Not again.
John came running into the room and nearly stepped on Sherlock.
Sherlock.
Sherlock lay prone, collapsed, motionless. His hands, those elegant and alien long-fingered hands, lay still on the rug, pale and dead-looking in the dark room. His face was absolutely white. His eyes were closed.
John immediately dropped to his knees and slapped Sherlock's face. "Sherlock!" he demanded. "Sherlock! Can you hear me?" He reached his hand to feel for a pulse in his friend's neck. He turned to the man who was crumpled on the floor behind him. "What happened?"
"He was shot."
John felt his heart jump in his chest; the room spun. He couldn't breathe. Shot. Sherlock. NO! Not again! I can't lose him again!
But when he ripped open Sherlock's jacket, he knew. He saw.
This was very bad.
John forced his hands not to shake. He forced himself to be Doctor Watson; to shut out all the pain and fear; to ignore the panicking voices that were screaming in his head and making it impossible to think. Shut up. Shut up. This soldier has been shot. Just a soldier. Help him, Doctor.
He put pressure on the wound. He took out his cell phone with his other hand and called for help. And he held his friend's hand and begged him not to die.
"Sherlock, open your eyes. Open your eyes, Sherlock. You've been shot. I've called for help. You're going to be OK."
Sherlock's eyes opened to slits, and then closed. His mouth moved and he made a tiny noise in his throat. He hiccuped. His body shook. A drop of blood appeared on his lips.
"Shh, Shh, no need to talk, my friend. Please, just open your eyes. Stay with me, Sherlock. You're going to be OK. Stay with me."
He felt Sherlock's hand move just a little in his. The motion gave him hope. Hurry up! he begged the ambulance silently.
Sherlock's head moved, and his eyes opened again. His breathing sounded awful; thick and labored. He seemed to be trying to focus on John.
John leaned his head close to Sherlock's face. "That's it, Sherlock. That's it. Stay with me. You're going to be -"
"john - " Sherlock whispered - his voice was a tiny rasp.
"Shh," said John, trying to make his voice soothing.. "Shhh. No need to speak. The ambulance - "
"john -" Sherlock whispered again. He was trembling. His face was ashen. He stared into John's eyes with a look of fear and determination. And John felt a thought come into his head: I see Death coming from within those eyes.
Then No, No! He berated himself. Don't think that way!
He gripped his friend's hand tighter. "Sherlock, what is it?"
"john - " Sherlock was fighting for every word.
"I -
"I -
"I ...am….not…." he had to pause.
"Lea- leaving….you…"
John sucked in a sudden breath. He felt his eyes fill with tears. He shook as he gripped his friend's hand. He pulled it to his lips, and silently kissed the bony, long knuckles. He sighed a strange, teary, wobbly sigh.
"Of course not, Sherlock!" he said, trying to sound soothing. "Of course not! You're not. You're going to be fine."
"You're going to be fine." It was a prayer.
And he kept waiting for that ambulance.