The bullet struck Holmes in the chest and he turned his eyes on me. The look of surprised confusion was one I had never seen on my friend's face, and it filled me with dread. A bright red flower bloomed on his white shirtfront, as his legs gave out and he fell. I rushed forward, my mind, body, and soul torn apart as I tried to sort out what was truly happening.

Thankfully, my years of training and medical practice had my hands moving of their own accord even as I shouted for Holmes to make some sign that he was okay. His eyes were open, searching my face, and I saw in them that he was afraid. Again, it was not an expression I had ever thought to see coming from him. His long fingered hand came up to grab my jacket front, his lips moved as if he would say something but only sound that was produced was the gurgling noise that warned his lung had been punctured.

"It is all right Holmes, it is all right." I said but the words were hollow, still I tried to comfort my friend as his blood continued to leak around the hands I held to his chest. "Just breathe, save your strength, old boy, and breathe."

Holmes blinked at me, as he tried to do as I told him but he started to cough as his own blood choked him. I clenched my jaw, my chest twisting worse than it had at Reichenbach. It seemed that I was to bear witness my friend's death yet again. Only this time it would be final, there would be no hope after this for a miraculous reappearance in my consulting room.

"No," I shook my head, "no, Holmes, don't go. Don't leave me, please. Please God, Sherlock. Don't die."

I knew Holmes didn't approve of emotional displays but I couldn't hold back the tears that were suddenly falling down my cheeks. To my great surprise, I watched Holmes smile, a rare, unguarded smile that held such tenderness that it took my breath away. Then those long fingers came up and wiped at the wetness of my face, as his lips moved again.

To this day, I would swear before god that my dearest friend had whispered the words, 'All right John', before succumbing to the black oblivion of unconsciousness. His hand slipped from my face, and a moment of panic seized me. But I could feel the still ragged shallow breaths as Holmes continued to fight for air, and with it, life. Feeling that, and the fluttering of his heart beneath my hands, I felt a bit of myself return, and I became resolute. If Sherlock Holmes would fight, then so would I.

That is when I heard Lestrade's voice, shouting orders to his men about the prisoner we'd come to apprehend, and calling for them to bring a stretcher and my medical bag from the back of the Maria for Holmes. Then he was before me, kneeling opposite Holmes, "Doctor?"

"He is alive; it is bad, but he is alive." I spoke and could see a flicker of hope in the inspector's eyes.

"What can I do?"

I shook my head there was little either of us could do for the man between us, but at the same time I knew Lestrade was a man of action and could no more sit idle in this situation than I could. "We must get him to a hospital, fast. The bullet is still in there, he needs surgery right away."

Lestrade grimaced, the science of medicine had advanced in leaps, and bounds in the last century but surgeries, and the infections that often followed, were nearly as likely to kill a patient as save them. Still, even a small chance at a time like this was a chance that had to be taken. Two constables rushed in carrying a stretcher and the bag, and before the inspector could open his mouth, I was barking orders to them as if they were orderlies under my command back in the field hospitals of Afghanistan.

"Give me the bag, and hold your hands here. Tightly now, we must slow the bleeding as much as possible." I instructed the closest man, I would later find out it was Constable Rance, as I quickly searched out the supplies that I thought best.

I hand several wads of bandages to Rance, "Use this to soak up the blood, and hold it tight."

Lifting a green case, very similar to the one Holmes kept in our sitting room, I removed the hypodermic needle and a small vile of morphine. The irony of my actions was not lost on me as I quickly rolled back Holmes' sleeve and added yet another round scar to those that littered his inner forearm. But even unaware as he was I knew that the body could still feel the strain of pain, the drug would lessen it, and hopefully by doing so the energy saved would give him enough strength to beat the devil that was trying to claim him.

That done, I looked up at Lestrade, "Bring the stretcher over here."

He and the other constable did as I said, unfolding the cot next to the prone man as I moved around to his head. "Keep holding the bandages, while Lestrade and I lift."

Rance nodded, and Lestrade moved down to take Holmes' feet. We counted three, lifted the lanky detective, and placed him onto the stretcher. At this point, the inspector began giving orders again. I didn't pay much attention to what he said though, as my focus was on my patient as he started to cough once more.

It was weaker, he was weaker, so I eased him to his side so that the pink foam of blood might drain from his lips rather than roll back into his throat. The action seemed to ease Holmes efforts to breathe a bit, and so I held him that way as the police lifted the arms of the stretcher with its burden balanced in the middle, and we rushed out to the waiting carriage.

I did everything I could think of to ease my friend. I held his head and wiped his lips of blood when he would cough. I pressed more bandages to his chest when the blood soaked through the previous ones, and spoke encouragements to him as the Maria flew through the night. Even so, I felt as if Holmes was slipping away from me. His pulse was little more than the fluttering of a small frightened bird under the fingers I held to his throat as we pulled up to the front steps of Bart's.

St. Bartholomew's was a teaching hospital, I had gone to school here, and so I knew it very well. I yelled out what was going on to the night nurse as the constables carried in Holmes, giving instructions to get the surgeon on duty, and to set up an operating theatre immediately. She gave us hurried directions in which to take Holmes, and then rushed the other way to get the doctor.

By the time the man arrived, I had Holmes lying still on the operating table. I had, with Rance's help, stripped him down to his waist, and was busy cleaning the area around the wound with surgical spirits. His voice was harsh and accusing as he growled, "Who are you people?"

I did not look up, nor stop my actions, as I answered. "Dr. John Watson, this man is Sherlock Holmes. He has been shot. The bullet struck just below the third sinister rib, it appears to have missed his heart, but there is significant haemorrhaging in his lungs."

The elder doctor listened to me, and then looked down at my friend with a grave face. I could not blame him for his expression; Holmes did not look good at all. His face and lips were paler than I had ever seen them, and his skin had a waxiness to it that was chilling. Still, I had not expected what happened next.

The old man shook his head sadly, "I am afraid there is nothing I can do for him."