(descriptions of a body, blood, main character death, mentions of vomit/vomiting)

Hearing my friends shout, I raced in the direction it had come from, my legs still burning from the night's excretion. Panting, I ran down narrow streets, skidding past corners, until I hit a dead end. With nowhere to run, I stopped and looked around, only to find my friend sprawled on his back, pale, bloody, and lifeless.

"Sherlock!" I gasped, sprinting to his side and falling to my knees. I remember frantic fingers searching for a pulse, a hint of breath, anything to tell me that my detective was still alive. A pain filled, half-suppressed sob came from the body before me, squeezing my heart as I let out a sob of my own.

He was alive.

"Sherlock? Sherlock-. please, stay with me!" I ordered, gently moving my friend's head to the left to inspect his injuries. Dr. John was on the case now.

There was an obvious bite mark on his neck, oozing dark red blood. If it were under different circumstances, I would have made a joke along the lines of not knowing Sherlock was warm blooded, but seeing as my best friend was currently bleeding to death in a desolate alleyway, this was not the time.

The first two buttons of Sherlock's forest green shirt had been torn off completely and his chest was slick with blood. So much blood. His throat -oh gosh, his throat- was covered in the deep red substance. From what I could deduce from this scene, as a doctor, and with the skills the detective had been trying to teach me, Sherlock had been attacked and his attacker had almost ripped his throat out. His wrists were severely lacerated as well- it could very well be classified as a suicide attempt if not for the obvious signs of a slight struggle, including the dried blood under his perfectly manicured fingernails.

"J-john..?" Sherlock's voice was weak and hoarse, the blood soaking his skin bubbling slightly with every shaky breath. Not only was my friend dying of blood loss from many lacerations and a slit throat, but now he couldn't even breathe properly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm here." I told him. His body relaxed as his gaze focused on me.

"John?" I gave a small, tight-lipped smile, barely holding on to myself as I watched Sherlock's body convulse into a weak cough, the detective fighting with every breath. "John, I don't- I don't feel so-"

I cut him off before he could finish. "Don't you start, Sherlock Holmes. You remember how much we cried during that movie."

Sherlock chuckled, blinking slowly. "I remember. Jus' wanted to, to make you smile."

I rolled my eyes, but gave in and offered a watery smile. "Git."

The detective gave a wheezy laugh and went silent. If it weren't for his agonizingly slow, labored breathing, I would've mistaken him for dead.

"John, it hurts." He finally said.

"What hurts?" I asked, finally coming to my senses and fumbling for my mobile, dialing 999 and soon as I was able to steady my hands.

"Everything. It all hurts. But mos'ly my neck. That 'urts too." He mumbled, grimacing as the words left his mouth. "She 'urt me, John. She 'urt me bad."

"Who hurt you?" John asked, before explaining the situation to the kind-sounding woman who had answered.

"Surena. She 'urt me. Wi' her mouth on my kneck. It 'urt." Sherlock slurred, his eyes slipping shut.

"Okay. That's good. No, don't close your eyes! Stay awake, Sherlock!"

Sherlock blinked warily. "She 'ad bl'ck hair... an green eyes. She took my blood, John. She, she took my blood! Wh'res my blood!"

Not good, not good. My brain screamed at me. Sherlock had lost too much blood- his lips were turning blue and his face was white. Whiter than his normal, pale features. His breathing had begun to speed up, though it was still labored and irregular. He was entering the second stage of shock.

"Oh, really?" I held the phone to my ear and a kind-sounding woman answered. I quickly explained the situation, keeping a close eye on Sherlock, who seemed to be experiencing the first stages of shock.

My brain raced, screaming at me to do something, anything, to keep my best friend alive. I knew I had to stop the breathing or he'd go into the third stage of shock and all attempts to save him would be futile. I couldn't do anything about his throat, but maybe I could stop the blood leaking from his wrists.

"Sherlock, I need you to look at me." I ordered, brushing a strand of soft, curly black hair behind his ear. His slightly unfocused eyes stared at me. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for my duty. "Sherlock, I need to stop the blood. I'm going to have to close the wounds on your wrists. It will hurt, and I'm sorry, but I can't let you die."

Sherlock's pupils were blown wide with fear but nonetheless, he gave a slight nod and I breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay."

Breathing heavily, I moved so his head was in my lap and his wrists were within my reach. Large, galaxy-colored eyes met mine and I sucked in a breath, pressing down on his wrists with all my might, wincing as the action tore a weak yelp from my friend.

"Okay, okay," I said, not sure if I was reassuring myself or the man under me. "Okay, good. The ambulance is coming. It's coming, but before it gets here, I need you to stay awake." Sherlock nodded slowly, as if it took a great effort to recognize what I had said. Which was most likely a possibility. "Alright. Was the girl -Surena- was she like Mrs. Ferguson? The woman in Sussex?"

Sherlock weakly shook his head. "No... she- she bi' me. 'urts."

"Okay. What else did she do?" I asked, desperately trying to keep him from slipping away.

"She... she uh... she k'ssed me-" Sherlock's breath hitched and his eyes met mine, panic evident in his gaze. "John, john, I can't- I can' breathe-"

'Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no-' my brain chanted, like a mantra, over and over again. Sherlock had entered the third stage of shock. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew that my best friend was going to die. From the medical standpoint I possessed, I knew that once a patient had reached stage three of shock, there was no going back. It was irreversible, and led to death almost every single time.

"No, no, you can breathe. I know it's hard, but you can make it, Sherlock, please-" I cried. "The ambulance is coming, we're going tp get some help. Just please, breathe, Sherlock, breath, g*dd*mnit!"

Sherlock gasped, fighting for air, his face paling as he realized it wasn't coming. I was suddenly hit with a hideous realization: this was my best friend, dying in front of me. The ambulance was coming, yes, I could hear the silence in the distance, but would it get here in time?

"John..? John.." His words were incoherent, but I understood what he meant as his eyes began to close again. 'You are my best friend. I am so grateful that you came into my life.'

"No, stay with me, Sherlock, you can't sleep right now!" He blinked sluggishly but gave no response, his airless breath slowing. I could see the hopelessness shimmering in his eyes as he realized it was futile, that he was going to die. "You need to stay awake so the ambulance can get you to a hospital. Come on, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's breathing had almost stalled, but not quite. He was still fighting. Sherlock's eyes were glazed over and I could see tears shining on his pale, blue-tinged face.

"J'n. J'n, I-I lo-" The words died in his throat as his eyes met mine one last time.

The gasping, wheezing, not-enough-oxygen breathes stopped. The pulse, prominent under my palms, slowed to a stop.

"Sherlock..." I whispered, tears dripping down my cheeks. "I love you-"

The world fell silent.

"S...Sherlock?" I whispered, tears falling faster and harder.

There was no response. No agitated grunt, no baritone voice humming my name, no huff of annoyance or shuffle of clothing. Nothing.

Instead he lay there, his head on my lap. His cheeks still glistening with tears, his lips slightly parted, eyes wide and hollow, the glassy orbs reflecting the stars above, watching silently, but never seeing. Not anymore.

His face was pale, his untamable mop of curls sticking to his forehead. A slight breeze blew past the locks that weren't trapped, making them dance in the cold air, making it seem as if he was still alive. Blood still leaked from his wounds, though it slowed to a slight trickle with no heart to pump it out. I refused to look at them.

The doctor in me had known he wouldn't make it but I just couldn't accept it. Not yet. Though, in a way, I already had. Sherlock Holmes, my best friend, my partner-in-crime-solving, my flatmate, the love of my life since I first saw him, was dead.

My best friend was dead and he wasn't coming back.

A deafening silence enveloped me, broken only by my unintelligible sobs, words pouring out. 'No, Sherlock,', 'Sherlock, please,', 'Sherlock, I love you. Come back. Please.'.

Then, a sharp ringing filled my ears and everything went numb, and finally, everything happened all at once. It was slow, yet so fast at the same time. Everything was so loud, but sounded so far away- like I was underwater. Everything was blurry, but crystal clear. I knew what was happening, but I couldn't comprehend, much less process what was going on around me.

Blinding red and blue lights reflected off the alley walls. Doors slammed shut, people running and shouting, telling me to move. I told them no. He's my best friend. No, please.

Strong arms gripped my shoulders and I was pulled away from Sherlock. I screamed, cried, fought against my captor until I fell limp against their chest, sobs wracking my body. The arms came at me again, wrapping me in a strong embrace. My barely functioning mind told me it was Greg Lestrade.

I watched through the haze of my mind and the blur of the never ending flow of tears as medics ran to Sherlock, ripping his bloodied shirt and shocking the life back into him. Sherlock wouldn't want that. He loves that shirt. I screamed, cried, and fought again, telling them to stop, I'm a doctor, I'm his doctor, screaming that he was okay, he was just in shock. The hospital would make him okay, just get into the ambulance, Sherlock! Please, Sherlock!

They stopped after five times, and minutes of my incoherent pleas, their faces grim. The head EMP shook her head. It wasn't working.

Watching their faces, knowing it wasn't working, Sherlock wasn't coming back, and I was hit with a wave of nausea. Pushing against Greg with all my might, he let me go in surprise and I staggered to my feet, only to fall to my knees and vomit.

A shaking hand rubbed my back as I finished being sick and instead began to dry-heave, sobbing harder than before.

When the episode finally passed, the arms helped me to my feet and led me away from the paramedics who were rolling my friend's body into a body bag and placing him on the stretcher, strapping him in and wheeling him into the ambulance.

Sherlock's dead.

The phrase echoed in my head like a broken record. I barely acknowledged the bright orange shock blanket wrapped around my shoulders and the faceless medical personnel leaning me to a second ambulance to be treated.

Sherlock's dead... Sherlock's dead...

The shock blanket, the ambulance, the dark London sky, everything reminded me of Sherlock. Nothing felt real, but I vaguely realized it was. Somehow, the tears fell harder.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.