraled farther and farther into insanity as he threw himself over Sherlock's body, a cry of despair leaving his lips.
John woke from his sleep in a frenzy of shouts, sweat beading on his forehead, and violently thrashing arms. Somewhere deep in his mind he was aware that he had been asleep, that this wasn't all real, but it certainly felt real. It felt painfully real. In this hazy period between sleeping and waking, he felt the loss of Sherlock straight to his core.
He could still see Sherlock's fluttering eyes from the dream, feel the way his blood had coated his hands. He could perfectly recall seeing Sherlock, seeing his best friend, and more really, die right in front of him. It was too much. His father, and Sherlock, and it was just too much. He couldn't keep still or think rationally. He was unaware of reality, wrapped up in the terrible world that sleep had taken him to.
In was only when a pair of strong arms pulled him close that John was able to relax at all.
"You're fine, John," a low, familiar voice murmured in his ear. "You were dreaming. A chemical reaction, John. Nothing more. You're here. Right now."
John drew a sharp breath as he turned to face the owner of the voice. "Sherlock, you… you were…" he breathed a sigh of relief, and raised a hand to lightly brush Sherlock's face. He had to be sure this was real. Sherlock's warm skin brought him some assurance.
"Just a dream," Sherlock said again. His eyes were bright, as if he hadn't slept at all. John knew his typical sleep schedule. He probably hadn't slept at all.
"Can you go back to sleep?" Sherlock asked as John's breathing slowly returned to normal.
John's mind was racing now. His heart was still pounding. The memories from the dream were all too vivid. "I think I'll just go down for some tea," he said, sitting up from the bed.
Sherlock followed John down to the dark kitchen without a word. He didn't ask if John needed him there, but of course, he must've deduced it. Once they were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, each with a cup of tea, Sherlock spoke in a quiet voice.
"Are you still dreaming about the war? It's normal, you know. The amount of trauma sustained has to be handled by the subconscious mind in order for you to function properly in everyday life. Though, I have witnessed you experience harsh dreams before. You've always seemed far less distressed than you were tonight. It worries me that the dreams are still so vivid."
"It worries you?"
"Of course," Sherlock deadpanned.
"The dream wasn't about the war," John said.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I do, I mean, yeah. I still dream about it, from time to time, but not this one. Not this dream. This was different."
"About your father," Sherlock noted, while looking at John's face, scanning his reaction.
"Not my father actually, no."
"Harriet?" Sherlock tried.
"You, Sherlock," John said, looking up from his tea. "The dream was about you."
"Interesting," Sherlock said, his eyes flickering down at the table uncomfortably.
They lapsed into silence as they both took tentative drinks of their tea. Finally, Sherlock broke the quiet.
"What happened in your dream?" he asked. John could tell that he'd been struggling not to ask this. His curiosity had finally gotten the better of him.
"You got shot," John said, looking at Sherlock with a slightly pained expression. It was probably best to just come right out and say it.
"In the chest, I presume?"
"Yes… How…"
"Your subconscious wouldn't very well want to mess up my face, would it? That would truly be a nightmare." Sherlock interrupted.
John, despite the lingering memory of his dream, gave a laugh. The tentatively proud look on Sherlock's face brought John to the conclusion that this had been Sherlock's intention. Make him laugh. It wasn't an approach that Sherlock often took, but it had worked, God bless him.
"Let's go back to bed," John said after a moment.
Once they'd snuggled back under the covers of the bed and turned the lights out, Sherlock spoke again.
"You are alright, aren't you John?"
John shifted in the bed and moved towards Sherlock. They hadn't really discussed cuddling, not in any forthright fashion, but it couldn't really hurt… John leaned into Sherlock's body and, for once, he was thankful that he was so short. He fit perfectly with Sherlock's lithe body. John rested his forehead on Sherlock's chest, and nuzzled closer to him, reveling in his warmth, in his comfortable, familiar smell.
"I'm fine," John answered finally, once he'd found Sherlock's hand and taken it in his own. "All fine."
John could practically hear Sherlock's smile in the darkness as his arms tightened around him.