A/N: There I was writing this chapter down and I ended up asking a local cop who comes into my work about different gunshot wounds and which type of gun will do the most damage at 2 am in the morning.

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"Doctor Watson."

The familiar tone of Mycroft's voice wakes John from the light doze he's managed to slip into; turning his head on the pillow he finds that, sure enough, the elder Holmes is standing in the doorway like a suited Grim Reaper.

John has always had a rather black sense of humor- he stifles a smirk and tells himself that the only reason he wants to laugh is because of the drugs in his system. "Godfather Death," he says anyway, and immediately wants to smother himself with his pillow. "God... dammit."

Mycroft's eyebrow twitches upwards in a vaguely amused way as he lets the door click shut behind him. "I'll be sure to stand at the head of the bed, yes?" he replies easily, and John sucks the edge of the pillowcase into his mouth to keep from giggling. The humor of the moment fades quickly, however, and Mycroft is as impervious as always as he seats himself. "Although it would still be astonishingly easy to stand at the foot of your bed and fill out the paperwork detailing your rather tragic demise-"

"Don't you dare, Mycroft," John orders him sharply. "I've made it through the surgery, my vitals are strong- what could you possibly use as an excuse to make it seem I'd suddenly up and died?"

"You're the doctor, are you not?" Mycroft offers blandly. "You tell me."

Blood clots form undetected. Infection that grows in the wound. Several such reasons- all of which he has seen as a doctor- pass through his thoughts at lightning speed, and he's very careful not to say any of them aloud. He stays silent, knowing that Mycroft is here for a reason and hopes that his silence will buy him a response.

"How are you doing, John?"

"Been better," he says with a roll of his eyes, but there's no bite to his voice. The pain is manageable with the help of the morphine but still it's hard to sit up straight without the pull of the wound.

"Undoubtedly," Mycroft states without infliction. "I've gotten DI Lestrade to hand over any and all information pertaining to your case. The New Scotland Yard has no further jurisdiction in the pursuit of my brother."

John falls back on his pillow and blows out a heavy breath. "Good," he breathes, closing his eyes.

There is a moment of silence; if he were to look over, John knows that Mycroft is deducing him and drawing conclusions. The latter's voice is as mild as ever as he asks, "No resentments?"

"I don't want Sherlock dead." John speaks shortly, his focus now riveted very carefully on the ceiling. He curls his fingers into his fists but he's vaguely pleased that the tremor in his left isn't back, and he slowly spreads them out on top of the sheets. "You know that."

"I do," Mycroft replies primly; "I was wondering if you remembered that as well."

John can't find an answer to that, and he suspects that Sherlock's brother isn't expecting one, either, because he clears his throat and continues the rather one-sided conversation. "You will be moved to a secure location, of course, once transportation is arranged-"

The doctor bristles despite himself. "Absolutely not," he growls, feeling suddenly cold. Against his better judgment he tries to sit up and grinds his teeth when his body reminds him why that's a bad idea. Mycroft simply looks on, unimpressed. "You will not be toting me off to a super-secret, super-secure Alcatraz where I'll never see the light of day-"

"It will only until this passes over, Doctor Watson-"

"Just a second ago you knew my first name, and it's not all that hard to remember. Don't use my title to patronize me, Mycroft."

His reply is a truly glacial smile. "Most would not be brave enough to speak so in my presence."

"And as you've so eloquently said before, bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, so thank you for the compliment. Now piss off and let me go back to Baker Street." Dear Lord, he must have a death wish. Of course, he's never had a problem telling Sherlock's brother off, and there's no reason to stop now. When Mycroft opens his mouth, he interrupts. "No. Not happening. Not at all. I'm going home."

"Is Baker Street still your home?" Mycroft asks idly. "It is, after all, the place where you were shot- betrayed- by my brother."

"I'm fine." Okay, not fine so much, but he's alive even if was touch and go there for awhile. He holds out his hands for emphasis. "I'm not leaving, so drop the subject."

"They had to scrub your blood from the floorboards."

Now John flinches, and his anger surges forward. "Get out, Mycroft, before I hit you."

"Seeing as you are currently unable to sit upright due to your wound, and you would likely collapse when you stood, you will be unlikely to inflict much damage."

"You want to test that?"

Mycroft pauses for a moment and clearly he sees something there in John's expression that convinces him because he stands. "I will take my leave, then." John counts it as a victory, but of course it doesn't stop the elder Holmes' remark as he heads for the door, "I will speak to your doctor about perhaps lessening your drug intake- it seems to be an inhibitor to your common sense."

And John will swear later that he was merely driving the drug point home when without any effort at all he finds himself giggling again. "It's just the gas."

The utterly confused, slightly horrified look on Mycroft's face only makes him laugh harder. He doesn't think now is the time to introduce the British Government to 'Little Shop of Horrors'.

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Healing from a gunshot wound is not as easy as the movies would lead a body to believe; the bullet tears through inches of muscle at indescribable speeds and the inertia reacts like a shockwave. The initial reaction causes ripples that affect an area much larger than the initial entrance wound, and if there's an exit wound as well it's automatically double the damage even though it's better for the bullet to go right through.

John is fortunate in his case that the bullet had stayed inside him- if it had gone through it was likely he would have bled out before the ambulance came. Fact or not, it's still a hellishly long time before he ventures back to 221B; an infection had started to fester in the soft tissues of the tract left by the bullet. John has never been so eager to walk out the doors of St. Bart's but he still feels a slight twinge of dread when seeing the seventeen steps leading up to the flat.

"All right, mate, let's get this over with, yeah?"

If John has any other close friends than Sherlock, it's Greg Lestrade. They had had a decent acquaintance well before the day at St. Bart's but it was really after The Fall that the copper showed what mettle he had. He'd been the one who refused to let the doctor wallow in his grief even as John purposely ignored everyone and withdrew from interacting from simple human contact.

He's also the one who refused to take any of the doctor's shit.

'You can sit there feeling mad at the world, and you can sure as hell hoard your grief over what's happened, but don't you fucking dare think you're the only one who has the right to.' Exasperated and tired and heartsick, Greg runs his fingers through his hair where he stands in 221B's doorway. The air smells stale and tangy with unwashed dishes and laundry and, even more telling, unwashed body; there's a sea of crumpled, wrinkly clothes and shoes and books sitting sadly in the middle of the floor. Sherlock's belongings, dejected.

John sits braced against the far wall, partially obscured by the desk and chairs with his knees pressed to his chest and his arms locked tightly around them. He looks up at Greg with tired, lined eyes dulled by alcohol; his hair, longer and greyer than Greg recalls, sits up in feathered tufts on his head and a beard has started to fill out his significantly gaunter face. The copper has seen his fair share of those who are at the end of their ropes, and it is very very clear that John Watson is at the end of his.

He's never witnessed John losing his temper but he's done so now, berating the copper for his tenaciousness and telling him to leave him alone, that Greg doesn't understand anything about the loss of Sherlock Holmes.

It's been three months since Sherlock died jumping off the roof of St Barts.

He takes a step farther into the room, trying his damnest to keep his own temper in check, but it's a chore; but maybe a bit of temper is what John needs. The doctor has been overwhelmed by a deluge of both well-wishers and nay-sayers in the backlash of Sherlock's suicide, and sadly the latter far outweigh the former. Greg runs the risk of even more repercussions to his position if his superiors catch wind of his visit here, but John's been silent for far too long, both electronically and physically, and he can't help but need to make sure that the doctor hasn't tried to... follow the detective. "Listen, mate, I can't say I understand what you're going through since- since That Day, but for God's sake pull your head out of your arse and look around you. You want to know what my last case was before all this happened, you want to know what sort of messed up shit I had to deal with?" John makes no verbal reply but his head has lifted an infinitesimal amount, and Greg takes that as permission to go on. "A three year old was found wrapped in a bag in a bin, strangled to death." He's pleased when he sees the doctor flinch at the inhumanity of such an act. "You want to know who did that? The toddler's seventeen year old mother, that's who, and she didn't care that she'd killed her own child. Her parents did, though. I had to leave the girl's mum and dad in tears, John, because of someone else's actions." He crosses his arms, merely feet away from the doctor now. "You aren't the only one who's lost someone, so don't disrespect the others who have."

There's a long, strained silence; for a long time Greg is certain that John hasn't actually heard a thing he's said, and he sighs with a shake of his head. He's nearly to the door again when he hears,

"I know."

John's voice is hoarse and husky with both drink and disuse; he's spoken so softly that Greg isn't entirely sure he's heard him correctly, but when he turns back he finds the doctor's gaze on his own. Bleary and shame-filled as it is there's something grounding there that is heartening to see, and the copper finds himself swallowing thickly several times before he can think about a reply.

John beats him to it. "I know you're right. I'm not the only one who's... lost someone." He barks a sudden, harsh laugh, startlingly different from his usual infectious giggle, and he runs a shaking hand through his hair again. "Hell, Sherlock would be telling me to get off my arse and stop being so sentimental."

"Sounds like him, yeah." Heartened by this response but still wary, Greg slowly lays his back flush against the wall and slides down until he's seated beside John.

John's mouth twitches at an attempt at a smile but that's as far as it goes. "He was a fucking hypocrite. He was crying, Greg- on the phone..." He breathes sharply through his nose, his head hitting the wall behind him, and Greg realizes with an icy shock of what exactly it is John is finally talking about. "He tried to hide it but it was obvious, he just kept on trying to get me to tell everyone he was a fake, and the more he begged the more he cried." He runs his hand through his hair again and blinks up at the ceiling and Greg pretends not to notice how wet his eyes have become. "I had to watch it, Greg. The whole damn thing, the... noise... his body made." He shudders. "It's not the fall I have nightmares about. It's the crunch of his skull shattering against the cement."'

In this moment, though, staring up at the steps of the flat John is merely grateful he hadn't been able to chase the copper off in those months after The Fall. Greg had listened to him patiently as he'd finally let out some of the trauma of that day, and he's prepared to listen now.

Not that John says much.

What is there to talk about? Sherlock shot him- John can't remember it, and in all truthfulness he isn't sure he really wants to. He allows himself the weakness of needing Greg's help mounting the seventeen steps, but he has absolutely no desire to speak aloud of what's happened. The copper, for his part, seems to realize this and merely asks if John needs his pain medication after they;ve reached the landing. Mrs. Hudson watches them worriedly from the bottom before heading to her own flat to prepare a tray of tea.

"You sure you don't want some of this mess cleaned up, John?" Greg asks an hour later. He's got the doctor settled in his red threadbare armchair with Mrs. Hudson's tray resting beside him. He motions vaguely towards the general space of the flat and the remainders of the mess that Sherlock has made of it; the blood has been scrubbed away and the floorboards replaced, and whatever evidence the team needed is now collected. The clutter is still overwhelming, however, and Greg wonders again how the neater, military John has coped with it.

Tired and growing drowsy, John shakes his head. "Thanks, but no. It's all right. He never liked it all being organized- he never could find anything if it was."

Greg has to bite his tongue against stating that whether Sherlock shows up or not, he will never again live in Baker Street. Instead, he nods and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his coat, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. It's almost a relief when it nears his time to leave- he's got a double shift tonight. John has fallen asleep in his chair and is snoring quietly with his cup of tea still cradled in his hands. Greg carefully extracts it to place it back on its tray before shrugging his coat on. "C'mon, mate," he murmurs softly, gently shaking John awake. "You shouldn't sleep sitting up." He supports the other as he leads him to the sofa, knowing that John won't climb the additional stairs to his own bed for a couple more days, and waits until he knows that the doctor is fully asleep again before taking his leave. Mrs. Hudson meets him at the landing.

"You'll be alright watching him, then, Mrs. Hudson?"

She nods. "Of course, dear. Been watching over those boys for years now. Go on and try to solve a murder."

He sighs. "I'll stop by tomorrow after I've slept."

Mrs. Hudson watches him go with a worried frown and makes sure to securely lock the door after him; after pulling on the handle she nods to herself and quietly ascends the stairs to let herself into her lads' flat. Greg has left the light on over the sink to see by, casting the living room in an eerie inky darkness, and she tiptoes to the edge of the sofa to check on John. She clucks to herself when seeing the silly policeman hadn't even bothered to grab a blanket for the poor man and goes to the cupboard to pull out the old afghan that Sherlock loves so much. As she drapes it over him, John stirs.

"Wha' izzit?" he asks drowsily; a passing bus on the road outside reflects against one of the streetlamps and its reflection shimmers across the room, throwing half of his face in stark relief. His eyes look black as he blinks sleepily up at her.

"Don't worry yourself, John," she tells him softly, busying herself with the afghan. "Mind you get plenty of rest, now, dear, we mustn't give Sherlock cause to worry." She stops speaking abruptly, her sharp intake of breath loud in the silence.

John isn't a man prone to easily displaying affection but as Mrs. Hudson starts to pull away he reaches out a hand and grabs hold of her own. "It'll be all right," he finds himself saying to her.

"Oh, John, if I could have only a fraction of your optimism." She shakes her head. "What do we do now?"

He knows what she's asking, and he's helpless to do anything but shake his head- she knows the answer anyway. "We wait."