Yes, there were days where John awoke and Sherlock was gone—no doubted-ly off trying to fetch a good case; or possibly off on his own already solving one.

John didn't much prefer the idea that Sherlock would withhold a case from him, but he knew it was possible. Anything was possible when you lived in a flat with Sherlock Holmes—So John wasn't terribly troubled that he was missing.

Not much good could come from the tall child wondering around the streets of London; but John had to acknowledge the fact that he was his own adult and could handle himself.

At least, he kept telling himself he wasn't worried. "Dammit…" John muttered. "Ms. Hudson!" John called, standing and shrugging on his coat. "Have you heard anything from Sherlock?"

"No Deary." She replied, a bit tired. "He seemed to be in a rush this morning and wouldn't say a thing to me." John peeked at her when he got to the bottom of the stairs and she smiled- but her expression quickly melted into horror. John raised an eyebrow and turned to the door, his own mouth falling agape at what he saw.

It was Sherlock, but it wasn't. His shoulders, which he usually held high with confidence, were slouched—and the blood from somewhere on his head ran clear down his face and was dripping onto his usually unsullied shirt.

Not only was his posture distorted and altered- but his expression was everything but Sherlock. His eyes were absent, empty like shells. "Hello, Jo-." His voice was retched out of proportion and he couldn't seem to finish his sentence before swooning to the side and falling to his knees.

"Shit!" John jumped down the last two stairs and kneeled beside Sherlock—instinctively removing his own coat and pressing it to the others head. "Is this where your bleeding?" He honestly couldn't tell. Then came a small mumble. "What?" John was almost sure he misheard Sherlock, or maybe didn't hear anything at all.

"Get off of me." This time his voice came clearer and was louder. "Get out of the building, and take Ms. Hudson with you. Do not come back." His voice was a strained thread of noise, slowly starting and dying off at either end. John wanted to ask again but Sherlock used his remaining strength to push him away—he seemed determined and gave the two a panicked look. "GO!"

Without another thought, John had Ms. Hudson's arm in his grip and was bolting for the back door. "Y-you have to go back!" She panted, trying her best to keep up with John. "I'll be okay!" She looked up and recognized the look in John's face- that was precisely what he planned to do. He let her go at the door of a neighbor, and vanished back around the corner.

Something was already happening. There was a loud bang and ululating, from what he could only assume was coming from Sherlock. "SHERLOCK!" He yelled, ripping around the corner to find his best friend lying on the ground, a shadowed figure escaping through the now broken front door.

"Sherlock!" he repeated, much less concerned with the attacker than he was with Holmes, who didn't respond to his calls. It only took one moment to realize that there was a new wound, and blood was pooling around his leg.

Sherlock had been shot.