Sherlock and John had been walking around for quite a bit. Sneaking around was more like it. They were on a case and were closing in on the killer. Or so, they thought. It was rather more like the criminal had been closing in on them. The two of them stood flat against a nearby wall as though it were a floor. John gave a signal to alert Sherlock he would go first. That was the mistake. The two of them had assumed the killer was in front of them when in fact they were behind; and above. John took two steps and there was a loud BANG! John fell to the hard brick floor with a loud thud. Sherlock looked utterly bewildered. He searched John and found his gun. Snatching it as fast as he could, he aimed towards where the shot had come from. He shot a few times and then he saw the killer run off. He snarled a bit and wanted to run after them. But then he remembered John

"John!" He yelled, wide eyed before tossing the gun to the side, clacking as it hit the ground.

He kneeled and placed his hands on his partner's shoulders, frantically searching for the gun wound. He thought fast and opened his best friend's shirt. There was blood everywhere. He tore off his own blue scarf and applied pressure.

John gave a violent cough, "Sherlo— "

Sherlock's eyes were intense, "Do not speak! You are going to fine, do you hear me? Alright? Alright?"

His friend's eyes were fading. Sherlock wanted him to reply. He needed to hear John say he was going to be fine. All he got were a few raspy mumbles and some noises that sounded like a choked cough.

"She—Sherlock…" He said. And that's the last word he said.

Sherlock gasped slightly, his eyes traveling every which way, "Yes? Yes?!" He pressed harder, hoping to trigger a response. Fear entered him and he didn't understand it. He just stared at his flat mate, waiting for an answer that never came "John! John?!"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock stood there in his flat, holding up his violin. He had been reliving that moment when he was snapped out of it by his own brother's voice.

Mycroft gave him a strange look, "Well?"

"Huh?" Sherlock lifted his head, slightly. "Oh!" He went back to strumming a few notes on his violin, "Sorry, wasn't listening. Do continue speaking. I'll try not to ignore you. Can't make any promises, though…" He closed his eyes and continued his musical piece.

"Are you quite serious?" Mycroft stared at him with shock.

Sherlock paused for a moment, "…Quite" Then he started up again.

"So you're not going, then?"

Not stopping, he replied, "I thought I made that clear"

"Sherlock! He's your best friend. You can at least- Mycroft didn't get to finish. He suddenly found himself face to face with the Consulting Detective.

"Go where? Where are you suggesting?" Sherlock started but when Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock did once more, "Shut up. I know exactly where you want me to go. You want me to go to the hospital, that right? Well, I'm not going, especially if it's a direct 'order' from you…Is that really so hard to grasp? Answer: Of course, no. Saved you the trouble. See you later, brother, dear, or if you're feeling pleasant, not…" He turned his back to him.

"You know this has nothing to do with you and me, don't you?" Mycroft spoke.

Sherlock's eyes shook slightly. He was fighting something within. He didn't want to see John. Not there.

"I've said it before…Mycroft! Going there won't change a thing. People die, don't they? Do the visits they get from friends…family, etc, change a thing? No" He violently turned his head to look at him, "No. They die anyway…"

Mycroft closed his eyes, "What do you intend to do, then? Sit here, rotting in that little head of yours?"

"Preposterous!" He shoved past Mycroft and over to a table that had millions of papers scattered all over, "I'm going to find his shooter…"

"Find his shooter? How exactly do you intend to do that?" Mycroft asked.

"The clues are all here…" Sherlock replied, "All I need to do is go find the fragments of whatever's left of that bullet and-

Mycroft laughed through his nose as he walked towards the door.

Sherlock stopped him with a "What?"

"It's already been collected." He answered.

Sherlock's eyes tightened with confusion, "By who?" He stared into space for a moment and found his answer, "Lestrade…"

Mycroft had left and no later was Sherlock on the phone with the DI. An hour passed before the Inspector arrived. Sherlock was playing the violin once again when Lestrade walked in.

"Now, what's this about, then?"

"Did you bring it?" Sherlock inquired calmly, back facing him.

"Bring what? All you said was 'Come over right away!'" Lestrade said, confused.

Sherlock let out a sound of annoyance, lifting the hand that held the violin's bow and placed it on his head, "Any idiot would have assumed that I was asking you to bring over evidence. Why else would I invite you to my flat? A cuppa tea?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "What evidence?"

Sherlock eyed him intently, "You know damn well what evidence…"

Lestrade pressed his lips into a stressed line and placed hands on his sides, looking down with eyes closed, "Is this about John?"

"Brilliant deduction" Sherlock said in a high sarcastic way.

Lestrade looked up at him, "You still haven't seen 'im, have you? After the ambulance, I mean"

Sherlock began to play his violin loudly, "I'm doing what he'd want…I'm going to find his killer…"

"For God sake, he's not dead!" Lestrade spoke loudly.

"Sorry, thinking future tense. No surprises in the days coming if I'm already prepared, don't you think?"

"You wanna know what I think?" Lestrade asked, a little angry.

"Not really but go on" Sherlock said, casually.

"I think you're an idiot…You're lazing about here when you have a friend who could be dying and all you can think about is a stupid case! How could you possibly know what he wants when you won't even see him? Isn't there anything you need to tell him?"

"Need!" That word seemed to spark something in Sherlock. Lestrade seemed pleased until he saw him walking away, playing his violin harder. "I need…I need…I need to think!" His eyes tightened and soon his violin playing wasn't even a song anymore, it was just a bunch of screeches that made Lestrade quickly cover his ears.

"Sherlock!" He yelled, but it was barely audible above Sherlock's music "What you want is-I don't have it! The hospital…they took it out but they seem to have misplaced it!"

Sherlock opened his eyes and halted his violin playing. He looked as though he was having an incredible breakthrough, "…Get out" It sounded like a whisper

"What…?" The DI asked.

"Get out!" Sherlock yelled, to make sure he was heard.

Lestrade sighed, "Sherlock…"

When he didn't leave, Sherlock began screeching his violin like never before. So loud and painful; definitely delivered his message, though, seeing as Lestrade ran out of the flat to get away from the noise.

Sherlock fell to his knees. No one had any idea of what he was going through. Of course, how could they? They're all idiots. Seeing John wouldn't change a thing. He didn't want to see him until he closed this case. He kept telling himself that it was okay because he knew John would want that, right? He kept picturing in his head the 'maybes' He deduced all the different scenarios of if he had gone to the hospital. Of course, in his negative mind state, they all ended badly. It made him feel emotions that he couldn't place and he didn't like that. People around him died all the time and yet he always remained calm and of sound mind. Couldn't he do that with John? No. Because the thought of losing John turned him inside out. That's why he couldn't go see him. The thought of being there as he slipped away would be unbearable. He wanted revenge; revenge for the one who put him there. He raked his nails against the floor as he thought about it. He'd never been so angry before. But…he needed that bullet.

He breathed, "Looks like I'm going to a hospital, after all…"

It was late at night when Sherlock arrived. He'd found a way into the hospital secretly. He didn't want it known by anyone that he was actually here. He kept reminding himself that he wasn't here to see John. He was here to retrieve a bullet and that was it. He was able to deduce the whole hospital down to one hallway. So, now it was just finding the right room.

'Shouldn't be too difficult' Sherlock thought, walking around with his hands in his pockets.

He stopped in front of a door and jiggled the handle. It wasn't locked but it was a patient's room. There was no way he'd find what he needed inside. Just then, he heard footsteps. Sherlock began to wish he'd come in disguise. He glanced behind himself once or twice before slipping into the room and quickly (but quietly) shut the door. Sherlock pressed his back against the door below the window as to not be seen. He saw the shadow of the figure pass by and breathed a small sigh of relief. Sherlock stood back up and straightened his coat. He looked around the room. It was dark but his eyes didn't take long to adjust to the light. He heard the rustling of a sheet and a couple groans. He took this as his cue to leave. But before he did, an all too familiar voice rang through his ears. The voice was raspy, tired but still recognizable

"Not even gonna say hello. hmm?"

Sherlock's heart stopped and his eyes grew wider. "John." He said in a whisper. He was in John's room. He stepped away from the door and strode towards what he assumed was the bed.

A look of intrigue was fixed on the detective's face, "How'd you know it was me?"

John's eyes were closed and he looked relaxed, "You're sneaking into my room in the middle of the night, of course it's you. Sherlock." He paused when his friend didn't speak. His face shifted a second as he came to Sherlock's conclusion, "Mmm..Yeah, I suppose it could have been the murderer but I've been lying in this bed for God knows how long, so I assume they're taking time off…I was beginning to think they'd got you too. It's been a bit since I heard from you"

Sherlock glanced to the side, wearing a frown. However, John was talking. That was proof enough that he'd be alright. He wanted to leave and yet, he didn't. He wasn't showing any emotion but he really was jumping for joy inside that John was okay. But it just felt awkward visiting John in a hospital when they weren't in the morgue.

Sherlock sat on chair that was next to the bed. He folded his hands, "Ah, you are wondering why I haven't visited you.."

John cleared his throat and readjusted himself, "I didn't say that"

"You were thinking it" Sherlock stated.

"And how do you know I was thinking it?" John inquired but then remembered who he was talking to, "Nevermind that.."

"You are an open book, John"

"Yes, Yes, Of course…You, on the other hand, are a library" John spoke, breathing heavily but trying to seem more well than he actually was. "And this chapter I believe reads you're not here to see me…No, no, no. Why visit your friend when there's a case going on, right? You are here for a bullet…"

Sherlock was honestly shocked and John opened his eyes and stared at him. John let out a bitter giggle. The detective tried his best to analyze his partner, using every ounce of his deduction skills. He was amazed that John knew exactly why he was here. What else did he know? Just then his eyes widened.

"You…have it" Sherlock realized and John just smiled at him.

"Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me…Of course, I have it. I knew it was the only way you'd come visit me…Pity, really… Thought I at least meant something to you" John reached an arm under his back. Rustling and crinkle noises were heard as he searched. Finally, a plastic Ziploc emerged and he tossed it over to Sherlock who caught it immediately, "…There you are"

"John.." For once, he was actually at a loss for words, " I-um.." He stared at the bag and raised it once and then lowered it again, giving a small fake smile "Thanks. For this. Yeah.." He slipped it into his jacket pocket and stood, "See you later?"

John made a sound of acknowledgment and then heard the click of the door. He closed his eyes once more and let out a sigh. He didn't even know why he was upset. He should expect no less from Sherlock. The sociopath was never one for sentiment or caring. All that mattered were the cases and him lying in this bed was one of the many risks John took by walking with Sherlock Holmes. But John couldn't help wanting him to be by his side at all times, especially when he wasn't sure if he was going to make it. John glanced to the side and saw his phone on the table that sat next to his bed. He picked it up and messed with it. He went into his messages and eyed his unsent text. He had written it shortly after he'd arrived at the hospital. John remembered he had been weak and his consciousness was weaving in and out but the message was so important. It might have been his last chance;

I love you –JW

He stared intently at the words and then stared at the ceiling, his heartbeat beginning to pick up. He breathed in and out heavily a few times and then glanced back at his phone. With one quick stroke, he deleted the message. John began to wonder why he'd typed it in the first place. His free hand traveled up his face and ran through his hair. Why? Why did he love that machine? John cleared his throat again and then relaxed himself back into his pillow. Just when he was about to let sleep over come him, he heard his phone beep

'A text?' John wondered. He grabbed his phone and went to see. His eyes widened slightly.

Feel better – SH

John couldn't help but giggle and think 'That's why…'

A wide smile set on Sherlock's face as he stared at John through the door's window. It's amazing how two words could cause his friend's face to brighten. Maybe next time, he'll use three.