Hiiii, everyonee! :D So, this is "Sherlock (BBC)" fanfiction. I hope you'll enjoy it! :]
Author: Grim Spectre of Death, aka. Itooshi
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Warnings: This is a SLASH story. If you're not a supporter of slash or you're a homophob, please do not leave a comment. Actually, don't even bother to read it :D
John groaned deeply. Wet, sticky, red stain on his white shirt was getting bigger with every second, and he could do nothing to stop it.
He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. He lived through the war in Afghanistan. He lived through Sherlock Holmes' ideas of chasing criminals and killing boredom with experiments on human body parts. And now he was dying in a darkened alley. Alone.
He knew he was an easy target for a snitch, mainly because of his limping. The cane in his hand seemed to scream „Weakness" and the man who attacked him obviously knew it too.
Killed by a single shot in the guts. You and your bloody luck, Dr Watson.
Judging by the fact that the bullet very possibly pierced through his stomach, the doctor estimated he had a little over fifteen minutes of life left. The gastric juice will slowly leak through the hole, letting the acid to finish the job. How charming.
He lived in pain ever since he came back from Afghanistan and now he was going to die in pain… in pain a lot worse than the one in his leg.
John chuckled weakly. He had never though he shall spend his last minutes alone, lying on the cold ground in a darkened alley. He sniffed. The smell of cat's piss reached his nostrils, causing his already abused stomach to clench painfully.
Watson coughed. Blood spilled from his mouth and dribbled down his chin.
He thought about Sarah. She was a lovely woman. Charming, intelligent, beautiful. Funny. And he? He was pathetic. A bloody, pathetic cripple without a future. Being with him was dangerous, even more so since he moved in with Sherlock.
John clenched his stomach and moaned loudly.
He should call someone, for God's sake. He still had his phone in his pocket. But whom? Sarah? No, no. She would panic. Harry? Ah, no. Watson didn't want to spend his last minutes listening about pubs.
John rolled slowly to the side and with trembling hands reached to his back pocket, taking out his cell phone.
Sighing deeply he put the phone closer to his ear and waited. Silence.
"God damn it, Sherlock" he thought. "For once in your life pick up the bloody phone"
Finally. John almost laughed with relief. Instead, a sharp cough shot through his body.
„John, are you drunk again?" Sherlock's voice was slightly amused.
"N-no" said John, fighting to make his voice sound normal. "No, I'm not"
„Where are you?"
A cough came again, loud, hacking, painful. John curled into a ball, trying to ease the pain. His vision clouded with tears.
„John? What's wrong?" There was concern in the detective's voice.
Watson shuddered, clenching his stomach to stop the blood from flowing. He was half-conscious from pain and blood-loss but… he realized he didn't want to die. Not now, when he finally found a friend. Not when his life began to mean something.
"S-Sherlock" he chocked out. " I… I don't want to die"
There was silence for a second. When Holmes finally spoke, his voice was hard as a stone.
"Tell me where you are, John. Quick, man!"
" I… I don't know" John whispered, suddenly terrified.
"God damn it! I told you so many times to pay attention to the details, doctor" Even though Sherlock was speaking in a joking manner, John could still hear fear in his voice. "Concentrate, John. What can you see?"
Watson looked around. He was lying in a darkened alley, surrounded by old stone walls on both sides. One end of the alley was completely dark. The other, however, was dimly lit by a street lamp. There was a sign on the lamp, probably with a name of the street. John clenched his teeth and moved slightly. The pain shot through his body again and he couldn't stop a small cry from escaping his mouth.
"John? John, say something!"
"For once in your life, shut up" muttered Watson weakly, concentrating on the sign visible a few feet before him. "Lisson S-Street. I'm near L-Lisson Street."
Holmes laughed humorlessly.
"I'll be there in a second. Don't move. And don't die" he said and hung up.
John closed his eyes, phone still in his hand. Sherlock was going to save him.
For the first time since the day they met, Watson though "Thank God for Sherlock Holmes".
The alley smelled of cat's piss, vomit and blood. And of Death.
Sherlock looked around quickly. He could see nothing in the dim light of the street lamp, so he moved further into the shadows, his gaze searching for any signs of John.
A slight movement in front of him caught his eye. The detective rushed forward. He never considered himself the panicking type. Not once his blood froze when he stood in front of the gun handled by a criminal and yet now, in this darkened alley, he almost couldn't breathe. He could smell a distant odour of John's cologne.
A moan coming directly from his right brought him to his friends side. John was lying still in a pool of blood, clenching his stomach. There was a red stain on his shirt, his fingers were covered in gore.
Sherlock kneeled beside him. His fingers quickly moved to unbutton Watson's shirt. He paused for a second, seeing the pale, smooth skin of his friend's chest and he swallowed, suddenly afraid to see the wound.
"Sh-Sherlock?" Watson's voice was weak, a shadow of its former self.
"I'm here, John." Holmes said, wishing his voice to sound soothing. Instead, it came out sharp, almost angry.
"I'm… I'm s-sorry"
"Shut up, you idiot" muttered Sherlock. "Why didn't you call the ambulance?" He added, his phone already in his hands.
Watson smiled faintly. Suddenly, his eyes dropped, his head rolled to the side. He was tired and sleepy… Yes, so sleepy…
His eyes shot open. Sherlock was leaning over him, Watson's head on detective's lap. Holmes' hand ran through doctor's hair in a soothing manner.
"Shut up. I'm here. The ambulance is on its way. Just… don't you dare to die on me, John."
Watson chuckled quietly then coughed again. He could taste blood on his lips. He haven't got much time now.
"Sherlock" he started."I… I'm glad I had a chance to know you."
Holmes shook his head causing his curly hair to fall on his forehead. John though he looked charming. He looked at the doctor with desperation in his big, grey eyes.
"If you die, I'll be alone" he said finally. John sighed loudly, trying to swallow a lump forming in his throat.
"I'm sorry" he chocked out.
He lifted his arm slowly, fighting with tiredness and pain. His fingers brushed Sherlock's cheek lightly, then his forehead, eyelids, nose and finally his lips. Holmes caught doctor's hand in his own and pressed it against his mouth.
He could hear the distant sound of the ambulance, but John's eyes were already closing. The detective took the dying man's limp body into his arms and held him close, inhaling his scent and fighting with a painful scream that wanted to escape his lips.
Watson weakly snuggled closer to the warmth of Sherlock's body and sighed, letting the darkness to embrace him.