Sorrow: An Emotion

"John!"

Sherlock could barely believe the shout that tore from his lungs after the single gunshot had rang out.

Sherlock could barely register John's yelp of pain before he watched his doctor fall.

His mind was fuzzy, hazy, and his vision was only picking up bright red crimson quickly staining through John's cable-knit jumper.

It felt like every nerve ending in his body was on fire, screaming at him, telling him to move, but he was rooted to the spot.

His eyes were locked on John.

The shock quickly faded, leaving him feeling only cold and numb as he strode over to his fallen friend.

"John?"

Sherlock crouched next to John, quickly shoving John's hands out of the way and pressing his own against the wound.

"Sher-" John's words were cut off with a gasp, immediately replaced with a groan.

More blood washed over Sherlock's pale fingers, the stark contrast creating an empty feeling in the pit of Sherlock's stomach.

"Quiet," Sherlock ordered, and his voice was remarkably steady. He was pleased. Pleased, and surprised. The empty feeling in his stomach was making him feel weak in the knees, making him feel like he wanted to vomit, causing his fingers to shake every so often.

"What happened to..." John was struggling to sit up, to perhaps assess his own wounds.

All Sherlock knew was that it cause more blood, warm and precious, to stain the jumper that John was so fond of wearing.

"... our suspect," John was gasping, forcing the words out.

"Quiet," Sherlock repeated, forcefully, reaching up to unloop his scarf from his neck.

He was aware that he had let their suspect run away. There was the typical part of his mind telling him to track the suspect down, but the more demanding part of his mind was focussing on pressing his scarf against the bleeding wound on John's abdomen.

"Sherlock-"

"I said be quiet, John!" Sherlock snapped, grabbing his mobile and dialling the three-numbered emergency hotline.

He quickly reeled off their location and the details- John, shot, bleeding, John- as he noted John growing ever increasingly more pale.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop out- and what an interesting, terrible sensation it was- as John slumped suddenly against his shoulder.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice was much less steady this time and he quickly pressed his fingers against John's neck to find his pulse.

He had never been quite so relieved to find a pulse working away under someone's skin.

"John," he repeated.

"Sherlock, don't..." John struggled to move, but Sherlock clamped his hand onto his shoulder.

"Stop moving."

Sherlock licked his lips, an anxious movement, swallowing as he stared at John. The doctor's eyes were closed, although he struggled to blink them open every few seconds. He was pale; Sherlock had never seen a living person so pale. John was also trembling, gooseflesh on his skin.

Shock, whispered a small voice in the back of Sherlock's mind.

He immediately acted upon it and, carefully, drew John against his own chest. He kept pressure on the wound at all times as he slowly drew his coat over John's shoulders as well. They had little leeway, given Sherlock was wearing the coat, but he couldn't take it off without moving John and what little warmth it generated couldn't hurt.

"P-People'll talk..." John muttered, but Sherlock noted when John tried to curl further into the warmth.

"Let them," Sherlock retorted defiantly.

"... Stop worrying," John muttered. "I'll be fine..."

Why was it, even in the worst time of crisis, the doctor was trying to comfort someone else? When John was the person who needed comfort, he was trying to reassure Sherlock?

Sherlock didn't understand.

Why, when faced with terrible, obvious facts, Sherlock didn't give his usual logical response, he had... absolutely... no idea.

"Of course you will," he replied simply.

I'm just really angsty, alright?

Open-ending for the reader!

Favs and follows and reviews are loved. Thank you.