I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.

If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Inspired by the kinkmeme prompt: "I'd love someone to ring Sherlock - preferably Lestrade - and Sherlock, being Sherlock, huffs in chagrin and answers by saying something like, "Text me! I don't want to talk!" and then hangs up. John, who witnesses the whole thing, says that's a bit not good, and Sherlock shrugs him off, thinking the caller should know him well enough by now to know he prefers to text. Later, Sherlock and John discover that he was in a bad situation - injured/wounded, or being kidnapped, or something dire - and he needed Sherlock to listen in order to help at a crucial moment."

A/N: I didn't actually mean to de-anon this so fast everyone got whiplash (or at all, actually), but there was a thing. With logistics. Anyway.

The blood feels slick and warm against his skin, and he's pretty sure there shouldn't be so much of it. He's no medical professional, but he knows how fast a man can bleed out – Sherlock's told him often enough.

The thought freezes him. Sherlock.

His legs are numb, he notices. The street is cold, wet with rainwater and the blood that should be running through his veins, keeping him warm, but is instead pooling around him. He's not going to be a pleasant sight for whoever finds him, and he feels a brief pang of guilt at that, and then a flash of humour that that's what he's worrying about.

Sherlock, he knows, would have been able to find him – except that Sherlock doesn't know he's been taken, or by whom, or why. He'll figure it all out, of course, because that's what Sherlock does. It'll be too late, too late by a long shot, but at least there is a little satisfaction in knowing Sherlock will be on the case.

More numbness, now, and his arms feel leaden. Pretty soon, he thinks, he won't be able to move at all. He wonders what that means, wonders if his body is beginning to shut down. He wonders if it's normal to think these things as he's dying (yes, he's dying, he knows it, there's no point in shying away from it), but it's not like there's anyone here to judge him anyway. He can be as cold, as distant, as analytical as he likes about the whole thing.

Sherlock would be proud.

Is that another side effect of dying, then? That his mind locks onto one thing like it's programmed to do it, that no matter what he tries to think about, it always comes back to the same thoughts, over and over?

He hasn't thought a lot about dying, because it's always been a risk and dwelling on it wouldn't help, but even when he has spared the time to consider it, he never thought there'd be so much Sherlock in his last moments.

That it might be Sherlock's fault, yes, that's crossed his mind. But now that it's happening, it isn't, not really. Moriarty isn't Sherlock's fault or anyone else's. He just is. He's made a mistake now, though, because it's dangerous to go after Sherlock's friends. Killing one of them outright is probably not something Sherlock is going to tolerate.

Oh. That rasping sound is him. That's his breathing. Even without a medical degree, he can tell that that's probably not good. Maybe he should conserve his energy –
the thought sets him laughing silently, because he's lying motionless in the blood and the rain, not running a bloody marathon. And laughing sends white-hot needles lancing through him, his body jerking violently, and it occurs to him vaguely that he'd probably be screaming now instead of laughing, if he could still summon breath for sound.

Sherlock would probably be fascinated. At what stage of dying does the body become incapable of laughter? Of screaming? Of coherent thought?

He's hit by two unforeseen thoughts, at the same time.
He thinks he's probably close to the edge of that last one.
He thinks, for the second time: Sherlock.

And suddenly he needs to do something, to tell Sherlock something, before he can't anymore. His mobile phone is in his pocket. He just needs to get it out.

How?

All of the other thoughts have gone. There's just this one, just the phone, just grasping it between his fingertips and pulling – keep on pulling – slips out of his grip; he tries again, fingers slippery with blood, his blood –

out, and he drags it up to his face, feeling the cold tarmac scrape his knuckles. He can't lift it, but that's all right.

He manages to stab at the speed dial, one for Sherlock, who has always, always been first and foremost.

Sherlock, I love you.

He needs to say it.

If Sherlock will just pick up.

With a sigh, Sherlock looks up from his experiment and reaches for his mobile. John watches his brow furrow. "Lestrade's personal number. But – "

And he brings the phone smoothly to his ear, says, "I've told you, I prefer to text," and tosses it aside onto the couch before John can even blink.

"Sherlock! Did you just hang up on Lestrade?"

"I invited him to text me."

"That was rude. Ring him back."

Looking utterly exasperated, Sherlock does. There is no answer.

"Fine," says John. "Try again in the morning."