Hi there! Just wanted to point out that the last three chapters are not in the original story, the whole plot with the gun and the heartbreaking bromance is all me and my wicked mind. And I didn't see this coming, seriously, I don't know what happened, I'm not in control of my own imagination. This is another warning, apparently. Anyway, I'm stalling, enjoy!


For a couple of seconds, Sherlock's sight blurred: muffled sounds in the background, head swirling.

What happened? Bang. I heard a bang. John. Blood. Everywhere. John. John?

- JOHN!

John is barely standing on his feet: he's staring at his right hand and his breathing is ragged.
Sherlock is beside him in a second, he blinks a couple of times, finally focusing his gaze: John's face is covered with blood, his knees buckle and Sherlock catches him before he hits the ground while the doctor clutches at the detective's shoulders.

- Are you okay?
- What happened?

Sherlock looks behind him: Turner is lying on the floor, his gun still in his hand. A hole in his head.

- Nothing. Just…nothing, you're in shock, come with me.

John tries to wriggle out of the detective's grip and stumbles back against the wall.

- Did he just…I thought…I heard a bang and I thought…he shot you.
- It's okay, this is all my fault but I'm heartless so I can live with it.

It was supposed to be a joke but the doctor – still panting – shoots Sherlock one of his are-you-kidding-me? looks.

- What you said…
- Yes, what I said triggered his insanity, it's my fault.
- That's not what I meant.
- I know, that's why I interrupted you.

A minute passes by in silence, both of them trying to recollect their thoughts: John slides down the wall and is now sitting on the floor with his hands holding his head, while Sherlock rushes by his side and places a hand on his shoulder.

- John? Are you with me?

John blinks a few times and then turns to look directly into the eyes of the younger man.

- What happened? I mean, I can see that but…what…I can't…
- That's it, I'm calling Lestrade and I'm taking you to the hospital.
- No, I'm fine, seriously Sherlock, I'm…okay.
- Clearly you're not.

Sherlock stands up and takes his phone out of his pocket while John presses his palms against his eyes for a second; he stares at his hands covered in Turner's blood and chokes on his breath.

- What you said…
- John, now is not the time.

The detective walks to the bathroom and comes back with some wet towels: he crouches next to John and starts wiping his face, his hair and then his hands, while the doctor's eyes are fixed on the body.

- What…what happened…?
- John, could you please stop looking at it?
- IT?
- It, him, whatever, it's not my problem right now.

John decides to let Sherlock's cynicism go, especially after what he said to him just minutes ago.

What did he say?

- I don't understand…

Sherlock stops and stares at John holding his wrist between his index finger and his thumb.

One, two, three, four, five, six...

- He was a very disturbed man, John. He spent his all life bargaining with a man he thought to be his best friend. He felt betrayed and alone, the secrets ate him from the inside. He had nothing left to lose, we…I was only a pretense.
- Us.
- What?
- Us. We were a pretense. It's nobody's fault, especially not ours. But it's not just you, it's us.

John stares blankly in front of him and Sherlock's phone rings.

###

When Lestrade and his team barge in the room, Sherlock and John are sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall; Lestrade stops a few feet from them, observing the lifeless body and scratching his stubble.

- I told you to stop interfering.
- Seriously? Do you really think this is the right time for a lecture?

Sherlock stands up and straightens his jacket.

- I'm not lecturing you but I told you about the consequences of your actions.
- Isn't this enough? – Sherlock whispers and nods toward his friend, still sitting on the floor.

Lestrade turns to face John and gapes at him.

- John? Everything alright?

The doctor snaps his head up, meeting Sherlock's eyes for a second before staring back at Lestrade.

- Yeah…yeah. I'm just…I mean, I saw enough people dying to be strangely okay with that. But this…happened so fast. I tried to stop him and then I got…distracted, and I found myself pinned with a gun at my temple and I almost blackout but it felt like it lasted hours. I don't know why…
- Right, I have to get you to the hospital, John, it's the standard procedure.
- Why, because you don't have a blanket with you?

Lestrade ignores Sherlock's remark and they both help John on his feet with their arms around him.

- Oh, and he's the killer, by the way.
- Oh Jeez, thanks Sherlock! What would I do without you?

###

John didn't remember arriving at the hospital; he didn't remember sitting in a lounge waiting for a nurse to call, with Sherlock next to him.
If you ask him he'd tell you he's fine.

Seriously, I'm fine. I'm okay. I was a soldier, I can handle this.

If you look at him, you'd say he's fine: he looks a bit tired, he often stares in front of him focusing on nothing in particular, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Seriously, he's fine. He's okay. He was a soldier, he can handle this.

But Sherlock knows the truth.

Constantly rubbing his thigh. The pain in the leg came back. Left fingers wiggling and curling into fists. Nervous. Vacant look on his face. Lost in his thoughts.

Sherlock clears his throat and John snaps out of his reverie.

- Did you say something?
- No, I just…are you sure you're okay?

Without answering or looking at him, John stands up and sits opposite of Sherlock, who's now fighting back a laugh.

- Fine, as you wish. Let's play this way. Do you want a coloring book? Or do you want to call your mummy? I'm sure she'll find the right words.

John shouts and slams a fist on the wall behind him.

- Dammit Sherlock, I told you, I'm fine! Jesus Christ, stop asking me!

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and pouts.

- Yeah, you're peachy.
- We don't have to do this.
- Do what?
- Wait for a doctor, I am one!
- There are times when even a doctor needs a doctor.
- I know when something is wrong and there's nothing wrong with me.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him and straightens up his back.

- Are you sure? What about your leg? Or your left index finger twitching, searching for trigger to pull? Or the fact that I can see the vein on your neck pulsing or the damp hair sticking to your forehead?

John licks his lips and chuckles nervously, shifting on his seat and looking around him.

- You know what, Sherlock? I can't do this.
- Oh for God's sake John, it's just a routine checkup!

The doctor quickly stands up, strides toward Sherlock and grabs his shirt collar with both hands, slamming him on the back of his seat.

- You bloody IDIOT! I'm not talking about this, I'm talking about you!

Sherlock's face is motionless but his eyes are filled with an unusual and uncomfortable rage; he tries to control his voice, sounding as calm as possible.

- Me?
- You – John whispers, just inches apart from the detective's face.

They stare at each other for a while, neither of them talking, then he doctor loosens his grip and makes his way out the room.
Sherlock is not one to care about what other people think, but right now he's glad nobody is watching; he clears his throat again, running his finger over his neck. When he decides to go after him, he finds John pacing nervously right outside the hospital and he slowly walks up to him.

- Care to explain what just happened?

John doesn't look at him but stops and bends forward, resting his hand on his knees, panting.

- Leave me alone.
- I would, but you have the keys to our room.

John fumbles inside his pocket for a second and then throws the key card, which almost bounces off Sherlock's stomach. The detective stares down at it, lying in a puddle at his feet.

- Now leave.
- Well. This is new.
- What? What Sherlock, what's new?
- You reacting this way. I'm usually the one who takes it out on other people.

John sniffs and rubs his nose with the back of his hand, chuckling.

- And you're the one who storms off after that. Funny, isn't it?
- Don't go.
- What do you care, Sherlock?
- We can't both act this way, someone needs to pull the brake
- Yeah, well…I'm tired.

Sherlock presses his lips together and stares at John walking away.


God good, what have I done? Poor Sherlock.