A/N: One last chapter before I go on vacation for a few days! I'm on the road all day tomorrow, so expect nothing then, but there will probably be something up while I'm away. I've been spoiling you guys like crazy, though! And myself, I must admit, because I do love to do this ;) And you spoil me with your reviews. So everyone is happy. Next stop: Canada!


Sherlock pulled his phone out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket when it buzzed faintly, frowning because he wasn't expecting any calls, but felt a fleeting relief when the display read "Call from Gabriel Mitchell" rather than "Call from Mycroft Holmes". If interrupted, he expected it to be Mycroft, who generally had some idea what Sherlock was up to, if not the specifics. He liked to remind Sherlock, obliquely, that money and possessions belonging to others were their property. Sherlock liked to counter this by pointing out that Mycroft worked for the government. His very job, therefore, was tantamount to theft. At least Sherlock was honest about what he did. Well, with himself. Not with the police or many other people.

Still, he was busy and the job in Switzerland was demanding his full attention. But he'd left Gabriel in charge in London, as per usual, so the call meant something required more than Gabriel's attention. Not good news, perhaps, but hopefully news which could be dealt with remotely, and preferably via email, which required less tedious chitchat with whatever parties were involved.

"Yes, Gabriel, what is it?" Sherlock answered smoothly, gesturing to Simone to continue working, moving away from the desk in his hotel suite where their plans and laptops were spread out. She glanced at him and nodded, absently tucking her tight black curls behind her ears before bending over the blueprints again, dark eyes focused.

"Oooooh, no, so sorry!" an unpleasantly and utterly familiar voice said from the other end of the line, sounding far, far too chipper and entertained for Sherlock's liking and he felt the sudden apprehension hit his stomach like a rock, managing to cover it only with years of practiced eased.

"Want another try?" Jim continued. "Three guesses, Sherlock. You're down one already. Come on, give it a go."

Sherlock's hand tightened around his phone and he sucked in a deep and silent breath, then turned back to Simone, who looked up at the motion. With an abrupt gesture, he pointed her out of the room. She gave him a questioning look, but Sherlock glared, shaking his head, and she nodded, moving quickly, leaving him suddenly alone.

"Jim," Sherlock growled, ignoring the uncomfortably warm feeling in his palms, keeping the uneasiness out of his voice but letting the irritation come through in full, masking everything else. He kept his heart calm through an effort, almost succeeding in stopping his mind from careening down countless pathways as to what had gone wrong, what Jim was doing with Gabriel's phone.

With Gabriel.

He should have known, he told himself, he should have known. Jim had let up at intervals on his fascination with Gabriel but had never backed off altogether, never lost interest. Sherlock had eventually settled on the other man simply being fascinated by something that Sherlock kept close to him, something that was forbidden. He'd tried to woo Gabriel away more than once, with promises of better pay, more luxuries, a larger flat, and the last time, Gabriel had told Jim he was certain Sherlock would let him go in exchange for Sebastian.

That had stopped all further advances.

So they'd thought.

He felt cold now, because Jim was not given to self-control and enjoyed getting what he wanted particularly if he had to put up a fight for it.

And Gabriel would have fought.

"Where is Gabriel?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice cool, measured, belying the panic that surged through his veins, driven hard by adrenalin.

"Oh, come now, Sherlock, is that any way to greet an old friend? We haven't spoken in ages," not true, it had been three weeks, "and this is what you give me? No 'hello, Jim, how are you? So good to talk to you again? How's the weather in London?' Well, as to that, it's raining, if you can believe it. I know, shocking, isn't it? And I'm doing quite well, thank you for asking – except you didn't – but that's more than I can say for your puppy. He's looking a bit pale if you ask me, but you'd know more about pale than I would."

Jim laughed, as though he'd said something witty and Sherlock repressed a snarl.

"Let me speak to him."

"Hmm, well, I would, you see, Sherlock, but he's not really in a position to talk right now. Oh, don't worry, I can practically hear it through the line! I haven't laid a finger on him, I promise. Pinkie swear, Sherlock!"

Sherlock snarled to himself – of course Jim wouldn't lay a finger on him, he'd leave that to Sebastian, or someone else.

"Oh, really, you think I'd have him hurt?" Jim said, judging the quality of the brief silence. "I'm wounded, I really am, Sherlock. Why would I hurt your puppy? I know how much you love him. Always sad to see when someone has to tend to an injured pet, isn't it? But he's quite unconscious right now. Oh, don't look like that, Sherlock! Anaesthesiologists are well trained at this sort of thing, I understand. The nurse or whatever she was told me he'd be awake any moment now, though. I don't know how they judge these things, I really don't. One of those mysteries of the craft, I suppose."

"Jim. What did you have done to him."

"Me? Me! Sherlock, you have no idea what that does to me! How can you not trust me, after all these years? I haven't done anything to him. He was shot."

At this, Sherlock nearly lost his grip on the phone, reminding himself harshly that Jim had just said Gabriel was going to wake up.

But in what kind of condition?

"Don't worry so much! It's not good for the complexion, you know. And you're far, far too pretty to be letting yourself go, especially over worrying. He was shot in the knee. He'll be fine, complete recovery, no complications, blah, blah, blah. So they assure me. Although I'm not sure why me, they seem to actually believe I'm his cousin, I suppose it's the hair, it's the same colour, and the height, but the eyes – "

"Jim. Who shot him."

"Oh, come on! You're so predictable! 'Jim, what did you do?' 'Jim, who shot him?' Where are the interesting questions, Sherlock! Such as, how did Henry Hudson's people find Martha Hudson and why were they at all looking?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting himself sink onto the leather sofa, holding his head in his free hand.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"Oh, no idea!" Jim laughed. "Not my problem, Sherlock! I'm just here keeping an eye on the puppy in case he decides to become a police dog and tell them all about me. Morphine can do strange things to the mind, you know. Well, you wouldn't quite know about that, but cocaine is not so far off, is it?"

The police. Sherlock hadn't thought of that yet and he screwed his eyes shut, berating himself, trying to keep up. Gabriel had been shot, probably defending Mrs. Hudson against one of her ex-husband's people, he was alive, but she might not be, and of course the police would want to talk to someone who'd been shot. All gunshot injuries were reported to the police.

"Oh, there he is!" Jim exclaimed. "Hello, puppy, welcome back. Someone would love to talk to you. Go on, say hello."

"Hmm?" Sherlock heard from the other end of the line and felt his heart stutter for a moment at the sound of Gabriel's voice – albeit Gabriel's very drugged and groggy voice.

"Can you say 'Sherlock'?" Jim asked, as though speaking to a small baby.

He heard something, holding his phone with a white-knuckled grip.

"Oh, fine," Jim said, but it sounded as though this were directed at Gabriel. "I'll play nurse. I'm giving him water, Sherlock, so that you don't panic over there and decide to have me shot."

There was another pause and then Gabriel managed to say:

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, slumping back against the couch cushions.

"Ooh, got to ring off, Sherlock, sorry. The police just saw that he's awake and they don't waste any time. I suggest you don't, either. Right now, it's just a flatfoot, but this is going to get heated very quickly."

He hung up and Sherlock was on his feet almost before the signal had been cut off, striding through the room, out the door, down the corridor to Simone's suite, knocking crisply on the door.

"Boss?" she asked, opening the door, peering at him with no small amount of apprehension.

"Who do you need to do this, if not me?" he asked.

To her credit, she asked for no explanations, although she did hesitate a moment out of shock, and then another to think.

"Charles," she said firmly.

"He'll be here in three hours," Sherlock promised her. "I'm back in London. Don't ring unless it's an emergency."

"Right," she said, obvious confusion and concern in her voice, but he was already striding back to his suite, ringing Charles and going for his passports once the door had closed behind him.


It was the longest two hour flight of his life, sitting in business class, trying not to check the time on his phone every two minutes, trying to ignore the flight attendant's attempts to make him feel more comfortable, since she obviously thought he was anxious about flying itself, then waiting impatiently at the EU passport control line, even though this moved more swiftly than the other line. Gerald was there, thankfully, and Sherlock settled into the back seat of the car, watching the London rain streak the tinted windows, tapping one foot impatiently against the floor, pressing a gloved fist against his lips.

There were too many questions without answers, too many unknown variables, and Jim was thrown into the mix.

Gerald dropped him at the main entrance to St. Mary's and Sherlock strode in, finding Gabriel's room number from the information desk and heading up. This wouldn't do, he told himself as he waited for the lift, trying not to tap his hands in his pockets impatiently, trying not to chew on his lower lip. He'd have to have Gabriel moved to a private hospital as soon as possible.

He ignored the on-duty nurses on the short-term care ward, but was stopped short for a moment by the presence of two police officers, a uniformed constable outside of the room and a plain clothes officer inside, a slightly older man, steely grey hair and cool blue eyes to match, with "detective" stamped all over him. He may as well have had it tattooed to his forehead. Sherlock hesitated only a moment, evaluating his options – "boss" wasn't going to get him through the door, not with the Met there, not without a lot of suspicion about why the boss of a man injured by a gunshot was showing up for a visit.

"Partner" would, though. Particularly "frantic partner" which would require only a small amount of acting on Sherlock's part.

He nearly ran in, ignoring the constable's surprised attempt to stop him, brushing past the man who had clearly not been doing a decent job if Sherlock had managed to take him unawares, making a rapid assessment of the detective, who looked equally surprised, and of Gabriel, who was conscious, thankfully, but glassy-eyed from the morphine and looking confused, probably trying to respond to the detective's questions without actually giving anything away.

Sherlock dispensed of Gabriel's efforts to keep himself afloat in the conversation by crossing the room in a single stride, grabbing one of his hands and leaning down to press a kiss against his forehead, closing his own eyes for show, although the relief was not at all feigned. Jim had made himself scarce – not surprising, given the presence of the police.

"Oh, thank God, Gabe, are you all right? Oh my God, thank God you're alive. What happened? Jim said you were shot. Are you going to be okay?" He rounded on the detective, who was still looking startled at Sherlock's sudden and dramatic entrance. Sherlock kept hold of one of Gabriel's hands, feeling a weak grip returned – still groggy from the anaesthetic and the painkillers and probably in desperate need of sleep rather than a police interrogation.

"You! Are you his doctor?" Sherlock demanded.

"No," the man said smoothly, pulling out his badge and showing it to Sherlock. "Detective Inspector Geoff Lestrade. And you are?"

"His partner!" Sherlock snapped. "What the hell happened to him? Why aren't you out finding the man who shot him?"

"Who said it was a man?"

Sherlock stared at him, showing surprise, then scowled.

"Person, then!" he snapped. "Does it matter?"

"It might, if you have some idea why your partner was in a flat on Baker Street where he doesn't live and why he also shot someone there."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, taking the time of displaying a reaction to process the new information. He turned back to Gabriel, leaning down, putting a hand on his cheek, then smoothing his hair for the benefit of the DI, using the opportunity to evaluate the younger man's eyes. Gabriel was still too drugged and looking stunned that Sherlock was there at all.

"Gabe, love, what were you doing at Martha's? Is she all right?"

Gabriel licked his lips and Sherlock cursed silently to himself, snagging a plastic cup from the wheeling table beside the bed and filling it from the bottle of water that had been left there. He held it to the young man's lips and let him sip from it carefully.

"Wasn't home," Gabriel managed. "Break in."

"See, there you are, Inspector," Sherlock snapped, looking over his shoulder. "Hardly his fault! Go find the person who did this! Some maniac is running loose with a gun and shot my partner!"

"Mister … Look, sir, what is your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes and don't tell me I'm bloody lying because that's what it is!"

"Mister Holmes," Lestrade said after only a fraction of a second's pause. "It still doesn't explain why your partner was in Martha Hudson's flat, nor why he was carrying a gun."

"He's got a certificate!" Sherlock snapped back. This was actually true. He'd forged it himself.

"That doesn't explain why he was carting it about to an empty flat."

"Oh, so, it's a problem that he's done this and got himself shot for the trouble of trying to stop someone breaking into a friend's flat? Why not find the person who broke in and talk to him – or her, fine, if you want to insist, I'm sure there are loads of women doing break ins nowadays, yes?"

"Well, we'd quite like to talk to him, Mister Holmes, but we can't find him. You'd think it would be easy to find someone who was bleeding from a gunshot wound, but you'd be amazed at how many places a person can go to take care of that without coming to our attention."

Sherlock really wouldn't, because he knew, and he had several of them himself, one even in his building, all sterile and staffed when needed by fully qualified and licensed doctors and nurses, of course. No need to rely on other people's lax standards or questionable medical personnel.

"So instead you're here harassing Gabe when he's been shot and is obviously not in any condition to talk to you? If he was in Martha Hudson's flat, it's because she asked him to check in on it for her. She was probably visiting her sister or something, I don't know!"

"And where were you?"

"Geneva. Business."

"What sort of business?"

"Real estate, but I hardly see how that matters!"

They were interrupted by a doctor coming in, frowning at them, his expression all authority derived from his white coat and stethoscope around his neck.

"Oh good, finally," Sherlock said, unbalancing the situation in his favour again. "I'm his partner. You need to tell the police to leave. Gabe needs to rest."

The doctor appraised him quickly, crossing his arms, but nodded, switching his gaze to Lestrade. Sherlock judged that the other man couldn't have been much older than he himself, and resolved to call Mike Stamford as soon as possible. He needed a doctor he knew and whom he could trust.

"He does need to rest, Inspector," the doctor said. "And he's not much use to you in this condition. Come back tomorrow."

"This can't wait," Lestrade insisted.

"It's going to have to," the doctor replied. "He's just had surgery for a gunshot injury. He's still nearly high on morphine and disoriented from the anaesthetic. You won't get anything useful from him anyway. Not today."

The DI hesitated, then sighed, pulling out a business card and holding it toward Sherlock. Sherlock took it and pocketed it without looking at it.

"If you think of anything that might help us, give me a call," he said in a tone that told Sherlock he knew full well this wouldn't happen.

"I will," Sherlock promised, lying. "And take your other officer, unless Gabe's under arrest."

"For the time being, he isn't," Lestrade said. "But he shouldn't leave the city."

"Like this? Where would he go?"

"Geneva?" Lestrade suggested, then left, pulling the door shut behind him. Sherlock glared – the Met was hiring far too many intelligent people these days. It was unpleasant to know that some of the police officers out there had brains they were actually using. It made them dangerous.

Sherlock looked back at the doctor.

"What's his prognosis?"

"Well, it was a through-and-through just below the right knee, so he's actually lucky. The bullet broke his fibula and did some damage to his tibia, but the majority of it is muscular, which is never good news, but unavoidable. We repaired all of the damage, and the breaks will heal cleanly, but he's going to need some extensive physio for the muscle trauma and it will take time to recover. He should have full use of his leg, though, there seems to be no nerve damage, although we won't know for sure until some of the swelling from the surgery's gone down and the anaesthetic's completely worn off and we can do some response tests. For now, the best thing he can do is rest."

"Of course," Sherlock agreed. "Can I stay?" he asked as though he might actually consider leaving.

"Yes, of course," the doctor replied. "If he needs anything, the nurses will see to it."

"Wait, your name?"

"Doctor Woodhall."

"Thank you, Doctor Woodhall," Sherlock said, and the surgeon nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. At the click of the door, Sherlock exhaled a silent breath and let go of the panicked partner persona, forcing some of his real apprehension out along with it.

He turned back to Gabriel, who was still holding his hands, like a link to consciousness. And he was struggling against the drugs and the injury.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Don't know," Gabriel managed and Sherlock felt a stab of fear. "No. Cheryl. So –" he paused, screwing his eyes shut, trying to concentrate. "So they wouldn't get her through me. Ah–"

"Does your leg hurt?"

"Yeah," Gabriel managed through gritted teeth. "Ugh. Who – how'd you know?"

"Jim."

"What?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Don't worry about that, Gabriel. You do need to rest, as the doctor said. I'll get a hold of Cheryl and make sure Mrs. Hudson is all right. You sleep. I'll stay here."

Gabriel managed a nod.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"You got shot keeping Mrs. Hudson from her ex-husband's people. You shouldn't be sorry. But whoever shot you will be, once I find him."