Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were coming back from Scotland Yard to 221B Baker Street, late in the evening. They had been to catch up with DI Lestrade but didn't get much leads about the case. The two men's spirits weren't exactly low but they looked tired. They decided to leave the rest to the morning.

As they get off the cab at Baker Street, John is on the phone with Mary, she has some reason to be somewhere else and John isn't about to go home alone, he'll talk Mrs Hudson into letting him stay in his old room for the night, or on the long sofa in the living room. He smiles for a second into what is perceivable to be Mary's argument against the sofa. All the while Sherlock is paying the cab driver, but looking interested in the conversation (like he's defending his sofa...). John notices and stiffens. 'No, I was shot in the shoulder', he corrects her, tense, now, 'but that was a long time ago, I'll be fine, Mary.' He says goodbye hastily, as they get off the cab.

'So, Mary thinks the sofa...'

John halts, forcing Sherlock half way between the cab and the street, in an uncomfortable position. 'Oh, look!' he says sarcastic, looking around them, 'this is not Afghanistan!'

'Point taken', he murmurs, as if childishly upset for his friend's words, but as soon as John turns to the door, his gaze looks worried. John would never let on if anything was wrong. Somehow, Sherlock cared, he worried, and that was silly. John was a doctor and a soldier at heart, he knew how to care for himself.

The cold brisk air outside made them wrap up on their coats. John went to the door, but Sherlock stopped short. Something wasn't right, he felt, as he looked around. He couldn't quite put the finger on it, but something was amiss... No, it must be his own exhaustion. And inside Baker Street they'd be safe, they were always safe in Baker Street. Just like the old times. The old times, they still came around, less often now, but they still came, and this night was one. The fireplace could be lit, the electric lights outside, the cars driving by on the wet pavement, all were familiar sounds.

Before Sherlock could get up the stairs, Mrs Hudson came out with a parcel.

'Oh, you two, is just like old times, isn't it?'

Sherlock extended his hand to the parcel, acting annoyed, he could see the markings with his name, and why else would she carry the parcel in her hand to the landing? John just smiled, and carried on up, unbuttoning his coat. Familiarity. After all he had spent years in that place. His and Mary's apartment was nice, tidier, more luminous, more sanitary (without all the body parts experiments) but this place was clearly a reflection of Sherlock's own mind. Filled with all kinds of stimulus, organised with a very peculiar sense of tidiness. Honestly, John had lived there, but after he had left, the place had remained the same. Because almost the totality of it had always been Sherlock's stuff. And apart from his computer, his gun and an old mug, anything else, he hadn't cared much to part it from Baker Street. There were still those books in a shelf by John's chair, and other stuff, but they definitely belonged there now...

John opened the door to the living room, the yellowish light from the street poured in through the windows. The place felt cold, and John immediately flicked the switch to turn on the lights. The lamps all turned on at the same time, welcoming them home.

Then it happened. There was no warning, no way it could have been foreseen. Out of the silent street and through the window, probably from across the street. But that was hardly a consideration in John Watson's mind as the bullet that crossed the window pane crashed against his body immediately. The gunshot sound echoed instantly. A riffle, from a distance, John knew it as he lost balance and tried to step back, colliding against the wall behind him, facing the window, trying to see the person who had done it, who had taken the shot, trying to devise its reasons... Then it all came to him, all at once. The shock, the hot drizzle of blood over his skin, burning from the localized attack, it would then spread and magnify intensely, all his body was in pain, he could hardly tell where he had been hit, as he struggled to remain on his feet and face the shooter, to see him, to recognize him, he morbidly needed to know why he had been shot and how.

He heard the heavy footsteps of Sherlock up the stairs, at least two at a time, but he wouldn't let go of observing the window. He tried to warn his friend, it could happen again, but by now he had wasted too much time trying to understand it. All of a sudden, he realized, he couldn't really talk, and all the room was dissolving in a whirlwind.

Sherlock entered the room in a run, passing John by, as he leaned against the wall by the door. The window hadn't shattered, and only a small round ominous hole glistened in its sharp edges by the street light. Sherlock turned the lights off, evening the darkness in the room with the mist outside the window. He then forced shut the right window's wood panes in a dangerous decision. The shooter could fire again, even through the closed wood panels, but he'd have to go about it blindly now. The odds were in their favour. He glanced at the left side window, but before that he turned to check on John...

In three steps he had reached John. The darkness deceived him as to the real extent of the situation. He looked pale, vacant, but strong and proud. As Sherlock held him by the elbow his gaze grew more focused. His blue eyes faced Sherlock, he looked stunned. Before he could say anything, his knees must have given in, because he started to collapse to the floor, always upright, against the wall, a red stain registered his path on the wallpaper. Sherlock hastily grabbed his friend with both hands, but he couldn't stop it, the fall, the collapse of a hero. In a second they had both fallen to the floor. John sat with a vacant stare, Sherlock was the one keeping him from hitting the ground completely as he embraced him gently. 'John!'

Sherlock pushed one hand free, John's limp body was supported by Sherlock's other arm, and he pushed the coat open with unsteady hands. A small hole, a very specialized riffle, possibly a special army standard edition. But the small sized hole was not less dangerous for its size. The shirt was getting wetter and warmer, at the same time that John's life was falling deeper into danger. Sherlock grabbed his scarf and pressed it to him. John had done that once. John, healthy and in control, John the doctor, had done that, in the effort to save a life. Sherlock didn't know what to do, Sherlock wasn't a doctor, he had never discussed this sort of thing with John, he had no idea of what to do. Call an ambulance, of course, he was doing just that. He had let go of the scarf pressed against John's chest to dial the number on his phone, John's blood was all over his phone now.

He then threw away his phone to the floor, he felt useless. There was no more he could do but to wait. All the while John was there, in need of medical attention, and he could give him none. The scarf was getting red over blue, and it only covered one of the two wounds. The wooden floor under John was wet as well, as John kept slumping further to the ground, pushing Sherlock with him because he wouldn't let go.

'John, can you hear me?' Why on earth was he calling out his friend's name, he had been doing it all the while, he noticed. Because John's true presence there would have changed the whole situation. He would have known what to do. He was the other half of the partnership, the one that knew how to deal with that situation... Why would anyone want to shoot John? No, he had to stop, it wasn't the time for deductions. Not while his friend bled out on the floor.

John had turned the lights on, enabling a clear view of the room. The shooter wouldn't have mistaken John for Sherlock. It had been chosen that way...

'John!' He opened his eyes, relief came over Sherlock. He felt less alone, now. 'You got shot, John!' Brilliant, Sherlock, brilliant impression of an idiot. Why had he told him that? He could see the fear in John's eyes now. But also a fierce resolution. He was taking charge, taking some of the load off Sherlock... John wrinkled his face in pain, but a strong decided and dominant left hand came over Sherlock's unsteady hand with the tinted scarf. He felt it, he knew where it was even without looking, of course, but now he'd move Sherlock's hand out of the way, to look down on his wound. Doctoring himself.

John's face was turning a strange shade of greyish pale. 'Medics', he said, with uneven breathing. A small mistake, he meant "ambulance, hospital, doctors". "Medics" was an army expression, from the time he was in the war zone.

'John, stay with me', again Sherlock was only copying what he had heard before, but he meant it sincerely. Those words meant something entirely different this time around. Stay with me.

The blue intermittent lights of an ambulance arriving shot across the darkened living room. Sherlock broke eye contact with John for a second only, but by the time he looked back down his friend was unconscious again. The blue light over the red liquid's glossy surface...

The paramedics were there and Sherlock had to let go of his friend to their capable cold professional hands. Sherlock grabbed his phone off the floor with shaky hands. The stretcher, it looked so hard and uncomfortable for John. The cold outside as the ambulance stood with the engine on and the back doors open. John would be cold, it was so cold outside, could he feel the cold? Snowflakes were starting to fall on them. Mrs Hudson was by the door, shocked.

Sherlock entered the ambulance and it took off. He wrote some words in a text and sent it. Mrs Hudson needed someone by her side. Molly would come, she would... And Greg, he needed to know, Sherlock's flat was now a crime scene. Another text. Not even sure how to spell the words anymore. All the while, John was getting his clothes ripped open, exposed at the centre of the ambulance, and there was a lot of red. The colour red. He couldn't talk about what it meant, not now, just name the colour over the pale skin. It was the shoulder, the left one. Close to the ugly scar from John's past. The same shoulder, again. No one dies of a shoulder wound, people say. Except John. He had almost died of it in Afghanistan. John had never said it. But Sherlock knew. He had even glossed over John's medical file once, out of boredom. Upon his return to London, it had remained an unnamed weak spot. It caused spasms over his left hand. Twitches that intensified when he was angry, distracted. And what now? Shot again, and this time, with full disloyalty, where he was supposed to be safe, away from the war...

The Hospital, a large squared building, too sanitary, too clean, too live-less. John was entering through and the medical team rushed towards him. Someone pushed Sherlock aside. He tried to push through. John would never forgive him for abandoning his side after he got shot. But John was being wheeled away. Someone called his name. Sherlock turned. It was Greg Lestrade.

'Now we wait here', he told him, as he placed a confident hand over his shoulder in a friendly manner. 'He's a tough guy; John. He's been to war and back. You'll see...'

Sherlock's adrenaline was fading off all of a sudden. He felt drained, and cold. The police Inspector must have understood because he directed him to a hallway plastic seat. They both sat down, side by side, in silence, immobile.

'So, how did it happen?' Lestrade broke the silence after a while.

'Gunshot through the window. Baker Street... You should be investigating away, Greg.'

'I've got my best people there, Sherlock.'

'It's not enough.'

'It is for now.'

'You don't need to be here', Sherlock insisted, angry.

The other one was surprised. 'Of course I do. And also John is my friend. I worry about him too.'

'I should have known, it's my job.'

'Don't worry, we'll get this guy. You can concentrate in that as soon as John gets out of surgery... You know he'll need some rest, first, but then he'll be back at investigating cases away with you.'

The detective nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the high windows of the doors leading to the corridor of the surgical rooms. A nurse was hurrying with the third blood bag that matched John's blood type. No one dies of a shoulder wound. All the scar tissue of the first wound was getting the patient in trouble. Suddenly the choice of aim was less and less a coincidence and much more an ugly deliberate choice.