Sherlock looked directly in front of him and saw the images of Molly, Mycroft, and John swimming before him, eyes all wide, before he put his hand down upon his abdomen and pulled it away, covered in blood. A dark circle closed in on his vision as he began to fall the rest of the way to the ground. He closed his eyes and went down, surprised to not feel concrete connect with the back of his head. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, because at that exact moment he was met with the most mind-numbing pain he had ever experienced in his life.
He forced his eyes open to see Mycroft's face directly above his. It was apparently his hands that had stopped him from hitting the floor. John was tearing open his shirt, revealing a perfect circle directly to the side of his bellybutton, oozing blood at an alarming rate.
"Good thing the camera's off, wouldn't want the world to see you tearing my shirt off," Sherlock gasped, his words garbled by his pain and his sudden inability to breathe.
"Well, remember, it's your pants I'm after apparently" said John, holding his hand over the wound. "Molly, I could use some help here."
Molly still stood rooted to her spot, staring wide-eyed at the scene before her.
"Mycroft, put your jacket under his head, and keep him talking," John had taken off his own jacket and held it to Sherlock's abdomen in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. "MOLLY, GET OVER HERE!"
Molly yanked herself back to sanity as she rushed to Sherlock's side, grasping his hand as Mycroft lifted his head to place his jacket beneath.
"Always have to be the center of attention, don't you Brother Dear," said Mycroft, his voice shaking uncontrollably.
"I gave you your credit on national television, what more do you want?" Sherlock sputtered, his eyelids beginning to flicker.
"No, NO, NO! Don't you dare! I am NOT telling Mummy you died AGAIN! Now stay awake!"
"Molly, I think the bullet went up through his lung. It's collapsed."
Molly stared at John, eyes still wide, but understanding. She turned to Mycroft. "Give me a pen."
Mycroft looked back and forth between Molly and John, "What are you going to do?"
"JUST GIVE ME A PEN, MYCROFT!" Molly yelled, her medical brain finally kicking into gear.
Mycroft scrambled in the pocket of the jacket beneath Sherlock's head and produced a metal fountain pen, handing it to Molly cautiously.
"Do you want me to do it?" asked John, pressing harder upon the wound, which was still bleeding profusely.
"No, I can do it," she said strongly, with a hint of a quaver in her voice, "Mycroft, distract him."
"What do I say?"
"He's your brother, DISTRACT HIM."
Mycroft bent down to Sherlock's face, which was getting paler by the second, a glistening of sweat now prominent on his brow.
"Remember that time I brought home Helen McDunnogh when I was sixteen? And you told everyone in the family that she had slept with ten different members of the football team? I never really thanked you for that, you know."
"You locked me in the linen cupboard for three hours," said Sherlock, his voice weak.
"Yes, well, I'm thankful now. She was atrocious."
Molly disassembled the top of the pen and held it directly above Sherlock's chest, nodding to Mycroft, who paled himself as he realized what she was about to do.
"Sherlock, tell me what you see."
"I-can't," his eyes began to close.
"SHERLOCK, NOW!"
"You're off your diet, you gained-"
Molly plunged the pen hard into Sherlock's chest, causing him to buck off the ground and gasp in pain. As his body lowered back to the ground a hiss of air accompanied his taking a deep breath and seeming to relax a little.
"I suppose I deserved that,"
"A little," said Molly, smiling weakly at the sentences getting so much use these weeks. She moved herself to take over Mycroft's position directly in front of Sherlock's face, grasping his hand and squeezing.
"I'm sorry I've been so awful to you," Sherlock squeaked, his eyes rolling around, unable to focus. It wasn't completely obvious to which person Sherlock was speaking.
"No. No way. Don't you dare start saying goodbyes," John spoke up, "I had to lose you once, and I am not going to do that again. So don't you dare."
Sherlock felt his muscles go slack as the pain seemed to ebb away. The last thing he saw before his vision went entirely to black was John's face, a single tear working its way down his cheek.