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"Watson!"
Holmes falls to his knees beside the felled Watson, seeing with disbelieving eyes the spreading scarlet stain on Watson's white shirt. He cannot see the wound itself -Watson is pressing one palm firmly against it to staunch the bleeding- but knows that gunshots to the abdomen are almost always fatal.
He pulls Watson into his arms; Watson gasps, his complexion already deathly pale, and the blood spreads in a new direction. Holmes pulls disjointedly at his cravat, tearing it from his neck and stuffing it beneath Watson's hand to help put pressure on the wound. Watson's hand reacts to this gift, automatically wadding it and arranging it where it will do the most good.
"Watson," Holmes says brokenly, patting Watson's cheek in hopes the dear man would open his eyes. When he does, Holmes almost wishes he'd kept them shut, the pain and anguish in Watson's eyes nearly too much for his agonized mind to bear. "Watson, what can I do?"
"Hospital," Watson gasps. "Try to slow the bleeding."
Holmes reluctantly moves his hand from Watson's cheek to cover Watson's hand, pressing against it firmly and trying not to notice how the blood is seeping between Watson's fingers.
"Holmes, I might-"
"You won't die, Watson."
Watson spares him a brief, if unconvincing, smile. "Even you can't stop death," he says fondly.
Whatever it is that had been cracking within him broke completely. "You don't understand," Holmes insists, distantly hearing the shouts and running steps that indicate the Yard's arrival. "I can't lose you. I love you."
How long he had been waiting for the right moment to say those words! And now . . . now . . . how could he have been so foolish as to think he had all the time in the world?
Watson's other hand lifts and brushes away the tears Holmes didn't notice he was shedding. His face is serene, even as his hand goes limp beneath Holmes' and his eyes drift closed.
A hand on Holmes' shoulder, and someone is lifting Watson from his embrace, though he insists on holding Watson's hand, holding it against the still-bleeding wound, as they rush out to a waiting vehicle. Watson's heart continues to beat, weakly, sluggishly, as the horses are whipped into motion. Holmes desperately hopes and prays he will not lose his Watson just yet.