Back from the Dead (Sherlock)

Sebastian was in no mood to be asked questions. Especially by the government of all people. And 'capable hands' wasn't the word Sebastian would have used. Bunch of morons, he thought, hating anything and everything that had to even do with the government.

Sebastian waited until they were out of earshot from John upstairs and forcefully removed his wrists out of Sherlock's grasp, turning round and punching him in the face--giving him enough time to grab the switch blade out of his pocket.

He violently grabbed the startled detective from behind, cupped one hand over his mouth to stop any noise being heard and held the knife against his throat threateningly.
"If you dare say anything... I will slit your throat and watch you bleed to death." he hissed in his ear, pressing the blade harder against his throat. "Would you like that?"

Sebastian was so quick, Sherlock hardly had time to notice he was struggling before he felt a fist slam into his face. He fell backwards, his hands reaching out behind him to stop his fall then suddenly Sebastian's hands were on him too. He was hauled up to his feet and he felt the cool blade of a sharp knife pressed against his throat and a hand firmly over his mouth, Sebastian pulling him closer from behind with quite a steady grip.

Sherlock quickly ran through a list of possible options in his mind before slowly shaking his head from side to side, indicating that no, he would not like to have his throat slit, and then he struck backwards with his right elbow into Sebastian's solar plexes. The knife around his throat slipped slightly, making a small cut but nothing major. As Sebastian fell back from the force of the blow, Sherlock shrugged off his arms, ducked underneath them and spun round to face him.

Sebastian stared at Sherlock in amazement for a moment, not having expected everything to happen so fast. Obviously Sherlock was going to be a bit of a challenge to get rid off so he could make an attempt escape.

"Oh, very clever." he sneered sarcastically, looking the other man up and down with great dislike and loathing. You're should to be dead, he thought, irritated and annoyed at the fact the man who Sebastian had thought he had purposely shot, was standing now, facing him.

Sherlock punched Sebastian in the face then practically fell on top of him on the stairs. Together they grappled for the knife, Sebastian keeping his knife hand just out of his reach. Sherlock desperately tried to reach it before he could do anymore damage.

"I don't think so." he hissed, attempting to move his hand further away and push Sherlock back with his free hand while struggling at the same time. It was slowly becoming a tiring task but Sebastian wasn't going to give up that easy.

"Get your own bloody knife." he added in a venomous tone, slashing the knife across the other man's face before bringing it quickly back out of reach.

Sherlock cried out and took a step back, releasing Sebastian from his grasp and grabbing his face with both hands as the blood gushed out. It wasn't a particularly bad wound but it hurt and threw him off guard. He reeled back against the wall trying to regain his composure, but he looked up to see Sebastian descending on him quickly with his knife arm outstretched.

Sebastian advanced towards Sherlock with the knife gripped tightly in his hand, a nasty, twisted grin spreading across his face. Even if he managed to knock the other man out unconscious long enough for him to escape, he'd take that opportunity.

Sebastian immediately struck his free hand out to grab Sherlock's neck and purposely pressed hard against his windpipe, forcefully holding him against the wall as the knife swung dangerously in his hand, a maniac gleam coming into his eyes.

Sherlock found himself slammed against the wall, Sebastian's strong hand holding him back, pressed up against his windpipe. He choked and spluttered for breath, his arms came up to try and remove Sebastian's arm as the knife danced dangerously close to his stomach.

John knew something was wrong when the two men didn't come out of the building, he could hear the regular steps had changed, and his chest grew tight in worry.

"Sherlock," he shouted, running towards the flight of stairs, abandoning what he was doing and holding his gun ready. "I am going to bloody kill Moran," he groaned, cursing himself for leaving Sherlock alone even though it had been just a few minutes.

Sebastian grinned nastily at Sherlock, his hand pressing harder against the other man's windpipe as he watched him struggle and choke. He paused as John called from somewhere upstairs, his eyes glancing up to the ceiling before flicking back and giving Sherlock a warning look.

"Say anything... and you're dead." he said sourly, gripping the knife so tightly his knuckles had turned white. "And that friend of yours will be joining you shortly afterwards."

Sebastian raised the knife and dug it into Sherlock's shoulder, ruthlessly dragging it down the length of his arm and pressing it deeper as he progressed. Hopefully the blood loss would be enough to make him pass out, giving himself time to deal with John.

The way Sebastian's hand gripped his neck, saying anything would be pretty difficult anyway, Sherlock reflected with a grim smile. He stared Sebastian straight in the eyes, refusing to show and fear or pain, even when he saw him raise the knife in the air.

Sherlock closed his eyes, predicting what was coming and tried to turn his body slightly to avoid the blade connecting with any vital organs. He could handle a stabbing but wasn't planning on dying just yet. He gasped and made a muffled cry as the knife dug relentlessly into his shoulder and dragged down the whole of his arm, most probably tearing several muscles and tendons.

As Sebastian removed the knife, the blood rushed out and Sherlock sagged to the floor feeling light headed and weak. His windpipe was damaged and sore. He tried to call out for John but it was merely a croak. His vision was blurred and hazy. He refocused his mind, determined not to pass out...he had to protect John. Sherlock made an attempt to struggle to his feet but collapsed back down again hopelessly.

"John!" he managed to call out finally.

John saw the blood.
For a moment he just saw Sherlock covered in blood.
And he was terrified.
He couldn't lose him, not again.

"No!" he shouted, hurrying down the steps and noticing the knife in Sebastian's hand, Sherlock struggling to stay on his feet, Sherlock crumbling on the stairs.
And if he had any reserves on firing before, they were gone now.
His gun was quickly aimed towards Moran's head, a promise of sudden death.
He shot him without thinking twice about it.
His hands were shaking though, for the first time in as many years as he can remember, the fear of losing Sherlock was making him shake.
He missed, or better, the bullet ran through Sebastian's shoulder instead, making him stumble back, and making him lose the knife.

"Stay away from him!" he shouted again, running down the stairs, blue eyes restless, taking in the scene.
God, this couldn't be happening!
"Sherlock, please, tell me you are okay," he pleaded, stumbling down the last few steps.

Sebastian watched Sherlock collapse, an amused glint in his eye. He kicked him a few times before John had appeared at the top of the stairs and he stopped to turn his attention on him. Before anything else had happened, he found himself stumbling backwards, hissing as the bullet shot through his shoulder, making him swear loudly at John.

Sebastian dropped the knife and grabbed hold of his shoulder, the pain burning and rapidly spreading through his whole body; the blood seeping through his shirt and onto his hand, causing some of it to drip onto the floor. "Fucking hell." he snarled, it bloody hurt.

The loud bang of the gun rang out through Sherlock's mind, bringing him to his senses again. Something was going on. He forced his head off his chin and saw through bleary eyes as Sebastian staggered backwards down the stairs. He heard the knife clatter to the floor, echoing through his brain as it bounced away. He felt someone suddenly by his side, holding onto him. John. Sherlock turned his head towards him and managed a grimaced smile, trying to focus his eyes to take in the features on John's face.

"Glad you...could make it..." he stammered. "I'm...fine..." although even as he said it he looked down at his arm and saw it completely red with blood, realised he was currently unable to lift it...hmm. Not great. He screwed up his eyes, using his mind palace technique to suppress some of the pain. He imagined the pain as an actual physical thing he could hold, then imagined screwing it up into a ball, hurling into a room in his mind palace and locking the door. It was an old technique he'd thought up years ago...and when he reopened his eyes he'd managed to at least halve the pain, making him able to focus better on the situation.

He opened his eyes just in time to see Sebastian scrambling away down the staircase, obviously trying to make a hasty exit. John had been so focused on Sherlock's bleeding that he hadn't even noticed. Neither of them had noticed.

"John..." Sherlock urged. "Stop him."

John was already taking off his jacket, screwing it up in a ball and pressing it to Sherlock's wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Where the hell was Mycroft? Weren't his men supposed to intervene in case they needed help?

His nerves were slowly coming back to him when he realized no vital organs had been involved in the stabbing, Sherlock was going to be fine if the ambulance arrived soon.
All this blood, Sherlock's precious blood though.
It was driving him mad.
He should have never allowed this to happen.

"Keep this here," he ordered him, taking Sherlock's healthy hand and putting it on the pile of cloth. "Stay alert, okay? Don't you dare pass out!" he said, taking his gun up again and aiming towards the door.
Another gunshot.
Another bullet that flew a few millimeters from Sebastian's head.
Then another, this time grazing his leg.

Sebastian had already made it down another flight of stairs before another bullet was shot at him, merely missing his head. He tried getting away faster when another bullet hit the side of his leg, affecting his speed. It was much harder to get away with a bleeding shoulder and now an injured leg--the blood already starting to seep through his trouser leg.

He swore loudly again, hoping John would be too concerned with Sherlock to follow after him as he limped quite quickly--for having an injured leg--to the back exit, leaving a trail of blood behind him and deciding it probably best to come back for his rifle when it was safe.

Sherlock clutched John's rolled up jacket to his bleeding arm and fought to stay conscious as two deafening shots rang out. He was aware of Sebastian scrambling away down the stairs and John, gun arm outstretched firing after him, but still Sebastian managed to limp to an escape.

"Leave it leave it," Sherlock mumbled. "He won't get far like that anyway, and Mycroft's men are outside. At least, they should be." He sighed and leant his head back against the wall, feeling rather weak.

John's expression had been one of pure anger as he fired his gun, only Sherlock's words brought him back to reality. He shook his head, focusing back on the detective laying on the stairs. His skin was very pale, a bad sign that caused his heart to clench painfully in his chest again.

"God Sherlock, I was so stupid, I should have been the one who brought him outside, I had the gun after all... I am so sorry," he whispered quickly, looming on him, worry painfully clear on his face as he took over the task of applying pressure on the wound.

Sherlock leaned his head on John's shoulder, enjoying its warmth and comfort. He felt tired and weak, and the blood loss was making him quite light headed.

"It's OK..." he whispered, barely audible. "My fault...should have took the gun myself...thought I was untouchable...suppose you're going to insist on calling an ambulance..." He at John and managed a brief smile before his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he passed out completely.

John could already hear the sirens coming closer, he knew Mycroft would do at least one thing good.

He was more than worried though, leaning on Sherlock. "Please..." he whimpered when he saw him pass out, helpless to do anything other than apply the pressure.

He couldn't lose Sherlock.
No.
It was not supposed to go like this.
He was supposed to protect him.
How had he let this happen? He could have shot Moran before he had a chance to hurt Sherlock!

He followed the paramedics, blue eyes wide in shock, but cold in the way they checked everything would be done with the utmost accuracy.

He fought to be admitted in Sherlock's room after his surgery, he punched a security guard, he got kicked out until Mycroft's men appeared and made everything right again.

Then he was sitting by Sherlock's bed, forgetful of food and drinks, holding his hand and praying he would wake up before he'd go completely insane.

He could hear a beeping sound, the soft babble of voices somewhere in the distance, footsteps on an echoey corridor. Then he became aware of his own body, aware of the fact that he was lying down, in a bed. There was a dull pain in his arm but it wasn't particularly unpleasant.

Then slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes. At first he was blinded by the bright white lights of the hospital and he closed them again, but as they became adjusted he opened them fully and squinted, trying to focus in on something. He saw John, resting his head on his bedside with his eyes closed, he noticed John's hand in his, clasping it tightly.

"John..." he whispered, then a little louder. "John..."

John's eyes widened suddenly when he heard his name, Sherlock was awake, he thought, sitting up quickly, his heart soon beating in his ears.
Blue eyes surveyed the other's expression quickly, then his body, as if checking for things to be truly alright.

"Sherlock, how are you feeling? Do you need anything?" he asked worried, his body shaking with nerves.

Sherlock was so pleased to see John's kind face looking down on him and his heart swelled up with the love he knew he felt for this man.

"No, I don't need anything," he said with a smile, "Only you."

Sherlock wanted to squeeze John's hand but he realised his fingers weren't moving, despite his brain telling them to do so. He stared down at his arm with an expression of concern, remembering the injuries and the massive blood loss.

"John, I can't move my hand. Is it OK?"

John couldn't help cupping the other's face, his fingers shaking as he grazed his cheek. "I've been here the whole time," he whispered, he couldn't take this, he was not going to allow Sherlock to get hurt ever again.

He grimaced at the question about his arm. "The knife went through most of your tendons, Sherlock, the doctors tried to put them back together, and now you are filled with sedative... once they wear off we will be able to tell whether you will regain use of your arm... it's going to take a long time to get it back even so though..." he explained, guilty eyes moving on the other's face, he felt it was all his fault.

Sherlock nodded slightly, not particularly surprised at the information he was hearing. He'd known it was a bad wound at the time, it had bloody hurt.

He managed a small smile, "Ahh who needs arms anyway." He could tell John was worried, blaming himself even, but really it was his own fault, thinking he could outsmart everyone again, thinking he didn't need weapons. He was quite surprised something like this hadn't happened before of he was being quite honest.

"Come and sit the other side of me then," he said finally, "I want to be able to hold your hand, with my good hand."