Sherlock carelessly flung himself onto the familiar couch. "Bored!" He'd shout at no one in particular in exasperation.

This was an occurrence he'd truly miss, John realised too late.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were so attuned to each other, that when the perpetrator took an unexpected turn down an alleyway neither knew existed, they didn't speak, didn't even glance toward each other before taking alternate routes, like a choreographed dance, knowing every move and its outcome before it even happened.

The two men had lived together for quite some time, and in that time, what was to John extraordinary, had simply become ordinary, in the most pleasing of ways. John was to bear witness to one of humankind's most amazing minds, and became quite an integral part of the roundabout processes through which this mind followed.

After notifying Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of their whereabouts and their need for assistance, Sherlock ran into an opening at the end of the alley in which he'd been running into what resembled a small parking lot. The night time heightened Sherlock's senses; a sharp, cold wind, like a slap across his equally sharp face awakened Sherlock to the reality which faced him. The air was suddenly still; the perpetrator's back was no longer to the two men. He was facing John, and both men seemed to be frozen. John stood unarmed, receptive to the man, whose gun was shaking so violently that an accidental firing would surprise no one. Despite this, John stood unafraid, with his military experiences accountable for his nerves of steel. Sherlock's sudden appearance seemed to go unnoticed, which was unnerving, as Sherlock, like an actor, or perhaps a concert musician, held himself in a way that commanded attention; his presence was all consuming, and to have a person other than John impervious to such a suffocating incidence was certainly a first. Then again, with John, Sherlock had come to explore a lot of firsts.

Once again being dumped back into reality, Sherlock became frozen. A gunshot rang through the air, a sound to which Sherlock had grown accustomed, yet this night, this shot, it all felt different. A second gunshot pierced the silence.

Sherlock's instinct was to see if John, the love of his life, was alright. John was lying on the ground, his arms by his side, like the way he slept when Sherlock wasn't there to soften the blow of falling asleep. John's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder had previously rendered him incapable of, well, anything, at times, such as once in the supermarket when a young mother, struggling with her kin, managed to knock down a very large soup can display – the noise had triggered John, and he had lay on the floor of the supermarket in a similar fashion. This caused Sherlock to first assume that john was simply being triggered again and was in the midst of a panic response, as the last few months had not been kind to John, and so he turned to face he perpetrator. The perpetrator had already gone.

Sherlock ambled toward John, who remained still.

Sherlock's heart started to pound uncomfortably inside his chest, which suddenly seemed too small to hold everything inside him. He kneeled down beside John, whose breath came in quick, shallow gasps. Upon gently placing his hands on John in an attempt to calm him, Sherlock realised that John was wet. A street light too far away offered just enough light for Sherlock to see the red mess that had become his hands and John's body. John tried to speak, but only animalistic whimpers managed to escape his mouth. In response, Sherlock squeezed John's hand briefly before returning to duty – he had to find the source of the bleeding and stop it, and hope that Lestrade would soon grace the men with his now unusually sought presence.

Sherlock identified one of John's wounds as a shot to his left shoulder, a place into which Sherlock spent much time nuzzling.

"I need to see if the bullet is still inside your shoulder, John," Sherlock said, surprised by the pleading tone in his voice as he looked straight into John's frantic eyes. "I'm going to need to lift you, John; I'm sorry,"

Sherlock thanked the gods with whom he never concerned himself that John was not wearing his usual layers upon layers of clothing, as assessing John's wounds would be less difficult that way.

Sherlock gingerly lifted John up, and John closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain, which was proving difficult. He coughed violently enough that Sherlock dropped him. Both men gasped, aware of the further pain to ensue. John's face warped with pain like Sherlock had never seen before, and Sherlock's chest felt like lead, seeing his blogger like that. John nodded stiffly, to encourage Sherlock to continue. This second attempt was successful – Sherlock was able to deduce that the bullet thankfully went straight through and had missed arteries, but stopping the bleeding was still crucial, but due to the placement, Sherlock could not forge a tourniquet, so he took off his scarf, and packed the wound as lightly as he could, and removed his coat for a makeshift pillow for John.

Sherlock tentatively kissed John's forehead, which was worryingly cold, and clammy.

John was still hyperventilating. Sherlock grasped John's hand with both of his, and said as calmly as he could, "John, I need you to breathe, shh," he soothed.

John tried to speak again, but was more successful, "I can't," he gasped, "pressure, chest" he managed to splurt out before another coughing fit ensued.

Oh, where the bloody hell was Lestrade?

Sherlock sought John's pulse; his radial artery would suffice. John's heart, beating an unreliable Presto, combined with his clamminess, and his tachypnoea, was indicative of a massive haemothorax, meaning John's pleural cavity was very quickly filling with blood ('as much as 40 percent of a person's entire blood volume could accumulate', Sherlock mentally noted), and restricting the ability of John's heart to beat.

Sherlock clutched John's hand, maintaining at least one finger on his faint pulse at all times, and called for an ambulance.

"John, help is on the way. You need to stay conscious John, for me, you must stay conscious. Please." Sherlock instructed.

Just as he was told to not do, John lost consciousness. His pulse faded into oblivion. As if to compensate, Sherlock's pulse accelerated to a prestissimo, his heart stumbling over itself in an attempt to continue its life giving purpose.

"Shit! No, no, no, no!" Sherlock cried as he flailed around at nothing. Sherlock had no choice but to start compressions.

He had no idea if that was a good idea when someone was suffering a haemothorax, he'd ask his handy doctor boyfriend, but circumstantially, this was impossible.

Sherlock couldn't do nothing; he couldn't watch John die.

Giving one beat for every three of his own, Sherlock placed his hands on his boyfriend's familiar chest and he pushed. Sherlock lost his grasp of time, too caught up in John. 'Remember to bloody well breathe, Sherlock, and for John, too.' he told himself, and he followed his own instructions. His arms soon began to ache, but this innate strength he found pushed him forward. He threw up when he heard the first rib break under the pressure. 'It's common in these circumstances' the distraught detective told himself. He began to feel numb, listless, over his unconscious, possibly dead boyfriend's body. He paused for a second to try to find a pulse again, sure he would have felt John's struggling heart burst into life beneath his hands had it done so, but feeling so unsure of himself, he simply had to.

Nothing.

'Back to compressions.' He told himself. He steadily launched himself back on John, aware of the aching in his knees against the hard ground, his elbows beginning to buckle, yet he pushed on, with the far away street light making John look as well off as he was – not at all – and with that merely centimetres from Sherlock's face, how could he possibly stop? Another rib went, another wave of nausea came. No matter, Sherlock kept his steady beat.

Sherlock became aware of a strange pressure dragging him backwards, away from John. His limbs were no longer his own, he was no longer touching John. A strange shriek pierced the silence Sherlock had drowned in when trying to help John, but he realised the noise was coming from deep within his own throat, his chest, his whole being ached with that cry.

"Sherlock!" An insistent voice called. The hands twisting all over him calmed, and Sherlock felt like he was coming up for breath from underwater when they ceased to occupy all the air surrounding him. Sherlock was no longer outside. He was in what seemed to be a moving metal box, with equipment in it – ah, an ambulance. Why was he lying on his back? He tried to sit up, but two sets of hands gently, but strongly held him down. For the first time in what seemed like days, his eyes and ears came into focus. One set of hands belonged to a moderately aesthetically pleasing man dressed in a paramedic uniform, and the other set of hands belonged to Lestrade.

"Lestrade! Where's John? John, Lestrade; I have little time for your incompetencies today, if you don't mind! Where's John?" Sherlock shouted at the poor man.

Reaching now for Sherlock's forearm, Lestrade calmly said "Sherlock, I need you to calm down. John's being taken care of; there's nothing you can do now except try to help up take care of you." Hoping Sherlock would respond to logic, Lestrade tried to reason with the distraught man. Sherlock considered Lestrade's statement, which he knew was truthful, but this time, the truth was not calming. In the midst of his panic, Lestrade reached down and held his hand. It didn't quite fit right, like John's did. Sherlock couldn't quite figure why, but it just wasn't quite the right shape or size. Despite this, it still helped Sherlock calm down. Sherlock tried to breathe deeply, but his lungs couldn't handle much more than shallow gasps. He meant to notify his unexpected company of the pain in his chest, his inability to breathe, but before he was able to do so, he slipped out of consciousness.