So, this is sort of my take on a small chunk of an original Sherlock Holmes story, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs. Just a short thing, basically a writing study. Not my favourite thing that I've written, but I've not been writing for a while so I think I need this. Enjoy! :D

From John's POV

Oh, yeah. And the people who will be arresting me for plagiarism are: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for ripping off his fantastic work, AND Moffat and Godtiss for my use of the Sherlock-John first-name-basis and modern times setting.

As Sherlock and I swept across the floor, guns in hand, trying to avoid the attention of the American fraud, Garrideb. I managed, though, to trip, and Garrideb turned to acknowledge us. He at first looked satisfied, as though he had won a game, before his expression faltered to distress. He now had two guns pointed at his head.

It appeared we had him beat, as he was, quite literally, up against the wall.
But then he smiled.
"Well done, Mr. Holmes," he laughed, "I suppose you were too much. You beat me at my own game. Well done, Mr. Holmes, well done."
He leaned against the wall, still laughing, as Sherlock started texting Lestrade with one hand, keeping the other holding a gun against Garrideb's temple. I suppose it was this that distracted us.
One moment, everything was still. The next, Garrideb had pushed Sherlock aside and pulled a gun at me.

I had half a second: Half a second and my military training was pushed straight into action. Half a second and I should have dodged the bullet. Half a second-but my reflexes were slowing up. After that half second was up, I heard the gunshot and everything started to play in slow motion. There was a searing pain in my leg, red hot and sharp. I could feel the bullet tear through the flesh and graze the muscle, knocking me down with the impact. I could feel Sherlock turn beside me, dropping his phone and immediately greeting Garrideb's face with his fist, knocking him out cold.

What happened next was what I will always remember, till the day I die. Despite the fact the world was spinning, despite the fact that black dots were filling my vision, I could hear Sherlock, and I could feel him kneel down next to me, cradling my head. "John!" he shouted. I could hear doubt.
"John, for God's sake!" I could hear fear.
"John, Goddammit, are you okay? Can you hear me? Tell me you're okay!"
He held my head up and I started seeing clearly. I could feel his hands, though, shaking. This was the first time since Baskerville, and probably the last time, that I seen him truly, honestly scared.
It was worst the bullet wound. It was worth that wound and many others to hear Sherlock Holmes like this. This man, made of ice, had a depth of loyalty and love hidden beneath his cold mask. It was present, if only for a second, and I would trade it for nothing.

When I first met him, Lestrade had said that one day Sherlock Holmes may be not only a great man, but a good man.
I saw his heart that day.

I crept back from the unconsciousness that threatened to take me and I nodded before swallowing. "I'm fine," I choked, "The bullet just grazed my leg. I'll be fine."

Sherlock still looked shaken, as if he didn't quite believe me. He pulled out a pocket knife and cut the leg of my trousers before sitting back, relieved. "You're right, John. Just a minor wound, nothing too difficult to repair."
His eyes became clearer. His hands stopped shaking. He rounded on Garrideb, who was slumped on the floor, bleeding from one eye, and very much aware of the situation.
"Scotland Yard is on it's way. Detective Inspector Lestrade will be here in a matter of minutes. I feel you should know," Sherlock hisses at Garrideb with the utmost contempt, "Had John died here today, you would not be alive right now."

It was Sherlock's loyalty that meant so much to me. I had once seen him beat a man to death who harmed Mrs. Hudson, but the rage in his face told me far more about his heart than even he could have ever described. Despite everything that he had gone through, despite everything I had gone through, and despite everything he had put me through, he was willing to put a bullet through the heart of anyone who wished me harm. Similar to our first case together, when I did the same for him.
Probably not healthy, but very Sherlock.
His loyalty meant the world to me.
It still does.

Welp. I'm not sure what that was, but I hope it's not too bad! Uh, reviews are always welcome! Constructive criticism is always welcome! Feedback of any sort is always welcome! Seriously, I just pour over my email inbox waiting to see if anyone has anything to say. FOREVER ALONE. I mean, what?

Thanks! :D