I am so very sorry for the long delay, guys. The past month was absolutely hectic and I hardly had any time to relax.

No one reviewed the last chapter and I was slightly discouraged. Maybe I'll edit that again.

And be on the lookout for one - shot sequels for some chapters : )

I hope you like this chapter.

And please, please read and review this chapter.

Thank you, as always, to all those who read, reviewed, followed and faved my story.


Dusk had fallen on London. The city slowly falling into a lulled state. However, a few people still sat holding hands or walking, in the park, out for a last whiff of the cold night air.

Amongst these, one pair stood out. A tall, dramatically coated man and a shorter, warmly clad man. They weren't a couple as everyone seemed to think (But they didn't care what people thought, anyway). They were friends. Best friends.

Now they sat on a bench, for all appearances looking to be enjoying London. But a closer look revealed the look of thunder on the brow of the shorter man and the childish pout which seemed out of place in the taller man's face.

"I tell you and tell you to keep your mouth shut when the other man is holding a gun. He could have shot you, Sherlock. If you hadn't so foolishly went so close to him and become his hostage, Lestrade and his men wouldn't have been forced to let him escape. It could take days to track him down. And in that time he would easily come back and finish his job. Finish you", the shorter man yelled, getting looks of alarm from others in the park.

"Oh, do stop shouting, John. I would like to see him try to kill me. He is too much of a coward to come out of wherever he is hiding right now. Besides, I have you, don't I?", the man called Sherlock countered.

John sighed with frustration, rubbing a palm over his face. He looked at Sherlock. The bastard was smiling!

He couldn't help it. He smiled too. What twisted lives they led.

Standing up, he asked,"You up for a walk?"

Sherlock nodded and got up, both men easily falling into a comfortable pace.

The park was slowly becoming empty, the people going home. An hour passed and Sherlock and John were the only people left.

"Time to go home, do you think?", John looked towards Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear. He had stopped on his tracks, his eyes fixed on the large bush opposite them.

"Sherlock?", John asked, concerned.

Just then a rustle sounded, followed by a soft ffftt.

John had had too much experience to not recognize a gun shot with a silencer. A figure leaped from the shadows and ran away. He was about to follow him, when a cold hand latched onto his wrist.

Looking up he perceived Sherlock still looking at the bush, but with an odd expression of surprise. Slowly, he looked down, down at Sherlock's coat. Realization hit at the same moment Sherlock swayed.

"John?", he whispered, confused, sinking to his knees.

"Oh God. Shit. Sherlock, Sherlock ... look at me. Okay, lie ... lie down", with panicked movements John caught Sherlock and lay him down.

Hurriedly he unbuttoned the detective's coat and blazer. The white shirt confirmed his fear, by not being white any longer. Blood had soaked through. A lot of it.

Tearing it open, John quickly surveyed the wound. Hit in the abdomen. Lost about a pint already.

Shock.

A moan cut through his thoughts. Sherlock's eyes were fluttering.

"Sherlock. No, stay awake. Sherlock, please."

Untying the blue scarf, he pushed it hard against the wound. The bullet was in too deep to slow the blood flow.

Sherlock cried out, his hands trying to push away John's.

"John ... pl...please stop. Hurts." He whimpered, a tear escaping his dilated eyes.

"Hang on, Sherlock. Hang on."

With fumbling, blood soaked hands John managed to pull out his phone. Rapidly calling the emergency service, he told them about Sherlock's injury.

Throwing it beside him, and he turned back fully to Sherlock.

He was watching him with half open eyes. His breathing was ragged and he was white, absolutely white.

"You're going to be alright, Sherlock. You understand?" John attempted a weak smile.

Sherlock let out a groan and tried to curl up on himself. John stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, whispering soothingly. By now, the bleeding had slowed down, considerably. But not before Sherlock had lost an alarming amount of it.

Pushing slightly harder against the wound, John ran his hand through the sweat soaked raven curls. Sherlock opened his eyes a bit further and met John's worried ones. He choked on John's name before losing his battle with consciousness.

The sirens were the most wonderful sounds John had heard.


There was pain, yes.

But there was also John.

So it didn't matter.

Sherlock let go.


" ... and also coded on the way here. Bloody hell! When am I ever going to stop worrying about you?"

John mused that it was probably useless to speak to a sleeping (unconscious) person, but he couldn't help it.

"I ... you probably wouldn't understand, but I really care about you, Sherlock. You may be the most rude and arrogant git in the whole world, but you are also the one person who matter the world to me."

John exhaled and closed his eyes to prevent the tears from falling. Always the soldier.


The world temporarily blinded him when he opened his eyes. White was all he could see. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the hospital room around him.

A gust of air blew on his cheek and he turned his head only to have a very close view of John's nose and his slightly open mouth.

Shifting a bit back in alarm, he took in his friend's four day stubble and the slight frown on his forehead.

Worried, then.

He was going to get an earful when John woke up.

But until then he was going to enjoy John's presence and his warmth and the morphine pumping through his veins.

So Sherlock slept.


Greg Lestrade stopped the nurse from rushing into the room in panic.

"No, it's alright. They'll be fine. Best to leave them to it."

"But, sir, he could hurt him. He looks like he's about to kill him", the nurse cried, looking at Lestrade with desperate eyes.

"Yeah, I know it looks bad, but John knows what he's doing. He's a doctor himself. And God knows Sherlock deserves a good dressing down", Greg replied, turning away from the doorway, within which ensued yells, protests and chokes.

"You absolute moronic, idiotic, damned bastard. Do you know what it felt like? Do you have any idea what I ..."

"Like I said. Best leave 'em alone."


Hope you enjoyed.

Please read and review.

Ta,

Laila.