Haunted by the Past || Johnlock ✔

16. Not Again!

"I'm no expert, brother dear, but maybe for the bleeding to stop?" remarked an imaginary Mycroft, and Sherlock could almost hear him rolling his eyes. He had to admit that there might be something to it, but these kinds of things don't happen because you wish for them...

Unlike him, John was nowhere near as calm. "That you're o—Christ, how can you even say that?! She almost stabbed you through and through!" he scolded him.

"Yes, al-almost, that's the i-important word..." Sherlock joked, but his voice stumbled. He tried to keep John and himself calm. Panic would get them nowhere.

He flinched when John's "God, you're impossible" cut off the stream of his thoughts. A long, pained groan escaped his mouth, but he almost hadn't heard it through the deafening buzz in his ears.

John, on the other hand, heard him very well. His face crumpled into a troubled mask, and he gently laid his hand on Sherlock's chest, pushing him back to the horizontal position.

"Try to keep still. I'll call for help!"

Sherlock allowed himself to be pressed to the ground and watched his friend from behind his heavy lids.

"The right trouser pocket," he breathed out. Knowing John, he was certainly going to fumble frantically for his phone in all the pockets he possesses.

John obeyed, fished out the phone from the recommended pocket, and dialled the number.

"Hello, Greg. Immediately take your team and the ambulance and come to the address I'll send you... Sorry, I've got no time to explain... We've captured the killer, more or less, but Sherlock's injured. I have to take care of him... Come asap, please!"

With that, he hung up, tucked the phone in his trousers, and forced himself to face the ugly reality, attending to the needs of the injured detective.

"Sherlock?"

Despite gasping for air as an athlete after a long race, he felt like he was drowning—the air flowed into his lungs in tiny sips. A wave of panic billowed in his chest, facilitating the passage of hypovolemic shock.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Stay with me!"

Sherlock drew another breath to answer, but couldn't utter a single word. It felt as if someone pressed their palms on both sides of his head and covered his ears with all their might. His entire body ached as if someone were jabbing pins into his flesh; his forehead sparkled with cold sweat, and the sensation in his limbs began to fade.

Each laboured inhale cost him a burning sting in his belly, and more and more blood spurted out of the wound. Its metallic smell prickled in his nose so piercingly that his stomach churned. A sour taste exploded in his mouth, and he knew something was wrong.

He barely pushed John away before he curled to his side and began to retch. His stomach responded immediately. A stream of bright red liquid spilt out of his mouth, staining the linoleum and his clothing.

His temples throbbed in pain so sharp he was afraid his head would burst, and tears of pain rolled down his cheeks.

Chills climbed his now almost-numb limbs, spreading from his fingertips to the core of his body. He shook uncontrollably, and goosebumps sprouted on his skin.

His hair stuck to his wet forehead and clammy cheeks, and the sweat poured down his temples in thin rivulets. He was taking shallow, irregular breaths, trying to ignore the piercing pain in his right hypochondriac region each breath earned him. Losing the vitalizing liquid made his head spin. Black flecks resembling tiny confetti danced before his eyes.

Sherlock guessed he had ten minutes at most before he lost consciousness.

But now it was far too late to cry over the spilt milk. Or blood, to be precise. The blood that was relentlessly filling his abdominal cavity, taking his life little by little. And there was nothing he could do about it except wait for medical help.