AN: This was written for good-deduction's prompt and the Johnlockchallenges Extra Exchange 2012

Time 12:57 pm

The average body of a human adult contains five to six litres blood. Depending on the body it can lose up to 2 litres until you lose consciousness or your life.

It's funny what you remember when you lie in a lake of your own blood.

I never told Sherlock that I loved him.

Please God, let me live. I have to tell him.

Time 11:52 am

Textmessage from John Watson:

Hello Mike, sorry, will be late, still one patient, terminal cancer, might take a while. JW

Time 11:57 am

"Hello, Mr Richardson, come in."

"Dr Watson." The greeting in return was bordering on rude as always, but after living with Sherlock for years he was used to rudeness, he barely even noticed it. What he was not used to was the rather manic appearance of his patient with glazed eyes and a fidgetiness that was quite discomforting.

"Please calm down. You don't do yourself any good if you get so tensed up. Try to exhale slowly and count to ten", John advised and was startled by the mad-sounding giggle that he received in return.

"That's what I always told them, Doctor, that's what I always said. Breathe slowly and count to ten."

Not sure what to make of this statement John steered the man to the examination table, helping him to sit down. Two fever-glazed eyes looked at him intently and John felt a kind of uneasiness that surprised him.

"I was a Doctor, Dr Watson. Not a surgeon like you, an anaesthetist. I watched surgeons like you, watched them cutting into bodies."

Okay, now Mr Richardson had officially crossed the line to creepy and was on his way way beyond this line. In a conspiratorial voice he continued.

"I wanted that too, you know, wanted to feel the power to cut, but she died. She would have died anyway. Brain tumor, you know. But she allowed me to cut her and I liked it."

The sudden movement that accompanied those words was completely unexpected and at first John felt nothing, just the thud of Mr Richardson's fists on his stomach, but when he looked down he saw red soaking through his clothes, a scalpel and a syringe in the other man's hands.

"Nobody would have known, but he wouldn't give up. He cost me my job, my life, my marriage and now he has to pay."

John still stared at the hands of his assailant, barely aware of those words. Shock, his medical brain supplied, put pressure on wound. His hands followed those orders, although he could feel blackness creeping in. Stay awake. But his knees gave out and the only reason he didn't just crumble to the floor were two hands on his elbow that led him down.

"The syringe held a little cocktail of blood thinner and an anaesthetic. My own mixture, I'm rather proud."

For a moment all he could see was the beige ceiling of his office before Mick Richardson's face came into focus (although a bit blurry). His hands were gently elevated from his stomach and put beside him.

"Don't want to spoil the results, Dr Watson."

Then the man vanished from John's view and he heard rumouring at his desk. John tried to follow the sound, but it was already a huge effort to simply move his head. He saw the other man ripping something – the chord from his office's phone, his brain told him eternities later – and picked up a little black box – ah yes, John's mobile phone.

Richardson returned to John, evaluating him before leaving the room. The last thing John heard before he fell into darkness were "See you in the afterlife, Dr Watson".

Time 12:17 pm

Mike Stamford glanced at his watch. He had only twenty minutes left before he should be on his way back to St. Bart's for his afternoon lesson. For the second time he dialled John Watson's number and for the second time he only reached the mailbox. He was obviously still with his patient.

Sighing Stamford signalled the waiter and ordered his pasta. He had looked forward to his lunch with John. Recently the ex-army surgeon had been too busy with Sherlock Holmes' cases that he had cancelled several meetings. It was quite ironic that he now cancelled one due to his own profession. The pasta was good, but still no John Watson in sight. When he paid he tried to call again with the same result, this time he left a message explaining that he was already on his way back to the office, maybe they could reschedule.

Time 12:31 pm

It was odd. Odd. The oddest thing. Sherlock saying thank you. It was never necessary. They understood each other without talking. Talking was dangerous. Things could be said that destroyed their friendship. Confessions.

Slowly John drifted out of the darkness.

Why did he lay on the ground?

Wet, there was something wet under his hands.

Why were his hands so heavy?

It took him ages to bring his hand before his eyes.

Dripping red.

Red?

Oh.

Blood.

Not good.

Stay awake, stay aw…

Time 12:36 pm

Returning to St. Bart's Mike Stamford was greeted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes talking intently to a heavily burdened Molly Hooper. The quick assessing was quite typical for Sherlock, but somehow still unsettling.

"I thought you were having lunch with John. What happened?"

And leaving you wondering if you wore some kind of neon sign, telling everything about your day.

"John didn't show up, he texted me that he had a patient."

"Did you call him?"

"Yes, but he never answered, he never does when he is with a patient."

With a swift elegant motion Sherlock took his own mobile out of his pocket, hitting one button before holding it against his ear. Mike always felt that it was rather unfair how the detective always managed to look so elegant, letting everyone around him become self-conscious about their own clumsiness. Judging from Molly's look she felt the same.

It took 30 seconds before Sherlock's face assumed a frown; he took his mobile down and dialled another number. This time he waited longer but the result was nevertheless the same. The phone was lowered again and Mike could see a rare display of emotions on the detective's face. Uneasiness, discomfort, worry, reluctance. But another button was pressed, this time the call was answered.

"Where is John?"

Mike couldn't understand the answer on the other side, but it was clear that Sherlock didn't like it.

"He isn't answering neither his mobile nor his office line, he missed his date with Stamford, I just want to know where he is."

Another short break, followed by an exasperated: "Of course I wait."

Although Sherlock stood stock still, Mike could see the tension in his long limbs and the mental foot tapping while waiting.

"Are you sure? … Okay."

Without another word he ended the call, already heading for the exit without another glance to Molly or Mike. They both stared at each other, too long acquainted with Sherlock's sudden changes, but Mike could easily read the same worry that possessed him in her eyes.

"He survived a war and Sherlock's …" Mike ended that sentence with a vague gesture, too aware of Molly's role in Sherlock's disappearance.

"Yes, you're right. I'm sure, he's fine."

The uneasiness between them was quite unbecoming, and Mike was almost relieved when he remembered the lecture he was supposed to give.

Time 12:40 pm

Sherlock in front of his door. The hair too short, but the same mesmerizing eyes, the same angular face, the same lanky body. He never told him that it was one of the happiest days in his life.

(Never told him how close he had been to pull the trigger of his own gun.)

Time 12:43 pm

Mycroft wasn't surprised by the sudden end of his brother's call. John Watson had been the centre of Sherlock's universe almost since day one and even more so after his brother's return from the dead. For every sane person around them it was painful to watch those two dancing around each other and failing to notice the other's infatuation. All of Mycroft's less than subtle hints had been met with ignorance and he was seriously considering drastic measurements to make them see.

With a little sigh he returned to the problem at hand. Unknowingly he shared Mike Stamford's opinion, John survived so much and he should be safe at the surgery. On the other side the pair of them wasn't known for their uneventful life. He re-watched the CCTV feeds of the surgery, noting the staff leaving the building group by group, but no John. After a few minutes a man emerged from the back door, the door nearest to John's office. Something about him rang a faint bell, that's why he ran a close-up of him through facial recognition.

Time 12:52 pm

This time the dizziness felt different, not so artificial. It took all his strength to lay his hands on his stomach, attempting some kind of pressure, but it felt as if the blood was still running through his fingers. He was running out of time.

He had never thought he would die in his own office.

He had also never thought that he would fall in love with his best friend. He had never dared to ask for more. He already had received his share of miracles, Sherlock had returned.

Time 12:57 pm

The shot in his shoulder had been a sharp burn, the blood loss too fast to register.

The average body of a human adult contains five to six litres blood. Depending on the body it can lose up to 2 litres until you lose consciousness or your life.

It's funny what you remember when you lie in a lake of your own blood.

I never told Sherlock that I loved him.

I thought he knew.

He is stupid with emotions.

He does not know.

Sherlock should know.

Please God, let me live. I have to tell him.