Chapter 2

After about ten minutes of storming around the park, John stopped and sat down on a bench.

He plunged his head into his hands and clutched at the hair between his fingers, digging his nails into his palms and pulling desperately at the roots. Sherlock had no right to talk about Harry that way, absolutely no right. It wasn't even remotely his business, John's relationship with his sister, and he certainly didn't get to bring it up, on his own, without John even mentioning first that he might want to talk about it. Apparently since Sherlock could see most people's personal issues just by looking at them, he believed that any of those issues were fair game for discussion. Well, they weren't.

Sherlock Holmes could be a right bastard at times.

John blew out his breath in a sigh.

The main problem was that he often was a right bastard - and not a wrong one.

Because the worst part of it was that somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew that Sherlock's words had actually made sense. When had Harry been well enough to fill out a job application, to update her résumé, and to get around to submitting it? He had talked to her recently about his wish for her to get a good job, and Harry was good at telling people what they wanted to hear. A little trickle of fear was welling in the back of John's mind, that Sherlock might actually be right, that Harry might be drunk right now instead of on a train heading toward an interview. But what did Sherlock really know? He'd never even met Harry! He only knew about her drinking problems secondhand, from what he was able to deduce and what John told him. He didn't even pay attention to most things that didn't concern him.

He was only a genius consulting detective who made his living figuring things out about people, that was all, John thought glumly.

He couldn't possibly predict what Harry was doing...

John's hand reached in his pocket for his phone.

And then he snatched it away.

No, he told himself, no we are not going to do that!

Harry had been wonderful all week, and she deserved his trust. He had no right to call and check up on her like that, especially since he was only doing it because his damn flatmate had made him paranoid. What in the hell was Sherlock's problem, anyway? It was usual for Sherlock to annoy him, common for Sherlock to be blunt to the point of rudeness, but Sherlock didn't usually bring things up on purpose just to be mean. He manipulated people when he wanted something, and he would go out of his way to wind someone up, but he wasn't usually just plain mean. Had something gone sour with his experiment earlier, and he was taking it out on John? He hadn't seemed in a bad mood when John first came in, just surprised and a little twitchy.

...Had he taken offense at John's comment about his weight?

That seemed unlikely. Sherlock did seem to dress well when he went out, but he hardly gave a damn about personal appearance, and frequently spent time in front of John in a rumpled dressing gown, not even bothering to comb his hair. That he should be so upset by John noticing that he gained a few pounds - and not in a critical manner, saying that it was good, actually - seemed ridiculous. And that he would purposely harp on a sensitive subject just to get John angry in retribution seemed a little far, even for him.

John rubbed a hand down his face, his exhaustion returning while his worry simmered and his anger floated around uneasily.

Harry was dry, innocent until proven guilty, and she deserved some trust and respect after what she'd been through and all of her hard work the past week. Sherlock didn't always get everything exactly right, John knew that from experience, and he certainly could be wrong now. And John didn't know what was the matter with him, but it was an aberration, now that he stopped to think about it.

The words still hurt, though.

And almost more painful than the comments about Harry, the blasé way in which Sherlock had treated John's personal business, and the challenge to call Harry while Sherlock waited, was the last bit of the argument, about Sherlock's humanity, and John's attempts to hone its finer points. John had really felt like he was having a positive influence on Sherlock. He didn't see him a project, as Sherlock had said, but he did think that Sherlock needed a push in the direction of compassion and understanding, and John had thought that he was providing it. Every so often, Sherlock would curb his tongue when he wanted to say something rude, or go at least slightly out of his way to be nicer, or think about how his bluntness might affect a grieving family member, even if it was only so they wouldn't get so upset they'd stop talking to him. John had thought he'd been doing some good.

Sherlock had certainly acted like he wasn't.

But at that point, they were both angry, and maybe Sherlock wasn't being entirely accurate.

John shifted on the bench and then stood up, rubbing his hands together. It was getting awfully chilly outside, and John was only wearing the jacket that he'd originally put on in the middle of the afternoon. He hunched his shoulders and turned up his collar and thought briefly about going back, though he'd only been gone about fifteen minutes. Sherlock would no doubt make some dry remark when he came back in, about the cold outside, or John's need for sleep, and the thought made John's stomach burn with anger again. He'd go back toward the flat, but he'd stop in a coffee shop on the way and enjoy a cup of tea for half an hour. By that point, maybe he'd be calmed down enough, or at least tired enough, to ignore anything Sherlock said and with any luck they could talk about what happened in the morning like semi-reasonable adults.

John stamped his feet to warm them and walked back the way he'd come.

He was waiting for the light so he could cross the street when four shots rang out from up ahead.

ooo00ooo

John wasn't sure how he knew, maybe it was just basic probability, but he knew that those shots had come from his flat.

And somehow, he also knew that this time it wasn't Sherlock just shooting the walls. Maybe it was the fact that the shots had stopped at four instead of continuing through the whole round.

But he knew.

And he stopped waiting for the light.

He tore through the crowd, ignoring people's startled looks and cries, ignoring the cars that honked as he fled across streets, and ignoring the burning sensations in his legs and lungs as he sprinted forward as fast as he could. The cold air bit at his nose and throat, and he ignored that, too. He had only one goal at the moment, and that was to get to 221b and rip apart whoever was in there, shooting at... He gulped in air and forced himself to swallow. Panic was rising up his chest and he fought it down ruthlessly, gathering the control of an army surgeon even as he ran on fear-spurred feet.

He reached the doorstep and yanked open the door, pausing before he flew up the stairwell to decide if stealth might be the best option. But he could hear shouting and thumping above his head - it sounded like a fight, and that meant they'd be distracted, and he needed to hurry before the distraction was lost, so he charged up the stairs and pulled open the door, throwing himself into the room.

He almost ran into the back of the man who stood just inside the door, shouting and cursing, and, to John's surprise, wrestling furiously with Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan. He had already been handcuffed, but that didn't stop him from lunging about angrily, ignoring their shouts at him to stand down and trying to move further into the room. Lestrade and Donovan were clearly trying to push him in the opposite direction and presumably get him down the stairs, but he was easily as tall as Sherlock, and a good deal bulkier, which made handling him extremely difficult. In the meantime, Lestrade was loudly trying to inform the man of his rights over the criminal's copious and inventive curses, some of which were directed at the police officers, but most of which were currently being directed to the floor.

Where Sherlock lay, stretched out on his back, his eyes half open and his chest barely rising as he struggled unsuccessfully to breathe.

"Sherlock!"

John couldn't help it. All thoughts of trying to help subdue the criminal were banished from his mind as he caught sight of Sherlock on the floor, and he darted around the tableau in front of him and dropped to his knees beside his flatmate, bile rising in the back of his throat. Four shots, and if Sherlock was the only one hurt... From above John could hear the man as he continued to curse.

"You bastard! You BASTARD! I'll kill you! I'll kill you, you hear me? You hear me, you son of a bitch?"

But Sherlock didn't look like he was in a condition to hear anything. His eyes flittered about, unfocussed, and short, desperate, wheezing gasps lodged in his throat. His shoulders shuddered with the effort to breathe, but he wasn't making much progress. John reached down and grabbed at Sherlock's jacket, starting to tear it back so that he could get to the injuries and access them. Sherlock's hand closed on his wrist, preventing him, and Sherlock's lips moved as he fought to say something. John couldn't hear him, not over the curses and Lestrade's yells, and he wasn't even sure Sherlock had made any sound, anyway.

"Sherlock, I've got to have a look at you," he said steadily. "Let go or I'll have to make you let go."

"Uh... un..." Sherlock gasped. John tugged at Sherlock's hand on his wrist, both relieved and worried when it gave way easily. With his breathing the way it was, Sherlock probably had a punctured lung. John only hoped it wouldn't be bad enough to collapse, especially before he had time for an ambulance - had Lestrade called an ambulance yet?

"Button..." Sherlock continued raspily.

Unbutton.

He didn't want John to tear his jacket. He'd been shot and he was worried about his damn buttons?

"No," John said firmly, gripping the edges of the jacket to tear it open again. He'd rip open the shirt too, he didn't have time for...

John paused, perplexed.

Sherlock didn't seem to be bleeding.

He'd been shot at least two minutes ago, the blood should staining through his clothes by now, should be starting to pool beneath him on the floor from four different places.

But there was nothing.

"Joh...n..." Sherlock said in a strangled voice. "I... ju..."

His eyelids were fluttering shut. Regardless of the missing blood, Sherlock could barely breathe. He wasn't choking, as far as John could tell, he just seemed unable to get a decent breath of air into himself. But he couldn't have a punctured lung if he wasn't bleeding...

There were only two buttons buttoned on Sherlock's jacket. John undid them quickly, but to hell with the shirt, Sherlock was nearly starting to lose consciousness from lack of air and John needed to do something about it. He grabbed each side of Sherlock's collar and tugged the two pieces of cloth apart, the first three buttons popping off to expose Sherlock's chest. A thick black material covered him beneath the shirt.

He was wearing a bulletproof vest.

Well, that explained Sherlock's inexplicable weight gain.

John sucked in a breath as he pulled the shirt further apart and saw the sharp, smashed metal cluster of two bullets directly over Sherlock's heart. The other two were spaced further down, and to the left side, just below his ribcage, no doubt having landed there as he started to tip over, missing their intended target. It was the second pair of shots and the subsequent fall that were more to blame for his breathing problems, though the two over the chest were probably more painful. Judging by the shape of the smashed bullets and the size of their flat, he'd been shot at nearly point blank range, probably from only three or four feet away.

He wasn't bleeding out, thank God, but Sherlock had had the wind very badly knocked out of him.

The vest had to come off, and fast, to give Sherlock's lungs and diaphragm more room to expand. The pressure of its extra weight on his torso and chest, in the aftermath of the bullet shocks, was constricting enough to seriously hamper his attempts at getting his breath back. John tore the rest of the shirt open and feverishly began undoing the vest's straps, finally yanking it off to reveal a wire device and two bright red patches of angry skin scattered across Sherlock's stomach and chest. John ignored the wire - he could untape it later - and concentrated on lifting Sherlock into a sitting position, giving his breathing apparatus a better chance of working. Sherlock wheezed with the movement, his eyes coming back open, unfocussed, and John supported gently him at the shoulders, saying encouragingly,

"Come on, Sherlock, breathe."

Sherlock inhaled feebly and shakily, but his chest expanded a little as oxygen wormed its way into his lungs.

"Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock managed a few more weak breaths, and John patiently gave him time as he sucked in air sporadically, shuddering with effort and blinking desperately in an attempt to see. John had fortunately seen no signs of internal bleeding, which was always a possiblity in cases like this, but he probed Sherlock's stomach for good measure, muttering an apology and trying not to aggravate the sensitive patch of skin too much. Sherlock growled at the intrusion, but allowed it, instead focussing on the important task of taking deeper breaths. Sherlock's breathing was becoming more even, and after another minute or two, when it was approaching normal, John looked up to ask Lestrade to help him get Sherlock on the couch.

They were alone in the flat.

Lestrade and Donovan must have somehow gotten their charge downstairs - John didn't even remember it becoming quieter in the room.

"John..." Sherlock rasped.

"Don't talk, Sherlock," John said quickly. "Just focus on breathing for a little longer, okay?"

Sherlock looked annoyed, but didn't speak again, and instead sucked in another breath. John heard footsteps coming back up the stairs, and a moment later Lestrade hurried into the room, kneeling alongside John and Sherlock.

"How's he doing?" he asked worriedly.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped in a hoarse voice. To John's relief, his breathing was almost completely back to normal.

"Help me get him on the couch, will you?" John asked Lestrade. Sherlock started to stand up as they moved to lift him, but he winced abruptly and sat back down, letting them catch him under the shoulders and help him onto the cushions. The ends of his torn shirt trailed after him as he sank back into a supine position. John looked down at him, not wanting to add to his misery, and shifting uncomfortably, knowing he was about to. Sherlock looked exhausted, which he probably was, and with the vest off and his shirt in tatters he looked skinnier then ever. John sucked in his cheeks and took the plunge.

"Sorry, Sherlock, this is going to hurt a bit," John said, placing a hand over the spot on Sherlock's chest and pressing carefully on the bone beneath with his fingers. Checking for internal bleeding had been a much more immediate concern, and he hadn't wanted to add checking the ribcage earlier, with Sherlock still trying to recover. Which unfortunately meant he had to do it now. Sherlock hissed and clenched his teeth as John's fingers moved over his sore chest, his body tensing with discomfort. John took his hand off after a few moments and frowned at the bruising that was beginning to form in place of the red.

"Hard to tell for certain," he said. "We'll want an X-ray to be sure your sternum isn't cracked, or any of your ribs." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's fine."

"Yeah, I think I'll let the X-ray be the judge," John countered. He turned to glance at Lestrade. "Now, would someone mind explaining just what was going on here?" Lestrade sighed.

"It's perfectly... simple," Sherlock began. "Marshall Owens had... shot... four different..."

"Yeah, all right, how about you just relax and let me explain it, okay?" Lestrade interrupted him. "Come on, John, let's go make him some tea."

"Oh, so there is actually tea in the kitchen?" John asked, as he and Lestrade stood up and headed into the next room despite Sherlock's faint huffs of protest. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"Yes, there is actually tea in the kitchen."

"Good. I wanted some."


So that took a little longer to post than I expected - this chapter needed more tweaking than I'd thought at first, and PBS was running the entirety of Wagner's Ring Cycle this week. You'd think that watching 3 - 4 and half hours of opera a night would be inspirational, but it actually just kind of makes you tired. And then you start playing Doctor Who games. I've been having a Doctor Who craving lately...