Hello there fellow Sherlockians! I'm writing for a different category this time, other than my Hunger Games category. This is angst because I felt like it! Sorry, about it being sad and all, I just felt like writing this because I've not found any other fanfics like this (if you've found others like this, please send me their link so I can read them!). This is sort of a "What if?" moment set in "The Blind Banker" (*SPOILER FOR TBB AND SLIGHTLY FOR ASIP!*) during which Sherlock and John are in the museum with Soo Lin. I hope I've written the characterizations right, I've tried my best to write Sherlock and John. Please review my lovelies; it makes my heart go pitter-pat! (Bad reviews are also appreciated, I'll except anything) ;)

Caring is Not an Advantage

John P.O.V.:

"All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book..." Soo Lin stated as a frustrated Sherlock Holmes urged her to hurry up and write down the translation. This case was intriguing, but Sherlock would soon become bored, if he didn't know how to unlock the final code.

"Yes, we know, what is the book?" Sherlock once again inquired.

Suddenly, the lights in the already dimly lit museum flickered off. The silver moonlight flooded through the skylights and cast an eerie glow over all the exhibits. John tensed, a natural military reaction. Sherlock glanced up, merely bored with the fact that the room was no longer illuminated, and showed anxiousness to finish this delightfully, complex case. I on the other hand showed the same expression as Soo Lin. Somebody was here. Judging by her fearful face, I knew it had to be her brother, the climber, the murderer. Somewhere in the dark, mysterious halls of the museum, a faint Chinese drum was beating. Sherlock perked his ears, and then seemed to notice the tense atmosphere as he looked around for the perpetrator.

"He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me." Soo Lin inhaled a sharp breath as she confirmed my thoughts.

Instantly aware of the situation, I drag Soo Lin down next to me and hide beneath the desk. Her fate is unmistakable, Zhi Zhu will kill her, and I'm determined not to let that happen. Another sound overlaps the now closer beating of the drum. Sherlock has taken off running, his shoes padding against the smooth, concrete floor.

"Sherlock, wait!" I say in a loud whisper. But before I know it, he's already been swallowed by the thick darkness.

Sherlock P.O.V.:

My shoes easily grip the smooth surface as I bolt down the halls, blood pounding in my ears. Finally I've reached the main atrium. I spin around and listen again for the drum. There it is, rapidly increasing in speed and volume. Moonlight pours through the glass roof throwing webbed shadows on to the floor. I've always been known as a sociopath, but I can just sense a twinge of fear, at the thought of not being able to have my vision one-hundred percent. This of course, in no way, distracts me from the thrill of capturing Zhi Zhu. I stare up at the towering marble walls and the grand circular staircase, searching for a sign of the killer. Then out of nowhere:

Gunshot!

There's someone firing from an upper balcony. I quickly snap my head to the right and catch a glimpse of the man. Sherlock dives behind the marble railing to escape the impeding bullet as it whizzes by his head.

John P.O.V.:

Trying to keep quiet, I hear a gunshot off in the direction Sherlock went in. I glance at Soo Lin, and notice her nod ever so slightly, she's telling me to go help my friend, colleague, I correct myself. "I can't leave you here, the danger is too great, he'll kill you before you can blink your eyes." I whisper urgently to her. She looks at me with a pained expression, no doubt considering she'll probably die anyway, whether I'm with her or not.

I feel a growing urge to go check on Sherlock; there hasn't been any noise after the shot. What if he got shot? But that thought quickly fades as another two shots erupt from the inky blackness. Zhi Zhu wouldn't have fired again if Sherlock had been shot the first time. I lean my head back against the belly of the desk and try to relax my rampaging heart.

Sherlock P.O.V.:

I duck once more as bullets narrowly evade my chest. Deciding the best thing to do would be to lead the killer away from Soo Lin and John, I take off running in the hopes Zhi Zhu will follow me. I allow a brief smirk to cover my lips as I do indeed hear him chasing me with uneven, but soft footsteps.

I ascend the Central staircase and move swiftly into one of the darker halls. Maybe I can knock him unconscious when he can't see me. I take a sharp turn to the left and enter a random exhibit, taking only a millisecond, literally, to read the label:

~ANTHROPOLOGY~

Interesting. Perhaps I'll grab a skull to replace the one Mrs. Hudson got rid of. I feel no fear now as I anticipate the rush of brawling with my assailant. Further gunshots ring off the walls of the rather small exhibit. Sherlock ducks behind one of the glass cases, hidden behind the skulls. A skull falls off its pedestal as Sherlock moves to catch it.

"Careful! These skulls are two-thousand years old, have a bit of respect!" I call out to the killer. The once simultaneous gunshots cease, and Sherlock stays backed up against the cool glass.

"Thank you." I pant. But there is not a sound or sign of movement as I turn to look for the killer. In fact, he's not even here. Cautiously, I inch away from the cases of skulls and search around. The drum has stopped beating, and I realize my possibly fatal mistake. I run as fast as I can back to the atrium. Glancing around, I thankfully see neither John nor Soo Lin there. Good, there's still time.

I'm about to burst through the doors of the teapot exhibit when I hear one shot ring off from inside. At first I'm not worried, Soo Lin is most likely dead, and there is no reason why that should worry me. Death has never worried me, obviously because I'm a sociopath (NOT psychopath Anderson, mind you). But I can't help but feel the knot that is growing ever so slightly in my stomach. John. Yes, that's it. He's the only one that cares about me, and he's the only one that I've ever cared about. Why am I worried about a sturdy medical soldier though? I ponder for a second or two, and then it hits me. Surely he wouldn't just stand around and allow Soo Lin to be killed by her brother; he must've put up a fight or something. But no, there has been no sound from the exhibit except the gunshot. Therefore, he was either knocked out and helpless to defend the girl, or the shot Sherlock had heard was – No. I refuse to believe that. And having deduced all of his thoughts within seconds of the shot, Sherlock barged through the door and strutted over to the upturned desk.

John P.O.V.:

I wince at every shot that I hear. I can tell Soo Lin does the same. I wish Sherlock would hurry up and disarm the man so that we can leave. This girl is in desperate need of a shock blanket right now. I almost chuckle at the thought of my previous adventure with Sherlock Holmes, and how he could not understand why he was given a blanket after I shot the murderous cabbie driver. I must've let a smirk show on my face though, because when I look up, Soo Lin glares at me for a brief second. She instantly returns to a terrified expression though.

"Sorry…" I mumble, probably too soft for her to hear anyway.

Behind me, I hear the soft creak of a door opening and the delicate footsteps of a man enter. I freeze as my blood turns to ice. Soo Lin does the same also. I raise my finger to my lips in a gesture to be quiet. She nods slightly. The intruder continues walking towards the desk and I can tell from the slight scuffles he makes, he is carrying a gun in his left hand. When Zhi Zhu appears in front of the desk, I stick my foot out and he trips over it. Him being a rather expert on climbing and such, allows him to land gracefully and he's back on his feet before I have the chance to disarm the man. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I think to myself. Great John, just give away your position to the enemy. I smack my hand against my forehead in angst, and suddenly I'm pulled out from under the desk.

Before I can object or utter a sound, a thick fabric, wool possibly, is stuffed so far back in my mouth, that it isn't possible to make a single sound. I helplessly realize that I've been gagged and any cries for Sherlock would be physically impossible. Zhi Zhu sticks a needle in my arm, and suddenly I feel woozy. Chloroform. I think to myself, but only a very, very small dosage. Zhi Zhu intends to keep me conscious. My vision blurs as I see Soo Lin yanked out from under the table also.

My hearing is fading and I can see her mutter words to her brother. Soo Lin is caressed on her neck. And then, as quickly as it started, her brother holds her head still, tears glistening in the fearful girl's eye, and Zhi Zhu jerks his muscular arms sharply to the right. Soo Lin crumples to the ground, her neck obviously broken. I grimace. Zhi Zhu closes in on me and raises his gun. I, in my drugged state, cannot move out of the gun's path. I helplessly stare ahead, and watch as the man pulls the trigger.

Sherlock P.O.V.:

The curtains on the window to my left shift slightly, and I hear Zhi Zhu slide down the outside museum wall. Cursing, I watch him escape. But I have other priorities here, so I temporarily ignore the criminal. I glance around and see Soo Lin lying on the ground- neck snapped. I feel a wave of relief pass over me, until I realize the facts don't add up. There is no blood coming from her, there is also not a "black lotus" resting on her cold, upturned hand. But then who had been shot?

"John?" "Where are you?" "This isn't funny, stupid bastard." Still no response. I feel my insides churn and I realize my head is full of fear for the one man I've ever cared about. I race around the room and search for a sign of my flat mate. Finally, I check the dark corner of the bloody exhibit. There, amongst cluttered desk papers, is my dear John Watson. His blood stains the pristine white museum pamphlets a dark crimson, a black lotus is placed ever so carefully on his palm, his hair is slightly damp-sweat-surprise attack, in his arm is a sedative- chloroform, and the worst part is his mouth. It is filled with wool so dense, it prevents his vocal cords access to air.

"John!" I shout.

He opens drugged eyes and stares at me with pained blue orbs. I quickly grab the wool out of his mouth, not even grimacing when it is soaked with his saliva. John instantly breathes a raspy breath as oxygen fills his deprived lungs.

"Sher-lock…" John croaks.

"I'm here." I say as steady as I can manage. I grip his shoulders and look down at the bullet wound in his stomach. There is blood. So, so, so much blood. I repress a shudder. "It's going to be okay." I tell him, though I'm not sure if I, the great Sherlock Holmes, speak the truth.

"No..." John says. "I'm a doctor, it's not okay."

This man breaks my heart, and I finally realize I have one. My only friend is going to die right now.

"Shut up." I tell him. I will not let this happen. Taking my scarf, I tightly knot it around the small man's injured stomach. Then I swiftly extract my phone from my coat. I dial Lestrade and wait for him to pick up. I quickly disconnect the call though when I remember he is out of town. Damnit! Why does he have to be gone now? I dial 999 instead and wait for the operator. As I expected, she is a dull person, whose tone suggests no concern for John's health. She finally says an ambulance is on the way, and I let out a breath of air.

"We'll have to explain why we're in the museum after hours." John says with a slight laugh, though he winces at the pain it causes him.

"It doesn't matter now. John you need to keep talking to me, don't close your eyes." I practically beg, and I hate that my so called emotions are coming through.

"Don't worry." John slurs.

But I worry. He is staring up at me, and I can only feel what is described as guilt. Why did I even run off in the first place?! "I'm sorry..." I say.

"Nothin' to be sorry 'bout mate." He says in his usual John self. Showing a small smile.

"John, I…" I can't get the words out. The smile makes me feel worse. This man has been with me for probably only a month, and I've basically given him a death wish. I always thought I didn't have feelings. But John was an exceptional case. For some reason, I have feelings towards him. Not romantically, but friendship wise. This is entirely new to me, I haven't the faintest idea whether I should be crying or telling him it'll be alright. I choose the latter, never once have I cried, nor am I going to start now.

"It's okay Sherlock." John says sympathetically. I know he doesn't mean he'll be fine, he means he wants me to be fine.

Suddenly, I can't control these feelings anymore. "No! It's. Not. Okay! You're dying because I left you alone with a killer running lose! This is my fault, I'm so sorry." Sherlock's voice cracked at the end. He could no longer feel strong.

"Shhh…" John coos.

"Just don't die okay? I can't be alone again. Everyone else is so dull." Sherlock says rather blandly.

"Sherlock, we both know I might not hold up to that." John states.

"I don't care." Sherlock replies stubbornly.

I reach down and put more pressure on the bullet wound. It's gushing blood out like a waterfall. John's face pales and he closes his eyes with a sigh. "John?" I ask timidly, not ready for my friend to die. There's no response, I grab his shoulder, careful to avoid the left and shout, "JOHN!"

"Mmph." He replies.

"Keep your eyes open, John, don't make me beg." Though Sherlock is already begging.

"It-it hurts, so bad." He states, voice dripping in pain.

"I know, just hold on, please." Sherlock is afraid for his friend.

John doesn't answer, his head lolls back. Sherlock pales as he watches his friend slip into unconsciousness. "John! Please wake up! This isn't funny, I'm sorry for being such a git. Don't die…please?" The last word is strangled and would be inaudible to anyone. Sherlock carefully picks up John's wrist and searches for a pulse. He finds one, but it quickly fades into nothingness. "No… Don't do this to me." Sherlock whispers. He attempts CPR, but he knows it's too late. So Sherlock just wraps himself over his flat mate's body and clings there in self-loathing.

The paramedics finally arrive and they have to forcefully pull Sherlock away from the body. Sherlock doesn't throw a hissy-fit, he doesn't sob into some stranger's shoulder, and he doesn't even decline the soft orange blanket that gets wrapped around him. No, Sherlock Holmes stands there and watches John get put on a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance.

The lights of the emergency vehicles disappear as they drive down the street. Sherlock stands there, a hollow shell full of nothing. He sniffs once, then twice. Realizing his body is about to cry, Sherlock tries to stop it. He doesn't want his body to betray his mind. But he can't stop the one tear that finds its way down his cheek. He angrily wipes it away. Composing himself, Sherlock walks home. He wants to walk, not ride in a taxi alone. And the one thought he has as his blood-smeared coat billows behind him, is that he will never again have another flat mate.