The Game is On

Four Times

John fell to his knees, cringing slightly at the cold that gripped them from the snow, but he quickly forgot.

His mind was running a mile a minute, but his heartbeat seemed to slow and beat loud in his ears.

"Sher...Lock..." he choked out, grabbing the detective's shoulder and pulling him onto his back.

Blood was pouring out of his chest, soaking his white shirt in red. Sherlock's head lolled, his eyes rolling back in their sockets as he lost consciousness.

John pulled out his phone, fumbling and dropping it into the snow. All other noise was muffled, covered by a terrible ringing in the doctor's ears. He could still feel as if time moved in slow motion.

He picked up his phone and feebly dialed 911.

"991, please state your emergency."

"My friend he's...He's been shot...Help..."

Within minutes, ambulances and police cars swarmed the area. Paramedics came, shoving John out of the way to get Sherlock in a stretcher.

"Names?"

"John and Sherlock Holmes."

The paramedic mumbled something under his breath, probably along the lines of "Again?"

"John!" Lestrade came bounding up to the doctor, who still sat kneeling in the snow, "What the bloody hell happened?!"

"Sebastian shot him," John felt tears sting his eyes, "He tried to shoot me but Sherlock saved my life he...He took the bullet..."

Lestrade looked scared and sorry, and he helped John to his feet, "Here, we'll take you to the hospital."

Lestrade drove John to St. Bart's. During the ride, John stared out the window. A couple times, Lestrade maybe tried to say something, but John wasn't listening. All he could think about was the last thing he had said to Sherlock...He'd called him a freak.

He waited almost two hours in the bench outside a hospital room. He was on the 2nd floor, and Sherlock was being operated on in room 209.

Finally a nurse came silently out of the room. She looked at John with a straight face, as doctors always do.

"Well?" John managed to choke out, standing up.

"We're sorry, but..." the nurse looked at her feet, "He lost too much blood."

Whatever else she said, John didn't hear. He'd spent the past hour trying to convince himself it'd be okay, all for nothing. When he'd jumped off the building, John was a mess for two years. Now what would he do? He can't raise two girls by himself, not in his grieving state! But he can't just give them away!

As he argued with himself, time seemed to slow again. The ringing returned to his ears. He got up, pushing the nurse away, numbly making it to room 209. Doctors were scattered about, pulling off their gloves and putting things away. One gave him a pat on the shoulder as he passed by.

John nearly collapsed in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. His breathing was shallow and his heart was racing. All he could hear was the irritating, continuous note of the monitor, which bore a straight red line.

John, finally regaining composure, grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand. Their gold rings touched, making an almost inaudible clinking noise. This time, he would not come back. This time he was really gone, and nothing John could ever do would change that.

"Daddy John?" A tiny voice squeaked in the doorway.

John turned to see the girls-- His girls-- Standing in the door frame. Mrs. Hudson stood behind them, completely flustered. Clearly they'd given her a handful.