This will just be a two part story and not at all long. Just had an urge and thought I would share it with you. Hope you'll enjoy.
He couldn't remember the time he went to bed. Second thought he couldn't remember much at all, but here he was sleeping in such silence that he could hear his own heart beat. But something didn't seem right. His mouth was awfully dry with an odd taste of dust. There was chips of rocks under his tongue, between his lips and teeth and he groaned at the realisation that he might not be in bed after all.
Something was indeed not completely right.
As he tried to move he felt the weight of something big upon him, something hard and sharp. Even the surface beneath him was uneven, rough and sandy-like and he took a deep breath though his nose only to feel his sinuses being filled with dust. He coughed, feeling the air tare at his lunges and at the same time realising that he couldn't hear the sound of his coughing. In fact his ears were ringing, pounding by his heartbeats and that was a strong smell of metal and rock.
A small ounce of fear settled in his guts. This was not good. Something must have happened.
With his whole body shaking he cracked an eye open and almost shouted in panic when he saw his surroundings. Dust of concrete was flying in the air like thick fog, rubble and gravel was splayed around him and piling up like tall mountains with metal pins sticking up like trees without branches. John gasped and tried to move just an arm for starters. The last thing he wanted was for whatever was on top of him to drop or crush him.
Cheek pressed to the concrete floor, groaning as he tried to pull free he managed to get his arm our from the heavy rubble. Panting and crying in pain and fright he trailed his fingers over the weight and felt the number of bricks and parts of rocks, he might just be able to crawl out of this.
As he crawled and scratch the floor, moving inch after inch with a heavy burden he slowly started to remember. There was a case. A nearly insignificant case which Sherlock didn't want to accept. Sherlock. SHERLOCK!?
"SHERLOCK!?" Throat tore by the scream and it was muffled in his ears. If he could hardly hear it how would Sherlock? Rubble came tumbling down as he moved and eventually he got his other arm free. "Sherlock!?"
How would John hear him if he answered?
Those thoughts didn't stop him from screaming. "Sherlock!?"
He got out, rolled over on his back on the floor and panted for a minute, spitting and feeling for injuries. There were broken ribs, a concussion, three broken fingers, scrapes and cuts. He considered himself lucky. But where was Sherlock?
Somehow he managed to get up on his feet and he looked around in what once was a big storing unit. John remembered the bang which had turned it into what it was now. The roof and fallen, pillars had caved in and then it had turned black.
Now there was this.
"SHERLOCK!?" he screamed and heard the high pitch note in his ears increase until it was the only thing he could hear. He stumbled over the rubble, swayed back and forth over the bits and pieces and search as well as he could beneath rocks and metals.
John shouldn't have encouraged him to take this case to get out of boredom.
Stupid.
Stupid!
Slowly, very slowly hearing came back to him. He could hear his footsteps, how the building groaned as it tried to hold the rest of herself up and John stopped for a second to listen.
"Sherlock?" he called again and looked over the ocean of rubbish that covered his dear friend. Suddenly there was a gasp and John's heart nearly stopped. Then there was a cough and the doctor turned to face the sound. "Sherlock? Where are you?"
"John?" It was a very weak voice, but it was there. John stumbled over the rubble, hurried the best he could to get to him when he suddenly saw a bruised hand clawing a big piece of metal with broken nails. The doctor whimpered and tripped over a big piece of rock, landing on his knees next the the hand and started digging. He pulled away the metal plate and tossed the rocks aside.
"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm gonna get you out." he heard himself panting and pushed some chunks aside when he suddenly saw a known face between the floor and a pig pillar that miraculously rested upon a piece of concrete that had stopped it from crushing Sherlock's head. John trembled by the sight and took a strong hold of the hand and forced a smile to his lips.
"Hi." he whimpered and tried to clear the area a bit more when Sherlock suddenly let out a painful cry.
"John." he sobbed and looked needless to say miserable while covered in dust and blood, tears prickling the corners of his eyes and shaking of the shock John didn't think Sherlock could feel. "Get me out." John was taken aback. Detective Sherlock Holmes scared? He had never seen his friend this tiny inside. Despite him being on the battlefield of London every other week Sherlock had probably never been this close to the fire before. John squeezed his hand a little firmer and tried to keep the smile on his lips.
"It's gonna be okay." he promised and reached to a point of digging where he reach the big pillar. "I'll try to move this and.." He let go of Sherlock's hand and placed himself by the base of the pillar where Sherlock's feet probably was. "Just tell me if I should stop." He grabbed the big piece of concrete and braised himself for the heavy lift. With a deep breath he pulled as hard as he could, but he didn't even move it an inch before Sherlock started screaming in searing pain.
"Stop! Stop! STOP!" he cried and John put it back down, breathing hard and fast as he sank down in front of the small space where he could see poor Sherlock crumpled up, only visible from head to chest except that pillar lying on top of him and one arm free for movement.
"What?" John asked in worry and took his hand again, saw the tears welling down Sherlock's dusty face.
"My leg." he cried and pulled hard on John that was nearly drawn into the tiny space. "John." It was voice coming from a very small Sherlock, almost childlike and that scared John more than anything else around them right now.
"I'm not leaving you." he promised quickly and reached inside to card a hand though his dirty curls. "Don't worry. You'll be out of there as soon as help comes."
That's when they heard sirens and John felt like a big claw released his heart to let the blood flow again. But even if the sound of salvation was in the air it didn't seem to calm the trembling detective.
"Hey." John murmured and laid himself down on his stomach to crawl inside the little hole until he was so close their nose touched. "I'm here. You're gonna be okay. Everything is fine."
"It's not fine." Sherlock cried with the small voice that got weaker by the second. "I should have noticed."
"Yes you should." John said and giggled with a friendly face. "You should also have noticed that I've cleaned the kitchen this morning but that didn't pass your mind neither, did it, detective?"
Just that small sentence brought out a trembling laugh out of his friend and John sighed in relief as he saw him smile. The man blinked when the rubble upon him made a sudden move and with a loud crack Sherlock screamed again. Tears flowing down his scrunched up face John was now terribly scared. The squeeze of his hand broke another finger but his pain was nothing to what Sherlock was going through.
"Sherlock?" he shouted and cupped his jaw with his free hand. "Sherlock!? What happened!?" The detective groaned loudly and lolled his head on the floor going paler by the second. "Sherlock? Talk to me. Is it your leg?"
"No." he choked out and let his head settle on the concrete again.
"Sherlock!? John!?" The doctor held onto Sherlock's hand while crawling out of the hole and looked out over the room where the dust had settled.
"Greg!?" The tall copper appeared behind the piles, running over the demolished roof and John nearly fainted by the sight of him. "Oh thank god!"
The silver haired man unbuttoned his coat and stared at him with matching eyes.
"Where's Sherlock?" That's when he saw the hand holding onto John. With a small curse he fell to his knees beside the doctor and peeked inside to see the same fearful sight as John had. "Oh bollocks. Are you alright?" Sherlock gave him the same desperate stare and gasped in pain.
"Get me out." he cried and tugged John's hand. "Please." Lestrade then looked up at the pile and saw the big problem in the form of a pillar.
"What do we do?" he asked and turned to John who's vision started to blur. "I don't think the fire department will be here for another ten minutes." John had no idea.
"I don't know." he quaked and shook his head.
"What d'you mean you don't know? You fought the bloody war in Afghanistan? Didn't they have bombs?"
"Yes, but not building in this size!" John shouted back and felt his throat go raw by all the dust. "I'm not a frigging construction worker! I don't know what might be bearing and whats not! I don't wanna crush him either, do I!?"
"I can fucking hear you!" Sherlock sobbed from underneath the debris and squeezed John's hand a little harder. "Please! Just get me out! I don't care if something crushes me. I just need to get out of here."
John stared at Greg for a moment and silently they made decisions together. Sherlock needed to get out of there before he made serious damage to himself when panic overcame him for real. With a nod from the copper it was decided and John crawled down on the floor again, seeing Sherlock's troublesome face staring back at him.
"We're gonna move the pillar." he warned. "It's gonna hurt." All his friend did was nodding, to scared and exhausted to do little less.
"Just do it." he pleaded and looked even more tired and pale which made John's stomach turn. He must be losing blood somewhere and John wasn't sure he wanted to know where.
"Okay, hang on." He crawled out again and looked up and Greg who'd placed himself at the base of the big piece of rock so John moved to the end that was over Sherlock's head. "On the count of three?" Greg nodded and John grabbed the huge chunk of concrete and prepared himself. "One... two..." They heaved it up and Sherlock shouted in hot searing pain. It landed on John's collected pile of rubble with a loud thud and John fell to his knees and started digging with his naked and broken fingers. The cries continued and Greg lifted some other heavy pieces until he could see the dark pool of blood.
The moment, that couldn't have come any sooner, John reached Sherlock the detective flung out his arm and grabbed his arm to pull himself up but John pushed him back.
"Don't move yet! Don't! Just wait until everything's clear." With a silent nod the detective tried to relax but he was not letting go of John's arms. Rock after rock, metal after metal was moved to the side until John could see something that made all the blood leave his head. A pin, not more than a few inches was digging into Sherlock's waist right above the left kidney, frightfully close to his lunge and the army doctor within John smashed though him so hard he suddenly forgot that Sherlock was a friend, he was now merely and patient.
He tore the formally blue scarf from the detective's neck and moved to his knees beside the trembling body. Pushed down around the pin and heard Sherlock shout in pain again. But that didn't stop John, he inspected the entry and if the pin had made it all the way through to his back. It was not a pleasant sight to see that it had.
"We'll need a bolt cutter." he blurted out with a tongue that didn't want to form the words properly.
"Well, I don't got one, do I?" Greg belted and moved a big piece of concrete which made Sherlock grunt in deep pain. The leg left leg was crushed, broken in several places and just left a piece of ground, chipped meat and Greg stepped into action when he saw the masses of crimson blood. "What do I do?" he asked John and took off his own scarf.
"Tie it around his thigh!" John shouted. "Stop the blood flow!" Sherlock cried loudly in pain and smashed his heavy head to the hard floor, his throat not really putting up with his raw screams that was forced out of him. "It's okay, Sherlock! You're gonna be alright!"
The knot was tied above his knee and the detective could feel how all his nerves were tightly shut to his shin and foot.
"I don't wanna loose it." he sobbed and looked at John, the grip around his arm slowly weakening.
"Yes, and I don't wanna loose you." his friend said and tore is gaze from the wound to look at him again. "You'll be alright. The paramedics are coming and you'll be out of here. They're gonna do everything to save your leg." But Sherlock shook his head.
"I can't work without my leg!" he cried when John did something unexpected. He bowed down, let his forehead meet his and the tip of their noses rubbing together.
"You can't work if you're dead either so we'll have to compromise here. It's just a leg. Nothing more than a leg. It could just as well have been your brain that had been crushed. We can do something about a damaged leg, not a damaged brain." Somehow this seemed to calm the shaking detective, because John was right. It was nothing more than a limb, it wasn't an organ. It could be replaces. "Okay?" John asked like he was asking for permission to work and Sherlock nodded.
"Okay." The weight of John's head left his forehead and he opened his eyes that he never realised he'd closed. He was John work the soldier within him come forward and the lines on his forehead deepened in concern. Greg on the other hand was sitting at his right, holding onto his bruised hand and his fingers carding through Sherlock's bloodied curls.
Then there was shouting again, men and women's voices called out for them and the copper let go of his hand while John's kept pressure and tugged the detective's clothes to get to his milky skin. The corners of his eyes were darkening, the shouting fading and the only thing left in the worlds seemed to be John's friendly, but concentrated, face. Sherlock held onto his arm, not letting go.
Not yet.
Someone pushed John aside and he crawled away to leave room for the paramedics with cleaner hands and better supplies. His work was done, and he'd done good with the little things he had in hand. For the first time in long minutes he looked down at Sherlock again, to his fear he saw the pale face hiding beneath the bruises, blood and dust and he bowed down again, staring into the beautiful soul hiding somewhere within the man with windows painted by the colours of the universe.
"Sherlock?" he murmured and rubbed his cheek. The detective blinked once, peered into the depth of his friend's eyes and let the tears fall again. He was scared. Very scared. "I'm here." Sherlock managed to smile, the only thanks he could accomplish at the moment but also a proof of trust. John wouldn't leave him, and that was all that mattered. "I've got you." He blinked a second time and heard the sound of a saw and then the heat of flying sparks behind his back. It didn't matter, what harm could pain do to him right now when he was bleeding out like a broken faucet.
"John." he croaked and noticed how his hand had slipped of the secure place of John's arm. It was now lying on the debris and refused to move. "Don't you dare leave me."
"I'm not." John promised and took the hand on the floor in his, not looking where the paramedics where working. "Im not."
"Ever." Sherlock required and enjoyed the warmth of his friend's hand.
"Never." he smiled and heard the awful crack on metal breaking. Sherlock could only whimper when he felt the pin within him wiggle, but it was staying put.
"Sir, we're gonna move you to a stretcher now. Can you feel your legs or do you have any back pains?" a woman asked and Sherlock twitched where he laid.
"No." he croaked and wiggled the foot he had left to prove that nothing was wrong with his spine.
A stretcher in metal was set down beside him and he felt his stomach clench painfully as he thought of what the movement would do to him.
It hurt.
Like hell.
But it was quick. He was propped up by pillows on the mattress and he started and the metal pin sticking out of him. Then things happened so quickly he couldn't manage to get a single word out of him. John's hand left his and people he'd never met his life where pulling, poking, lifting, adjusting, sticking him on every way possible on the big blur of grey colours and the only thought in his head was John.
Where was his John?
John wanted to scream and fight when they rolled Sherlock away from him and he himself was forced down on a stretcher. He was fine! He had a bleeding promise to keep. Not very different from Sherlock, things were happening fast now. People were asking him questions, poking and adjusting him on the stretcher and he didn't care how many answers he gave them were wrong. He needed to get out of here, get to the hospital, escape from their claws and get to Sherlock.
Sherlock. Where was Sherlock?
His head were suddenly swimming with questions that he would have been able to answer a second ago. But now it was impossible. Something... Something was happening. Who where these people? Where was he? What did they want with him?
Then there was a sort of click in his head and then the world slowly went dark.
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