Rules on the Fridge [A BBC Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction] (Completed)

Shine On The One I Love

TRIGGER WARNING: Minor Graphic Depiction of Violence

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♪ Wait for the Man That Would do Anything to be Your Everything ♪

Sirens are made to get your attention, to warn you they're coming, to show authority. The lights do the same – they double as a team. You can multiply and divide how many you have, and oh did Lestrade multiply.

Tracking Sherlock's phone wasn't easy as it'd been bugged and the location bounced around, but it bounced between one location and many, so they took a shot. That location was about three miles off, as Sherlock's phone was taken from him. They found it and had a search party put together, and then another, and then another, and they all went frantically searching for the man.

John was with Lestrade, calling Sherlock's name with the mob. His was much more frequent and panicked, as he'd let him go off alone on the day the murder was to happen. He didn't take the hints – the last few days, sight-seeing, going to the pub, eating. Sherlock was preparing to die.

John's heart raced – he couldn't do this again. He couldn't watch someone die because of him again. It was too hard. He couldn't lose another one – not him, not now. God, please, not now.

They approached a large building that was damaged and defiled, and John went running. Lestrade ordered his men to run in first, but John was faster. His feet carried him through the mud and under the roof of the building. "Sherlock!" He yelled, walking quickly throughout the building. "Sherlock, where are you?" He howled, his voice cracking.

Then he saw him. "Oh my God." He whispered to himself, running to the figure on the ground, just a pile of trench coat and blood. Not again. "Sherlock, Sherlock, look at me." He said, taking his pulse. His heart was beating, but slowly, and his breathing was fast and shallow. His eyes hardly opened upon hearing his name. Not Again.

"John," He rasped, coughed, and his eyes closed. Blood was running down his front, his arms, his legs – it was everywhere. Sherlock's' breathing decreased in speed until it was hardly a breath a minute. Other medics came in and policemen searched the area for the killer, nothing turning up. Not a single piece of evidence Not a footprint, a drop of blood; nothing. God, please, not again.

"Sherlock, Sherlock stay with me here, you're going to be fine." He said, having found where the wound was and helped the other doctor in trying to stop the bleeding. He was holding bandages to his friend's chest, putting immense pressure on it. "You're going to be fine, look at me, keep your eyes open." He said, to which he got no response. They hooked him up to a heart monitor, which only reported uneven heartbeats. They put an oxygen mask on him, getting him on a stretcher and carrying him out.

♫ ♫ ♫

John went with on the helicopter to the hospital. He stood in the corner of the room as surgeons worked on Sherlock for what seemed like days – eventually they kicked him out, saying he should get some rest. He couldn't rest. He'd just found his friend drenched in blood again, but this time he was almost murdered – he was being pumped full of drugs and blood and oxygen to keep him going, and John was just waiting for the moment the beeping would stop.

The heart monitor was unsteady – it'd speed up, then drop off. Speed up, drop off. He was allowed into his room when they were done. He went in to see his best friend with a tube down his throat and IVs in his arm. Blood on one, morphine on the other as he guessed. He didn't look at that for long. He sat in his chair, his heart having sunk to the bottom of his ribcage.

"I'm so sorry." He said, feeling his nose tickle as his eyes stung. "I'm so sorry I couldn't..." His voice broke. He leaned forward, staring at the white tile floor of the hospital. "I couldn't keep you safe." He said, his words airy and hoarse. "From yourself. And that's on me." He breathed, then got up to stand by the door, pinching his nose, but never leaving the room. People told him to leave to get some proper sleep, but he wouldn't. They told him visiting hours were over and had Mycroft allow it. He sat in the chair next to the hospital bed, the sound of the heart monitor being all that told him this was reality. Because no way in hell would he dream up such an dishevelling sound for this long.