Sherlock has never run so fast. He leaps over one body in the doorway, a second on the stairs, and a third on the landing. None of them are John. He swings himself through the doorway and exhales a great, melting, shaking, sigh of relief. John is sitting on the sofa, smiling weakly at him. Smiling.
"You've been shot." Sherlock says sharply, and jabs his finger at John accusatorily. "You're bleeding."
"Yeah," John replies. "Good deduction there."
Sherlock frowns at the tremor in John's voice and drops to his knees next to the sofa to inspect his left shoulder. John shrugs him off. "Nah, that one's just a scratch. Can you believe he clipped my left bloody shoulder though? And they say lightning never strikes twice." He nods towards his right leg. "That one's a bit more nuisance."
Sherlock quickly scoots over to John's other side to take a closer look.
"I guess that limp won't be psychosomatic now," John grimaces.
"Oh do shut up," Sherlock snaps. "It will heal just fine. Don't be so dramatic." He grabs hold of the trouser fabric where the bullet tore through it and pulls it apart.
"Ripping my clothes off again, Sherlock?" John chuckles faintly, but he's sweating and his whole body is starting to shake. "Don't you know people will talk?"
"I'll be terribly disappointed if they don't." Sherlock's mouth half-curls in a crooked smile. Then he continues to smile because the wound is deep, he's not at all sure that it will heal just fine, and he doesn't want John to see his worry.
"Sherlock, don't worry," John soothes. Damn him. "At least I'm not knocked out with a dart like an elephant on the savannah."
Sherlock's smile is genuine again. "Your phone, John?"
John jerks his chin toward his left pocket. Sherlock finds his mobile there and checks the messages.
Reply immediately. Not optional.
MH
Sherlock looks up from the phone with a sigh. "Mycroft's on his way." John doesn't miss the flash of relief on his face, just before the expression of intense irritation.
It's only moments later that four special forces in full body armor come bounding up the steps, scanning their semiautomatics back and forth. John and Sherlock look up absently as they sweep the flat. "All clear," one of them crackles on a radio, and they cascade back down the stairs.
Then there's a woman's voice, clipped and professional, coming from below. "Nathan McMann. Former Marine, court-martialed 2008, assaults, homicides, fugitive. Two more have been apprehended on side streets, awaiting your recommendation. Another body across the street." The voice, and two sets of footsteps, climb the stairs. There's creaky number ten. "Kamala Haque. Drug-trafficking, kidnap, homicides, fugitive." The feet pause just outside the living room door.
"Of course," lilts Mycroft's voice. "The Ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran." He glides into the living room and raises an eyebrow at the two men there. "You've bagged Moran, Sherlock."
John's eyebrows shoot up. He glances over at Sherlock, whose disdainful expression implies he knew the name attached to that body all along. John knows he didn't. Sherlock says nothing, but tilts his head toward John.
"Ah." Mycroft inclines his head towards John and his voice actually suggests respect. "He came for you personally. You must have made quite an impression on him."
"I believe I did, yeah. Rather permanent one." The adrenaline is fading and the pain is coming over him in waves now.
Mycroft manages a tight smile. "You need to go to hospital, John. The ambulance is on its way. Sherlock, you will come with me." John feels his heart clench for a moment. Not ready for this, not just yet. He glances up quickly at Sherlock and sees the same tension in his face before they both look away.
"I see," Mycroft muses. "Well, then. Sherlock, go with John. I suppose I can see to it that you're not arrested for tonight, at least, provided that you do not leave the hospital. I've been working on your case, naturally, but it's far from settled. We can discuss your debt to society in the morning." A siren approaches. Mycroft nods at them again and turns to leave.
John can just barely hear him, as he descends the stairs, saying, "Anthea. Restore previous surveillance levels for Holmes and Watson." And the reply, "Already done."
A few minutes later, John's on a stretcher and Sherlock is climbing into the ambulance next to him. They both have orange shock blankets. The last drops of adrenaline are dissipating and the pain is in tsunamis. Everything is going blurry and gray.
"Sherlock," John murmurs. "I'm about to pass out."
"Yes, of course," Sherlock rumbles. "That's alright, isn't it? I'm not supposed to keep you awake?"
"No, it's fine. Don't worry. Just… be there when I wake up, will you?"
He feels a firm hand on his good arm. "Try not to be an idiot, John. Where else would I be?"