"Sherlock..! Sherlock! Where the hell are you!" John shouted, running towards the deserted factory while looking for Sherlock.

"Always!" he angrily muttered to himself. "Let the man go out of your sight for a few seconds, and off he is.. Couldn't even wait for me. You should hear him when I do that. The hypocrite." He took a deep breath and shouted again. "Sherlock!"

With one hand he carefully pushed against the door, slipped inside and closed the door behind him softly. The blood rushed in his ears, his heartbeat throbbed in his throat. He felt the adrenaline pushing through his body, putting all his senses on alert.

All John heard was the returning echo of his own tense voice and the soft noise of the bloodflow in his ears. He slowed his pace, feeling the need to pay more attention and caution. Suddenly he felt uneasy, like some sixth sense that told him to be very careful. Responding to that feeling, as doing so before had saved his life a couple of times, he took out his gun and loaded it. This factory was dark, its intense silence deafening. He backed against a large container, peeping around the edge of it, trying to get some sort of overview of the factory. He couldn't see much, but he could see an outstretched arm nearby, lying lifelessly on the floor, sticking out from behind a piece of machinery. Trying to control and slow down his breathing, John carefully slid around the edge, to find out to whom that arm belonged. It turned out not to be lifeless at all, thankfully, and belonging to a man unknown to John. The man was still breathing but knocked unconscious, John quickly diagnosed. But where was Sherlock!

He took out his mobile phone to call Lestrade, softly explaining the situation as soon as Lestrade picked up. After the call with Lestrade was ended, he dialed Sherlock's number, but the telephone wasn't picked up. Bloody hell, Sherlock!

He stood looking down at the unconscious man on the floor, deciding what he had to do. He would gain consciousness very soon, so John used his belt to strap the guy to a pillar that supported the roof. At least that guy wasn't going anywhere.

His eyes soon darted through the large hall again. All the machinery was blocking most of his sight, so it was hard to look the whole place over. Damn it, Sherlock! Why couldn't you just wait for me?

Suddenly, in the far back of the factory, John heard four muffled bangs. Gunshots. First, he stood as frozen, but then, as fast as his legs allowed him to, he ran towards the spot with only one thought on his mind.

Sherlock hadn't carried a weapon.

He was sure of it, and the thought of what could have happened formed a lump in his stomach. His breathing got heavier as he saw the sight. He speeded himself towards the dark object that lay motionlessly on the dusty floor. He knelt down beside his best friend, not knowing what to do. God, please let him live.

He grapped the tall man's thin wrist, searching for a pulse. Relief flooded through him when he felt the reassuring throb under his fingers. He looked down at his friend, his hands moving, trembling over Sherlock's body, not really knowing what to do now. Scarf. The scarf had to go away first. Air, Sherlock had to breath. Get him on his back. Check the wounds, can't be more than two. Please, no! Bandage, he needed bandage. Was Sherlock still breathing?

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked almost breahtlessly, a shiver had crept in his normally steady voice. The detective's face was white, deadly white. Like marble. Lifeless marble. The gentle dark curls lay around his head as an aureola. The consulting detective looked so young and vulnerable that it scared John. Sherlock never was vulnerable, he always had complete control over the situation. John searched for a pulse again, when the dark-haired man's eyelids shivered, fluttered open a bit.

"J-John, you're here," the wounded man breathed painfully, uneven. "He shot me, I didn't kno.."

"Shhh now, Sherlock. I'm here." John really tried to sound comforting, but he had seen so many soldiers like this. This was his friend, his best friend. This was Sherlock. Who had closed his eyes already. Who could die here if it wasn't John who did the necessary things. Sherlock's head had tilted a little to the right, revealing a quickly growing pool of crimson liquid. His dark curls, looking like an aureole just seconds ago, had turned dark, sticky red, betraying their owner. This was never supposed to have happened. Not ever. John, yes, John got hurt now and then. Sprained ankle, bruises, black eye, cuts. But not Sherlock. Sherlock never got himself wounded. Sherlock always knew the track of the bullet before it had been fired, knew the murderer's next step before the criminal knew it himself. The detective was always full of life. Even when lying on the sofa, bored to death, he placed sharp remarks, his mind always observing. Sherlock always was alive. When he was asleep, he was full if movement, and John was the right one to know. And with being alive, he had made John feel alive too. Sherlock simply never could get hurt.

"Sherlock, wake up. Stay with me," John pleaded as Sherlock closed his eyes again, ripping open the tall man's purple shirt, pulling off all the buttons during the process but not paying attention as his eyes were fixed on his friend's white face only. Experienced, his hands controlled every inch of his friend's body, looking for other wounds, apart from the bullets in Sherlock's shoulder and side. When he had finally checked Sherlock's body for other injuries and found none, he paid attention to the wound on the back of Sherlock's head, which was bad, but it wouldn't be lethal. The shoulder wound could be exactly that. It was dark in the factory, but when John laid his hand on the wounds, it felt warm and soft, sticky, he didn't need to see. He pulled his hand back and looked at it, not wanting to see it, knowing what he would see. It was covered in dark red blood. Sherlock's blood. Oh, shit. This definitely wasn't good. His hands trembled while trying to wake his friend. He gave him soft slaps in the face, just hard enough to keep him awake, calling his name softly, and at long length Sherlock slowly opened his grey eyes. John released a breath he had no idea he had been holding.

Ambulance. Sherlock needed an ambulance. How much time had he wasted already? With shaking hands he dialed the number, and with an faltering voice he tried to explain what had happened. Thankfully, the woman on the other end of the line was accustomed to emergencies like this. Within the minute she had all the information she needed.

Sherlock's breathing was shallow and far too quick. How long has he been like this? Quickly, John glanced at his watch. Over 5 minutes now. The police should have been here already. John was at the end of his wits, he didn't know what to do, so he just kept pressing his ripped shirt against his friend's wounds, trying to make the bleeding stop, his gaze constantly fixed on his unconscious friend.

Oh, what a bloody mess this was. Literally bloody. And today had started off so normally, like today was just going to be an ordinary day. A man had come in this morning, a retired judge. Thankfully, it promised to be an interesting case. Sherlock had been very bored, and thus very annoying and rude, these past few days. It promised to be dangerous too, but hey, that's what the two of them were for, weren't they?

But now here he was, desperately trying to keep Sherlock conscious. Sherlock had said that the judge had been married four times, six children, switched jobs two times, a long-time user of his shoes as the laces had been changed three times which indicated a poor-paid job, then. Interesting case, Sherlock had said, delighted. Well, it had been interesting. Just the fact some smugglers were involved, with guns, that was the turn up John didn't really like. Especially not when Sherlock had announced he knew when the deal took place and there had been no time to call the police. How John wished they had taken the time to call them. Too late now.

More cloth, he needed more. His jumper he had laid under Sherlock's head to make his friend's position a little more comfortable, as far as one could be comfortable on the cold, dusty concrete floor. At least the head injury had stopped bleading. John had already ripped his shirt, trying to stem the bleeding from both the wounds. Sherlock's body started shaking uncontrolably, with hands turned cold John covered him as well as possible with his own long coat, while he kept on talking to his friend, just to keep him conscious. It could be shock, it probably was shock, but it scared all the wits John had left out of him. Sherlock, stay with me, John silently prayed while the blood rhythmicly pulsated from the wounds over the doctor's hands.

After what seemed an century, sirens wailed in the far distance.

"Sherlock? Do you hear that? The police and ambulance are on their way," John said, feeling tense and anxious. The wounds were bad, he saw that. Also, the shaking was even more worrying. He had seen this much too often. There were times he still saw his mates, haunting him in his dreams, punishing the blogger for surviving.

Sherlock's face was clammy, his breathing stopped now and then. John heard soft moans of pain coming from Sherlock's slightly opened mouth. With an unsteady hand, John brushed aside some of the dark curls in the detective's cold face. It caused a grimace in the porcelain face.

"I-it's fine, J-John," Sherlock stammered, trying very hard to make a coherent sentence, keeping his thoughts together. John grabbed his hand, holding it close to his chest.

"H-how bad is i-it?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still closed, although the raven-haired man tried very hard to open his eyes.

"Well, you know, the normal condition you're in when you've had a blow on the head and two bullets in your body," John said, anxiously trying to keep things light.

"O-ordinary i-is so d-dull."

John smiled, despite the situation.

"J-John? I just wanted to-to say to you, th-that you have been a w-wonderful friend. To me." Sherlock's teeth chattered against each other because of the cold.

"O, shut up. Shut up, please," John begged. "Now it sounds like you're dying."

Sherlock opened his eyes, a faint smile wrinkled the skin around to his silver-grey pools. One of the rare, genuine smiles. "I'm g-glad you-you're okay."

"No, Sherlock. Don't give me this bullshit. Don't you dare leave me!" John almost screamed.

"Oh John… the brave, b-blogging soldier," Sherlock panted, "you w-will save me-me, you always d-do, don't y-you?"

"Sherlock! Sherlock, stay with me. Stay with me! Of course I will," the blogger almost sobbed because of his fear, his inability to help his friend. Sod it, no use to try and keep his tears hidden. His friend could see he was crying, and a good reason he had for it.

Sherlock felt himself gliding towards the edge of unconsciousness. He was still holding on with his fingertips, but the darkness under him was so inviting. Oh, John. You should know how hard I am trying. But I'm so tired… Funny feeling though, normally I never am. Sleeping is dull, but I am so sorry, John. I'm so tired. Just a minute, allow me a minute sleep. Just… one… little minute, John. Safe me, hang on for me, will you do this for me?

A soft, melancholic smile darted around Sherlock's already blue lips the moment he let go. That was the moment John knew it had gone wrong.

Suddenly, John felt two hands in his armpits, two strong arms lifting him up from his knees and dragging him away from his friend to make space for the paramedics. They made a lot of fuzz, infusions were brought, one of the men had already started CPR.

"Careful with him! You might break his ribs. He's fine, he was just talking to me!"

John didn't know where the raw, rasp voice came from, until the sobs that interrupted the speech tore apart his chest, unableing him to speak.

"John!" Lestrade took a strong but gentle grip on the blogger's shoulders, facing him by bringing his eyes on the same level. "John, listen to me. They will take good care of him, you come with me."

But John didn't listen, his gaze was fixed on Sherlock only. The unconscious consulting detective wasn't breathing anymore, one of the paramedics surrounding the injured man yelled for an oxygen mask. Soon the oxygen mask covered the most of Sherlock's face. He was lifted on a stretcher and carried away by the paramedics really quickly. John made attempts to break loose from the DI's firm grip, but Lestrade wouldn't let him go.

"John, let them do their work. He is breathing, he has a heartbeat again . Come with me," and with gentle but persevering hands he guided the numbed blogger outside, arriving at the DI's car just when the ambulance took of with wailing sirens.

ToBeContinued