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"Where are you going?"
"Out. I need some air." That was the last thing said between the two flatmates before John left Baker Street, hastily throwing on his jacket, passing their landlady on his way down the stairs. Once he reached the door, he opened it in a state of anger, shutting it behind him with a temper. He strolled across the street, unaware of his flatmates face peering through the window.
Despite his usual cool temperament towards Sherlock, his day was stressful enough, without his arrogant flatmate parading around, firing bullets into their wall. He felt it best to leave the flat before their little domestic turned into something large.
John had decided to head out to Sarah's, favouring a walk rather than hailing a cab. The two had been going strong, -he hadn't the chance to bed her, yet, that would come at a later time- she knew enough about Sherlock that she welcomed John to her flat whenever he felt the need for it.
He turned the corner, past one of the many buildings. He was glad for the slight breeze, it calmed him, to say the least. He wasn't bothered by it, as he never usually was. Anything was better than the heat from Afghanistan.
He fingered his phone in his pocket, fidgeting with the volume buttons, something that became a habit of his. He had no idea why, it was something that happened after Afghanistan. He didn't feel comfortable, staying still at all times, so having his fingers moving helped him loads. Yet, he only resorted to that comfort when he wasn't with Sherlock. Or if the room was in silence. Either or, but the man allowed John to go without fidgeting with something. Because, whatever it was that he did, it always kept his mind off things.
He waited for a cab to pass before crossing the street. He continued walking when out of the corner of his left eye, he saw a flash reflected off one of the parked cars. It was followed with a roar of noise, that was muffled by the amount of buildings between the explosion and John's ears. He turned immediately, and cursed loudly. His head flooded with memories from war, from Afghanistan, and he fought for control over his own body. His own mind. He shook his head repeatedly, pressing his fingers to his temples. No. I'm not in Afghanistan. I'm back home, in London. In the safety of London. Away from the war. That little mantra continued in his thoughts for a little longer, as he continued to try to convince his rushing mind that he wasn't in the war and was in London.
He pressed harder, his fingers burning with the amount of pressure he was giving to his head. With one more shake of his head, he opened his eyes. When did he close them? Crossing the street once more, he took off in the general direction of the explosion. As he got nearer and nearer, his heart began to sink. Lower and lower. Was it close to Baker Street? Was the explosion in Baker Street? He fought the impulse to say 'What did you do now, Sherlock,' outloud. He turned the corner, and he felt his heart sink into his gut.
221B Baker Street wasn't there.
It was demolished. Completely gone. The wall had turned to rubble, upon the floor that managed to stay intact. The air was filled with smoke, ash, pieces of paper that slowly descended from the sky towards the ground. Cars were overturned and on fire, bricks were scattered along the ground, covered with dust. Practically the whole of Baker Street was destroyed.
He immediately pushed through the growing crowd of people, ignoring the gasps and murmured words. He vaguely heard the cry of his landlady, who was one of the people amongst the crowd. At least she was okay. He'd remember to check up on her later.
He ran up to 221B, to where the door would have been. It lay on the ground, several feet beside the frame. He didn't care about the scrapes and cuts his hands were bound to have when he began pushing aside pieces of rubble to reach the hallway. He didn't care that the floor above him threatened to cave in and crush him below it. He didn't care about the stairs, how they creaked and groaned louder than they had, no longer than five minutes ago. What had happened in those five minutes? He also didn't care about the sirens that blared in the background, and the shouts of those few people that tried to keep him away from the flat. All he cared about, was finding Sherlock. He raced up the stairs, calling out his friend's name. Once. Twice. Three times. Each louder than the other. Was he already outside, or was he in the destroyed building?
He reached the living room. What was left of it, at least. Piles and piles of rubble, rubble that once was the wall were cluttered across the floor. Bookcases were toppled over, chairs on their backsides. But none of that mattered. What mattered most was the pale hand he saw, peeking out from underneath the debris.
"Sherlock!" He cried, running over. He frantically began removing the rubble on top of his friend, angry that there was so much of it. He heard a groan, low and quiet, that belonged to the detective.
"J'hn?" he heard, a weak whisper above the loud sirens that now overtook the quiet night.
"Yes, yes its me." He stated firmly. He continued to remove the debris off his friend, until he could see his face. His damaged face. Bleeding, bruised, swollen. His eyes were shut, and John nearly cried out. God. He thought. A minute later, loud footsteps carried throughout the destroyed flat.
"Sherlock? John?" A deep voice yelled. John immediately recognized it as Lestrade. He must've rushed over once he heard about Baker Street. The D.I. ran through the living room door, looking down at John.
"Help me get this bloody stuff off him." John ordered, glancing up at the older man beside him. Lestrade looked down to the left, and saw Sherlock. His eyes widened, and he quickly nodded his head, bending down the help the doctor. The two finally managed to remove everything off off the detective, who still had his eyes clamped shut, his face contorted in pain. Lestrade grabbed his handheld transceiver, stepping away from John who was currently assessing Sherlock. John felt for a pulse, and it was weak. It wouldn't be long before Sherlock went into shock. His breathing was ragged and definitely irregular. There wasn't any time to fetch John's mediocre first aid kit, he didn't have anything that would remotely help their situation.
"I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street, now." Lestrade said. He knew there wasn't one on the site at the moment, as it was only him and a few police members in Baker Street at the moment.
'On their way." A female spoke through the other end, before Lestrade cut off the connection. He turned back to John and Sherlock, hovering above the two, ready to help. Sherlock's shirt was torn open, and John was currently applying pressure to his bleeding stomach. The younger man whimpered helplessly, weakly trying to bat away John's hand. The doctor began voicing Sherlock's injuries.
"Two -no, three- broken ribs, obvious large wound on stomach, patellar- Sherlock, stop. I need to stop the bleeding." John used his free hand to carefully brace Sherlock's hand on the floor. Sherlock rolled his eyes, grimacing.
"'M fine." He said, before breaking out into heavy coughs. John looked him in the eye. Lestrade moved over to where the wall once was, looking out into the street. He could hear the sirens, and he could only wish for them to arrive sooner.
"No you aren't. Now, stopping being stubborn, you arse." He cleared his throat, pressing down harder on Sherlock's stomach. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. His chest was heaving, and he was gasping for air. "No, no. Don't close your eyes. Keep them open, Sherlock." John's hand went to Sherlock's wrist, not feeling the same weak, but rapid pulse he felt not two minutes ago. He examined Sherlock quickly. No rise of his chest, no inhale or exhale. He wasn't breathing.
"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John yelled. He looked up quickly. "Where is that bloody ambulance!" He yelled at Lestrade, before focusing his attention on the dying man beneath him. He placed his hands on his sternum, applying quick, heavy pressure. He started counting in his head.
One, two, three, four, five, six,
Come on, Sherlock,
seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen,
"Breathe, you bastard!" John yelled, tears threatening to spill from his eyes, "Breathe!"
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two,
"Come on!"
Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.
"God dammit." He pinched Sherlock's nostrils with his hand, placing his mouth on Sherlock's.
He exhaled, once, twice, before beginning chest compressions again, wishing, hoping, that the man below him would just breathe. He breathed once again, twice, before painfully switching to the compressions, eyesight blurred by unshed tears as he pushed down on his best friend's chest, harder and harder. He looked down at his pale face, too bloody pale, hoping for those beautiful eyes of his to just open. Dammit, if Sherlock dies on him, dies, and he's switching to placing his mouth on Sherlock's, back to compressions, putting all of his anger at Sherlock, this beautiful, arrogant, bloody amazing man who's just dying on him, into pumping his chest, eyes still blurred, ears deaf to Lestrade's call to him about something involving an ambulance, getting to the number of eighteen and then nineteen in his head when he hears the wonderful sounds of inhaling underneath him, and he nearly cries out in joy, reveling in the sight of Sherlock's beautiful eyes flickering open, breathy and painful inhales, beginning to return to consciousness.
He sees, feels Sherlock's winces, hears his ragged breathing once more, and he's suddenly pulled away as thundering footsteps make their way up the stairs, paramedics rushing over to the unmoving but breathing body of Sherlock Holmes, and John lets the tears fall down his cheeks, watching the two men load Sherlock onto a stretcher, placing a oxygen mask on his beautiful but still pale face, and bringing him downstairs with haste. He vaguely remembers Lestrade pushing him gently but firmly towards the stairs, informing him that he'll be over at the hospital soon, telling him to go get into that bloody ambulance with the bloody Sherlock Holmes.
And he does.