A/N I am officially horrific at updates. Yeah. Well, here it is, in any case. Your reward for waiting so long is, naturally, angst!

Thanks to 666BloodyHell666, Rain Hamish Holmes, johnsarmylady, Song of Grey Lemons, starrysummernights, Harriate Slate-Res-Hari-Agnew, jackrabbit74ever (or should I say Natalie Nallareet), MapleleafCameo, and the blogger

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXXXII. Can You Hear Me?

"Sherlock—Sherlock." His hand is on the detective's shoulder, fingers running over the tiny thread lines of the deep grey material, tracing its curve for a moment before cinching, gripping it tightly and pulling the limp body in as close as he can, reaching his other hand around to weave in the dark, silky hair for good measure. He doesn't turn him over, can't bear to see his face—if the eyes are open, fixed in a blank stare like the one outside the hospital, God, what will he do then? Because that'll confirm it, seal it—no, this is ridiculous, this can't happen now, not after the Fall, not after everything… he gathers him up, tries not to ponder the significance of the way his neck bends at such an angle, the way the pale fingers drag on the ground, through the thin streams of blood that are trickling over the sidewalk, inappropriately sunlit, glittering vainly and mockingly.

There are yells in the distance, shouts and scattering flocks of footsteps, people running to stop the shooter, but all John knows is Sherlock, as he finally tilts his head upwards, can see the eyes—shit, they are open—no, not completely, whispered lashes fluttering and obscuring the upper half, crimson blood cracking the smoothness of his ivory jaw and scarf hanging like a dead thing, its fringed ends painted scarlet. "Sherlock," he mumbles again, "come on, hang in there, you're still there, I know you are—"

The only response he gets is a ragged cough, and with it comes more blood, bubbling at the ghastly pale lips, too vivid, scorching in its intensity… semiconscious, unresponsive, what do any of those words even mean, why do they matter… "Come on, hold on, I've got you… Sherlock, say something, please say something…"

Still, there's nothing, nothing but the rasping, knifelike noises of his lungs and his heart working against each other, scraping like sandpaper, oxygen fighting its way down his throat, body systems confusedly contradicting one another as they all simultaneously fight to keep him alive. "Sherlock, please, can—can you hear me? I need you to hold on, you're strong…"

He groans, and the sound is aching, almost stirringly beautiful in the most horrible of ways, because it's weak and vulnerable and this is Sherlock, nobody in the universe cares about him more than John does. Tender, that's what this is, like John's own chest is cut open, dripping, his heart pulsing exposed against the shattered edges of his ribcage, just waiting for the slightest breeze to rip it apart. And that breeze lies at Sherlock's lips, coming every few seconds but all too liable to fade away entirely if he doesn't hold himself together, hold himself together.

John clutches him as tightly as he can, trying to do such himself, rocking like a child, unwilling to let his broken ragdoll fall apart.