The bullet was meant for him. The goddamn bullet was meant for him.
And now he can't breathe. Because John Watson is crumpled on cold hard cement that is covered with his own blood. And Sherlock can't fucking breathe.
It feels as if his lungs aren't there anymore and his heart has decided to start running a marathon. He doesn't even feel the pain in his knees as he gracelessly falls to the ground beside his best friend that just took a bullet for him. The buzzing in his ears makes it hard to tell if he's whispering or screaming at John "Stay with me."
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. Forgive me, John."
Time flies.
Sherlock hands are covered in blood and no matter how hard he presses down more seeps through the cracks between his fingers. Words are pouring out of his mouth at the same rate blood falls out of John.
Their eyes connect and Sherlock swears he can see the reflection of his own hurt in John's. In the moment, the realization that one event can change everything terrifies Sherlock. Fear courses through his body similar to an electric charge, which leaves him a shivering mess in its wake.
John's mouth is moving, but the buzzing in Sherlock's ears has become so loud that it's turned into a dull ringing. No matter what John is saying Sherlock shakes his head and says, "No. Stay with me."
It's too much to ask and Sherlock knows it, but if there is one thing John Watson can do for him other than take a bullet, he can goddamn live afterwards.
Hands suddenly on him and Sherlock can swear he sees red. Angry words pour from his mouth as gentle words try to calm him. It's no use. He is anything but calm as John is pulled away from him even though he clings onto the man like a lifeline. Wires, tubes and things that Sherlock cannot see are being attached to John in seconds. He doesn't care for the names or the function of them, as long as they keep John alive.
The same hands are pulling him to his feet and then further and further away from John. Breathing becomes that much harder as he is leaned against a wall, immediately sliding down until he hits hard cement.
He can't see John anymore so he stares at his blood covered hands, surprised to see them blurry. Wetness coats his cheeks and for some reason that scares him even more than the blood soaked into the cuffs of his coat. Why is his body reacting this way? His transport knows better than this. Mind and body trained not to react.
John. Wrong.
The buzzing in his ears has started to fade and the first sound that comes through is a voice, a very worried person saying, "Jesus, Sherlock."
The hands are back. Strong hands rubbing up and down his shoulders drags him closer to the surface of reality and what exactly are those hands trying to accomplish? The hands are shivering. It is most certainly not him.
It doesn't really matter anyway. He has given up any attempts to crawl his way back up. He'll do anything to stay away from the harsh repercussions of tonight's events. Fire burns its way up his throat, exhaling out into the world with no returning inhale. One of the hands that is pointlessly rubbing his arms, brutally connects with his face, but he can barely feel the sting. The ability to feel anything right now has become a distant skill. An empty void with the only specimen able to fill it, lying in an alleyway fighting for his life.
"Breathe, dammit!" A rough voice grates in his ear, too close. Is he not breathing? And why is everyone always yelling at him?
Looking up and trying to blink the blurriness out of his eyes, Sherlock gets a glimpse of John being loaded into an ambulance. A short gasp of air is sucked into his lungs and god does it burn. His eyes connect with a familiar face, Lestrade, before he is shoving him out of the way. The movement is surprisingly weak and he is pushed back down again. The impact of the ground causes a wisp of air to catch in his throat and he is left coughing as Lestrade shouts, "Just go! We'll meet you there!"
Enough sense is left in Sherlock's mind for him to realize Lestrade is directing someone to take John away. Away from him.
"No!" His voice comes out weak and gasping. "Wait. P-please, don't take him."
"Sherlock, stop!" Pushing, shoving, anything to get to John. But he is too weak, his efforts useless.
"I have to- to be there. I have to-" Sherlock pleads, finally making eye contact. "Please, Greg."
Lestrade shakes his head, sadness clouding his eyes. "Let's get you taken care of first. You gotta breathe, kid."
At first, Sherlock is angry. How dare Lestrade keep him from John. Leaning his head against the wall, Sherlock tries. If breathing is the only way he can see John he will do it. Whatever it takes.
But his first attempt is too harsh and his lungs protest. He ends up coughing again, making his chest ache. "Fuck," Sherlock cries in frustration, moving his head forward only to slam it back against the wall again.
"Don't do that." Lestrade places a hand behind his head and Sherlock glares at him for the unnecessary precaution. "Start slow. In through your nose for five seconds and out your mouth for five."
The demand makes him feel like a child, but he follows along anyway, only managing a short inhale. This time he doesn't end up coughing and the success feels monumental. One step closer to John.
"Good. Again."
Sherlock feels the presence of someone else standing close by. Tilting his head up, he sees Donovan. The look in her eyes tells him she is struggling between wanting to help and staying far away. She moves closer and crouches on his right, opposite of Lestrade. Decision made then.
She places a seemingly reluctant hand on his arm. "The ambulance is on its way to hospital. His condition is serious, but the paramedics seemed optimistic."
The information is pointless. Of course John's condition is serious, he thinks, managing a small smile in thanks to the useless information before grimacing at the effort of taking another breath.
"He ok?" Donovan asks, glancing up.
No words come in response to the question, so Sherlock assumes Lestrade mouthed the issue to her. It makes no difference. Sherlock knows what this is. Panic attack. He once helped John through one after a particular bad nightmare. Well, helped, is a strong word. He'd spent most the night fumbling around John wanting to help, but not knowing what to do. John reassured him that his presence was enough, but it didn't help Sherlock to stop feeling useless.
The wish that John was here helping him through this is strong and in a weird twisted way it makes sense. Where they always going to end up here, John in the back of an ambulance struggling to live and Sherlock in an alleyway struggling to breathe? If Sherlock was a different man, he might say it was poetic.
Part Two coming soon! Please let me know what you thought!