Natural (vamplock)

Chapter 5: Numb (John Watson)

(descriptions of a body, blood, main character death, mentions of vomit/vomiting)

Hearing my friends shout, I raced in the direction it had come from, my legs still burning from the night's excretion. Panting, I ran down narrow streets, skidding past corners, until I hit a dead end. With nowhere to run, I stopped and looked around, only to find my friend sprawled on his back, pale, bloody, and lifeless.

"Sherlock!" I gasped, sprinting to his side and falling to my knees. I remember frantic fingers searching for a pulse, a hint of breath, anything to tell me that my detective was still alive. A pain filled, half-suppressed sob came from the body before me, squeezing my heart as I let out a sob of my own.

He was alive.

"Sherlock? Sherlock-. please, stay with me!" I ordered, gently moving my friend's head to the left to inspect his injuries. Dr. John was on the case now.

There was an obvious bite mark on his neck, oozing dark red blood. If it were under different circumstances, I would have made a joke along the lines of not knowing Sherlock was warm blooded, but seeing as my best friend was currently bleeding to death in a desolate alleyway, this was not the time.

The first two buttons of Sherlock's forest green shirt had been torn off completely and his chest was slick with blood. So much blood. His throat -oh gosh, his throat- was covered in the deep red substance. From what I could deduce from this scene, as a doctor, and with the skills the detective had been trying to teach me, Sherlock had been attacked and his attacker had almost ripped his throat out. His wrists were severely lacerated as well- it could very well be classified as a suicide attempt if not for the obvious signs of a slight struggle, including the dried blood under his perfectly manicured fingernails.

"J-john..?" Sherlock's voice was weak and hoarse, the blood soaking his skin bubbling slightly with every shaky breath. Not only was my friend dying of blood loss from many lacerations and a slit throat, but now he couldn't even breathe properly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm here." I told him. His body relaxed as his gaze focused on me.

"John?" I gave a small, tight-lipped smile, barely holding on to myself as I watched Sherlock's body convulse into a weak cough, the detective fighting with every breath. "John, I don't- I don't feel so-"

I cut him off before he could finish. "Don't you start, Sherlock Holmes. You remember how much we cried during that movie."

Sherlock chuckled, blinking slowly. "I remember. Jus' wanted to, to make you smile."

I rolled my eyes, but gave in and offered a watery smile. "Git."

The detective gave a wheezy laugh and went silent. If it weren't for his agonizingly slow, labored breathing, I would've mistaken him for dead.

"John, it hurts." He finally said.

"What hurts?" I asked, finally coming to my senses and fumbling for my mobile, dialing 999 and soon as I was able to steady my hands.

"Everything. It all hurts. But mos'ly my neck. That 'urts too." He mumbled, grimacing as the words left his mouth. "She 'urt me, John. She 'urt me bad."

"Who hurt you?" John asked, before explaining the situation to the kind-sounding woman who had answered.

"Surena. She 'urt me. Wi' her mouth on my kneck. It 'urt." Sherlock slurred, his eyes slipping shut.

"Okay. That's good. No, don't close your eyes! Stay awake, Sherlock!"

Sherlock blinked warily. "She 'ad bl'ck hair... an green eyes. She took my blood, John. She, she took my blood! Wh'res my blood!"