Sherlock Holmes didn't use weapons often, not of any kind. He wasn't a terrible shot, and actually knew how to use all kinds of guns, but he didn't like them, not anything about them. Especially how they killed people. He also didn't like knives one bit, particularly the kind that were made for no other purpose than for rogues to carry them around to kill people with.

Occasionally, Sherlock Holmes would use a weighted walking stick, but that was about it. He was an excellent swordsman, but that was purely for training not for actual fighting. The same went for crossbows and archery; he only learned for sport, for exercise and target practice and fun.

It was only when the situation was very dire that he would acquiesce to his friend Watson's wishes for him to arm himself. Watson was an old soldier, and his experience told him having an unarmed comrade was a bad thing. So, Holmes would bring a small pistol with him when it seemed like a case was going to be very dangerous. Only when the situation was very dire would he ever draw said weapon. And only when the situation was very, very dire would he ever use it.

Now was one of those times.

He reached into his pocket, drawing out Watson's service pistol and cocking it so it was ready to fire. Watson had insisted he take it, but as it turned out he should have refused, for beyond him, it was Watson who was fighting for his life. They were helping Lestrade and his team apprehend a rather vicious gang, and Holmes and Watson had been guarding different exits far from each other. He wouldn't have been able to see his friend's plight except that the night was bright and Holmes could see Watson and his attacker illuminated by the streetlamps.

Holmes hadn't liked it from the start, being separated from Watson. He was used to being close to him during dangerous situations, and he certainly didn't like it now that he was so far away from Watson while his friend was being violently assaulted. Holmes knew he wasn't going to be fast enough to physically help him, and the constables who had been with him had disappeared. And so, he aimed steadily at the man who had Watson against a wall choking him mercilessly.

Holmes' heart was beating fast and his heart in his throat, but his hand was steady. He waited just a beat to ensure the situation really was as dire as it seemed; the very last thing he wanted was to shoot in Watson's vicinity needlessly. He would not put Watson in danger unless necessary, but his friend would be dead by the time he made it over to him to help. He had to take the chance. He squeezed the trigger.

He'd almost forgotten that guns were so loud. It was like an explosion had gone off in his hand, and he did the exact wrong thing which Watson had always told him he shouldn't: he dropped the gun. Another shot rang out from the revolver he'd dropped, and there was another shot simultaneously from someone else's gun. He scrambled to pick it up, and was just in time because another villain was coming after him. He did see, though, that Watson had stumbled away from his altercation, and that was all that mattered. He only hoped it was enough.

Watson was vaguely aware that Holmes would save him. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen him illuminated in the lamplight, the gun glinting in his hand. The man who had attacked him had succeeded by brute strength alone in slamming him against the brick wall of the building, his two large hands wrapped around his throat and squeezing hard. It was hard to concentrate on anything at all when there was no oxygen getting to his brain, but he wasn't panicking because he knew, somehow, that Holmes would save him.

And, of course, Holmes did. There was the loud crack of a gunshot, and suddenly the man's grip on his throat was released. Watson gasped for air, his whole body shaking. Then, there was a second crack and Watson felt a searing pain in his side like a hot iron had been pushed through his flesh.

He staggered against the wall, glancing just in time to see Holmes picking up something off of the ground. It was the gun, and Watson realized what had happened: Holmes had shot him. Saved him, yes, but also dropped the gun and accidentally shot him. And now, Watson did panic, not for himself but for Holmes.

He stumbled away, finding Lestrade where the Scotland Yard Inspector was shouting orders at constables. It looked like they had successfully apprehended all except one or two which Holmes and the sergeant stationed by Holmes' location were dealing with.

"Doctor!" Lestrade exclaimed upon seeing him, "What happened? Are you alright?"

"I need your help!" Watson hissed at him. "I've been shot, and Holmes can't know. Please, you must help me! Please!"

"Yes, of course I will help you. What do you need? And what do you mean Mr. Holmes…"

"Please, I need to use your home. I can treat myself there, but I can't go to a hospital or Baker Street. Please!"

"Yes, of course. I… Sergeant! You're in charge here, get them booked!"

"Yes, sir!"

"If anyone asks you, tell them doctor Watson and I have to attend an emergency."

"Yes, sir!"

"Come, doctor," Lestrade said. "I don't live far." He took the other man by the arm and led him quickly away. "I've never liked the idea of civilians in these kinds of situations," he grumbled as he did so.

Watson didn't answer him, just focused on not crying out in pain with every step. He'd been shot before, he knew what the pain was like, and he knew this wasn't half as bad as what he'd once had. From location alone it was probable nothing vital had been hit, and at least this time he was not going to have to recover in a place where there were too many patients for the small amount of doctors. More importantly, there would be no rats shitting on the food he ate to give him typhoid and nearly kill him. He knew all that, but damn did it still hurt, and he was grateful when they arrived at Lestrade's house.

In the Inspector's home, his children were already asleep but his good lady was waiting up for him. She immediately began to help, bringing Watson hot water and towels and Lestrade watched with fascination as Watson cleaned and probed his own wound, pulling out the bullet with his forceps and stitching his own skin shut. He then covered it with a bandage to protect it and wrapped that on.

It didn't take long at all, really, and soon Mrs. Lestrade was giving her one of her husband's clean shirts and the doctor was back on his feet, a sheen of sweat on his forehead the only indication anything had happened.

He wrung Lestrade's hand. "Thank you," he breathed, his voice not quite steady.

"I still don't understand," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "Why can't Mr. Holmes know about this?"

Watson grimaced. "Because it was he who shot me," he admitted softly. "I saw him, he dropped the gun. It was an accident, but if he knew, he'd never forgive himself. And I don't want him to swear off weapons, because for all the danger he puts himself in, one day he'll need one whether he likes it or not."

Lestrade nodded grimly. "Please, doctor, sit down for a moment. Give the painkiller time to start working and then we will get you home. After all," he said with a grin. "We do not want a repeat of what happened the last time I visited Baker Street."

Watson grinned slightly, too. "I told you, if I recall, correctly, 'this isn't what is looks like.'"

Lestrade nodded.

"I don't believe I've heard this," Mrs. Lestrade said.

Her husband smiled, and told her.

"This isn't what it looks like."

"Doctor Watson, in order for me to misinterpret this, it would have to resemble some logical action which could be interpreted the wrong way."

"It kind of resembles a ritual sacrifice," Sherlock Holmes pointed out unhelpfully.

"Well, yes," Lestrade said. "Seeing that you've tied your roommate down to your chemistry table, I do see how it could resemble a ritual sacrifice."

"Holmes!"

"I apologize for my flatmate's stroppiness, Inspector," Holmes said. "He had an argument with the table this morning."

"Right… Doctor Watson had an argument with the table, and so you tied him down onto it?"

Watson sighed. "I banged my leg on the table this morning and cursed at it. I've been in a bit of pain from the cold, anyway, and I overreacted. I needed to lay flat to help straighten myself out, and asked Holmes to help… this was his way of helping."

"You would not stay still," Holmes grumbled, "and you did say that you needed to lie flat."

"Yes, I did. But I did not know anyone would see."

"It is only Lestrade, Watson. He has been here far too many times to be scared away by this. After all, I'm not actually sacrificing you, it only looks that way."

"He's quite right," Lestrade chimed in. "Of all the things that crossed my mind, sacrifice was not one of them. And I have seen men do stranger things for lesser reasons, I assure you. Can't think of anything at the moment, but I have."

"Holmes, come release me," Watson said.

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? So I can talk to Lestrade!"

"You already are talking to him."

"Holmes!"

"Are you feeling better?"

"No, but…"

"Then stay there. Lestrade doesn't mind."

"And did you mind?" Lestrade's wife asked, him, her eyebrow raised and the corner of her mouth quirked upwards.

"No," Lestrade admitted with a shrug. "But I did release him. You'll forgive me, doctor, but if you only knew, Cathy, how strange Mr. Holmes can be. And he's never odder than when the good doctor here is ill, and that is, I suspect, another reason Holmes shouldn't know about this."

Watson nodded sheepishly. "And he never admits to me when he is ill. Except, of course, when he's a ham about it. Do you remember when you came to Baker Street in the middle of the night and…"

"Yes, of course. I know exactly what you're thinking, and yes, of course I remember…"

"Watson! I will report you for being such a horrible doctor!"

That was the first thing Lestrade heard as he entered Baker Street.

"I am not bandaging it, Holmes. You will be fine."

"Watson! I am injured and your bedside manner is deplorable."

"My bedside manner? Holmes, you woke me at four in the morning to tell me you stubbed your toe. I am not the one being rude here."

"It hurts," Holmes complained. "I…"

"Is someone out there?"

"It must be Lestrade," Holmes said, "he's the only other person besides ourselves and the good Mrs. Hudson who knows where the emergency key is."

"I'm sorry to bother you so early, gentlemen," Lestrade said as he entered, "but as you are already awake…"

"Lestrade! Just the man to help me! I need to make a report about a neglectful doctor. Watson here won't help me while I am injured."

"You are not injured, Holmes. You stubbed your toe. You are going to be fine."

"Lestrade, do you see now?" Holmes whined. "He won't even take a look at it."

"Fine!" Watson sighed. "I will take a look at it. But first don't you think we should hear what the good Inspector has to say?"

But Holmes was already pulling off his sock. "Go on, Inspector," he said, propping his foot up on the chair.

Watson sighed again, and very professionally took the foot in his hand, pressing, pushing, and pulling in different ways as Lestrade told them about why he had come.

"Well, doctor?" Holmes asked when the Inspector was finished.

"You did, in fact, stub your toe badly," Watson admitted.

"Ha! I told you! You did not believe me!"

"And you will, in fact, be fine," Watson finished. "At the very worst you might lose your toenail, but I doubt it. I expect you may experience a slight discomfort if you wear tight shoes to go jogging. But you are not seriously injured and I can confidently give you the clear to go with Lestrade."

"Me go? Aren't you coming, Watson?"

"You woke me at four in the morning, Holmes. Of course I'm not coming with you to simply apprehend a thief."

"But you always come with me. What if I need a doctor? I am injured, after all."

"Goodnight, Holmes. I'll see you at breakfast time." And with that, he padded back upstairs.

Mrs. Lestrade laughed as Watson told that one. "And was he actually badly injured?" she asked.

"No," Watson said with a tired grin. "He was fine by the time he came home."

"Speaking of times he's come home different than when he left, do you still have Wattie?"

"Wattie?" asked Mrs. Lestrade. "Who is Wattie?"

"Wattie," Watson sighed, "is a puppy named after yours truly."

"Oh, come now, Watson, I like you. Look!"

Sherlock Holmes held out the little squirming puppy that had been found outside Scotland Yard. Lestrade tried very hard not to laugh. He'd offered Holmes the little thing as a joke, not thinking that he'd actually want it. He wasn't about to miss the doctor's reaction to the little thing. Watson pulled away from the dog being so close to his face.

"It needs you, Watson! Please. Look, he is injured! That's why he's all wrapped up like this."

"You should take him to a veterinarian, then!"

"He's just like you, see, Watson? He's got an injured leg. I think I'll call him Watson Junior. Wattie, for short."

"Holmes," Watson growled. "Take it to a veterinarian. And leave it there."

"Watson, I thought you liked dogs…"

"I liked my dog! Beecher, remember? And you made me get rid of him. So don't think that I'll let you bring in your dog and take care of it for you when you disappear for weeks on end for a case. So get rid of it, alright?"

Holmes' face fell. "Watson…"

"And don't wrap it in my scarf! It's chewing on it, and my scarf is not a chew toy. Get it out."

Holmes frowned and unwound the little squirming thing from the scarf. It yelped in pain as its limb was moved and whined softly at the loss of support. Holmes dropped Watson's scarf and turned to leave, but Watson sighed and called him back.

"You didn't even wrap his leg correctly, Holmes. Bring him here."

Holmes did so, placing the little thing down on the breakfast table and watched as Watson took it in hand and prodded it's limb gently.

"Watson," Holmes said softly, "I didn't mean to make you get rid of Beecher. I like dogs, really, I just wanted yours to stop biting me."

Watson sighed. "I know. It's not fair of me to say you made me get rid of him. But I'm sorry, Wattie really can't stay for the same reason Beecher couldn't: he can't stay in this room all day and Hector won't get along with him. And we're gone too often for it to be good for him. I'm sorry, but Wattie has to go."

"Alright," Holmes sighed, "but not today. It's already getting late, and Wattie has had a long day."

Watson sighed. "Fine. He can… ow! Holmes, he bit me!"

"He likes you! It is only a nip, not a bite, Watson. I know because you should have seen the way he but Inspector Gregson!"

Watson frowned. "Did he have the bite seen to?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "You're too much of a doctor, Watson. He's fine. Right, Lestrade?"

Lestrade nodded and made his excuses to leave, but wondered idly if, the next time he came to Baker Street, Wattie would still be there.

"No," Watson said with a sigh, "we don't have little Wattie anymore. He didn't get along with Hector, Mrs. Hudson's dog, just like Beeker hadn't. But he did get along with Beecher, and so my friend Mike Stamford took him in, too. I… uh!"

"Doctor Watson? Are you alright?"

"Sorry, but I think I should get home. The medicine is kicking in now... I need to rest, and I need to be able to fake that I'm fine in front of Holmes."

"I'll take you there," Lestrade said. "I need to check on our gang in any event. I'll be back soon," he said, and kissed his wife goodbye. "So," he asked as they traveled by police carriage, "What do we tell Sherlock Holmes? He will know something is wrong."

"Of course he will. I don't care if knows something happened, as long as he never knows what it really is. He can't know he shot me."

"How about we claim it was a carriage accident we were called away to."

"Sounds fine," Watson said, his words beginning to slur just a bit. "God I'm tired…" he slumped a little bit and Lestrade caught him. "We're nearly at Baker Street," he assured the doctor. "Doctor… how much blood did you lose?"

"Not too much. I…" Watson leaned over the side of the cab and vomited violently over the edge of the cab and Lestrade grabbed him to keep him from falling.

"We're here," he said. "We're here. Come on, to bed with you."

Sherlock Holmes met them immediately. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "Watson? Watson are you…"

Watson lurched forward unsteadily and Holmes caught him. "Watson! What happened?"

"Nothing, just the pain medication," Watson slurred. "I shouldn't have waited. I… I'm so tired."

"Come on," Holmes said, but Watson's legs gave out from under him and Holmes had to take his full weight. "Help me!" he commanded Lestrade, and the inspector came to Watson's other side, grasping his arm and yanking it over his shoulder, which made Watson cry out in pain because it was his bad arm.

"Not like that!" Holmes scolded him, and slapped Lestrade away with more force than strictly necessary. He took Watson back, lifting him up with a grunt and carrying him awkwardly up to the living room and onto the couch.

"What happened?" he demanded as placed pillow under Watson's lulling head. Watson's eyes were fluttering shut and a moment later he was lost to the world.

"Exactly what he said," replied Lestrade. "He took some pain medication, and I convinced him to wait until it took effect before coming back to Baker Street. I didn't know it would have this effect on him. Just let him sleep, I'm sure he'll be fine."

"The duty sergeant booking them said there was an emergency?"

"Carriage tipped over. Watson was closest. Thankfully everything was fine except for the horse. It had to be put down, but not before it kicked Watson so hard it broke his skin. My home was close, so he took some pain medication and bandaged it there."

"I… Thank you, inspector. I'm sorry I was so harsh to you."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Holmes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go ensure that everything at the yard is sorted and then I need to go home to my wife."

"Of course. Thank you, Inspector."

Lestrade nodded. "Take care of the doctor. I'm just glad that it was a hazard of his profession and not one of ours. I don't like civilians around when things get ugly. You and doctor Watson are exceptions for now, but I do think that sometime soon not even you may be."

"Perhaps," said Holmes with a small shrug. The two shook hands and Lestrade left. He didn't get any resolution until two weeks later when he saw Watson.

"Well?" he asked. "Did we get away with it?"

"Not quite," Watson replied. "Holmes knows I was keeping something back, but he doesn't know what. Thankfully, someone had previously tried to choke me that night, and so every time I acted odd I just told him my throat was hurting me." He grinned slyly. "In each instance when I said so, he would call for tea. I've never had so much in my life."

Lestrade grinned, too. "I've been telling my Cathy even more stories of the strange things I walk into when I visit Baker Street, and do you know what she said?"

"Hmm? What?"

"She said, 'Mr. Holmes much care a whole awful lot. They sound like great friends.'"

"And did you disagree?" Watson asked him.

"No."

"Then neither will I," Watson said. "Neither will I."

Author's Note:

To everyone who reads this, thank you for your time. I hope you enjoyed my story. If you take the time to leave a review, I thank you.

FYI, if you are above 16 or are a critical reader, you can visit my profile for another story (not graphic, rated for safety. Warnings given).

"Fun" fact: Typhoid (enteric fever) really is spread by ingesting infected fecal matter. It is still a problem for developing countries and between 128 000 and 161 000 people die from it every year. So, yes at some point Watson ate feces, probably from mice or rats getting in the food or from a cook who didn't clean their hands. Yuck.

Beecher is, of course, based off of the BBC radio series with Clive Merrison and Michael Williams as Holmes and Watson, which is the best out there.

My dear Faithful Reader: I hope you enjoyed :) I am going to pause you on prompts for now as I am writing something that will, hopefully, have several chapters. But, as I am an educator, I hope you will forgive me for slowing down my fanfiction writing as I begin to prepare for the school year. This story was already storyboarded when you gave the prompt, so I decided to stitch them together instead of making the original idea super dark and 'angsty' like I planned. I hope it came out cohesive.