Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson, but I wish I did.
Bang.
Shit, thought John, I've been shot again.
Earlier that day:
Sherlock had been in bed for three days and John was beginning to worry. Of course, he was always on the brink of worrying, if he had not plummeted fully, about his friend Sherlock Holmes, whose health, physical and otherwise, was always dubious.
It had been almost a week since they had investigated a case and, quite frankly, even the good doctor was praying for a murder.
But, at last Sherlock emerged, wearing his dressing gown, with his hair all awry and his face in that adorable state between sleeping and waking. (But this is just me talking; I'm sure John didn't think all these things.)
"John!" said he, in that wonderful way. It was wonderful because that was always the first word he said when he awoke. And this is just a casual observation.
"Yes Sherlock" said he, in that beautiful way. Beautiful because he says it as though he will agree to anything.
"We have a case" said he, in that exciting way. Exciting because, well, they had a case.
And so they did, for later that day, when Sherlock had donned some clothes (for the record it was that gorgeous purple shirt that was always threatening to burst open at a moment's notice. Once again, though, this is just me talking, John would never notice things like that) and John had finished his breakfast (also for the record he had managed to get Sherlock to drink some tea and eat a slice of toast, I just thought I would mention this because, well, who else could get Sherlock to do that?) there came a knock at the door.
The case is of little consequence, especially since it was quite ridiculous, but for the purpose of credibility I will tell you that it involved a will and the last name of Garrideb. Sherlock was onto the rouse at once and the famous duo was soon in a cab and heading off to meet a kindly old gentleman who collected model cars, of all things.
This is all, I fear, immaterial to the story at hand. Though, it is important to note that John Watson was wearing a really lovely, knitted jumper. Sherlock did notice this, of course, I mean, he notices everything.
So they got to the little old man's house and he was pretty excited by the whole situation. While they were there the original client showed up and asked this kindly old gentleman, who was something of an agoraphobic sort, if he would mind terribly popping off to Guildford that evening. And, well, being an agreeable sort of chap, he said he would.
So, by four o'clock the place was empty, but Sherlock knew that something was up and after a quick tea and a piece of cake at the closest café the pair headed back to the house, hoping to find some adventure there.
And Adventure they found. Because after getting in (with the key that had been so kindly left to them by the old man) and snuggling together behind a cupboard (well perhaps snuggling isn't quite the right word) and waiting there for less than an hour there came another man into the room.
He was none other than their client from that morning and he wasted no time in tearing up the carpet and floorboards to get at some devious device within.
Holmes and Watson took their opportunity, while the man was preoccupied with his treasure hunt, to emerge from behind the cupboard. But alas they were not quite sneaky enough for he noticed them almost immediately. He also wasted no time in whipping out a gun and firing at them.
And that brings us back to where you came in to this story.
John had fallen to the ground and Sherlock, after wrestling the gun off the intruder and knocking him out with it, was beside his dear friend.
"John?!" never in your life would you have heard a word so full of fear and pain.
John groaned.
"Please say that you're ok!"
John groaned again as Sherlock ripped off his trousers (to examine the wound of course).
"It's nothing Sherlock, it's just a scratch."
But Sherlock wasn't listening; he had his arms around his friend like he would never let go.
"I thought you were…"
"I'm ok Sherlock, really."
Then, and you won't believe me when I tell you this but, Sherlock started weeping.
"I don't know what I would have done without you." He said.
John started to pat Sherlock's back awkwardly, he wasn't sure how to deal with this situation, Sherlock had never shown so much emotion before.
Unfortunately, before anything else could happen, the intruder started to move again.
"You are lucky that you're a terrible shot, if you had of killed John Watson you would not have escaped this room alive."
John blushed, legitimately blushed, it was worth a bullet, it was worth a hundred bullets to know that, deep down, Sherlock cared for him.