Sherliam Oneshots

I Would Eat Lead For You

Summary: A mission in America goes awry and someone gets hurt

(Cw: blood, but it's nothing gory)

BANG!

The sound of a gunshot echoed through William’s head. His one good eye unfocused.

He thought he had been shot, but the pain never came. 

“This will be a simple mission,” Billy had said “In and out.”

But what had once been a simple mission soon became a full-on shoot-out.

Once William’s eye refocused, he saw Sherlock in front of him, now clutching the left side of his abdomen. Ah, so Sherlock had taken a bullet for him.

William had no time to process this information; Sherlock’s shooter was already reloading his gun, getting ready to shoot William, for real this time.

William reacted quickly to the gunman’s actions and reached for the gun in Sherlock’s holster, aiming it at their pursuer. He shot at the shooter’s right shoulder and then his left, making him drop his weapon and scream in pain.

That should give them a few minutes to escape the area. 

William slung Sherlock’s right arm over his shoulder and hooked his left arm around Sherlock’s waist, pressing his hand on Sherlock's bullet wound to prevent it from bleeding any more. 

Sherlock hissed in pain, but still said nothing.

William led them through numerous alleyways, frequently looking back to make sure that they hadn’t been followed. Once he was satisfied that no one would be able to find them, he set Sherlock down on the ground, leaning him against a building’s wall.

“Do you not have any self-preservation!?” William spat out and crouched down to get a better look at his partner’s wound.

“Says the man who threw himself off a bridge tower.” Sherlock quipped, his voice sounding raspy

“Sherlock.”

“Sorry…”

William unbuttoned Sherlock’s waistcoat. Blood had already seeped through Sherlock’s dress shirt,  an unsightly red stain on the white cloth.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to have your way with me,” Sherlock teased as William slid both his waistcoat and shirt off his shoulders and laughed, his laughs soon turning into a coughing fit.

“This isn’t the time for your quick-witted remarks,” William scolded Sherlock, who only pouted.

Without proper medical supplies, there was no way for William to remove Sherlock’s bullet. Or rather, there was no way to take the bullet out without infecting Sherlock’s wound in the process. The best cause of action would be to clean the wound and wrap it up, then try to find the nearest hospital.

“Do you have a flask on you?” he asked. Sherlock nodded and reached into one of his pockets. 

Sherlock handed his metal flask to him; William unscrewed the cap and sniffed the contents.

“It’s water.” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Just checking,”

William pulled a tissue from his breast pocket and dabbed some water on it. He stopped right before he was about to clean the wound and gave Sherlock a worried glance.

“This will hurt,” William said and held out his other hand for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock entwined their fingers and gave William a reassuring nod, giving him the ‘go ahead’.