Author Note: Hi everyone, sorry for not posting in a while, life gets in the way as you all know! Review, Favorite and Comment as usual. SEND ME PROMPTS!

~TheChemicalAuthor

btw this features SOULESS Sam, not the regular one.

John looked up and waited for it all to be over. He was scared. He was confused. And most importantly, he was alone; no-one could save him now. The angel was about 3 feet away from him-grinning with a manic expression. All he had to do was blink and it was over for him. John knew how fast they moved. He would be dead. It was a strange thought indeed. All his years in Afghanistan, under the achingly bright sun in the mid-afternoon; hands covered in the blood of the wounded and finally covered in his own. He thought he would die when he got shot. The pain he felt when the bullet entered his shoulder was indescribable. His men surrounded him as he writhed on the ground in agony, his flesh gory and red. They didn't know what to do, he was the doctor not them. He hadn't had any time to contemplate his life nor did it flash before his eyes- if anything all he saw was red. But all he saw now was the sadistic face of the stone angel-it smiled with sharp teeth and beady eyes.

He didn't even know how this was all possible. A stone angel was about to murder him; and he was going to die an idiot- not even knowing how his death even occurred. Of course according to Sherlock, everyone was an idiot. Thinking of Sherlock brought tears to John's eyes. Or they would have if his eyes weren't so dry. They felt like they've been rubbed with sandpaper, gritty and sore.

His eyes burned horribly and he made up his mind. He needed to blink and this was ridiculous. He was giving up. John took a shaky breath and his heart pounded. It was as if it had to make up for all the time it would loose when he was dead. He felt his body vibrate with the thud of fast-beating heart. He was aware of everything suddenly. Funny thing is, when he almost died last time he wasn't aware of anything at all except the agony of the bullet. But now he noticed everything.

He noticed that he had a gash on his forehead from when he fell earlier. He felt the hot blood slide down his weathered face. He was aware of the aching in his joints, he hadn't ran like that since Sherlock was alive, he was getting rusty. He was aware of the soft, jaded grass, drying out beneath his body. It still managed to stain his mint green scrubs though. The light around him was pleasant and the air was cool, it made his skin prickle. He had seconds, his eyes were focusing in and out lazily, he had them open at least a minute and felt the dust particles on them. Lastly, he a said a silent goodbye to all his friends. He'd miss all the friends he made with Sherlock. Sure, they mocked Sherlock, but who hadn't at one point. He felt a pang of regret at the state he'd leave them.

One friend dead, another to go, he thought with a crazed laugh.

"See you soon Sherlock," he whispered hoarsely, his throat felt like it was closing. It probably was from fear. He closed his eyes. They sang with relief. But his heart stuttered in his chest painfully, reminding him he was still alive. He wanted to live. If he wasn't going to fight to live, what kind of soldier was he? He wanted to give up and see his best friend again, but would Sherlock really want to know that he gave up his final chance of living to see his face again? A stone cold hand gripped his wrist, jarring him out of his thoughts.

John's grey eyes flew open and he let out a strangled gasp. The angel had its-its hand clutching John's wrist like a lifeline. His breath quickened. He couldn't get in enough air, he sucked it in and pushed it out of his chest, but it did no good, he couldn't breath properly. He was hyperventilating, he realised.

He tried to take deep breaths, but he just resulted in him gasping in air and taking quicker and quicker breaths.

A strange noise filled the air and John's head got hazier and hazier. He was passing out surely and the noises were purely a figment of his imagination.

VWOOMP! VWOOMP!

John's vision clouded over the edges as the noise got louder and louder. Blood trickled down his chin and he realised he probably needed stitches. His head pounded and DAMMIT he couldn't stop hyperventilating! His body shook and his eyes were getting weary again.

Something was materializing out of the corner of his eye. If only he could turn his gaze, but the angel would surely kill him. He was painfully aware of the tight grasp it had on his wrist and wanted to cry out from its pain. As the object solidified, the noises slowly dimmed until it completely stopped. A blue box was nearly 10 feet away from him, crushing two headstones.

Now everything was hazy, his eyes were clouded over with a milky white film. His pain was starting to fade away and the milky white was turning into a dusty grade and then into a fading black. Lack of oxygen, he thought dimly.

Noises. He heard noises. A crashing off to the side of him, like a door slamming open. Someone shouting his name, someone who was dead.

Death doesn't feel too great, he thought.

"Keep your eye on weeping angel!" another voice shouted gruffly. An American, John registered somewhere in his mind.

"John!" the first voice screamed again, it's baritone smoothness sounding as broken as the day he killed himself.

"Sher-lock?" John croaked out between gasps. His head swam. A current in his mind was pulling him under and no matter how fast he breathed, he couldn't get enough air in his aching lungs. His eyes were drooping shut and he forced them open.

And right there, next to the horrid weeping angel was his glorious best friend. Sherlock Holmes. His unruly black hair wavered in the breeze and he look anxiously down at John's face. Panicked. The last time John saw Sherlock with that expression on his face was when he had a bomb strapped to him. This might as well be another bomb. Sherlock's piercing blue gaze suddenly shift onto the angel and he said, his voice trembling, "John, you can close your eyes for now."

John realised how red his eyes must of been and gratefully he closed them, still tense. He tried to control his breathing and as he did, he heard Sherlock conversing with the other men around him.

"Doctor, there must be something else that we can do!" Sherlock snapped at someone.

"Sherlock we have to break his wrist," a different voice replied, not the american one. He sounded young enough, but the heaviness with what he said made him sound old. A soldier, John thought, like me.

Wait, break his wrist? John's eyes snapped open, his heart stuttering. His breathing was under control now and adrenaline coursed through his veins with the mention of violence. A man with a bowtie looked down at him sympathetically as his eyes widened.

"What-let's not be crazy here!" he said indignantly. John glanced around. Sherlock and stood next to the man with the bowtie and a third man- the american- stared at the stone angel coldly. His long, brown hair quivered in the breeze, his face adorned a calculating expression, like he was considering something.

John's gaze turned from incredulous to panicked as the american man said, moving closer to John, "I'll do it."

"Sherlock!" John strangled out as the strange man moved closer and closer.

"Is this really necessary?" Sherlock said to "the Doctor".

Grim determination settled on his face as he replied, "It's the only way out. River did it before."

Sherlock nodded resigned and John looked at him befuzzled. This whole mess was confusing. Sherlock was alive, a blue box appeared out of no-where and a stone angel was trying to kill him.

John gave the Doctor a pleading look and exclaimed, "Please, don't break my wrist, I'm sure there's another way-" Before John could finish his sentence his wrist was on fire.

He screamed bloody hell as the American snapped his wrist like a twig. He must of blacked out because one moment he was sitting up, his wrist caught by the angel and the next he was gasping on the ground, cradling a blackened wrist.

He took shaky breaths and some of the blood from his forehead caught in his mouth, leaving a metallically taste in his mouth. Sherlock ran towards him and tried to help him up as John struggled to stand.

"No!" John snarled at Sherlock, bringing him up short. John stood shakily to his feet and pointed at him. "You're dead. You died. I saw you break your neck as you fucking jumped!" he cried out.

"He's not dead you're just easily tricked," the American man said, his voice devoid of emotion. John whirled around at the man in fury. His fist went flying John punched the man square in the jaw. Hard. The man stumbled back and John screamed at him, "I know that now, you cock! That's for breaking my bloody wrist!"

To be continued...