Sherlock one-shot. Some of the dialogue is mixed up; the beginning line that Sherlock says is one later in the episode, but I fit it in earlier. Also, a line that John says in the 10th paragraph is from "The Great Game".

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

"It was a risk, wasn't it? Taking me underneath the eyes of half a dozen policemen. And Mrs. Hudson will remember you." Sherlock stated, standing outside of 221B Baker Street. The cabbie had yet to convince him to enter, but Sherlock could feel himself breaking. If he didn't come up with a good reason not to go soon, he'd end up…

Dead. That had to be a reason. There was a large chance that Sherlock would die.

But there was a one hundred percent chance of him discovering why and how the cabbie killed his victims.

He had always put solving the case above his own life. Always. But the stakes were higher now. There was John. He couldn't risk the cabbie going back to hurt John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade…

Before the cabbie could react, Sherlock made his decision and pulled out his phone, pressing his first speed dial.

"Hello?" John's voice answered.

"John, it's Sherlock. I need you to come outside with the police. I've found our killer." Sherlock spoke quickly, as he could see the bulge of a gun underneath the cabbie's coat. He angled himself away from the cabbie as he listened to John's response.

"What do you mean, you've found the killer? Is he…Jesus, Sherlock…is he out there with you?" John replied, his voice getting shriller as the conversation went on.

"Yes, he's-" Sherlock said quickly, turning away from the cabbie to look up at the window, where he could see John hurrying down the stairs, followed by the rest of the policemen. Not a second later he felt the barrel of a gun pressed against his back, and before he could react, his free arm was twisted behind his back. Sherlock couldn't help but let out a cry of pain, and dropped the phone.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John cried from the other end, but Sherlock was being dragged nearer and nearer to the cab every second. He tried to fight back, but the cabbie leaned forward and hissed, "Keep fighting and I'll shoot."

He went limp almost immediately, but luckily John erupted from the house that very second. "Sherlock!" he cried, glaring at the cabbie. A few second later, he trained his gun on the cabbie. "Let him go…or I will kill you."

The cabbie chuckled, a light smile on his face as the rest of the policemen came out of the house, surrounding them. "Do you really think it matters how many of you there are? How many guns you have trained on me? Because I have a single gun trained on what you want, and that's worth more than all of your bullets."

John growled deeply in his throat. Lestrade walked up to him, placing his hand on John's arm. "John…" Lestrade murmured. "We have to think this through."

"No!" John cried, clicking the safety off of his pistol. "I can't let him take Sherlock away."

"Listen to me, mate," the cabbie replied, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. "You take one step further, you press the trigger on that gun, and I'll press mine. The bullet will enter his stomach. He'll die of extreme blood loss; nice and slow. He'll feel every single second of it."

John shook his head. "I'm a doctor. I can heal him."

"If you're a doctor, then you'll know what I'm saying is true. Even if you call the paramedics now, by the time they get here it'll be too late. Unless you've got a miniature hospital or something in your house, he'll die." The cabbie replied, a smirk growing on his face.

Sherlock had paled considerably as every second passed. "You alright?" John asked Sherlock, ignoring the glaring cabbie. "You can talk. He never said you couldn't talk."

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock whispered almost inaudibly.

John gazed over at him for a moment. "Sherlock…I don't know what to do."

"Let him take me." Sherlock offered. "I'll figure out how he kills them. Maybe he'll kill me before I can tell you. Maybe not. But the chances of me dying after going with him are considerably less than the chances of me dying right now if you pull that trigger."

John shook his head. "No…no. Stop it. Don't say that."

"John, he's right, just-" Lestrade began, but was cut off by a gun shot. A single gun shot.

John and Lestrade turned to see Sherlock wrestle out of the half dead cabbie's grasp. Red blossomed through the cabbie's shirt, yet he held onto his gun with one hand, using the other to try to stop the blood flow.

Donovan held a steaming gun, and Lestrade glared at her. "Donovan, that was completely uncalled for! I can't believe you-"

"Sherlock!" John screamed, and just before Sherlock reached him, Sherlock turned around to see the cabbie aiming the gun at him. There was a flash of light, a large bang, and a sudden stillness drenched the air as Sherlock fell to the floor.

"No, no!" John cried, holding him in his arms. Sherlock groaned, struggling against John's grip, but he held him steady. "Come on, Sherlock, just hold on for me, okay?"

Blood pooled around Sherlock's left shoulder, and John's brain formulated the thought that if Sherlock made it, they'd have matching wounds. He chuckled for a moment before the severity of the "if" caught up to him again.

He pressed hard onto the wound, and Sherlock gasped in pain, the world starting to grow black. "Stay awake for me, okay?" John asked, pressing his hand against the bullet hole. Sherlock gasps turned to loud moans after only a few seconds.

"Mmph…s-stop it…" Sherlock murmured, trying to wrench John's hands away from his shoulder. "Hurts…"

John nodded, taking in the situation. "I know it hurts, but we've got to stop you from bleeding to death, alright? I'm sorry…God, Sherlock, if I had been quicker…"

Sherlock shook his head. "No…no, no, you couldn't have prevented this. It was Donovan who shot the cabbie in the first place. Good shot, by the way." Sherlock directed the last bit of his speech at Donovan, nodding slightly at her.

His teeth began to chatter, and the world began to spin. He closed his eyes and groaned, while John protested.

"Sherlock, come on, open your eyes. You need to stay awake for me, okay? Just until the ambulance gets here. Then you can sleep. Just stay awake." John ordered, holding Sherlock's head straight as it wobbled slightly to the side.

Sherlock shook his head. "J…John…you've gotta…get the pills…" he stuttered, the words just barely loud enough for John to hear.

"Pills? What pills?" John replied, looking around to Lestrade for confirmation. Lestrade shrugged in reply.

"The ones…he makes them take…the p-poison…" Sherlock stammered, his teeth continuing to chatter. The cold from the ground seemed to be seeping into his skin, freezing him from the inside out.

"Where are they? In the cab? Sherlock, don't you dare go to sleep now!" John demanded, shaking Sherlock when his eyes drooped to a close. Sherlock let out another groan, his eyes fluttering back open.

"I-in his…p-pocket…s-saw him f-fingering it earlier…" Sherlock mumbled, his sentences choppy. John nodded to Lestrade as his men dug through the now-dead cabbie's jacket.

"Sherlock, are you cold?" John asked, holding his hand tightly, still pressing on his shoulder. "Sherlock, answer me."

Sherlock nodded, his whole body beginning to shudder. John started to feel it as well- Sherlock was getting cold, he was losing too much blood. At this rate, he'd be dead before the ambulance arrived.

John ripped off his jacket and laid it on the ground nearby. "Sherlock, I'm going to lift you onto this, okay?"

Sherlock nodded. John picked him up off of the ground as low as possible and lowered him onto the jacket. Sherlock gripped John's hands until his knuckles were white, and when he hit the ground he sighed in relief. The sigh was followed by another groan, and he tried to curl up into a ball, but John refused, straightening him out immediately.

"No, Sherlock. You need to stay straight so your blood can flow a little easier. If your blood vessels get any more constricted, it'll be harder for you to warm up and if you don't warm up…" John trailed off, stroking Sherlock's wrist. "Just hold on. Help's on the way."

The next few minutes were pure agony; every few seconds, Sherlock's eyes would close, and John would have to shake him to stop him from falling asleep, and the pain from the shaking would drive the need to go into a healing sleep even higher. As soon as he fell asleep, the chances for his survival would plummet. They were already low, John knew that. But he needed a reason to keep hoping.

Sherlock's eyes lowered, and his hand fell limp. John shook his head wildly. "No, no- Sherlock, stay awake, stay awake! Come on, wake up, you idiot!"

John tapped Sherlock's face, shook him wildly, screamed in his ear, but he wouldn't budge. "How about the case, Sherlock?" John cried. "How does the cabbie kill his victims- how does he make them take the poison? You know me, I'm an idiot, everyone is, so explain it to me. Come on, just open your eyes and tell me how he does it."

By the end, John's eyes were misty, and he held Sherlock in his arms. His pulse was dropping every second, he had to keep him warm. Lestrade had walked over and was trying to pull him away, but he wasn't- he wasn't-

He wasn't dead yet. John wouldn't let him die. This wasn't happening. This was not happening.

The ambulance arrived, and three paramedics erupted from the vehicle. They grabbed Sherlock and threw him violently on the gurney, a few drops of blood splattering onto the pavement. They drove away, but John kept staring at the blood, he just kept staring…

He had only just met him a few days ago. Just a few days, but Sherlock had already changed him for the better. He was a doctor. He couldn't let this happen; wouldn't let it happen. Sherlock wasn't dead yet.

Lestrade drove him to the hospital, but John was almost completely out of it by then. Time was irrelevant; all he could think of was Sherlock and that bloody wound. That bloody cabbie. The whole bloody world taking something away whenever he got it-

The car stopped, and the next thing John knew, he was waiting in a hospital hallway. Hours had passed, he could tell. Sherlock must be in a recovery by now, if he had made it.

John turned to Lestrade, who breathed a sigh of relief. "Are you okay? You've been completely out of it since he was taken. I had to almost carry you up the stairs." He chuckled lightly at the end of his sentence, but stopped as he saw John's face.

"How is he?" John inquired, his voice almost breaking as he half-dreaded the answer. Please don't let him be dead, please don't let him be dead…it was like a mantra that he repeated constantly in his head. Greg's voice brought him back.

"What?" John murmured, a confused tone taking over.

"I said, he went into recovery last night. He's conscious now, if you want to see him." Lestrade replied, a smug smile on his face.

"He's- bloody hell, Greg, did you say 'last night'?" John said, laughing strangely. He couldn't tell what he was feeling anymore, all he could think was that he was alive, he was alive…

"Yeah; you fell asleep in that chair. It's about nine in the morning now." Lestrade answered. "Are you sure you're alright?"

John nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I want to see him."

Lestrade beamed. "I knew you would." He stood and led John to a door. "In here."

John strode into the recovery room and witnessed the sight of Sherlock rolling his eyes at one of the nurses. "But I'm fine, don't you see? I just want to go see-"

Sherlock's rant was cut off when he saw John and Lestrade standing in the doorway. "Oh…" he murmured, and then waved the nurse away. "Nevermind."

John rolled his eyes and went to sit next to Sherlock. "You big git. What was that all about?"

"She wouldn't let me see you." Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms and wincing slightly at the use of his shoulder.

"You were shot! No person in their right mind would let you out of this room, let alone your bed." Lestrade argued, and Sherlock huffed, blowing a bit of his hair upwards for a minute.

An awkward silence came about as the topic of the shooting came up. "Look, I'm, ah…" John trailed off slightly before picking back up again. "I'm glad you're alright."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment in wonder. "You are…" He grinned for a moment before he fully took in John's state. "What the hell have you been doing all night?"

John looked down at himself; his hair was ruffled, there were bags underneath his eyes, his clothing was ripped, torn, and bloodied (Sherlock's blood, no doubt), and he overall looked like something a child would dress up as on Halloween.

He chuckled, and replied, "Waiting for you to wake up. I was expecting it to be longer; do you know how long it took me to recover from my shoulder wound?"

"About two days, three hours, and twenty five minutes. Possibly more." Sherlock replied cockily, and then added, "But you flat lined four times. I only flat lined twice. I had less to recover from."

John coughed, his eyes widening for a moment. "Y-you flat lined?" he stammered, turning to Greg for confirmation. He nodded.

Another silence.

"So, how long until I'm allowed back into the Yard?" Sherlock asked.

"A month, at least." Lestrade replied firmly.

"Oh, really? I think it'll be about a week." Sherlock countered.

"A week?" Lestrade scoffed. "Try three."

"Two." Sherlock compromised.

Lestrade sighed. "Fine. In two weeks, you can come back. No less."

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, I'll be sure to mark my calendar."

In exactly two weeks to the date, Sherlock arrived at the Yard in Lestrade's office with a smug smile on his face. "Told you."