Sherlock was kneeled beside him, his hands on the small but damning wound. Blood was spreading.
John was conscious, a thing Sherlock treasured but at the same time despised. Wasn't there supposed to be a point where you couldn't feel the pain anymore? When it was too much? He was breathing very short and harsh breaths, his medical instincts attempting to calm him.
There were times in the past when the pain from his scarred shoulder would ignite and shutter through his chest and arms, especially after a particularly horrid nightmare or a flash of memory. Even though he experienced those periodically, he could still never fully remember just how much a gunshot wound hurt. He'd remember the blinding experience of it all; he hadn't been able to think. He couldn't hear anything. It took away all his senses except that ripping, excruciating pain.
And he never wanted to feel it ever, ever, ever again. But damn the world, he was. In his own flat with his best friend who was probably in panic code black. John had been through this before, so the second time he knew what to expect. He tried to keep it together, to keep his mind alert of what Sherlock was saying, but it was so difficult. The wound this time was not in his shoulder, but his gut. There was more blood...probably hit an artery. He attempted to count to 20 in French to keep sharp, but he gave up after onze.
"Dammit, where are they?" Sherlock tried to peek out the window, praying for a sign of blue and red lights. He met only the dark sky of London.
"John, can you still hear me?" Sherlock whipped his head around as he asked. He was met with a small nod from John, whose eyes were still closed but not as harshly as before. His whole body was shuddering, especially his hands. When Sherlock first grabbed the falling man, John's hands were still strong and pressuring the wound firmly. Now, as he watched his dying flatmate, he noticed his shaking hands were barely a whisper.
"You're weakening, John." He said, his voice suddenly small and cracked.
"I know." John rasped in an exhale.
"Don't you have something for this? Something to clot the blood?" He blurted out quickly. He had been an Army doctor after all, didn't he deal with this on a daily basis? The roles should have been reversed.
John made a noise that sounded like a soft chuckle, but it evolved into a quiet cough.
"No, mate. I don't keep that sort of thing around." His hands were shaking only every few moments now. His breath was uneven and quiet. Sherlock knew it wouldn't be much longer. John knew, too.
Sherlock hung his head and felt his heart give a revolting pull. A tear escaped and fell to the carpet.
"John I am sorry. You were better off without me...I shouldn't have come back into your life. You...you had Mary. I've taken it all away from you with my return. I'm sorry."
"Don't you say that, you dick head." His words were slurred. "You know better than, anyone else. You kept me, alive, by being in my life. I was so alone, so thank you Sherlock." It was taking so much effort to speak. The pain was dulling as the life around him began to dim.
"Tell Mary 'sokay. She knows." His head lolled slowly to his side, the tremors in his hands stopped. Sherlock was crying. Not sobbing, not yelling, not shoving his head into his coat. He was just staring at the still John, his cheeks stained with runs of tears. He saw the lights on the opposite wall, he heard the sirens pull around the corner. But he watched John anyway, not moving. What was the point? John was dead. They were too late. He had fought so hard, Sherlock knew. John was a fighter, aways had been. But there had to be a line somewhere. This was it...after everything they'd been through, the emotional and physical turmoil they endured together, this was it. Sherlock would go back to who he was before John; a recluse. A sad, pathetic, lifeless man with barely a heart.
He stood up on his own as they burst into the flat, and stepped back to give them room. He felt so numb.
Although he cared for him more than anyone else in the world, Sherlock had underestimated John numerous times. John sort of loved it, though, to see his shocked or impressed face when he proved him wrong.
Little did Sherlock know, he had underestimated John again. But he was right, John was a fighter. And although there was a line somewhere, Doctor Watson had not quite reached it. John was still fighting. John was fighting.
And Sherlock realized that when one of the medics shouted that they had a pulse. He never allowed himself to feel hope...the universe was never kind enough to grant a welcomed outcome. But he couldn't help it this time, for Sherlock felt a rush of euphoric and crushing hope as they worked. His brows were furrowed and tears were still freshly dropping, but hope was flitting around him. Hope that John Watson would live to see another day, and live more days than Sherlock would see. That's the way Sherlock always wanted it to be...he just couldn't imagine going back to a life without his company.