John felt it before he realised what had happened, a powerful impact to his gut, like a punch that had somehow broken skin and forced its way in. He fell to his knees, the impact hard on the harsh concrete, and collapsed to his side, trying to clutch at the burning pain deep within his body.
His hands came away wet with blood, and they were trembling. John was trembling.
The man who shot him (a young thug heavily involved in the gang murder Sherlock was investigating) saw him go down and spotted an opportunity for further violence. He crouched near John and aimed the gun at his ear, tilting his head this way and that, listening to John's hurt gasping breaths as if they were music.
"Should I put you out of your misery?" murmured the sadist, smirking. "Or should I let you bleed out in the muck? Whadya think, copper?"
I don't want to die, please God, not like this -
Sherlock leapt out of his hiding place in the alleyway and smashed a lead pipe to the man's skull, killing him instantly. The body fell and landed face to face with John, eyes bleeding out of their sockets, and John was screaming in fear and agony.
"John!" shouted Sherlock, his voice far too loud as the call echoed down the empty streets. He was quickly rolling John onto his back, slapping his red hands away to put pressure on the wound himself. He pressed so hard that John could feel his gut tearing along the jagged puncture wound.
His vision went all too clear, hyper-realism, while his ears rang as if his head had been shoved underwater. Sherlock's pale, panicked face swum above him, and he was yelling something that John couldn't understand.
"Sherlock," he spat from bloodied teeth, gasping in air. "Help me!"
Oxygen flushed his system back into the present, and everything became loud and fast and real again. He could feel his heart pounding, stupidly pushing the blood out of his body into Sherlock's inexperienced hands. Sherlock crouched over him, as if he could deduce first aid instructions from John's expression.
"John! What do I do? Tell me what to do!" Sherlock demanded, eyes wild. "I called for back-up, but they might take a while. Stop bleeding, John!"
John gasped, flinging his head back. Flashes of hot sun and sandstorm swept across his vision, his first kill, the blood of a dying man he couldn't save. "Press harder!" he hissed, knowing it would hurt.
"I don't want to hurt you -"
"Please Sherlock," John begged. "Please, I can't die now, I just got out of there and I just found you I can't -"
Sherlock unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and pulled it tightly around John's middle, cinching it tighter and tighter. John howled with pain, feeling his tortured insides being squeezed together.
"Please!"
"You're doing well, John," Sherlock said, as though from very far away. John could barely see him, his vision was blotching out. "The bleeding is lessening. Hold on. Hold my hand."
John felt slippery fingers brush against his own, and he clutched at them. His face was wet with the damp from the concrete, with his tears.
"Squeeze my hand, John."
John squeezed. He heard sirens in the distance.
"They're nearly here," Sherlock said. "You're going to hold onto my hand until it gets here. And then I'll sit in the back with you and you won't let go until we're at A&E. Do you understand?"
While the calm in his low voice was pretend, John felt the gripping fear that filled him drain, slightly.
"Yes," he whispered, hurting, as the world faded to black.
His entire universe, now, was their hands wound tight together. He squeezed as tightly as he could, all the way to the hospital.
His hands came away wet with blood, and they were trembling. John was trembling.
The man who shot him (a young thug heavily involved in the gang murder Sherlock was investigating) saw him go down and spotted an opportunity for further violence. He crouched near John and aimed the gun at his ear, tilting his head this way and that, listening to John's hurt gasping breaths as if they were music.
"Should I put you out of your misery?" murmured the sadist, smirking. "Or should I let you bleed out in the muck? Whadya think, copper?"
I don't want to die, please God, not like this -
Sherlock leapt out of his hiding place in the alleyway and smashed a lead pipe to the man's skull, killing him instantly. The body fell and landed face to face with John, eyes bleeding out of their sockets, and John was screaming in fear and agony.
"John!" shouted Sherlock, his voice far too loud as the call echoed down the empty streets. He was quickly rolling John onto his back, slapping his red hands away to put pressure on the wound himself. He pressed so hard that John could feel his gut tearing along the jagged puncture wound.
His vision went all too clear, hyper-realism, while his ears rang as if his head had been shoved underwater. Sherlock's pale, panicked face swum above him, and he was yelling something that John couldn't understand.
"Sherlock," he spat from bloodied teeth, gasping in air. "Help me!"
Oxygen flushed his system back into the present, and everything became loud and fast and real again. He could feel his heart pounding, stupidly pushing the blood out of his body into Sherlock's inexperienced hands. Sherlock crouched over him, as if he could deduce first aid instructions from John's expression.
"John! What do I do? Tell me what to do!" Sherlock demanded, eyes wild. "I called for back-up, but they might take a while. Stop bleeding, John!"
John gasped, flinging his head back. Flashes of hot sun and sandstorm swept across his vision, his first kill, the blood of a dying man he couldn't save. "Press harder!" he hissed, knowing it would hurt.
"I don't want to hurt you -"
"Please Sherlock," John begged. "Please, I can't die now, I just got out of there and I just found you I can't -"
Sherlock unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and pulled it tightly around John's middle, cinching it tighter and tighter. John howled with pain, feeling his tortured insides being squeezed together.
"Please!"
"You're doing well, John," Sherlock said, as though from very far away. John could barely see him, his vision was blotching out. "The bleeding is lessening. Hold on. Hold my hand."
John felt slippery fingers brush against his own, and he clutched at them. His face was wet with the damp from the concrete, with his tears.
"Squeeze my hand, John."
John squeezed. He heard sirens in the distance.
"They're nearly here," Sherlock said. "You're going to hold onto my hand until it gets here. And then I'll sit in the back with you and you won't let go until we're at A&E. Do you understand?"
While the calm in his low voice was pretend, John felt the gripping fear that filled him drain, slightly.
"Yes," he whispered, hurting, as the world faded to black.
His entire universe, now, was their hands wound tight together. He squeezed as tightly as he could, all the way to the hospital.
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