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"Sherlock! Sherlock!"
James pushed through the panicked crowd, trying to get to the body on the ground. He'd seen Shou'an take the shot, seen Sherlock go down. He'd cried out when it happened but that hadn't kept his friend from falling.
James' heart was racing, pounding out of his chest as he finally got through the crush of bodies stampeding for the exit. He dropped to his knees beside Sherlock's unconscious body and grabbed his face, tapping his cheeks frantically. To his extreme relief, after a moment the young man blinked awake beneath his hands, his eyes glazed with pain and confusion as they cast about the room.
"Hey, Sherlock. You're all right. I've got you."
James let out the breath he'd been holding and cradled Sherlock's head, raising him off the ground and into his arms as he hurriedly reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. Sherlock lifted a weak hand, fumbling at the seeping bullet wound in his abdomen in confusion and alarm. James pressed the cloth hard against the wound to try and stem the bleeding, their fingers brushing momentarily, then glanced around in panic. There was no help in sight, only the last scattered remains of cowardly men running from the horrors they peddled.
James felt for a moment like he was about to cry. He looked back down at the man in his arms.
"You know, getting shot, eh? That was a terribly stupid thing to do."
Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. His head was lolling as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He wrapped an arm around James' shoulder, grasping weakly at him as if trying to pull himself up. James was certain the young man had little idea where he was or what was going on, but he agreed that they needed to get out of there immediately.
"Here, let's get you up."
He wrapped his arms around his friend and with some difficulty hauled him to his feet with a grunt. Steadying him as best he could against his side, he then slung Sherlock's arm around his shoulder and wrapped his own arm around his waist and they began to make their way painstakingly towards the stairs leading to the world above. Sherlock seemed to be making a good attempt to walk with him, but his feet were dragging across the ground and his legs were trying to buckle with every beleaguered step. James prayed Sherlock could hang on until they at least made it outside, because he wasn't certain he could take the man's full weight, should he pass out.
Sherlock passed out.
James stumbled and nearly went down as Sherlock's legs gave out and the taller man sagged against him, unconscious. James cursed, using all his strength to hold his friend up. He gazed up the staircase to the light above as Sherlock dangled limply in his arms. They just had to make it to the top. It wasn't that far. He could do this.
James wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock, repositioning him against his shoulder and then he started up the stairs, taking them one at a time and hauling Sherlock alongside him. He was soaked in sweat and breathing heavily by the time he reached the top and burst out the club door into the sunshine. His ears were immediately met with gunfire and explosions and he cursed under his breath, having momentarily forgotten they were in the middle of a firefight. This had just gotten even trickier.
James cast his eyes around and after a moment spotted an abandoned wagon. A wave of relief washed over him and he dragged Sherlock across the pavement and dumped him in the back. He crawled in after him and pressed a hand to Sherlock's cheek, making sure he was still breathing. Sherlock grasped at his jacket weakly, eyelids fluttering.
"James..."
"Don't worry Sherlock. I've got you. We're going to a hospital. Just hang on."
James clambered back out of the wagon and bent over, placing his hands on his knees and trying to catch his breath for a moment. Then a bullet whizzed over his head and he ducked fearfully, cursing again, then hurriedly started pushing the wagon down the street towards the nearest hospital.
****
James burst through the hospital doors and pulled up short at the number of dead and wounded people in the room. They were everywhere, bleeding, wailing, dying. He dragged a stumbling Sherlock along with him until they reached an empty cot and he lowered his friend heavily onto it. Sherlock fumbled weakly for James' collar, eyes glazed over with pain. James looked around frantically, searching the room until he spotted a white-clad doctor. He clutched Sherlock's grasping hands and pressed them gently to the wound.
"I'll be right back, Sherlock," he murmured. "I'm going to get you help."
He hurried over to the doctor and knelt down beside him. He pleaded with him in French for several minutes until he had cajoled and bribed the man into helping his friend. At last the doctor snapped his fingers at a nurse and the two men carefully lifted Sherlock off the mat and dragged him into the bowels of the building to a private room.
Once Sherlock was lifted onto the operating table his shirt was carefully removed so the doctor could inspect the wound. James wanted to stay but he was shoved out the door and instructed to wait in the hallway. His last sight of Sherlock was of the young man reaching out for him from the bed, chest bare and bloody, eyes confused and fearful.
"I'll be right out here, Sherlock," James called as the door swung shut. "You're going to be alright."
****
James passed the time that Sherlock was in surgery pacing the hallway relentlessly. He tried sitting several times, dropping his head into his hands, running his fingers through his hair anxiously, but soon he was up again, unable to sit still. He couldn't help but agonize over what was happening behind that door, and found himself boring a hole through it with his eyes.
He didn't know where Mycroft or Mrs. Holmes had gotten to and he had no idea how to contact them. He desperately wished he weren't alone here though, carrying this burden all by himself, waiting for terrible news. And if the worst did happen, then it would be on him to impart the news. Would they blame him? Would they hate him?
At last the door opened and James turned abruptly from his pacing and rushed to the doctor. "How is he?"
"I've done my best. It's up to him now." The doctor sighed tiredly then walked away disinterestedly, his mind already on to the next patient.
"Merci," James murmured to his retreating back.
Nurses in blood-stained aprons pushed past him as he tentatively entered the room. Sherlock was lying in a hospital bed, still and pale and as lifeless looking as one could be. James' heart clenched at the sight. He pulled up a chair and sat down beside the bed. After a moment he took Sherlock's hand in his and held it gently, running his thumb absentmindedly across the young man's knuckles.
"Come on, Sherlock," he whispered. "Fight."
He studied Sherlock like a scientist might study a subject. The way his dark lashes lay on his porcelain cheeks, the way his hair fell across his sweaty brow, the way his chest rose and fell weakly and unsteadily. His eyes darted back and forth behind his eyelids as if he was suffering terrible dreams. James wanted to soothe him, to take his pain away, but he didn't know how. So he hovered over him as Sherlock hovered near death. He held his friend's hand and he counted the hours and he waited and he hoped.
At last, as the late afternoon sun was dipping below the rooftops, and James was just beginning to nod off, Sherlock cracked his eyes open. James straightened up quickly, his back cracking after so long slumped in the hard wooden chair. He leaned over and clasped Sherlock's hand, pulling it to his cheek.
"There you are," he whispered fondly. "Too stubborn to die."
Sherlock's eyes roved sluggishly around the room before landing on James. He was groggy and out of it from the sedative, eyes unable to focus, and it seemed he had nothing to say for the first time since they'd met. That was alright. James had never had trouble filling a silence.
"It's good to see you," he said sincerely.
Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smile and James felt a faint squeeze of the hand in his. Then his eyes slid shut once more. His breathing was more even now though and he was less pale. James felt he could breathe for the first time since this ghastly business had begun. He leaned back in the chair with a huff and shut his eyes tiredly.
He hadn't known what he would do if this had gone sideways. He'd never had a companion like Sherlock. This man had already become his friend, his family, his conscience. He'd never felt this way towards anyone. If he'd lost him, so soon after their meeting... Well, he didn't know what that would have done to him. What kind of a person it would make him.
He studied Sherlock's face intently, brushed a lock of hair back from his brow then laced their fingers together and settled back in the uncomfortable chair.
Best not to dwell on it though. Sherlock was alive and he was going to heal and everything would be fine. And James would never have to see what he might become if he was alone in the world again.