A single shot echoed in the street. Two bodies fell on the ground.

The shooter ran away, Mycroft could hear the steps as he flied through the night. Or he was imagining it, whatever. All he knew was that now he was away.

He touched the other body lying alongside him. Greg grumbled something. There was blood on the tiles.

"Oh my God." Stop it, Mycroft, you need to keep calm. Do not... "Greg, are you okay? Are you hurt? Please, talk to me, please..." ...panic.

"Just a graze. Hurts like hell, though." The cop rolled on his side a bit to allow Mycroft to see a torn muscle on the inside part of his upper arm.

"Oh. You´re gonna need stitches."

"The shooter is gone?"

"Yes. He ran down the street. He won´t escape very far." Just as he finished the sentence, a large black car, which Greg recognised as one of Mycroft´s own, made its way in front of the house.

"Sir! Are you all right?!" Anthea yelled upon getting out of her seat. She was holding a gun.

"Greg needs to get to the hospital."

"Its nothing too bad," protested Lestrade weakly, as he was hauled up the floor and stuffed into the car. Mycroft joined him soon.

Suddenly, Greg is chuckling. "You should´ve changed."

"Oh." Mycroft suddenly realised that he was still in his pyjamas, barefooted, sweaty and utterly disshelved.
Lestrade had at least his jeans on, though Mycroft suspected there was no underwear underneath, and a T-shirt - he no doubt grabbed them as he was going to inspect what was wrong with the elder Holmes´sleeping.

"Don´t worry, sir. We are just now transferring a trustworthy physician from the hospital to your office to check both of you there. There is also a change of clothes prepared for you."

"What is it with you two getting shot?!" exclaimed Dr Dhaliwal as soon as she noticed the two figures making their way towards her.

"I am a policeman and he ´occupies a minor position in the British government´. Is that enough of an answer?" grumbled Greg.

"Well, I suppose James Bond was a civil servant too," commented Dr Dhaliwal and started to prepare her sewing kit on the mahagony desk.

She worked in silence for a minute, interrupted only by an occasional involuntary flinch of Greg´s arm. "It should heal without much problem. Take the pills I´ve put there to prevent infection, but I think that as shootings go, this wasn´t a very successfull one."

"Do you have some sleeping pills with you too?" asked Greg.

"I can give you a prescription. Why? Having trouble sleeping?"

"Mycroft was having some bad nightmares, so I thought..."

She turned her eyes to Mycroft´s disshelved hair and rumpled pyjamas, which he still didn´t change, because the convoy bringing the doctor arrived sooner than was anticipated. Mycroft was aware that his back was probably covered in maps made of salty sweat.

"Is that why you reek of brandy, even though I remember distinctly telling you to keep the drink away?" she asked.

"I am not having nightmares," he said. It wasn´t a lie. So far, he had just one. And when Dr Dhaliwal opened her mouth to talk, he added: "Nor have I trouble sleeping."

"Now that is just bollocks, My," growled Greg. The pain probably wasn´t helping him to keep his patience.

"I cannot prescribe him anything when he refuses to tell me anything about his problem," Dr Dhaliwal shrugged.

"Ok, I am having nightmares," said Lestrade sharply. "Awful ones. I am crying and yelling from my sleep, but I cannot wake up. Can you give me something to just knock me off?" He was glaring at Mycroft, who was petulantly refusing to meet his gaze.

"Yes, there is some medication, though I suggest talking about it with a specialist might help," Dr Dhaliwal accepted the game.

"Make sure it could be mixed with alcohol," Lestrade uttered. "It might be the only way how to get it into him."

But the phrase didn´t end yet and Mycroft was gone. He has left closing the door angrily, almost knocking Anthea in the anteroom, who was trying to ask him what happened.