Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock

Okay, so this is a little fic centring on the shooting in Magnussen's office and the events after that, and I'm intending to do different characters so they should be posted soon. (This fic is something I wanted to write while I'm trying to get my head around my other multi chapter fic, The White Spiders)

Enjoy!

The shooting of Sherlock Holmes

Chapter One: Lestrade

Lestrade was not on duty when the call came through. In fact, he had just finished, and was looking forward to an evening in front of the television with a cool beer, alone with his solitude. Great.

He would remember the moment well; turning off his computer, shrugging on his jacket, checking his phone for messages, when suddenly Donavon had burst through his office door, looking shocked and out of breath.

"Sir, there's been a shooting at Sir Charles Augustus Magnussen's private apartment." Oh right, Magnussen ('big powerful man who likes newspapers, yeah?').

"Not my division now, Donovan; I'm off duty."

She'd smirked with dark humour, "Oh but you'll never guess who the victim was."

"Who?" Lestrade had asked impatiently; he wanted to get home!

She'd almost had a satisfying smirk on her face, "It's the Freak!"

Lestrade had dropped his phone.

There had been many times over the years when Sherlock had gone out on his own on a dangerous case without Lestrade's say so and nearly got himself injured or killed, but this was the first time something very serious had actually happened, and there was nothing Lestrade could have done about it, seeing as it was Sherlock's own private case.

He had rushed straight to the hospital after Donovan had broken the news to him mirthfully. He had tried phoning John on the way, but he had not picked up. He had been told that John had been with Sherlock, and could sympathise the pain that John must be feeling right now. Sure, Sherlock had been a complete git the most of the time, not even bothering to learn Lestrade's first name, but he still thought of the man as a friend, cared for him and everything. Hell, he had seen Sherlock as the recovering junkie, and that experience had given him the instinct to care for Sherlock, though he hid it more often than not.

Now he was waiting at the reception desk, after asking the receptionist if one Sherlock Holmes had been admitted. She had been reluctant to part her information with him, Lestrade not being family and all, but a quick flash of his Police badge had changed her mind. Lestrade kept checking his phone for texts from John, but there was never any there.

"He's still in surgery right now, but you can wait in the waiting room." The receptionist said to him, over tired and dreary.

"Okay, thanks." Lestrade made his way swiftly to the waiting room, a small area filled with plastic chairs and a coffee machine. And there, sat in one of the chairs, hunched over and tense was John Watson.

"John." Lestrade called, and the other man looked up, worry lines etched into his face, and a look of hopelessness in his eyes.

"Greg." He said, sounding surprised, "How did you …?"

"I'd just come off duty when the call came through. Christ, John, how bad is it?"

Of course he didn't really have to ask; the look in John's eyes said it all. "He was shot in the chest, Greg; he's been in surgery for hours….God: this is a bloody mess! We should never have gone to Magnussen's office!" John got up, still hunched over, running his hands over his eyes. Lestrade stared at him sympathetically.

"You didn't have to come Greg, really, there was no need." John said after a moment, looking gratefully at Lestrade.

"I couldn't leave you here alone worrying after the bloody idiot, could I?" John gave him a miserable smile. "And anyway, I couldn't sit at home knowing all the while that this was happening." Lestrade added; his worry and concern suddenly overwhelming him.

Both men sat down, staying in a silent vigil for their friend for a few minutes. Around them, the sounds of life continued in the wailing of babies and the nattering of hundreds of voices.

"Where's Mary?" Lestrade asked. It would have probably been better for John to have his wife here with him, awaiting news, instead of Greg.

"I've tried phoning her for what feels like hundreds of times now, but she's not picking up. I've left messages, so she may turn up at any minute." The two elapsed into silence again, John's uneasiness palpable in the room. Lestrade checked his phone again, just for something to do, pushing down his own apprehension, desperately trying to think of something to say that might appease John's emotions for a moment.

"He'll be alright, you know. Couldn't stand missing the chance to drive us up the wall." Was what he settled with a few minutes later, words cutting through a dense silence.

John looked over at him, eyes tired and bloodshot, but with a slight smirk on his face. "He bloody well better be."

The two men elapsed into a tense silence again.

A large amount of disgusting coffee later, a doctor finally appeared. Lestrade's heart had jumped into his throat, and John had paled considerably. Both men stood up. The doctor informed them Sherlock had flat lined, but by some miracle had pulled through and was now stable ('Oh, thank God'). John had practically slumped into the chair, sighing with relief and exhaustion.

"Good, now I can bloody kill him." He muttered good humouredly, and Lestrade snickered. John rubbed his hands over his eyes "Christ, Greg, he flat lined. He can't do things halfway, can he?"

Lestrade shrugged, "He's Sherlock, why would he bother getting shot in the first place if he couldn't scare us like that?"

John nodded, smirking slightly.

Not long after a nurse came through telling them they were allowed to see him, and they were led into a posh private room, probably courtesy of Mycroft (how the man already knew Lestrade could only guess). The door closed behind them, and they were left with Sherlock, wires and machinery surrounding him, lying in a hospital bed. Pale was an understatement, his dark hair contrasting sharply with the colour of his skin. Sheets came up to his waist, but the bandage covering the offensive bullet hole was visible, and Lestrade shuddered slightly upon seeing it. Sherlock was unconscious, breaths deep and even, oxygen prongs under his nose.

"Oh my god…" John trailed off. This was probably something he had never wanted to see. Lestrade felt the same. John walked over to the monitors, checking Sherlock's vitals. "He's alright..." He muttered, "He's gonna be fine." John laughed breathlessly, head hanging in relief. Lestrade breathed out, running his hands through his hair.

John took one more look at his best friend before turning to Lestrade. "I need to call Mary, and Mrs Hudson, actually; she needs to know now that he's stable."

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah, yeah, don't worry mate, I'll stay here."

John nodded his thanks, and left quickly, probably wanting to bring better news to his wife and….. Not so good news to Mrs Hudson. Lestrade sat down in a chair by Sherlock's bed, listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor. The noise was as good as music. Through the window, a fierce sunlight was shining through, heralding a new day. Lestrade was due at work in a couple of hours; he was looking forward to that after a sleepless night of worry and uncertainty. A beam of light shone upon Sherlock's pale face, but he didn't wake; sedated the nurse had said.

Lestrade took this chance when he was alone with an oblivious Sherlock to…no, not take photos (that would come later, when Sherlock was feeling slightly better), but to vent his emotions.

"Blood hell, you idiot." He directed at Sherlock, feeling a bit better already after the name calling, "John and I can't leave you alone, can we?" he paused, looking down at his hands for a moment before staring at the bandaged wound on Sherlock's chest, taking in the reality of it all. "I'm bloody glad I don't have to tell Donovan you're dead, mate; I don't think I could have stood the look on her face." He shook his head, looking back at Sherlock's face. "And I don't think I could've gone through it again, and I don't think John could too, so cheers for that, mate, cheers for not dying. That was bloody decent of you."

It took a moment of hesitation and a lot of mental debate before Lestrade quickly patted Sherlock's hand, drawing his own hand back hastily. At that moment John came back in, and Lestrade stood up briskly, feeling slightly embarrassed even though it was only John.

"Alright?" He asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. John nodded, looking at Sherlock whilst putting his phone back in his pocket, reassuring himself his best friend was still okay(ish).

"Yeah, Mary's on her way, and Mrs Hudson says she'll pop round too; she's going to get him flowers."

Lestrade chuckled at Mrs Hudson's motherly kindness towards Sherlock. "I'm sure he won't appreciate them at all." He said.

John smiled briefly, "That's what she said, but he's not really in a position to protest, so why shouldn't she?"

Lestrade chuckled again, nodding his agreement. A few minutes of silence followed, in which John went to check Sherlock's vitals again while Greg stood awkwardly around, feeling as though he was intruding on something quite personal. He was friends with both Sherlock and John, sure, but the two had this sort of…..bond ('okay, this isn't soppy Greg') that remained through everything, even when Sherlock had faked his death and put John through unnecessary grief.

Checking his watch for no reason Greg announced, "Well, I should really go; work calls. I'll umm… have to take a statement once he's…." Lestrade trailed off.

John nodded from where he was sat by Sherlock's bed, understanding what Lestrade hadn't said. "Sure Greg, yeah."

"Alright…" Greg went to leave, and his hand was on the door handle when John called out.

"Greg." Lestrade turned around. "Thanks for coming and, you know...being there."

Greg smiled. "No worries mate. See you later. Call me if anything changes."

John smiled back, "Yeah, yeah, I will. See you."

It was a highlight to a rather scary and anxiety filled day when Lestrade got to tell Sally Donovan that Sherlock would survive and recover, and reprimanding her for her obvious glee when the situation had been so serious. He was thankful to John; letting him stay with him. He had shut Greg out almost completely when Sherlock had been 'dead', and the feeling of painful obliviousness was one that Lestrade did not want to feel again. He knew that Sherlock would be fine, and that, for now, was enough for him.

Thank you for reading, I hoped you liked it! Please review etc.

Happy reading! TheBritishBourbon x