A/N: Another angsty-ish, dying-ish fic. I'm starting to think I should just put these all together in one fic with a "100 ways for Sherlock and John to die" or something. o.o'' Anyway, do enjoy; I don't own Sherlock.
Pale, white hands fumble with the buttons of a dark jacket, clumsy with the panic that surges through the owner's veins. The jacket - and his hands - are quickly becoming soaked and slick with a red liquid, unmistakably blood. A nasty wound seems to be leaking gallons of it, flow barely impeded by the suit jacket that is pressed against it. The pressure is barely maintained considering how his hands are trembling. Panic is a new emotion, something completely unknown, but he has no time to puzzle over it now.
"Stay with me," he cries out, harshly aware of the fearful pitch his voice has reached. His eyes flick up to the other man's face, which is quickly draining in color and becoming even paler than his own skin. He shudders at it, willing John's heart to keep beating. He can feel the struggle to breathe underneath his fingertips, but he can't let himself think of the horrible possibilities. As is, he has enough trouble stemming the blood flow; resuscitating this man, and helping stop the blood, would be nearly impossible. He could only hope that emergency services would arrive soon.
A few more moments pass before it happens. John's eyes have been closed for a while now, and his eyelids loosen, his chest stops moving, his heart stops beating. Panic slices through Sherlock's heart and he unknowingly holds his breath as well. Not so far away, the wail of an ambulance can be heard. He can only hope it will arrive on time. He does not want to imagine life without John.
'Come on, come on,' he screams internally, putting more pressure on John's wound. The man has been dead for at least fifteen seconds now. He knows the statistics, and it's terrifying. Silent tears slip down his face and fall on his friend's ever-paling body, just as the sirens become so loud that he cannot even hear himself think. Moments later, John's body is grabbed from him, and he is left on the ground, staring at his bloodied hands.
The pavement is bloody, his favourite suit jacket is bloody, his hands are bloody. Everything is black and white and red and he cannot think, he cannot breathe because his best friend is dying - dead. It could be too late. It's a mystery to know how he could've possibly gotten to this state, considering his lack of caring in most areas, but… John. John was the exception to the rule, wasn't he? Just as Sherlock had been an exception in John's world, John was a - spectacular, brilliant, miracle of a man - crucial exception in Sherlock's.
Now… now he couldn't even bare the thought of what might happen if John really and truly stayed dead. His world has gone mute of sound, deprived of color save for blacks, whites, and reds. Even the screams from the ambulance as the emergency crew try to stabilize John don't reach him. He is staring blindly now, tears still slipping down his face. And he is still holding his breath.
The only cry that penetrates his world brings him up off his knees in a flash. He stares for a moment to make sure he's heard correctly, because surely, surely it's impossible to be dead for almost two minutes and be resuscitated. But he knows better. The logical part of him tells him it wasn't that long, that John is alive and that it truly is possible. He can feel a small smile break on his face, and he fights the urge to run to his blogger. Instead, he collapses on the pavement, hiding his face in blood-slicked fingers. It will be alright now. John is alive and breathing and his heart is beating and this is just the way it's meant to be. Sherlock finally releases the breath he's been holding.
He can breathe again.