Okay everybody, I hope you read this part, because it's actually sorta important (you don't have to, but I recommend it). This fic is my first Sherlock fic, and was partially inspired by the song Dark Blue by Jack's Mannequin. If you haven't heard the song, I strongly suggest you listen to it (it's a really good song) because then you'll get more of an idea how the storyline of this fic came to be. Here's the youtube link (you'll have to add the youtube address yourself because this site makes it SO FREAKING HARD TO INCLUDE A LINK):

/watch?v=oQOIJDE3RhA

And also, this fic is a Johnlock (mxm relationship). Nothing totally graphic or M rated (no smut/lemon/slash/whatever you call it) and if you were looking for that then sorry to disappoint. But I'm telling you up front here, so no angry readers later, okay~~ ;)

This story takes place somewhere outside the canonical BBC storyline. It's not AU, but there's not going to be a Moriarty or arch-nemesis sorta dude for Sherlock here. So I guess it sorta keeps with the mood between Sherlock and John before the Great Game, when Moriarty came and brought a helluva lot of tension into the mix and all that =_=. So. Sorta a casual little fic. But there's going to be plot, don't worry.

And another thing (I'm gonna put this on the bottom as well for people who didn't read this beginning part) but THIS IS GOING TO BE A MULTI-CHAPTER FIC. So I know that the end of this chapter kinda sounds like an ending, and the name of this chapter is 'the end', but this is NOT A ONESHOT. There will be more. So don't just read this and think 'oh what a crappy ending' because THIS IS NOT THE END.

I just realized the irony. Here I am at the very beginning of the fic and the actual story hasn't even started yet and I'm already saying it's not the end -.- oh well. Just keep that in mind as you read. Hope you like it~~~~~~~~

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are copyrighted property of BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle, and anybody else that's made anything about them before. I own nothing, and am making no money out of this publication.


The End


Sherlock blinked open his eyes. The ringing in his ears was deafening, drowning out all other sounds. He did a quick self-evaluation, checking all senses and vitals. Impaired audial reception - a consequence to the sonic shock of the explosion, but full recovery should be achieved in moments. Moderately blurred vision - most likely due to the impact on the back of his head when he'd been thrown backwards. He guessed he had a minor concussion, but it would be easily remedied. Heart rate steady, pulse strong. No open wounds.

Breathing - restricted?

It was then that Sherlock finally noticed the weight on top of his body, pressing down on his chest and making each breath he took harder - but not hard enough for it to be uncomfortable. A warm breath was tickling against his neck, the unmistakeable feel of a human form draped over his own. Sherlock blinked down, lifting a slightly shaky hand and tangling it into the other man's hair. The sticky wetness that coated the normally soft strands made his heart rate pick up just a tiny bit quicker. The feel of the man breathing against him was a small comfort when he drew his hand away, fingers painted red.

"John," Sherlock groaned, carefully flipping them over so John was lying on his back, Sherlock's hand supporting his neck so the wound on the back of his head wouldn't be pressed against the ground. Sherlock lay beside the smaller man, panic racing through his body when John's eyes refused to open. Sentiment, he registered dully, but pushed the thought aside. His growing susceptibility to such illogical human emotions was an issue to be considered at a different time. Right now, John was his priority. John, who had evidently thrown himself in front of Sherlock when the bomb exploded and had covered him from most of the damage. John, who had used his own body to protect Sherlock. John, who now lay unmoving and barely breathing in front of him because Sherlock had just been too impatient, too self-assured, too damned cocky to wait for backup from Lestrade before he decided to go after the criminal on his own…

John, who might be dying right this moment because of him.

"John, open your eyes," Sherlock commanded roughly, voice scraping out of his throat. It usually worked - John always did whatever he asked, whatever he told him to. Sherlock had dragged the man all around London on wild chases after dangerous individuals in the whole duration of their acquaintance, and John had never once complained or refused. Hell, John had even brought him his phone from his own shirt pocket when he'd asked him to. Sherlock had grown used to John accepting his unreasonable demands, always treating them with a sort of forbearing patience that never ran out. And never, not once, had John ever failed to follow his orders.

Except now.

John's eyes were still shut, and Sherlock noticed with alarm that his breathing was growing shallower. The wound behind his head was oozing blood and a clear liquid, a dark pool forming around John's head that was nearly black in the oppressive darkness of three in the morning. The shadows around them were only slightly dispelled by the street lamps outside the ruins of the wrecked warehouse.

Sherlock quickly shifted so John's head was laying in his lap, the blood from John's wound soaking into his pants but at the moment, Sherlock couldn't have cared less. "John, please," he whispered, hands fluttering over the man's face and shoulders - everywhere he could reach - with a helplessness that felt utterly foreign. Sherlock knew how to examine the dead and test the living, but the wounded was John's specialty. Sherlock was no doctor, nor had he ever felt any inclination to be one before now. He had no idea how to fix John.

He wasn't even completely sure that John could be fixed.

"Please," he whispered again, hands finally settling on either side of John's head, feeling the warmth of the man's skin that was slowly draining away. "John, I'm begging you. Open your eyes."

A flutter of movement; so slight that normal people would've missed it completely. But nothing escaped Sherlock's eyes. "John?" he said, snatching his hands off of John's face, clenching them and unclenching in turns, quelling the fidget that threatened to emerge. "Can you hear me?"

John groaned, and Sherlock thought it was probably the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. Better than Bach or Paganini - better even than the huff Mycroft uttered when Sherlock managed to irritate him enough. Because that one sound meant that John was alive - definitively so. That John was still his John, still stubbornly hanging in there no matter how tough things got.

But most of all, that sound meant that John had not been broken.

That Sherlock had not broken him.

Eyes blinked open hazily and Sherlock found himself gazing directly into a sea of dark blue. John's eyes had always been a fascinating color - dark and deep and at once both expressive yet puzzling. John's eyes took a moment to focus on him, his eyebrows drawn together in the effort.

John smiled softly when his vision sharpened, lifting his left hand up to Sherlock's face. Even though John was injured and most likely in pain, his hand was perfectly steady. "Sherlock," John said, his voice strained and barely above a whisper. Sherlock leaned closer, refusing to close his eyes or even blink, memorizing each detail of the moment. John smiled wider, his fingers smoothing over Sherlock's cheek and sending shivers down his entire body.

"I'm glad you're alright," John breathed, his gaze becoming unfocused once more as his eyes drew closed, the hand on Sherlock's face falling limp when John drifted back into unconsciousness. Sherlock caught the hand before it could drop, pressing John's fingers against his face and clutching at the thought - the hope - that John's eyes would open again. He breathed in the scent of John's skin, detergent and soap and a vague whiff of tea. But even that was taken when the metallic tang of blood filled his nose, reminding him again of the stream of life that was being slowly pumped out of John's body, one crimson drop at a time.

"John, please," Sherlock begged, his pride all but forgotten when John grew still. "You can't fall asleep. I won't allow it. An adult male body contains nearly twelve pints of blood. You've only lost about two or three pints so far. I won't allow you to fall asleep." Sherlock spat out his words as fast as he thought them, as if by speaking them out loud John would return to reason. "Two to three pints is nothing. Hardly twenty-five percent. You have to wake up, John. Aren't you going to blog about this whole mess? It's your big chance to declare to all your followers how utterly stupid I was - how you were right all along. You still have to do that. You also have to go out with me for dinner. Didn't you say you were thinking about Chinese? We still haven't eaten dinner yet. You can't sleep before you eat."

Sherlock knew his arguments were making less sense as time went on, but he couldn't stop his voice. He didn't even know who he was trying to convince anymore - John, whose hand was steadily growing colder in his grip, or himself. All he knew was that if he stopped talking it would be quiet. And if it was quiet, then he would be able to hear the faint sounds of John's breathing, and the painful gaps in between each laborious breath that grew longer and longer after each exhale. He clutched at John's hand, still pressed against his face, closing his eyes and focusing on that one feeling of skin-on-skin contact. If he just continued talking he wouldn't have to listen to John's pulse at his wrist, slowing down until the time between each beat was an eternity. He wouldn't have to hear the deathly silence in the destroyed warehouse - silence that should've been filled with John's grumbling about wanting tea and his dinner. He wouldn't have to hear the exact moment when John's breathing stopped, the instant when John's body gave up to the numerous injuries that it had sustained.

But most of all, if he only just continued talking, he might just be able to fool himself into believing that John would be okay. That John was still there with him.

That he wasn't alone.

When the sound of police sirens and ambulances finally drifted close half an hour later, Lestrade, Donovan, and the rest of the team from Scotland Yard stumbled into the collapsing warehouse to find Sherlock sitting in the middle of a pool of blood, John lying cold and still in his lap. Sherlock was holding John's hand up to his cheek, head bowed over his friend's immobile form, muttering statistics and denials and commands and requests in an endless stream under his breath. Sherlock refused to let go of John's hand even when the emergency medical squad came in, and Lestrade and Anderson had to restrain the man by force when John was put on a stretcher and lifted into the ambulance. Nobody brought up Sherlock's mistake of rushing after the criminals without proper police backup. Nobody spoke a word of the fact that John might not make it.

But most of all, nobody, not even Donovan, remarked upon the faint red rimming the great consulting detective's eyes when his only friend and partner was taken away.


Author's Note: THIS IS NOT THE END

I said so at the beginning as well, but this is for people who skipped over that bit. But yes, again, this is going to be a multi-chapter fic and there's going to be a whole lot more going on than just this one scene. So keep reading, I'll come up with updates as fast as I can (which is a debatable point at the moment) but yeah. Hope you people liked it so far! :P