A/N: So this is supposed to turn into a Johnlock. Hope you all enjoy! If you find any mistakes, please tell me, I will fix it. ON WITH THE STORY!

For Sherlock, it had all happened very quickly.

The detective gazed at John lying in the hospital bed, still having yet to wake up and embrace his new life. Sherlock felt horrible about not being aware at the time where it would have changed everything. During the danger, if he had just been more alert, more on his guard, he had his back to a criminal with a gun for God's sakes! And now John was-

Sherlock didn't want to think about it.

Sherlock rewound his memories to start from the beginning and make sure he didn't overlook anything. Maybe they were wrong. Maybe John would be fine. And maybe Sherlock had messed everything up, John hated him, John was far to good for the likes of selfish Sherlock.

It started out with a case, as usual. Lestrade had come to Sherlock and John with an interesting case. A woman, found dead in her shower. She was mostly dry, with no marks on her. There was no blood or injections they could find.

It went quickly enough. They found out that the woman was German, from Berlin, and she had a string of failed marriages. At first, the suspect was her first husband. He was still in love with her, and, if he couldn't have her, no one could.

Sherlock had dismissed the idea when they had interrogated the man. He was dimwitted and weighed ninety pounds. John remembered Sherlock saying something about his hands.

"Found anything?" John asked as he walked into the forensics lab. He was sure that they should question the woman's other two spouses.

"Nazi."

John eyed him strangely. "Excuse me?" Sherlock didn't look up from what he was peering at through the microscope. "Nazi. Her grandfather was a Nazi."

"And you think she was murdered because of that?"

"Precisely, John, excellent," the detective said. "The pesticide Zyklon B was found in her lungs. It's widely known as what the Nazis poisoned their prisoners with in their gas chambers. Someone wanted revenge."

"So," John finished for him,"we just have to find out who." Sherlock stood with a flourish of his coat. "Yes."

They found a suspect, a friend of the victim's. The man's name was Oskar Olsewski, named after his grandfather who had been killed in front of his daughter at a concentration camp, the man's mother. He had a history of hospitalizations and the like.

They called Lestrade and told him the address. Sherlock had pulled John along by his wrist, exclaiming that Oskar would be packing and hunting for his next victim by the time Lestrade and his people got there. So Sherlock and John went to Oskar's house alone.

Sherlock rapped on the door. No one answered. He did it again. Not a soul. The detective mouthed "Follow me" to John, then turned the knob and pushed on the silent door.

The inside of the house was exposed to the two. Sherlock stepped inside, and a harpoon flew into the wall directly next to his head. John swallowed.

Sherlock pointed out a spot at the top of the stairs directly in front of them where the shadows were just a bit darker.

"Mr. Olsweski," Sherlock called. "Come down unarmed with your hands raised. We don't want any trouble."

"They did," came a hiss from the top of the stairs. "They killed them. 6 million innocent people!"

"We understand," Sherlock said,"and we can talk about it. Please come down unarmed."

"No you don't!"

Another harpoon hit the floor dangerously close to Sherlock's foot and the thumping of shoes on the floor sounded throughout the house. John and Sherlock were, on instinct, bounding up the stairs in pursuit.

There were two hallways, one leading left and the other right. All was silent.

"Split up," the detective ordered, and he disappeared down the left hallway. John took the right one, checking every door on each side with such caution that they squeaked.

He saw what was in each one: Most of them empty, a washing machine, a bedroom, one with a piano. John was pushing open the second to last one on the left when he heard a yell.

"Sherlock?" he called down the hallway, and swore he could smell something burning. Was that the sound of a fire roaring? "Sherlo-"

John was cut off when someone surprised him from behind and had something around his throat, tugging on it so he could speak, couldn't breath.

"Sh...sh...uuuhhh...hhhhrrr...log...ck!" he wheezed, his fingers grasping at the thing around his neck, his vision beginning to blur. John gasped for air, yet nothing came. He called for Sherlock, his voice reduced to a breath, a huff, of restrained air, yet no one came. His legs have out and he crumpled to the floor. His assailant followed him and didn't give up his attack.

John was sure that this was how he would die. Being sneaked up on by a coward who was choking out his final breath of air. There was nothing, now, no more oxygen, everything had turned a strange shade of white that was slowly fading...

He had stopped struggling a long time ago, but the man had no mercy. John's legs had given out in an attempt to slip from the clutches of the murderer, who seemed intent on repeating it. He was on the floor, with nothing left but shame. It was humiliating to die from something so trivial, as Sherlock would surely think when John was gone.

John thought he heard faint footsteps and a voice calling a word that sounded like his name, and an idea popped into his head.

THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! That was the sound John's foot made against the wall. It was loud, or, at least, John hoped so. Loud enough to get Sherlock's attention before he died.

The footsteps got louder, but John was practically gone. Right before the pressure on his throat let up, everything went very black.

It was nice, in this state. Peaceful. Not gone. Almost, but not quite. John wasn't there, either. He was stuck in the middle. The black was more of a gray, but it started to grow darker and darker. John felt wonderfully peaceful, in this bliss. It was like falling asleep. John felt himself slipping away...

"John!"

John was snapped from his trance-like state. The voice that had cried his name had cut through everything else. He sat up and started to cough. It hurt, but he couldn't stop. He gasped for breath, needing it so bad.

"What-" John coughed,"-What happened?" His voice was a bed of sharp nails.

"You weren't breathing," Sherlock replied, hauling John to his feet. The doctor wobbled a little and leaned against the wall, still wheezing harshly. He didn't seem to be able to get enough air in.

"He's still in the house somewhere," Sherlock thought aloud. "He just wants to play a game. Come on, he went down the other hallway. Last door on the right."

John was still a bit woozy and stumbled as he followed his friend, but was sturdy in no time and was jogging with Sherlock.

They stopped at the beginning of the hallway. Sherlock peered around the corner to make sure it was clear. John's senses had returned and he could smell something burning. He looked up and saw that Sherlock's bangs were darker than the rest of his hair and were smoking.

"Did he do that to your hair?" John whispered, though he didn't recognize his own voice, it was so rough and throaty. He sounded like he did when he caught cold.

"Yes," was the curt and quiet response. "I opened a door and was greeted with a flamethrower. It singed off a bit of my hair, but that isn't important. It's barely as serious as you nearly being choked to death. If I hadn't gotten there in time, you would..." he trailed off, and John stared at him, suspicious. The detective looked unsure. Pained. His expression hardened back into its usual neutral stone. "You sound like a growling badger, by the way."

Sherlock edged his way down the hallway with John following him. They made their way to the last door on the right side and Sherlock stopped. He reached his hand out, so slowly, so slowly, and took ahold of the doorknob.

The door was shoved open and Sherlock and John burst inside. John nearly dropped his gun at what was inside, but did drop his jaw.

Pictures. The most horrid pictures to have as part of a shrine, if you could call it that. Pictures of Hitler and swastikas everywhere, with large red Xs covering them. Pictures of people in concentration camps, wearing striped clothing. People who were so thin that they could have been skeletons if not for the skin and large, bulging eyes. Dead people, barely living people crying over the dead people. Dead adults. Dead children.

It was shrine to the Holocaust. Well, it wasn't a shrine, really. It was a collection of evidence of it and one person's brooding over it, hating the Nazi existence.

"Sherlock," came John's hoarse whisper. That was all he said.

"This is intriguing," the detective murmured. He walked up to the one wall with one of the pictures of the concentration camp inmates. He didn't notice the muffled gasp behind him.

"John, look at this," Sherlock said, his eyes glued to the pictures. "This man has dedicated his life...to this." He reached out a thin hand.

"Don't touch it."

The detective spun around to see their murderer, Oskar Olsewski. He was gazing at Sherlock quite calmly from the other side of the room. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad. He didn't even look smug or pleased, even though he had a knife at John's throat and a hand over the doctor's mouth. Sherlock's gun was up and aiming straight for the dangerous man's head right away.

"So you've found me and my little..." Oskar sucked in a breath and looked around,"interest."

"Obsession, more like it," the detective shot back. Oskar shrugged, the knife moving up on John's throat and making the doctor crane his neck to keep himself from being injured.

"You could say that. But I suggest you don't insult me, Mr. Holmes. I have the upper hand, and I also have your friend in a rather unfortunate predicament."

Sherlock glanced at John, who was trying to keep his eyes calm in an attempt to tell Sherlock that he was alright. Sherlock wasn't so sure he was.

"So what will you do now?" Sherlock challenged. Oskar rubbed his thumb on John's chin. "I could kill you."

"But where would be the fun in that?" the detective suggested. Keep him occupied, at least until Lestrade comes. Keep John from being injured further.

"If you kill us," Sherlock said,"you won't be any better than them. We've just come to help you. If you kill us, you'll be just like them. A Nazi. A murderer."

"I'm not a murderer," was the immediate response. Sherlock raised an eyebrow without letting to of his neutral expression. "But you've already killed one person, haven't you? She was innocent. One of her old boyfriends was Jewish. You killed her. Granted, Zyklon B in her shower was rather creative. Not original, definitely obvious, but interesting. How did you do it?"

"How would you have done it?" Oskar shot back. He was beginning to loosen up, the knife at John's throat less threatening now.

Where is Lestrade? Sherlock thought. Just keep stalling. The poor excuse for a DI should have been here by now, which means he'll be here any moment.

When Sherlock failed to answer, Oskar smiled. "Ah, I see. Trying to keep me from doing anything. Well that won't work!" The weapon was pressed against John's thin flesh harder now, the hand covering his mouth tightening. Blood appeared and the doctor let out a muffled, nearly silent whimper.

Sherlock moved a step closer. "STAY BACK!" Oskar boomed. The knife drew more blood from John's throat as it was tightened against it. "I swear, if you come any closer, I'll- I'll- I'll tickle him!"

The mood was nearly dampened, and Sherlock was about to make a smart comment to the crazy man when he heard footsteps thumping up the stairs. He raised an eyebrow at Oskar.

"It seems that your time is up, Mr. Olsewski."

He started to panic, the knife shaking on John's neck. "N-no. No, I can still make them pay! Those bloody Nazis deserve worse than what my grandfather and mother were put through! She had a heart attack because she had a nightmare of her father at the hands of the Nazis! And she died!"

The door was shoved open and Lestrade and ten officers barged in. Oskar turned away, dragging John with him, turning around to stand next to Sherlock and face the newcomers.

"Drop the knife," Lestrade ordered. "If you do not, we won't hesitate to shoot."

The weapon trembled along with the murderer's hand and finally fell from his grip next to John's foot. Oskar fell to his knees and began to sob. "They started it! It was all their fault! They were evil! They are evil! Evil!"

John's legs gave out, and he fell backwards, his breathing labored. Sherlock caught him, placing his gun in the holster and supporting his friend's weight. John breathed,"Alright, I- I'm alright." He stood on his own, his legs trembling the slightest bit.

Sherlock untied his scarf and wrapped it around John's bleeding neck. The red flowed from the wound, and Sherlock tied it tightly.

Oskar was stood up as well and had two officers on either side of him. He stood in front of the door, glaring at the two who had beaten his fun house of torture.

"I didn't kill her," he growled. "She had it coming! Her grandfather was a Nazi and she didn't expect to be punished for that?"

"She was innocent," Sherlock replied. "You are as much a Nazi as her grandfather was. You killed an innocent person and you don't expect to be punished for that?"

An expression of infinite rage distorted the murderer's features. "6 million dead because of those bastards! You remind me of each and every one of them!" He had to be held back by the two officers and it took both of their strength not to let him go flying at the detective.

"Goodbye, Mr. Olsewski," John croaked. The man stopped his struggling, though he was still seething and breathing hard. He was turned around to walk out.

"That went quite well, don't you think, John?" Sherlock smirked. The detective turned to look out the window. His friend smiled but didn't answer. The doctor looked back up at Oskar being led out, instead of turning around like his friend.

Sherlock gazed out the window, still thinking about the people in the concentration camps. He had been to the Holocaust Museum and had been absolutely fascinated. Mycroft had refused to accompany him, claiming it too horrid and strange for human eyes.

He heard a loud gasp, a familiar click, but before he could turn around he was being shoved to his left and he collided with the wall.

He swiveled around, knowing that John had done it. Sherlock opened his mouth to ask what he done it for, but nothing came out at what his eyes were greeted with.

John, his face extremely pale, on the floor, sitting up against the wall. He was trembling and his breathing was labored. Sherlock's breathing hitched.

John had pushed him out of the way. Out of the way of the bullet. John had put himself in the path of the gun that could have killed him.

Sherlock noticed that John was struggling to breath. He dove down and landed on his knees in front of his friend, taking either side of his friend's face in his thin hands

"John? John! John, answer me. John!" John didn't seem to hear him. His eyes were foggy and confused. Sherlock was desperate now. This shouldn't be happening. This shouldn't be happening. This wasn't right.

"John!" Sherlock almost screamed. He shook his friend's head.

The doctor's eyes became more serious. They finally focused on Sherlock. "John, listen to me. Stay awake. You must stay awake. You're fine, everything's fine, just stay with me, please." The detective was trying to persuade and comfort himself as much as he was John.

"Sherlock..." John mumbled, eyelids drooping. "...can't f-feel..." The brown eyes closed and didn't open. Sherlock shook his friend's face.

"John? John!"

A/N: Will John live? What happened to him? Will one gunshot change his life? Is Sherlock in love? Does this count as a cliffhanger? Are John's eyes really brown, or did I just make that up? STAY TUNED.

Also, please read and review! I appreciate them all! :)