A Desperate, Painful Kind of Love

5

There was a shout of, "John!" from Mycroft and John swerved his head to see a man lift Sherlock out of the remains and lay him out on the ground.

Mycroft was still calling out to Sherlock, and Sherlock still wasn't answering.

It was gruesome, and John shook his head. Those thoughts had no place here, not right now. He had to keep his head in the here and now. That was what would give Sherlock the best chance, not John assuming he was already gone. But man, was that hard. He rushed forwards and knelt by Sherlock's side, determined to bring life back into those lifeless grey eyes if it was the last thing he did. And he struggled when he felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him away. No, no, he wouldn't leave, not Sherlock, he needed him, he could help him!

He stared at curls soaked with blood as men and women placed his friends limp body into a medical vehicle and drove away.

Everyone had been on edge, the tension in the room replacing the air. No one was able to reach Sherlock, to check his vitals, to see if he was okay, until the doctors, the professionals were done, and every second that ticked by had the tension weigh down that much more on John's chest.

The medical staff swarmed Sherlock and John was reluctant to get out of the way, because Sherlock, dear God, the man was covered in freshly formed bruises and cuts littered every inch of him. There were burns where John had seen the blackened cloth of his ruined suit, running along indefinite patterns along his best friends body.

The doctors shoved past him with machines for finding a pulse and checking his heart and looking for internal damage. They were ushered out, because there wasn't any point in them being there, they weren't doing any good, and they were in the way. Except for him, he got to stay; he was a doctor.