A/N: This is probably the closest I'll ever get to a death!fic. That's good, right? Good.

When I wrote this I had just rewatched TRF. (Why would I still be upset? But I was.) So... yeah.

(Also, I made up Joshua Ave and Stratford St, and I'm lazy enough not to go find actual streets in London, so just imagine them, okay.)

Here, choke on this angst for me, would you.

His bluetooth clicked back on.

"Hey," John said, breathing heavily, like he had just finished running.

"Is he dead?" Sherlock asked sharply, half-noticing Lestrade's whiplash turn to look at him. He closed his eyes to focus solely on the sound in his ear.

"Yeah… yeah, I got him. I got him." Still heavy breathing. Must have run up a hill.

"Excellent," Sherlock breathed, tension rolling away. He opened his eyes and gave Lestrade a quick nod. The inspector had a headset on and nodded in return.

"And yours?" John coughed.

"In the hospital. Survival unlikely, but possible. Full recovery not possible." Sherlock allowed himself a small, gloating smile. "He's blind."

"Bloody h-hell. Well done. Ergh - oof." Something slid, rough cloth along concrete. "Sherlock," John said, and there was a note in his voice Sherlock could not explain but could unfortunately identify.

"What's wrong?" the detective asked quickly, his eyes narrowing, drawing his chin to his chest and turning away from Lestrade.

"Ooh." Breathing. "Been shot."

A half-second pause, to assimilate. "Where?"

"Corner of Joshua -"

"No, where is the bullet?"

Heavy breathing caught on the answer. He doesn't want to say. He may lie. It's bad. badbadbadbad-

"Where, John."

In the midst of his panting, John's voice stumbled and cracked. "Gut wound. Stomach's hit."

Nasty and painful. Survival chances less than fourteen percent unless help comes soon.

"999, I'll tell-"

"It's already… been done, I called in… just before I… got back on… here." Breathing heavier. Voice jumping to higher registers at irregular intervals. Fear. John is feeling fear.

"You should save your… " It was then, suddenly, that Sherlock knew what was happening miles away on the corner of Joshua and Stratford, and though his instinct was to shy away from it, he could not prevent his mind from connecting the dots. He could not complete his sentence.

"Yeah, I sh-should. ...Sherlock?"

"Is the ambulance there yet?"

"No. Christ. Listen for a tick, won't you?"

"What time did you dial-"

"I said bloody listen to me, you bloody idiot." Breathing. Still breathing. That was good.

"I'm listening," he said meekly, irrationally thrilled when it made John huff a short laugh.

"I'm not gonna… " Noisy air, sucked between gritted teeth. "I'm not gonna make it, mate. I know what… what needs to… and unless… they get here in the next thirty seconds… they're just not going to get here… in time. Okay? Are you listening?"

"Yes, of course I'm listening," he said quietly. John was afraid, and in pain; he could not possibly be thinking straight. The ambulance would get there in time. It had to. Sherlock had only just returned to Baker Street. There was so much more for them to do...

John tried to stifle a yell, but it emerged as hiccuping groans. "Sorry. But." Heavy breathing. Still breathing. "If I don't… see you again… shit…"

"John, seriously, don't try to talk, save your breath."

"This is important. Sherlock, this… is the most important thing I've ever said to you. Even after... anyway. You have to… take better care of Mrs. Hudson. She's not getting younger. And. You have to take… care of yourself. Seriously. An early grave will leave too many puzzles undone, do you… follow me?"

"John…"

"I said… bloody… shut up, didn't I? … Protect London. Just because Moriarty is out of the picture… doesn't mean… there aren't… aren't… " Wheezing, long dragging, keening breaths. No, no.

No.

"John?"

"I'm… here." Whispering.

"Tell me. What time. Did. You. Call." He was glaring at Lestrade, who had the ambulance on the phone, who was shouting at them to hurry.

"Doesn't… matter… Listen, I'm going to… turn this… don't want you to… hear… " John is crying, he's crying no please...

"No." He hadn't meant for it to come out. "Please, John. Keep talking. Tell me what you see."

But John didn't respond. He took two more long, wheezing breaths, and the bluetooth clicked off.