No pairings, no slash

Sherlock and John Friendship

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The air was bitter and sharp, seemingly able to slice one's own lungs with but a single breath.

Sherlock and John had separated earlier in the chase of a suspected murderer, and had been running solo for about two or so minutes. Sherlock hadn't seen anything on his road and was about to phone John and tell him to give up the hope of catching the man when a sharp bang echoed through the air.

He paused, 'What was…' He momentarily paused, 'John!'

Sherlock cursed himself for leaving John alone, turned on his heels, and ran back faster than ever before.

John had gotten the road with the assailant, the criminal, the murderer. Not only that, but shots had been fired. John could be dead because Sherlock decided to split up instead of figuring out a way to deduce which way the dirt bag had gone.

Then again, John had been in the military. He was a soldier and knew how to take handle himself in fight. He'd be alright until Sherlock could get there. John would be okay. John was always okay.

Then, there along the side of the alley wall, a gun resided. This was the meeting point, the place where John had caught up with the murderer.

Sherlock looked around a bit, "John?" He called, hoping for some sort of response as he looked along the shadows.

He then noticed a figure, a black figure on the floor. It was about John's size, seemed human enough, but there was a large dark circle of some sort of liquid about him. Was that water? Blood?

Sherlock got closer and almost gasped.


Sherlock rushed to his flatmate on the cobblestone and knelt down by his side. He eyed the dark red color creeping along John's cream jumper.

"John." He called again, "John?" He'd gripped his friend's shoulder and shook him gently.

His eyes opened, and John found himself resting in Sherlock's lap, looking right at the picture of fear itself.

"Sh-Sherlock." John replied pleasantly, and with a sharp pain visible with every inhale, "Are y-you okay?"

"Me? John, I haven't been shot." Was the retort.

John gave a short laugh and suddenly winced, "Ahh!" He cringed, the pain sharp and unforgiving.

John looked down and placed his hand over the wound that was spilling so much.

"Pressure." John reminded, lacking the strength to do it himself.


Sherlock placed his hands on the wound and pressed hard. John screamed in agony, almost causing Sherlock to yield who didn't want to cause this kind of extreme pain to his friend.

John gasped for breath, still cringing, eyes watering, "Thank you." He whispered.

Sherlock gave a simple nod, "Of course." But his mind was elsewhere. Like on the red. The red that flowed freely from the wound, the red that had pooled around them both, the red that saturated their clothes and their skin, and the very core of their being; and all of it was soaked with the red. The red that was John's blood, that was John's source of being; that was John's life.

Sherlock looked down at his friend's closed eyes, ragged breathing, still lips. Sherlock jolted awake from his daze, "John!" He shouted at his unresponsive friend, "John, stay with me!"

No response. John didn't respond, but Sherlock wasn't going to take any of this nonsense.

"No, you idiot. You're not going to die." Sherlock hissed, rage seeping from every pore. He looked at the wound his hands rested upon, and pressed hard, driving his knuckles into it. He wanted to send an explosion of pain to every nerve in his friend's body. It awakened John, his eyes had flared open and his lungs released with a scream that could scare the dead.

The pain was no doubt tremendous, too much for any man to bear, and yet John was forced too.

"Here! They're over here!" Sherlock turned over his shoulder and saw them.

Five or so paramedics rushed over to John and crowed around. One pulled Sherlock away as the others worked on John.

"He's been shot!"

"Put pressure here!"

"Get the stretcher!"

Sherlock looked around the paramedic holding him back, and towards the others trying frantically to save John's life.

One had the paddles, which Sherlock didn't remember them having earlier; while two cut off and removed John's shirt.

Sherlock watched as John's body seized as the electricity flowed through him.

No response.

It happened again, John seizing in concurrence with the volts flowing through him.

"He's a goner."

Another shock.

"He's lost too much blood."

Another jolt.

"He's not going to make it."

Another seize.

He's back.