Sherlock stared at his bloody sleeve in disbelief.
The sight gripped his heart with icy fingers;
A wound, a gaping declaration of torment in the chest of his lover.
It was never to come to this.
Not, when Sherlock was to be alone, John at work,
Endless boredom tackling Sherlock's brain in the instant that the
Door blocked John from Sherlock.
Shooting at the wall had lost its shine.
Having John in his arms had made sure of that.
In time…
Right same arms in which a pale man was gathered.
The door was at fault, having dared close behind John.