I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock, nor do I wish to. The following fanfic is post-Reichenbach, post-Journey's End (with some modifications). I will state up front I have no major obligation to this story and, though I am in love with the plot, many other things are of higher priority. A big kudos to Talitha for not only inspiring me to write this, but also brainstorming with me to make this as wonderful as it is.

1.

John.

All that resounded in Sherlock's head was the sound of metal cutting air as the bullet streaked through the space between him and his killer. This was a shot to kill, after all. The fatal blow.

But, miscalculations were often overlooked or disregarded when one suffered from panic.

Sherlock located him. He was undoubtedly the man who was hired to take Lestrade out in the event that Sherlock failed to leap from St. Bart's rooftop. According to one of Sherlock's many [often, but not always] reliable leads, Armin Fischer was a fairly gruff man with the posture of an official. According to another, he had blond-grey hair and very dark, very black eyes.

John…

Why was that name repeating itself? An echo of sorts, breaking his train of thought. Not that thought mattered, now he was dead.

John.

Death was like a dream, then. Oh, but there was pain. That piercingly real pain in his abdomen where the silver-coloured metal dug into his body and tore apart his skin and muscle like a pen through plastic. He could hear the event as it played again and again behind closed eyes, but the nothingness was far more overwhelming. It seemed like he was thrashing—trying to break free from the restraints holding him back—all the progress he'd made was sinking to the deepest of deep in the depths of the ocean, never to be seen again and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

If he was dead, he could let John live, but he would never really know if the army doctor was alive.

John.

Yes, John. It was coming back to him; the importance of his mission and the essence lying beneath it.

He found Fischer in Germany, of course. A remote town with a decent enough landscape and not many people. A home town. Fischer lived here and his family (a daughter and wife) did, as well. Sherlock cared little for this information. He would only use it under extreme circumstances—if he had to threaten the women to lure Fischer into his calculated trap.

This was so simple. Sherlock killed him. Shot him three times, just for good measure.

Unfortunately, he was shot as well. It wasn't uncommon for him to be wounded in the fight. More often than not, he was. But, just as Fischer had miscalculated with his aim, Sherlock miscalculated with his preparation.

He was never outstandingly careful. A part of him enjoyed the hunt and the adrenaline and the rush. But he could use his words like grand tools and shape any situation in his favour.

This time Sherlock didn't get the chance to speak. Fischer was startled. He wasn't as smart as the others, clearly. He thought he stumbled upon a ghost and reacted accordingly. All Sherlock could do as he crumpled weakly was return fire and, in his desperation, as the lights began to fade from his sight, he hit his mark. Three times.

Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims.

And Sherlock began to bleed out. Much quicker than he expected, based solely on the trajectory and point of impact. He only had a few moments to inspect the damage, but he realised it was not something to be taken lightly.

He needed to get to a hospital. And fast.

But the silence seemed so much more inviting…

"John."

Suddenly, everything was fading, much like the night of his death. He felt like he was dying all over again, but the pain was dim and his body was already stiff. It took effort to open his eyes, and when he did, they locked onto the bright tiger's eye irises of a young girl ten years his junior.

"Who's John?" she asked, head propped up in her hand as she rest her elbow on the pillow beside his head.

Sherlock's eyes were only half-opened and he didn't give her the courtesy of even the subtlest reaction to her inquiry.

The blonde pursed her lips as her brow furrowed. "You okay?" she pressed, but her voice was softer this time, as if she was afraid she was the reason he awoke.

"Fine," he managed, noting the strictly obvious cockney accent she spoke with.

There was a pause and the woman slumped her arm and rest on the meat of her bicep, folding her hand over her head with no other place to put it. She was a photograph in a picture frame.

"Who's John?" she asked again, now whispering secretively.

Sherlock swallowed. Eyes closing for merely a moment, the lids elevated again and the detective took a deep, steadying breath.

"My brother." Ah, no. Too close of a relative. Too dangerous. "We're not close. He's adopted, actually. I've only met him a few times." It was easy to lie steadily, though his voice was weak. That, however, was due to his physical state and little could be done to amend it. "Why?"

The blonde gave a partial shrug, but it was dominantly of her right shoulder, which wasn't restricted by the weight of her head. "I dunno. You kept sayin' 'is name."

For a brief moment, the sound of a British accent was comforting. It was home. It was everything he knew and tolerated.

Then, the anxiety came. Why was this woman here? In Germany? This was Germany, right? He didn't dream about killing Fischer. No.

"I was dreaming. He was in it. Peculiar, really, but one cannot control what or who they dream." Sherlock knew he sounded too straight-forward. Too much like himself. He decided to turn the conversation onto her as he bent his leg under the covers, keeping the other comfortably straight. "I'm sorry," he started, playing with his tone to make it kinder, "What's your name?" And he added a soft smile to top it off.

She smiled back. "Rose," she replied, seeming to brighten as she said it. How that was possible, he didn't know. "Wha's yours?"

Sherlock yawned, which irritated him to some degree, though he conceded it helped him play his part. "Michael. What… happened to me? Do you know?"

"Ah… you were, uh… shot."

Of course he was. The bang of the gunshot could be heard in his mind again and he winced in spite of the composure he so keenly wished to present. "Obviously," he spat, fingers curling into a ball under the sheets. "Where am I?"

Rose seemed a bit more alert, now, though she managed to keep her manner positive. "You're still in Germany. I mean, you're not that fa' from the Inn. And ya were shot just about a half a mile from here. We took ya to the hospital to fix ya up." Rose frowned the slightest degree. "You've been sleepin' for about four days, now."

With a grimace, Sherlock found the strength to sit upright.

"Careful," the blonde warned him, sitting up as well and placing a hand on his upper back to support him.

"You took me to a hospital? Which one? There isn't one in this town." Turning toward her, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, shifting and steadying himself. "You would've had to drive quite a bit. The people here have a home practice."

Even so, being such a small and united community, the town's designated physician probably didn't want much trouble. It was likely he'd see someone who was bleeding out, just to avoid the guilt of turning someone away, but it would be quite a big ordeal. Sherlock would be making a scene with his near-death. A scene he couldn't afford to make, as he was already supposedly deceased.

"No," the woman responded, helping him out of his bed. "Not a hospital here. I's a place we—well, a friend'a mine—he, well… Don't worry 'bout it. It wasn't much trouble if tha's what you're wond'rin'."

Sherlock regarded the robe he was wearing in passing, untying the knot at his waist to open the material. He could see out of the corner of his eye as the young woman looked away, clearly giving him his space and otherwise embarrassed.

"There's…" Sherlock spoke aloud, all thoughts of this mysterious hospital fading as his eyes skimmed the clean and woundless flesh of his abdominal muscles. "Where's the wound? There's no wound. But I—" Swallowing nervously cut off his train of thought.

"Yeah, i's really—he said ya wouldn't believe me if I told ya, so I'd rather just say i's complicated."

"Who said I wouldn't believe you?"

Sherlock retied his robe, glad it was easy to move, but conflicted as to why. This was panic, now, coursing through him. So much, in fact, he could hear his own heart pounding viciously in his chest, but he showed no signs of stress. He felt vacant in this room, desperate for the right questions.

"The Doctor. He's fixin' up… something right now. I can take ya to 'im if ya'd like."

The detective shook his head, taking a few steps forward with the intent to pace, but he stopped just as quickly. "No, that's quite alright." He watched as the blonde sat on the edge of the bed and regarded him with a tilted head. Sherlock made his mouth a hard line, staring right back. "Who are you? Where are we?"

"I already told you—"

"I mean specifically! Why is the wound gone?" He gestured dramatically to his chest, then waved his hand just as quickly outward to put emphasis on his next words. "What happened? Where's Fischer?"

Rose laughed softly, the giggle escaping abruptly and she put a palm to her mouth, like it would conceal the sound.

"This isn't funny," Sherlock scolded, voice deadpan.

"I'm sorry… It's just… Well… I can't tell ya."

"Why not?"

"Look…" Rose started, still smiling invitingly at him, her amused grin melting into a fond smile with ever-so-slightly pursed lips. He was so much like the Doctor, it was eerie. "I'mma trav'la of sorts. We really just stumbled upon ya out there and took ya in to patch ya up."

Sherlock stared at her for a long while, mouth open a fraction.

"I know who y'are," she told him, breaking the silence as the charcoal-haired man took a few steps back and slumped against her dresser.

"Ah, that's…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Mm."

"Sherlock Holmes, right?"

The scientist's heart sank. He'd gone to a hospital and was discovered for his true identity. Unsatisfactory was an understatement in his current predicament. He wasn't yet finished with his work.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied, but his voice betrayed him. There was something intoxicating about this Rose character—an essence that lured him in and Sherlock felt he could trust this stranger with his life. That was the most formidable instinct he'd ever stumbled upon. One he never knew the existence of until meeting John.

"The Doctor told me what ya did. It was very admirable, Sherlock."