*Sorry for the unusually short chapter, but I promise there'll be more to come soon ;)*
Sherlock was usually very inexperienced when it came to detecting the emotions of the people around him, but it didn't take a genius to work out that what had transpired was not friendly by anyone's standards.
Before his conscious could process what he was doing, he was sprinting to the bathroom.
He just hoped to God that he had gotten this wrong. He prayed that just for once he could be wrong about something, because it would be the end of his world if he was right.
He flung open the door to the bathroom, his breathing ragged, his heart pulsating frantically; bursting into a sea of red, the smell of iron assailing his nostrils, he wildly took in the horror thrust before him: John was sprawled out on the lino floor of the tiny room, a mess of tangled limbs and burgundy arms, the deep slits in his fine wrists still oozing out obscene quantities of crimson liquid. His jaw was slack, his breathing frighteningly shallow, and his body, oh his beautiful body was mangled like a corpse at the scene of a brutal murder.
The malicious object that had haunted Sherlock's dreams hung limply in his lifeless hand.
Sherlock froze on the spot, his breath caught in his throat, his usually brilliant mind momentarily unable to form a coherent thought. It was an explosion of sickening colour, his darkest nightmare portrayed in awfully vivid imagery.
A tsunami of emotion crashed over Sherlock, threatening to drown him entirely, lifting him up and throwing him against the rocks again and again and again without cessation.
Just before he was dragged under, his mind palace kicked into action.
Call the ambulance.
Stem the flow.
Keep John Watson alive and breathing.
And still his life force continued to stream from him, the cloth that covered his wounds being saturated in mere seconds, and Sherlock was growing desperate.
Keep John alive and breathing.
"John…." he said, his lips trembling, "can you hear me? Please stay alive. Please, please, please, John, for me, don't be dead."
The aforementioned tsunami was now ripping and tearing him mercilessly apart.
"You don't understand…. I need you… so damn much, John. Please, don't give up. Please…."
Keep John alive.
The blood was pumping liberally out of the wounds now, almost as if John's body welcomed the idea of giving up so easily, as if this was a convenient accident. What if it wasn't an accident….
Keep John alive.
John's clouded, unfocused eyes stared into space, unseeing, his expression perfectly blank. His face was a mask of death.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
The ambulance eventually came, the sirens wailing in the background, but all Sherlock could comprehend was John's limp body spread-eagled in the pool of crimson below him.
Keep John alive.
They dragged John away slowly, loading him onto a stretcher and into the back of the van. In a tormented display of grief, Sherlock broke down outside, howling John's name, fat angry tears streaking down his blotchy red face.
Keep John alive.
The tires screeched on the gravelly tarmac and the ambulance darted around the corner, taking his blogger away from him for what could be the last time.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
Keep John Watson alive.