Hello again readers! As promised, Chapter 3 is here. Next chapter I'm planning on the story of the night Sherlock was shot. As always, reviews are welcome, and I would love to hear any ideas or suggestions you may have for later chapters. Thanks for reading, and enjoy :)

EDIT: Wow, guys. I'm so sorry. I just read through this again, since I was half asleep the last time, and found it riddled with errors. As you can see, I've reposted it, fixing my many mistakes. Deepest apologies! I promise to get a beta reader. Thanks for sticking with me :)


24 hours later, Sherlock was released from the hospital, much to the relief of the hospital staff, which he'd harassed endlessly. He had insisted on walking, but when he nearly face-planted the floor (luckily John had caught him first), John and Lestrade tried to convince him to take a wheelchair instead. He refused, and tried to keep walking, only to nearly topple again, this time Lestrade grabbing the back of his shirt before him and the floor had a violent greeting.

"Dammit, Sherlock," John grumbled, helping Lestrade pull him up. "If you are going to insist on walking, at least let us help."

Sherlock grumbled incoherently for a moment, but he finally caved. He slung his arms over the men's shoulders, their arms wrapping around his waist. The three managed to make it to Lestrade's car without too many weird looks. Sherlock had started out strong, but by the time he got to the car, he was pale and shaking, leaning heavily on John.

Lestrade drove the two to Baker Street, telling them he'd have an officer on duty outside at all times to make sure the shooters didn't return. Neither the doctor nor the consulting detective took much comfort in this, but they said nothing, which was rather rare for Sherlock. They watched the detective drive away, and then gradually made their way up the stairs to their flat. Mrs. Hudson appeared at the top of the landing. She fussed over them both, ushering them inside the apartment.

When they finally made it inside, John turned to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock still hanging on his shoulder. "Mrs. Hudson, do you think you could get some tea started?" he asked.

"Of course, dear," she said, already in the kitchen.

John started to drag Sherlock to his bedroom, but the taller man shook his head, nudging him in a different direction. John let his friend guide him into the small bathroom, and watched in confusion as Sherlock leaned over the white porcelain bowl.

"Oh!" John cried, realizing what was going on. He stuck a hand towel under the faucet, soaking it with cool water, and spread it across Sherlock's neck as he began to vomit. John patted his shoulder awkwardly as he did so, unsure of what to do.

A few minutes later, Sherlock ceased his hurling. He shoved away from the toilet, leaning against the wall. He was paper white, face gleaming with sweat. He took the towel from his neck, dabbing at his face.

"Yeah, you're perfectly fine," John said sarcastically, remembering Sherlock's claims from the night before.

"Yes, yes, congratulations," Sherlock grumbled back, acid dripping from his tongue. "Now, I'll be going to bed." He flopped onto his stomach, and began to crawl out of the room. John rolled his eyes, leaning down to help, only to have his hands swatted away.

John sighed, following Sherlock as he half crawled, half dragged himself into his bedroom. He allowed John to help him get into the bed, although he was still reluctant.

"I'll be in the other room if you need me," John said, pulling Sherlock's covers up to his neck.

"Mhm..." Sherlock mumbled, burying himself in pillows and blankets. He was asleep a moment later.

John sighed again, rubbing his burning eyes. He had barely slept more than an hour the last two days. He kept waking up moments after falling asleep, blinking away the image of Sherlock getting shot. It kept appearing in his dreams, playing over and over, and John didn't dare sleep again.

He slipped out of the bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. He moved to one of the many armchairs that littered the room, flopping down in one of the softer ones. He groaned, wanting nothing more than to sleep.

"Dear me, you look exhausted, John," Mrs. Hudson said, clicking her tongue disdainfully. "Perhaps you should take a nap as well."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the tea."

She pursed her lips, but left without bothering him further.

John sat quietly in the living room, sipping his tea. He let his thoughts wander, not thinking about anything in particular. When he finished his tea he set the cup on a table littered with books, papers, and pencils. When he'd first moved in, the atrocious mess had driven him mad. Now, he rather liked it. The mess was a sign that the flat was more than just another apartment he was living in for the time being. It made 221B home.

Eventually, his eyes closed on their own accord. He drifted off to sleep, his mind journeying to 6 o'clock, 48 hours earlier.


That's all for now, folks! I'll do my best to have the next chapter up tomorrow.