I don't usually update this close to another chapter, but It was already written, so what the hell. See it as a gift! :)

Thank you for all the lovely reviews people! And especially to the latest guest-reviewer! I wish I could reply to you and really tell you how much your comment was worth, because it was one of the most beautiful comments I've recieved, thank you :)

Anyway, time for John to be a tiny bit badass. You're welcome! ;)

Chapter 19

Panic seared through John. Sherlock had no pulse. Sherlock had no pulse.

His doctor-mode once again became his natural state, and without thinking he started CPR. He somehow managed to keep his motions controlled and ignore the screaming in his head. After exactly three minutes, John finally felt a weak, but steady pulse beat under his fingers. He had barely time to breathe out, before he heard footsteps on the stairs. Shit. He very reluctantly let go of Sherlock, and threw himself behind the door. Of course, the door had been closed and bolted, so whoever came up the stairs would know someone had broken in. He held his breath, gun ready when the person finally came up to the second floor. John heard a male voice whisper "What the…someone's here." and he didn't hesitate for a second as the man entered the room.

John threw himself forward and managed to knock the back of his gun into the man's temple, quite an achievement considering he was almost twice as tall as John. The man stumbled and fell, but John managed to catch him before he hit the floor, which would have made an awful lot of noise. He straightened up and turned around, and immediately got hit in the face. The punch was unexpected, and John stumbled backwards and hit the wall with a heavy thud. The man in front of him smiled a vicious smile, pointed a gun at him and said simply

"You're John Watson."

John didn't answer him, just glared as hard as he could. He had dropped his gun and it lay just in front of the bed, too far for him to reach.

"Are you here to save your pathetic little boyfriend?" The man went on, enjoying the reaction from John who almost snarled. "You know, he can be quite the slut if he wants to. Practically begs for it. Just a little fix up his arm and I could've had him any way I wanted to."

John noticed the sentence and the fact that he had said "could've had" instead of just "had", which meant that Sherlock were still untouched. Well, in that context anyway. He threw a glance at the Sherlock-shaped heap on the bed, and he felt relieved as he saw Sherlock's chest rise and fall. The man kept talking and he raised his gun so that it pointed towards John's head.

"He actually called me, you know. Begged me to come over. Then he had changed his mind once I finally arrived. I don't like when people change their minds." The man lowered his voice. Every word sounded like pure venom, and John couldn't do a thing besides wait for his chance. He knew it would come.

"The apartment? Well that was merely a message. You don't mess with me, Doctor Watson. You don't lie to me, you don't manipulate me. Your boyfriend here did all of those things." He nodded his head in Sherlock's direction. "Like I said, I don't like when people change their minds. If they do, I'll have to punish them. You understand that, don't you Doctor Watson? You are a man of order after all." He had now approached John so they were barely half a meter apart, the gun now pressing right against his forehead.

"I think you also understand that I have to kill you. And then I will make your boyfriend watch your cold, bloody corpse, before I kill him too. After all, that would be the worst torture in the world, wouldn't it?"

His finger was right on the trigger. 'Any minute now', John thought. He steeled himself against that evil smile; waiting…waiting… then the moment finally presented itself.

A voice from downstairs was shouting "RYAN" and that was all it took for the man in front of John, (he was Ryan apparently), to lose concentration, just for a second. It was all John needed. His inner soldier took over his instincts and he quickly ducked under Ryan's arms, came up behind him and managed to pin his arms behind his back. Ryan dropped his gun and John kicked it away into the corner. He brought his right leg around Ryan's and jerked violently so the man fell forwards, John tumbling down on him. He was vaguely aware of the noise and the voices coming from downstairs, but he didn't have time to register before he found himself on his back, the punches repeatedly hitting his face. John felt his lip burst open and the blood trickle down his chin. He closed his eyes and prepared himself for the blow to the temple he knew would make him black out, and he cursed himself for getting into this situation.

But the final punch never came. Instead, what sounded like a herd of animals rushed into the bedroom, knocking Ryan over so that John could breathe properly again. John wanted to cry as he heard Lestrade's voice shouting instructions to his staff of police-men. He opened his eyes and quickly scribbled to his feet. He watched as Ryan and the other, still unconscious man, were being hand-cuffed and dragged out of the room, the disgusting smile finally wiped from his face.

John found himself drawn to Sherlock again, checking his pulse and his breathing. They were both weak and shallow, but he was alive. There were hands that tried to jerk him away from Sherlock but he just held on tighter, as if his life depended on it. But then Lestrade's soothing voice was there, urging John to let go and he did as he was told, watching the paramedics load Sherlock onto a stretcher. He followed them into the waiting ambulance, his head buzzing from tiredness and adrenaline. He tried to answer all the questions, but found he didn't know very much of what Sherlock had been through. The memories of their fight and John's stubborn three-day exile started to return to him, and he grunted as the guilt finally settled heavy on top of him. It was his fault, it was his entire fault.

He took Sherlock's hand in his own, squeezing it lightly. His pulse had not grown any stronger, and his reflexes were practically non-existent. John was not in his soldier-mode any more, nor was he the doctor. He was just a man praying that his best friend, his boyfriend, would recover, would survive. When they arrived at the hospital, Sherlock were immediately wheeled into a room to be taken care of. Blood-tests were to be done, and he needed a large amount of stitches on his forehead and arms.

John watched until the last curls of the almost lifeless Sherlock wasn't visible anymore, and the door closed behind.

Then he broke down.