Yeah Jim, I’m sure that’s exactly how it went.
He was originally holding a book. Look again. THE BOOK IS NOW JAM.
Sherlock didn’t have time to take a step before the young man shot John in the chest.
They’d been searching for an accessory involved in the latest commission Sherlock was assigned. Of course they didn’t bother calling the police when they found out his location, or even when he gave chase. The kid was barely out of his teens, affluent, and wide-eyed – the chances were low that he’d be armed.
But there he was – dropping the gun in disbelief, and running away. And there was John, staggering backwards and falling hard against the ground.
Sherlock screamed his friend’s name as he rushed to his side. He dropped to his knees, trying to keep his hands from shaking as he checked John over. Good, he was breathing, albeit sporadically and shallowly. He found himself freezing up, trying to remember the most basic first aid. He looked for the center of the big red spot on John’s jumper, and froze again when he heard that, whenever John breathed, a sucking sound come out of the bullet hole.
John’s face was contorted. “Oc-” he wheezed quietly, and gestured to his chest with a weak hand.
“What? No never mind, don’t try to speak-“
“Occlusive,” John insisted.
“What?” Sherlock cried, still at a loss. “It’s not occlusive, it’s been punctured, you have a sucking chest wound, John-”
“Occlusive dressing!” he managed quickly through his teeth. “Airtight seal.”
“Oh, yes,” he muttered as he frantically rifled through his coat pockets. He produced an evidence bag, and removed and tossed away the pen that was inside it. He folded the plastic bag a few times, carefully lifted John’s moist jumper and shirt, and placed it over the bullet hole.
John winced, but took in a breath that was much closer to deep than his previous ones.
“Ok, 999,” John breathed.
“Do you have anything else wrong? Did you hit your head on the way down? How are you feeling.”
“Er, no, no, and a bit cold.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock as he whipped of his long coat and placed it on John. “Naturally, you may into shock. I’ll have to find something with which to elevate your feet-”
“No! Don’t elevate the feet if… victim has a wound in torso!” he said as if he were reminding Sherlock how to spell his name.
“Right, of course, I’ll just-”
“Just call 999, please,” he said, wincing again.
“Right, yes,” he said, fumbling for his mobile.
As Sherlock called the emergency services, he kept his eyes firmly on John. John lay there, focusing on his breathing.
SO THIS IS A THING THAT IS DONE! I can’t believe it’s actually finished, I’ve spent so much time not working on this. Have had the sketches for ages, but never really the time or focus to finish it.
But here it is. And I’d like to thank those of you who came to hang out with me tonight <3 Everything is so much easier with instant crit and feedback. It helps a lot. And getting cheered on while I’m drawing nipples and singing songs about homosexuals’ rights to adopt kids is rather glorious.
The scars are not meant to look realistic, but more symbolic or stylized.
We all have wounds and scars from the battles we’ve fought etc.
“My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generation, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.”
~ A Case of Identity