The End

As I can conclude, people get drunk. With that, you can dissolve the simple fact that, when you are drunk, you are vulnerable to your minds own idiotic choices. That is what I am referring to, here. It was an awkward night. A night that I secretly wish to never forget, which I haven't the slightest clue why.

I stick by my nonesense, nevertheless.

If you are reading this, a thing I hope isn't true because this is my own personal journal, then you can see I am beginning to type like him. You don't even want to hear my words. It is because of Sherlock this all started. He believes it was my own stupidity, but I claim his ego stood on a pedastal that night.

I am rambling, aren't I? I best be getting to bed. Or rather, the couch. Nothing is simple anymore, not a thing could turn back to how it was. But I guess that is for the best.

-JW

The Beginning

"You are mad." Sherlock states, pacing five good steps in front of Watson.

"No. No! I am used to falling down a stairwell you pushed me down!" John was being sarcastic, and Holmes caught this. "There were bullets, Watson! Coming for you head. I saved you!" He cocks his head back, getting a sly grinning look at John in before looking ahead. "Also, you must not deny that you are used to being beaten up a bit. After all our adventures."

John halted his steps to ponder that statement, then quickly caught up. "That isn't... True."

Holmes cracks a laugh, "You hesitate. That tells me otherwise." Watson cracked a hit at his shoulder, forcing Sherlock to give his attention. "Um, excuse me? On a case here. Chasing a deaf guy with good gun aiming?" His face was waiting itself to just continue their light jog to the Grand Hotel's basement. John rolls his eyes, "Fine, you're right. Let us be on our way." His arm barely had time to pave the direction of their running before Holmes darts in a mad dash.

"Bloody me." He hisses, holding his leg with one arm while following behind. Still mad about the staircase issue. It was only eight thirty in the morning, giving way for a long day.

Luckily, before both knew it, the case was solved. Unluckily, however, the deaf guy who is great with a gun is also good with a knife. Somewhere between putting one handcuff on the left hand and the other on the right hand, he had dug his pocketknife in a certain someone's shoulder.

It was a shock to everyone. The man who has a plan every waking second, couldn't dodge such a simple obstacle. He was frozen in place for the longest minute in John Watson's experience. Sherlock stood there, staring at the man who couldn't hear the crunch and gush of flesh. It was torture, and not in any horrible pain wrenching way. No, it left Holmes with this deep feeling of losing.

And he never lost. Watson threw the criminal to the ground, screaming obsceneries despite their lack of meaning, and he bashed the man's head down on the cold ground so many times, he knew it couldn't be legal.

The team cleaned up though. The police had just reached sight, so the wait for the ambulance was not logical. John forced the paler than usual Sherlock into a police car and they drove to the hospital directly. It was a sight that brought many a memory of his own shoulder wound from the war. He couldn't focus on Sherlock's face, only the blood pooling on Holmes's pants.

"Here." Watson finally said, gently tugging away Sherlock's overcoat and scarf. The man in pain sat forward, his face plastered with nothing but calmness. You could hear him screaming inside. But the coat was soon shed. John unbuttoned the white dress shirt just enough so he could stretch it from the wound. The fabric was interwoven with the flesh their, but he managed to free it.

Worse things have happened, but it doesn't take away from the fact that this was a bad situation.

Soon enough, Watson was sitting beside Sherlock who was laying down at the lab. Their lab. Surgery was fast and only a signature locked Holmes inside the hospital. Two hourse later, they made way for the lab where Molly Hooper arrived just in time.

For the first time since the accident, Sherlock spoke. "Did you bring them?" A silent nod from Molly as she hands a suspicous bag to him. Watson furrows his brow, "And what exactly did you bring?"

She just looked at John, then turned all attention to Sherlock who was laying on an examination table. A table only the dead would dare lay on. "Cigarrettes. That won't be a problem, correct?" A dissaproving shake of the head rose from John. "Then what do you prescribe? Doctor?"

Molly searches her pocket once she sees Sherlock holding aloft an unlit shag. She pulls out a lighter, holding it out in between the two eyeball feuding men. Watson stares, "I was just mistaken of your opinion. The one where you swore smoking was bad for brain function? You have a full pack there, and I know if you let yourself have one..."

Molly chimes in, "-He'd want another." She flicks off the lighter and leans back. Sherlock lets out an aggravated sigh, leaning his head back while propped on his elbows. "Then can I have a drink?" Such a simple question. John sigh's also, putting a friendly arm up to grapple Holmes's leg. "Yeah."

The touch startles Sherlock, and he looks up. He lets out a groan of panicked pain, it's clear the sudden movement jerked his shoulder. His elbow slips and he falls flat to his back. "Ah! Oh, Watson. M- Maybe we could spring for a pub?" He's laughing, oddly enough, and holding his good arm over his forehead.

John and Molly, who migrated to a hover over the man let out a noise of relief. "I'll get a cab." John grins.