A/N You can never have too much angst, right? Like the other most recent drabbles, this can be set at pretty much any point in the BBC Sherlock canon (season one, season two, post-Reichenbach return, whatever). The feedback has been incredibly encouraging, as usual!
Thanks to MapleleafCameo and LittleMisChevious
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XVII. Blood
"Oh, God, no."
John isn't unused to blood—in fact, his career requires its presence to be remarkably abundant. But he never knows those who are injured—they're always nameless faces, nothing more, and he's coached himself to feel nothing more for them than a vaguely apologetic sympathy. If he grew attached to every one of his patients, then he'd probably be immobile with depression at this point. But while each injury he sees adds another measure of weight to his already heavy heart… the sight assaulting his eyes now completely removes it, leaving a sick, windy cavity in his chest that throws him off balance, so that his next steps, meant to be hasty, end up stumbling.
Sherlock's back is to him, the familiar black coat looking remarkably limp as it drapes over the injured detective's still, sprawled form. Multiple patches of it gleam dark, wet crimson in the moonlight, and the asphalt of the secluded alley is likewise stained scarlet. John's too unsteady to tell whether or not he's breathing, and manages to reach his side, tenderly gripping his shoulder with one hand and lifting his wrist with the other.
"Sherlock. Sherlock."
Sherlock's mobile phone clatters to the ground, slipping from his gloved hands. John recognizes faintly that he must have used his last reserves of energy to send the texts that had clued the doctor into his location—and such casual words they'd contained, too. Ran into a spot of trouble. Your help would be appreciated. No rush.
He hadn't mentioned that he'd been shot.
And several times, too, it appears. Shaking far more than he probably should be, John overcomes his anxiety to move the prone body at all, forcing himself to ever so gently turn it onto his its back, paw away the dark, curly locks to reveal the pallid, waxy face, much paler than its usual creamy hue.
Sherlock's eyes are half-closed, but the visible crescents of misty green are remarkably lucid. "Took you long enough," he mumbles, the words slurring together despite his obvious effort to keep them steady.
"Why the hell didn't you say that—? No, don't talk… oh, God, why me? You should have called an ambulance, you absolute daft idiot!" John's own words remind him that he should probably be doing just that, and he pulls out his own phone, dials hurriedly, anxiously endures the monotonous buzzing of the ring while not moving his hard gaze. Sherlock's breaths are growing louder, and their scratchy noises are unsettling—terrifying, in fact.
The phone is finally picked up, and John spits out their location to the cool voice on the other end before slamming the device to the ground, gratefully returning the full hundred percent of his attention to Sherlock.
"Sherlock, just—just hold on, help is coming, I promise it is. Look at me, keep your eyes on me, concentrate. I need you to hold on, okay? Don't give up, don't you dare give up." It's a miracle that he's survived this long, considering the extent of the injuries. John's internally berating himself, thinking of how long he had sat in the cab on the way here, the slow steps that had carried him around the corner, and how, the whole time, Sherlock had been lying here… bleeding…
He's a doctor, and he should be doing something, but the best he can think of is to strip off his own jacket, pressing it against the wounds, his hands shaking madly.
"Please hold on…"
"I'm… fine…" His voice is worse now—thought the words are more distinguishable from one another, they're also soft, faint, more of a whisper than anything with real substance. He's giving up, John thinks wildly, frantically, and there's a fierce burning in his eyes and throat and a sick nothingness in his stomach, Sherlock's growing stiller, the blood is everywhere and there are sirens screaming in his ears, iron hands holding him back as Sherlock is carted away on a stretcher. All their movements are too sharp, like they don't understand how gentle they have to be, how absolutely, perfectly caring and tender.
And after what seems like mere moments, John finds himself alone again, clutching his jacket as tightly as he possibly can, staring at the empty, bloodstained ground with the night pressing in on him and his own words ringing through his frozen mind.
Please hold on.