A/N: The title is actually 'The Three Times John Carried Sherlock and the One Time Sherlock Carried John.'

The first time John carried Sherlock, the sky turned to fire and his nose fell off. Though maybe that was actually Pocahontas with the cousin's kids.

At any rate, the water-logged clothing while it was freezing outside and the burning pool house was a close enough approximation.

He grunted and staggered under Sherlock's dead weight, mindful of the very much not dead aspect of his flat-mate's current status. Sherlock was going to live through this, further damage to his shoulder be damned. Leaning against the alley wall, he shifted the tall man across his shoulders and leaned forwards for momentum to get them... anywhere he could make a phone call really... Theirs were both lost to a land of watery death. A place they very much did not. And John was going to keep it so, if he could help it.

So he powered through the stabbing pain and staggered into the street, propping Sherlock against the side of the phone booth while he made the call to Lestrade.

The second time John carried Sherlock, it was from another burning building. Thankfully, not after having been at gun-point, though being chased by a mad-man with an axe wasn't altogether a great alternative. And Sherlock, being kind enough to have gotten knocked unconscious by said man with an axe, leaves John no choice but to hoist the man once again over his shoulders and totter quickly out of the building. Currently lit on fire by the man-man.

The pros, John chose to recognise, were that he had limbered his shoulder with the last feat of carrying great weight, and he'd lifted privately, impressed by his own capacity. So he is not nearly so unprepared this time. It's still a shock to his lungs, however, as air whooshes out of him, leaving him coughing in the smoke. But he leans against the narrow front hall and kicks the door open, rebalancing and huffing out into the front yard. Good thing the house was abandoned and there's no one left to worry about besides a crazed serial killer that John can't bring himself to worry about. Especially when he knows he shouldn't have moved Sherlock, what with his great potential for being concussed.

Settling his friend down easily across the street, he reaches into his pocket for his mobile and calls Lestrade.

The third time John carried Sherlock, he can feel the blood oozing through his shirt and he nearly can't breathe. He had grabbed Sherlock up the minute the man sagged against him, still wearing an expression of dazed shock at the knife in his side.

"Oh..." He'd breathed in surprise.

Any other time... John thought as his jaw clenched. Any other time that would have been a moment to savour, to tease.

The mugger, the stupid mugger had gotten Sherlock Holmes when no one else had. No. No that wasn't right. Gotten the jump on. Hadn't worked into his plan. But he was not gotten.

So John gave the order to keep the pressure on and held him snug against his chest, trying, trying so hard not to jostle and hear the hisses of pain as Sherlock's eyelids fluttered. But he jogged down the streets, looking for a cab, hardly able to imagine the sight he must present. Carrying a man bridal style, legs hanging over his arms that were as long as he was tall.

"Don't...laugh...or..." Sherlock moans.

"But you're...fainting," he blurts the last word on a downstep.

Sherlock hissed, hand twitching like he meant to do something with it. "John..." he groaned so piteously he couldn't imagine poking fun even if it was what kept him from panicking.

He opened his mouth to say something more but then a taxi rounded the corner and they were on their way to the hospital. Sherlock slumped across his lap, he reached into Sherlock's pocket for his mobile and called Lestrade.

The fourth time Sherlock carried John. He stared down in a sort or horror at John's eyes rolled back, collapsed on the floor—concussed, ankle broken at that angle, blood mostly not his but not enough of not his to not be a cause for concern.

"John!" He crouched hurriedly after having nearly fallen down the stairs after him himself. "Can you...of course not. You're unconscious. Excellent timing you've picked. How the hell am I supposed to get you out of here," he accused, hands sliding through his hair to check the damage and then dumping the Browning in his pocket. Assessments flashing through his mind, he had to get John out. He'd obviously already dispatched three of the four men trying to kill them this time. But they had to get out. The last one was not too terribly far away, though not, Sherlock thought with a flush of pride in his flat-mate, willing to face down John. Sherlock had seen him. A flash of his face, shadowed and full of deadly intent, hands completely steady as a shot rang out, but then he was running around the corner and out of sight.

He shifted his feet for better balance and then rolled John carefully to his back, checking for further injuries. A scuff of feet had him scooping his arms under John. He grunted in surprise as he tried first and failed to lift John. "Dammit." So he curled his arms, leant back, and pulled, managing to stagger to his feet and stay on them. "Jesus, John..." Sherlock quickly wobbled towards the back exit, passed the bodies victim of John's deadly aim. He swore lowly at the sudden ricochet of a bullet, pushing forward.

John groaned in his arms, hands twitching.

"I've got your gun, John. Stay quiet. Don't move; please for the love of God, do not move."

His friend's eyelids fluttered, brow creasing from pain. "..r...ck..."

"I'm right here," he wheezed.

A hysterical sort of laughter bubbled up out of John as his head lolled against Sherlock's chest, interspersed with whimpers of pain. "Shii...it... Ha... you... ca...carry...ing...me..."

"Yes, John. I need you... stay awake...Jesus...while you're awake. Stay that way."

"I can..." John muttered.

"Focus on my voice. We'll be to the hospital shortly." Sherlock scanned the hallway and then hurried down it, shoulder bumping the wall when he faltered as well as John's feet. "Sorry," he muttered.

John made unintelligible noises in response, hands still twitching.

He leaned on the door in the back, stumbling into an empty back parking area. "Shit... Just a little further, John. Can you hear me?"

"Bright..." he moaned.

"I know. Dawn. We've been here all night," he said quietly, murmuring more nonsense to keep John's attention focused. "John have you still got your mobile? I think I've lost mine."

"Pocket," he panted, hand already reaching for it.

"Can you get it?"

"Yesss..." John hissed, eyes squeezing shut. "Shit... broken ankle I'm pretty sure." He wiggled his hands in his trousers and pulled the mobile out.

"Can you call Lestrade?"

"An am...bulan...lance... first, idiot."

Sherlock smirked. "Good to see you're not completely out of it.

John nodded. "I'm also shot," he muttered.

"What?" Sherlock found himself screeching.

"Foot..." John admitted sheepishly, one hand gripping his mobile tightly, the other holding the lapel of Sherlock's jacket. "'s why I...fell..."

"Idiot!" Sherlock snapped sharply, peering around the corner to head towards the street. "Bloody careless!"

John snorted. "Like you're not... How'many times've I...carried you..."

"Not enough," he said peevishly, keeping tight to the edge of the building and hurrying. "Don't pass out on me, John. You've a concussion."

"I know..." he said with a wobbly smile.

Sherlock talked about his experiments, about Lestrade, about boxing, and a lot of other things John wouldn't be likely to remember after treatment and drugs. And if he did... well. He leaned against the wall around the last corner, breathing heavily. "John... Call now. Call. Can you do that for me?"

John punched the numbers and the noise of auto-dial interrupted their silence. "By...warehouse... Farmer street...ambulance... Please..." Then dropped the phone into the pocket of his legs and torso. "My gun...?"

"Yes, John. I have it."

"Need it... Give...me..."

Sherlock growled and strained his ear for the ring of the ambulance and shifted John so he was pressing him between the wall and his own body to get his hand into his pocket. "You wouldn't be able to stand, would you?"

"No..." John said, sighing as the Browning came to rest in his hands again.

"Liar," he accused half-heartedly, re-assuming John's weight and rounding the corner. The shot John fired off startled him, sinking a bit under the weight, but he held on tight. "Jesus... Some warning...!"

"You couldn't... figure it out?" John sighed and dropped his arm, digging the gun into Sherlock's leg.

"John!"

"Relax...safety...on...Last one. I got him... Where's... bloody...pocket..." He grunted and slid the gun back into Sherlock's jacket before sagging limply. "Call Lestrade. In ambulance."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded. "Lestrade will know exactly when he needs to know. You're more important. Blood loss, shock, and a concussion."

"Afraid orange blanket...won't...cut it."

Sherlock barked a laugh and then felt the tension ease up at the ambulance finally rounded the corner of the street. He staggered over to the light pole and leaned back against it, John pulled against his chest.

Only when his friend was settled in the ambulance and Sherlock safely beside him did he lift the mobile and call Lestrade.