Nervous, quivering fingers tightened reflexively on the trigger. The gun kicked back with a turbulent force, spitting the cartridge to the side as the glinting bullet sliced through the air towards its stubbornly static target. John Watson felt the muscles in his limbs seize up and paralyse him. He saw the bullet, saw it tracking a smooth and deadly path towards him, felt the air shift as it parted for the nugget of metal. It moved with impossibly sluggishness, drawing it out, deepening the fear that crippled him. "Run John. Run away. Run like you did before. This time you can't escape me. You were such a coward, so weak; you let your friends die in your place. Run John, run." It whispered to him, he could see it, his end, his death, and now his body betrayed him, he was trapped in his mind, helpless like an infant, and so very afraid.
Sherlock watched his friend, saw the memories, saw the pain and fear behind those kind and tortured eyes he had grown to know so well. Sherlock Holmes ran. He ran like he had never run before. He ran as though nothing else mattered, because nothing else did. His chest was ablaze and a searing pain tore its way through his lungs, but still Sherlock ran. Everything screamed at him to stop, give up, because it wouldn't ever be enough to save John. He ran on against the onslaught, the blood roaring in his ears and his very real heart threatening to burst through his ribcage. Sherlock barrelled into John, taking him in a fierce embrace and knocking him from the path of the bullet, slamming his friends shoulder into the ground with such force that he cried out in pain. John scrambled onto his knees, his head felt clouded by surprise, but in an instant he knew something was terribly wrong.
Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled on the ground; his pale fingers clawed the soil in desperation as he fought to take a breath into irresponsive lungs. The air tore at his throat and sliced vicious blades of blinding pain through his torso. John threw himself in an anguished heap at his friend's side, frightened, experienced fingers pulled at the starchy cotton of Sherlock's shirt. John's breath caught in his throat, his busy hands stilled, he was hypnotised by the dark crimson stain blossoming from his friend's chest where the bullet had effortlessly carved a fleshy path through his body, just below the blade of his left shoulder. The bullet meant for John. He could see it in there, the terrible shards of metal, winking at him from the glistening gore. He looked away, the wound was identical to the one John had received in Afghanistan; he knew that any attempt to remove it would cause Sherlock more harm than good. He fumbled with the last of the buttons; gingerly easing the fabric over Sherlock's shoulder to expose the impossibly pale alabaster skin beneath, tainted with the blood which pulsed thick and consistently through his fingers as he applied pressure to the wound. He wanted to tell Sherlock that it was going to be ok, that his Doctor would make it better, stop the pain, but he couldn't lie. He stripped the woollen scarf from his friend's neck with able hands and held it to the tunnel in Sherlock's torso, increasing the pressure. Sherlock cried out, his body convulsed, his cold fingers found John's wrist, taking it in his vice-like grip. John was hurting, he knew, but there was no other way he could think of to stop the blood as it snaked its way down his friend's body and pooled sickeningly at his waist. Sherlock's face was contorted with pain, his eyes wide and scared. His pupils were dilated, and seemed to drink in the abyss of stars mapped out to the horizon on a deep ocean of infinite blue. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breaths were shallow and his pulse became devastatingly feint beneath the pale skin of his jaw. Sherlock's ashen lips traced the ghost of John's name. Closing his eyes, John cradled Sherlock's head in his lap and soothed him by humming an old lullaby he hadn't know he even remembered. His gravelly voice tuned out the sirens as they approached. The dread he felt growing within his chest was banished, his doubts retreated deep inside him. John sat, and hummed, and rocked his friend under the canopy of stars. He felt very small, and very alone. He barely noticed when the police came, and the ambulance team, until they took his friend away. He clung to his cold hand with such resilience that they had to prise their fingers apart from each other. Then John was lost, an insignificant, lonely star in the infinite expanse of a lightening sky.
'Rock a bye baby '