I Won't Leave You- A Sherlock Fanfiction

Chapter Two- Milk Shopping

        Sherlock told the cabbie the address of the grocery store and waited for them to arrive. As they drove through London, Sherlock gazed out the window at all of the people. People in cars, people walking on the sidewalks, people shopping in stores or eating breakfast in their houses. So many people. How could they all fit into such a small world?
        His deep thoughts were interrupted when the cabbie stopped at the grocery store a few minutes later. "That'll be 5.34 pounds, sir."
        "Alright." Sherlock paid the man and hopped out. The store loomed before him intimidatingly. Taking a deep breath, he pulled his trench coat tighter around himself and strolled through the automatic doors. There was a stack of shopping baskets by the door, and he absentmindedly picked one up. Looking up, he exhaled slowly. He'd never had to do his own shopping before. The rows and rows of food were a tad overwhelming. How did John manage to do this every month? Where was the milk, anyway? He suddenly realized that there were big signs above the aisles that stated what was in them.
        He let out a breath of relief when he saw the word 'milk' on a sign labeled 'dairy'. He walked what he hopped looked like casually towards the said aisle. It was all the way at the end of the grocery store, and he took his time. As he walked, he gazed at the many other foods on the shelves. As he passed the spice aisle, he noted that there was a spice that was £13 for one tiny bottle. He made an expression of disgust. Who would buy some shriveled-up leaves for £13?
        At last, he reached the dairy aisle. It was much bigger than he expected. Rows and rows of milk, cream, half-and-half, yogurt, and other dairy products. Which one did they usually have? He moved over towards the milk. Skim, one-percent, two-percent, or whole? What was the difference between them? Why were there so many? And there were a lot of different brands, too. He seemed to remember the carton having green on it. His heart sank. Most of the cartons had green on them. Which one was it? John would know.
        He pulled out his phone and sent a text.

What kind of milk do we use? -SH

What do you mean? -JW

There are twenty-eight types of milk here. -SH

We use whole milk. Get whatever's cheapest. -JW

        That cleared things up. Sherlock scanned the rows for whole milk. He found six types and found that the cheapest one was £3.75. He picked it up and placed it in the basket he had picked up at the door. Satisfied, he turned around and began walking back towards the front of the store.
        He walked slowly, memorizing the layout of the place, in case he had to come back in the future.
        His slow pace must have made it seem as if he was looking for something, since a clerk, clad in the store's uniform, walked up to him.
        "Do you need any help finding something, sir?"
        Sherlock looked at the young man quizzically. "No. If I needed something, I would have asked you." Unused to talking with strangers, he walked away, leaving the slightly put-off-looking clerk alone in the middle of the aisle.
        At last, he reached the checkout area. He decided against the self-checkout, as he had heard from John that it was difficult to use. Instead, he walked up to the manned checkout counter and placed the milk on the conveyor belt. The girl behind the counter swiped it and printed the receipt. She smiled flirtatiously at him and winked. Mildly confused, he put the milk in a plastic bag, paid, and exited the store.
        He stood outside for a while before a cab came by. He got in.
        "221B Baker Street."
        The cabbie nodded and started driving. As they moved through the city, it began to rain, the droplets hitting the window and creating glassy orbs. By the time he got back to Baker Street, it was pouring. Despite the distance from the street to the door only being a couple meters, he was soaked when he entered the flat. Carrying the milk, he went up the seventeen stairs into the flat.
        Something wasn't right. He could feel it as soon as he put his hand on the doorknob. Tentatively, he opened the door and stepped inside.
        "Sherlock...?" John's voice came from the couch. Sherlock turned his gaze to him. Oh my god. John was covered in blood, his beige jumper stained red around the middle.
        Sherlock ran over to him, dropping the milk on the floor by the door. "Wha- what happened?" He looked around frantically to see if the attacker was still present. "Were you shot? Stabbed? What do I do? I'm not a doctor!" His normally cool demeanor was breaking, and the worry and panic were invading his thoughts, making it hard to think logically.
        "Stabbed," managed John, his face contorted in pain. "Bandages."
        "Right." Sherlock looked around. Bandages. Where do we keep bandages? Giving up, he ran to his room, grabbed the sheet, and ripped it up as he ran back. He wrapped the ripped cloth around John's stomach, gently pulling up the jumper as he did so. "Now what?"
        "Call...ambulance." John gasped in pain.
        Sherlock fumbled for his phone, punching in 999. It was a moment before someone answered.
        "Please state the nature of the emergency." ((Had to put a star trek reference in there somewhere. Too bad I couldn't restrict it to 'medical emergency'))
        "Hello, yes, my friend's been stabbed at 221b Baker Street. He needs an ambulance right now."
        "On their way. Thank you for calling." The operator hung up.
        Eight minutes was the average time for a London ambulance to arrive. "Stay alive, John. Eight minutes. Don't leave me, John." Sherlock gripped his friend's hand, slightly shocked by how cold it was already.
        "I won't...leave...you," John whispered. He gripped Sherlock's hand back. "You...might want...to apply...pressure..."
        Sherlock jumped to comply. Anything to keep his only friend alive. Lacing his fingers together, he pressed down on the wound. John clenched his teeth together against the pain. Seeing the expression, Sherlock lightened the pressure.
        "No. Keep pressing." There were tears in John's eyes, and it broke Sherlock's heart to see them.
        The blood was still pouring out of the wound, despite the bandages and Sherlock's hands. "It's not working. We need to try something else." Panic had crept into the detective's voice, making it shake.
        "Cauterise it," huffed John. "No other options."
        "What?" Through the fear, Sherlock wasn't thinking straight.
        "Seal it with heat," John said irritably.
        "Right. Cauterisation." Standing, Sherlock looked around. He ran into the kitchen, removed the metal thing from one of the circles on the stove ((for lack of a better noun)) and turned the heat up as high as he could. He found a broad knife, and, with shaking fingers, stuck it into the flame until it glowed red-hot.
        When sufficiently hot, he ran back to John. He hovered for a moment before realizing you were supposed to give people something to bite down on. Looking around, he grabbed the pillow with the British flag on it off of the armchair and stuck it in John's mouth. Deftly, he slipped the hot knife under the bandages.
        John made a loud whimpering sound that tugged at Sherlock's heartstrings. Still, he held the knife there until blood stopped pouring out of the wound.
        As soon as the wound was sealed, Sherlock pulled the knife away and threw it onto the floor. "Are you alright, John?"
        John took the pillow out of his mouth and nodded. "It hurts, but I don't think I'm going to die anymore."
        Sherlock sat down, exhausted after the adrenalin. "Good. Good." He suddenly had the urge to break down in tears. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly to keep himself from sobbing. The two men waited in silence for a while until the sound of sirens could be heard.
        A man and a woman, both clad in hospital uniforms rushed into the room. "Who was stabbed?" The woman demanded. Sherlock pointed at John. "I've already cauterised the wound with a hot knife, but he still requires medical attention."
        The man whistled in awe. "In such a short time, you did that?"
        "Yes. Now, please, help him."
        The rest of the medteam came up with a stretcher. They picked John up carefully and placed him on it. Sherlock followed them out the door, staying near John to catch him if he fell.
        The ambulance was waiting outside. Sherlock tried to follow John into the ambulance, but he was stopped by one of the medteam.
        "Sorry, sir. No one else is allowed in the ambulance." Sherlock watched forlornly as the doors off the ambulance closed, cutting John from sight.
        "Fine. I'll follow in a cab."
        The other man shrugged. "Suit yourself." He opened the door and slipped through it, closing it behind him with a clang. The ambulance drove away, its siren wailing.