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Someone had once told John that you regret the things in life that you don't do. John had never had much reason to think about that until the day he had been shot. Even then, it had only passed through his mind for a brief instant before he had been overwhelmed by the fire in his shoulder and the need to survive. But now, as he lay in a pool of his own spreading blood, the phrase passed through John's mind once again. And, he though sadly as he lay there dying, it was utterly true.
He regretted the lives he never had the chance to save, he regretted that he wouldn't be able to put his killer behind bars, he regretted not making more of an effort to patch things up with Harry.
But most of all, John regretted never telling Sherlock that he loved him. That one hurt the most, more than any gunshot wound or knife ever could.
He'd had so many chances, so many nights spent quietly in front of the television, but not onc had he brought it up. He always thought that he'd just wait for another day, the time wasn't quite right yet. After all, the days he spent with Sherlock were surely endless.
There would always be another case for them to solve, another experiment in the kitchen, another yelling match that would end with him leaving the flat in a huff. Those things never changed.
Except now, apparently, they did. Now John would never have those moments with Sherlock, would never see his best friend's face again, would never be able to listen to his deep, soothing voice or hear him compose a new song on his violin, would never be able to tell Sherlock how he felt.
John didn't even feel bad for himself at this realization, he couldn't muster up the pity. Instead, John felt bad for Sherlock. By not expressing his feelings, he had denied Sherlock of his chance to be human.
For John knew, without a doubt, that Sherlock had loved him, even if Sherlock didn't know it himself. He had just been too much of a coward to admit his feelings out loud, knowing that the moment he did so they would become undeniably real.
So as John lay dying, he regretted not giving Sherlock the chance to live. The regret only faded once John's world had turned black.
~ - ~ - ~ - ~
Sherlock had left John behing with one of the criminals they were chasing as he continued his pursuit of the second. He wasn't worried for John's safety: he knew the man was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Even if John had needed assistance (and that idea was too ridiculous to even waste time pondering) Lestrade wasn't far behind. So Sherlock continued his single minded chase, not knowing that the criminal John was chasing had a knife and that John had forgotten to take his gun along to the crime scene.
~ - ~ - ~ - ~
Lestrade huffed out a sigh. It was just like Sherlock to go running off after the criminal without giving him a chance to work out who they were after. And of course, John went chasing after him. Like children, really. And that left him to follow, hoping like hell that neither of them would get hurt.
As he ran through the streets trying to figure out which way the lunatics had gone, he heard a wheezing coming from the alley to his left. Turning the corner, he was met with the sight of John Watson lying in a pool of blood, gaping wound in his side visible. He cursed under his breath while pulling out his phone and dialling 999 to get an ambulance. Then he raced over to the prone form on the ground and pressed on the wound, silently praying that he wasn't too late to save the man.
~ - ~ - ~ - ~
Sherlock had tackled the criminal when his phone rang from his pocket. Exasperated, he answered it.
"This better be important Lestrade, I'm a but busy holding down your criminal."
'Sherlock, you need to get to St. Bart's as soon as you can. John's been stabbed."
Sherlock's life was narrowed down to that point in time. It wasn't possible. John wouldn't get hurt, he couldn't let John get hurt. He tied the criminal to a nearby lamppost while on autopilot; the cops could find him there and deal with him. He needed to get to the hospital, needed to see John.
John.
Stabbed.
Hurt.
In the hospital.
No.
Sherlock didn't remember how he got to the hospital, didn't remember asking for John's room number, didn't remember the concerned look Lestrade gave him as he brushed past the DI. He was focussed on the form lying on the bed underneath the starched white sheets. The pale, lifeless face couldn't be John, but Sherlock knew that it was. Sherlock also knew that it was his fault John was lying in the hospital bed.
"Severe blood loss..." the doctor was saying somewhere in the background. "Needed stitches...should be able to go home in a few days..."
Sherlock was barely listening, too busy cataloguing everything he could about John. He wished John would open his eyes, then maybe this nightmare would be over. He moved to John's side and grabbed his wrist, feeling for a pulse. He wanted, no, he needed proof that John was still alive.
His John.
He didn't notice when the doctor left, or when someone pulled a chair over for him to sit on.
He came back to himself when John's eyelids fluttered, and then John was looking up at his face with those bright blue eyes. He sighed in relief, not realizing that he had been holding his breath.
"Sherlock," John choked out.
"John," Sherlock belatedly realized that there were tears streaming down his face.
"John, I thought I'd lost you. I don't know what I would've done without you. Thank God you're alive."
John reached up and wiped away the tears running down Sherlock's face.
"I never told you," he started, making sure Sherlock was paying attention.
"I spent so long denying it to even myself, but as I was lying there I thought I'd never have the chance to see you again. It was what I regretted the most, not telling you this. Sherlock Holmes, I love you. Since the first day we met, I love you."
Sherlock was filling up with emotion again as John made his confession. He gently gathered his blogger into his arms as he returned the sentiment.
"I love you too John. Today, when I thought you wouldn't make it, I realized that I didn't want to lose you. I didn't want anything to happen to you. Life without you in it would be unbearable."
The two men stayed embraced for a long while, neither noticing the gentle looks the nurses gave them as they walked into the room and slowly retreated again once they realized their patient was otherwise occupied.