Sherlock was running, faster, faster, John Watson at his heels, dodging corners and skipping streets, fighting through the heart of London.

Sherlock halted abruptly, turning to aim a careful shot at his pursuer. John, gasping for breath, turned just in time to see another man attacking Sherlock from behind.

Just as the knife the man was carrying stabbed Sherlock in the side, John jumped on him, dragging him back, grabbing his gun, ready to shoot the man who had hurt his Sherlock. Too late. As Sherlock sank to the ground, gasping, the assailant turned, and in one swift movement, blasted a hole right into John's chest. The last thing Sherlock saw before he fell unconscious was John on the ground, his own blood swirling around him making pretty patterns on the wet pavement, the whole scene bathed in red and blue police lights.

Sherlock hit reality quickly, the scream already on his lips. God, he hated nightmares. He lifted a hand to wipe his face and realised he couldn't. A long tube ran from his arm to the foot of his bed, making it near impossible to move. His vision was blurred and there was a dull throb in the back of his head. He blinked a few times, trying to gather some discernible thoughts. The white lights combined with the white walls and sheets, plus the heavy tubing on his arm suggested he was in some form of medical facility, most likely the hospital. He shook his head again, and as his vision cleared, he could see the machines surrounding his prone body.

Ah. He had been injured then. He tried to move, and gasped in pain as hot fire raced up his side. Carefully pulling back the blankets he saw a mound of bandages wrapped around his middle. Quite injured, he decided, gently prodding it with a finger.

A noise at the door made him look up suddenly. John Watson stood in the doorway, relief evident on his face.

"God, Sherlock, you gave us all quite the scare." He sat down on the sterilised looking chair beside Sherlock's bed and gently took his hand.

"I seem to be rather good at doing that," Sherlock muttered, causing a small laugh to come from John.

"I'm just glad you're okay, Sherlock, that's all."

Sherlock hardly heard. He had fallen asleep again.

Sherlock could hear voices. He wanted them all to shut up, wasn't it evident he was trying to sleep?

"Should we tell him?" One voice Sherlock vaguely recognised as Lestrade whispered.

"God, look at him." Molly. Molly Hooper. "We can't tell him, not in while he's this state. Poor man."

Tell me! Sherlock wanted to say. I'm not a poor man! Tell me! But his mouth couldn't form the words and sleep overcame him once more.

All in all, Sherlock had to spend a week in hospital. After all, he did have a stab wound in his side that by all normal circumstances should have killed him. It was lucky, the doctors told Sherlock, that he had had somebody there to pull the knife away in time. It was lucky he'd had John. Sherlock hadn't seen all that much of John, to be honest. At least, not while other people had been around. When it was just Sherlock, though, John stopped by, sat next to him, chatted to him, held his hand through the pain, told him awful jokes.

Nobody else was cheerful like John. Lestrade, Molly, Sally Donovan, anderson. All had stopped by, said a few words. They'd all been acting like someone had died.

I'm not dead yet, Sherlock had joked. None of them laughed, or even smiled.

Still, Sherlock had his John, and that was all that mattered.