"Watson! Watson!"
Sherlock Holmes' cries fell on deaf ears as he held the bloodied body of his only friend.
It was supposed to be an easy capture. Holmes and Watson had be asked to follow a woman's drunken husband who had been suspected on cheating and stealing.
Normally, Holmes would have left this to Scotland Yard, but he had suspicions that he was involved in something more. They had been following him for 2 solid hours in the freezing December rain and despite what Watson said, Holmes knew that his friend was miserable, but he carried on with no complaints.
They had come to yet another pub when the man suddenly turned and raised a concealed gun. In his drunken state, he was a horrible miss. When he had emptied his gun, Holmes thought that this was the best chance to apprehend him, so he and Watson charged forward when the man whipped out another gun and fired several times before a lucky shot struck Watson in the right side of the chest knocking him to the ground.
Holmes had cried out to him, ignoring Watson's shooter who was escaping down an alley way.
The gun shots and Holmes' cries alerted two nearby constables who whistled for help as they chased after the drunk.
The Detective shouted his friend name as he attempted to stop the bleeding. Not including Mycroft, Watson was the closest thing Holmes had to a brother and having lost one brother and his wife, Mary, Holmes knew Watson felt the same though words were never said.
Finally, after several agonizing minutes, Watson finally opened his eyes and squeezed Holmes' shoulder, a gesture to let him know he was all right. Homes returned it as he helped his friend sit up, slowly, with concern and fear in his grey eyes.
Holmes swallowed as he grabbed Watson into a tight hug, as if to reassure himself that life was not playing an evil trick and that his friend, his brother was alive.
The doctor grunted as he shifted. "Homes, don't worry, I'm fine." Watson tried to assure his friend. "The bullet...didn't hit... anything major." He said.
Holmes frowned as he pulled back. "We'll have a doctor determine that, old friend."
"I am a doctor!" Watson argued.
Holmes fought a groan. Honestly, doctors made the worst patients, Watson was no exception. He might even be worse then Holmes himself.
Instead, Holmes chuckled, showing his relief.
Watson smirked. "After all, what is it you're always saying, Holmes? Physician, heal thyself?" He asked, eyebrow raised.
Holmes shook his head. "I see that even close to death, your pawky humor still glows strong."
Watson laughed.