Haunted by the Past || Johnlock ✔

16. Not Again!

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Mullins staggered, and her gaze followed the shot wound after the bullet that ran through her thigh. A second later, she cast a strange look at Sherlock and warped her lips into a mischievous, almost raving sneer.

Then she turned around and fled.

Sherlock took an unintentional step forward, ready to chase her down, as she couldn't run far with a shot leg, so he had a good chance of catching up to her.

He stopped when he noticed a sharp prick in his stomach and a trickle of something thick and slimy.

Blood.

Hot and viscous, it slid down his body like a glutinous tongue, licking his pale skin.

Surprised, almost in a daze, he bowed his head. His heart skipped a beat, and the last traces of colour drained from his face.

No one would ever dare say that Sherlock had a weak stomach, especially considering his passion for experiments of all sorts.

He hadn't expected to see a massive blade sticking out of his belly. Almost thirty centimetres long, the blade had such a razor-sharp edge that it slid into Sherlock's midriff as if he were made of wax. The only thing that peeped out of his flesh was a handle.

And that was a big pill to swallow, even for Sherlock Holmes.

The wave of adrenaline that had surged into his body after the stab and prepared him either for an attack or escape was abating, and the curtain separating Sherlock's mind from the pain dissolved.

A strange pressure built in his abdomen. It gradually increased its intensity and temperature, converting into a stinging, pulsating sensation. A piercing pain shot from his stomach to his entire body with each impulse, striking even the tiniest of nerve endings with a burning sensation.

The world spun with him, and an uncomfortable cold tingle crept its way down from his pelvis to his toes. Then he stopped feeling his legs completely. They seized up and ruthlessly sent him to the ground.

Sherlock flailed involuntarily, reaching for anything he could grab onto. His fingers, however, grasped only the thin air. He gasped, and a thorn of panic stabbed into his chest, but he could do nothing else but wait for a heavy landing...

... which, surprisingly, didn't come.

Instead of sprawling on the floor, he just slid down—thanks to the powerful arms that had appeared behind his back and gripped him under his armpits. He leaned against familiar limbs in trust, allowing them to support him and soften his fall.

Unfortunately, not even John's arms could slow Sherlock's fall entirely.

Sherlock couldn't stifle a yelp as the giant knife moved within him. The deep wound wept more streams of viscous red liquid.

Black spots clouded his vision, and not even intensive blinking could get rid of them. Panic clenched his chest, and he groped around himself, looking for those arms he had felt behind himself a moment ago.

"Hey, calm down, okay?" said a mellifluous, soothing voice just an inch from his earlobe.

John... His kind, loyal, amazing John would never let him down.

"I'm right here, with you..."

The air whirled around as John knelt right beside him.

And at that very moment, thanks to knowing that he was with his best friend, Sherlock calmed down. "It's okay, John, I'm fine," he rasped and truly meant it. As long as he ignored the pain in his core, he felt safe. John was holding him in his arms. What more could he wish for?