Simone:
John instantly pulled out his gun pointing it at the criminal. He kept his arm as he bent down next to Sherlock.
"Where did he hit you? Just point," John grit his teeth. He had seen hundreds of deaths in the army, nearly his own. if there was any time he needed to keep himself in check, it was now.
"Don't," Sherlock gasped, clutching his chest dangerously close to his heart.
"Point, Sherlock," John cocked the gun, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock's.
"Nothing vital, Don't—" Sherlock coughed into his arm, his breathing ragged. "—let him away."
John glared at the grave digger, who smiled sickeningly back at him. He returned his attention to Sherlock. "Point, Sherlock," his jaw tensed.
Sherlock winced, clutching his side.
John scooted closer to him, keeping the grave digger in his peripheral vision. He kept his gun pointed at the man as his right hand lifted Sherlock's bloody shirt slowly, steadily. There was a gaping gash between his left fifth and sixth rib. Close to the spleen, liver, pancreas, and lung. Not good. John feverishly ripped a corner of his own shirt off, clumsily wrapping Sherlock's wound with his free hand.
"It's going to be fine," he murmured, more to himself than to Sherlock.