A/N; So there I was, busy as hell, and I promised myself and you guys I wouldn't start any new long-term stories until I was completely done with Healing And Crying.

Well, as usual, I just couldn't help myself.

To be fair, this story was practically begging to be written. Quite literally, in fact...it was jumping up and down in my mind palace, yelling, "OOOO! OOOO! PICK ME!" So, because I am a fair and just person who cannot turn down a good prompt, I sat down and wrote the damn thing.

As usual, reviews are to me what cake is to Mycroft; food of the gods ;)

Ta,

Anonymoustache

"John! It was the blueberries! That's what killed her!"

John looked up from his book to see Sherlock dash across the living room and snatch his coat from the hook. "I'll be home late, don't wait up!" the detective yelled, and he was gone.

John sighed. Life with Sherlock was never boring, that was for sure.

John was chopping carrots for the stew when he heard his phone ring from the other room. He wiped his hands on a nearby towel and went to get it.

"John Watson here."

Lestrade's voice came crackling through the line. "John? Oh, thank God. Listen, get down here right now."

John raised an eyebrow. "Why? What's wrong? Did Sherlock try and steal another cadaver?"

"John, get down here! Sherlock's been…"

Suddenly, the call shorted out, leaving John with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He ran to the door, grabbing his coat and taking the stairs two at a time.

Mrs. Hudson came out at the noise. "Why, John dear, what's…"

"Mrs. Hudson, will you watch the stew? Something's happened to Sherlock. Thanks!" John yelled. He ran out and hailed a cab, jumping in quickly and hoping he wasn't too late.

Mrs. Hudson watched him go. "Oh, dear," she said quietly. "I wonder what poor Sherlock's gotten himself into now."

John leapt out of the cab at Scotland Yard, intent on getting to Sherlock.

The sight that met his eyes scared the living daylights out of him.

Half of Scotland Yard's building had been blown away, fires still burning around the edges. People and police officers alike were running frantically around on the sidewalk, panicking. John picked up his pace, running towards the building as though his life depended on it.

In a way, it does, a small voice in John's head said as he sprinted towards the ruins.

Because there's no way you can live without Sherlock Holmes.

"Greg!" John shouted, "Greg, where are you?"

"In here, John!" a voice came out of Greg's office.

John darted into the room, barely daring to breathe. As soon as he entered, his eyes scanned the room, looking for the detective.

Sherlock was sitting in the corner in one of Greg's desk chairs. His face was streaked with dirt and blood, a long, grisly cut running across his cheek. His clothes were ripped and he was missing a shoe, hair matted with grime. There was a thick gash along the inner crook of his elbow, against which he was holding his own bloodstained scarf. Sherlock's skin was very pale, and his eyes were shadowed and dark

What scared John the most was the fact that his lover was shaking.

Sherlock Holmes was shaking.

Now, John knew that, no matter how many times Sherlock denied it, the detective was only human. But shaking…as far as he knew, the only time Sherlock had ever been this shaky had been during the Baskerville case.

John wove his way over to Sherlock, barely hearing the conversation between the others in the background.

Sherlock's eyes followed him as he approached. "John," he said hoarsely.

"Sherlock…oh, God, I thought I'd lost you." John tried to hold back the hot tears that threatened. "Greg called and I didn't know…I wasn't sure if you…" he couldn't finish the sentence.

"You're not rid of me yet, John," Sherlock rasped in a thin voice, trying to put some humor in the conversation and miserably failing.

"Jesus, Sherlock, that's not funny!" John said desperately. "I thought you had died! Do you know how I would feel if I got here and you were…you were…"

This time the tears did come, fast and thick, blurring John's vision.

"John," Sherlock uttered. He drew his lover into a tight hug, despite his own injuries. "I…I was so scared, John," Sherlock whispered quietly in John's ear, shaking hands clutching John's own. "I was thinking of you, and how I couldn't…couldn't die because…I love you, so much…"

After many long minutes of their comforting embrace, John pulled away and began to examine and tend to Sherlock's injuries. "At least you aren't too badly injured, love."

Greg wandered over and set down a first aid kit at Sherlock's side. "Hello, John."

"Greg, what the bloody hell happened here?" John asked, gently washing Sherlock's face with his handkerchief.

"I would say that's rather obvious, John," Sherlock tried for his usual obnoxious tone, though it failed slightly when his voice shook.

"Someone planted a bomb in the filing room." Greg said uneasily.

"The filing room?" John inquired as he stuck a plaster over the cut on Sherlock's cheek. "Why the filing room?"

Greg and Sherlock shared a look. John stopped and raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"You're not going to like it, John." Greg warned.

John began to gently clean the grime from the cut on Sherlock's arm. "I can handle it."

Greg took a deep breath. "We believe that the bomb was meant for Sherlock."

John dropped the plaster he had been about to apply to Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, regaining some of his composure. "I told you he wouldn't take it well."

"Why do you think that?" John asked in a controlled voice, bending down to pick up the plaster he had dropped.

"At this time of the morning? No one but Sherlock Holmes would be in the filing room, going through old cold cases," said Anderson snidely, wandering over with Sally. He had a black eye and a nasty-looking cut on his forehead coated with blood. Sally looked to be unharmed but shaken.

"Not to mention the message." Sherlock said nonchalantly.

John pushed the plaster on just a bit too hard, making Sherlock yelp. "Sorry. What message?"

Greg sighed. "Come on," he said tiredly. "I'll show you." He turned and headed out the door, Sally and Anderson following close behind, speaking in murmuring voices.

John made to follow him and saw Sherlock getting up out of the corner of his eye. He turned back around. "Ah, ah, ah," he said, pushing him gently back down into the chair. "You're injured, love…I won't have you prancing all over creation."

"I don't prance, John," Sherlock said, deeply disgusted with his choice of words. "And it's not 'all over creation'…just to the conference room. It's barely ten feet down the hall, you know that."

John sucked in a breath, then let it out with a whoosh. "Fine. Fine. Okay. You can come. But the minute…no, the very second you start feeling even the least bit faint or nauseous I'm calling you an ambulance."

"Don't you think you're overdoing it just a bit?" Sherlock asked snidely. "I've had injuries worse than this and no one ever called an ambulance for those."

"That's because you have me now, 'Lock, and I'm too much in love with you to let you go." John headed down the hall. Sherlock stood for a moment, in slight shock.

No one's ever said anything like that to me before.

"Are you coming?"

Sherlock walked after John, musing upon this feeling that he was currently experiencing.

He wasn't sure, but it might have been the feeling that he was finally, finally loved by someone.