YAH, I am finally writing again after soooooo long. Sorry bout' the wait. Read on! Sorry for the grammar.

Awhoha

The night was cold as the winds tumbled across the waters. It was silent save for the soft ringing of the ships bells, the wind playing it's tune short and sweet. The men huddled tightly together shaking not for the wind but from the sharp icy glare that was boring down upon them. They could feel the anger freezing their skin and none did dare look upon the man cast in shadow. His features unknown, the man stood under the bound sails dressed in black attire, a gun held loosely in his covered grasp.

"I am to understand that Sherlock Holmes, London's consulting detective, came aboard my ship?"

The men were silent, none dared speak in fear for their lives.

"I asked a question."

Several of the men managed a curt nod, their eyes fixated on the ground below.

"He was shot." It was a statement rather than a question. The man breathed out a heavy sigh.

"Who shot him?"

The crew shot each other frightened glances, eyes bright with uncertainty. A large fellow, dark bruises forming under an eye, stepped forwards, his hands trembling slightly.

"It was I, sir. They - Holmes and a second man, the doctor John Watson - beat my crew and -"

A shot rang muffled through the night, the crew unmoving as they watched their captain fall dead, blood pooling from the side of his face.

"The game has just gotten exciting," the figure droned, moonlight dancing across his face. His eyes were unforgiving, an endless pool of green. "It would be a shame to end his life so soon. After all...the one to kill Holmes in the end...well..." The man tipped his hat to one side, his black boot pressing against the dead man's cheek, and let a large smile cross his shadowed features.

"Will be me."

*O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O*

Sherlock hissed, his tongue clicking loudly as John gingerly finished cleaning the wound on the detective's arm. Almond eyes narrowed, long eyelashes fluttering softly as his skin burned from the pain - and contact of the doctors skilled fingers. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, instantly regretting as pain erupted from his thigh to his head.

"You can never stay still, can you." John chastised blue eyes fixating on the sharp features on his friend. The sunlight bathed the detective in soft morning glow, the bedroom window gracing John with every detail. Sherlock, clad only with heavy bedsheets, shot John a look, but quickly averted his gaze, fingers clutching a small carved horse. A sigh escaped Johns lips as he stood, wiping his hands on a clean cloth, the blood disappearing into the fresh cotton. Sherlock took a shaky breath as Watson closed the door behind him. Cursing his clouded mind, Sherlock trailed his long fingers over the small animal, welcoming the lines and curves under his touch. The doctor had tended his wounds before, but this, this was unlike anything else. Every touch had burned him, reminding him of the kiss on the boat. The way John's mouth had felt pressed to his own, the trembling of his lips. Sherlock suddenly felt out of breath. A single whisper escaped the naked man. John.

But the door did not open. The room seemed even smaller, the sunlight teasing the detective with its promise of freedom.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John Watson was exhausted. He had spent the entire night treating the man in the other room. When Holmes recovered he would beat the man back and blue John promised himself as he poured himself a cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had kindly left on the table.

"How is he doing?"

John didn't turn to face the other man sitting in the chair opposite. He could feel the worried expression of Paul Jefferson at his back and felt the dislike filling his belly, an unhappy serpent slowly being awoken by an irritating source.

"The wound located on his bicep will heal well, the bullet only grazed him."

"His thigh?"

John gritted his teeth.

"The muscle known as the Rectus Femoris will have some trouble healing...he should be able to walk normally..." John left his words to trail off as he sunk into an empty seat, papers crumpling under his feet.

"Should?"

"I have done all I can."

Silence hung heavy in the room as John sipped his tea, the flavour lost on the doctors tongue.

"The other night, you never explain to me how he got shot. Sherlock rambled about a ship?"

The tone was guarded, danger lurking behind the veil. John turned to look at the other man, eyes hard as ice. Why was this man using Sherlock's first name? Why did it bother him so?

"Holmes and I followed a lead on the cigars which lead us to a ship that imported the goods."

"And you didn't bother informing me?"

John hid his shock and irritation at the anger forming in the mans voice.

"There was no time - the wasn't even a plan. Holmes rushed in like the idiot that he is."

"You shouldn't have let him go in alone."

"He wasn't alone."

The glare would have put the sun to shame, but it was broken as the bedroom door opened.

John rose in a rage, the anger that had bottled up finally broke the surface.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP?"

Sherlock blinked lazily, his good arm clutching a thin sheet around his waist. Gods it was almost see through John screamed in his mind, forcing himself to focus.

"I am not going to subjugate myself to a room full of boredom."

John rubbed his temples, a heavy headache forming behind his eyes. He walked over to the man who was leaning heavily on his uninjured leg, sweat already forming his brow. John all but dragged his friend to his chair, forcing the detective down and thrusting a cup of hot liquid in his pale hands.

Sherlock raised the tea to his lips, his eyes darting between the two men.

"What is -"

"Don't even speak, Sherlock." Jefferson ordered, his eyes still on John. " The good doctor was telling me how he almost got you killed."

Sherlock opened his lips to object but John shot him a look. Sherlock, his almond eyes slightly glazed watched as John, his friend John narrate the story, somewhat exaggerated he might add, to his flatmate.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Mary Watson hurried along the cobbled streets of London, her eyes bright with worry. John hadn't come home, hadn't left any word of where he had gone or if he was all right. The knot of worry hastened her steps. She opened the gate to 22B Baker Street knocking sharply on the front door. The doctors wife was greeted by Mrs. Hudson, her complexion pale. The knot tightened.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Quickly my dear, come inside."

Mary, her heels clicking on the wooden floor boards, was lead into the drawing room.

"John!"

Her husband turned around. His blue eyes were angry, his moustache untidy his lips pressed into a thin line. Mary looked around, took in the handsome man standing opposite, hands clenched expression furious. She gasped as she saw the detective, sitting almost naked covered by a thin sheet, tea paused halfway between his lips.

"Mary-" John spluttered

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock slipped a grin, eyes flicking towards Jefferson whose expression had calmed in font of the lady.

"I..."

"You are needed at home, John. I have been worried sick." Mary felt her stomach ache when she saw the look John gave his friend. Mary eyed Sherlock with a hint of contempt. No matter how hard she tried John was always running, chasing the detective for something she couldn't never quite understand.

"The man is wounded Mary, he is in need of my assistance."

"No need to fret, old friend." Sherlock coughed out. "I have the old badger to help me for the remainder of the day. Go home and tend to your married escapade."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John sat silent in the carriage ride home. Mary sat beside him, her arm entwined in the crook of his arm. Her perfume was causing the doctors nose to tingle unpleasantly. His wife squeezed his arm affectionately her painted lips smiling up at him. The doctor didn't really feel the need to respond, but gave her a small squeeze to reassure her.

"Is Mr. Holmes the reason you didn't come home last night, or the night previous?" Mary asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

"Darling, yes, I am sorry. Holmes was shot -"

"Shot?"

"It's a case we're working on-"

"You promised you were done with that life, John! You promised me!"

John sighed brushing strawberry blonde hair away from his wife's cheek. The doctor had promised Mary, but he didn't want to give it up, didn't want to leave his friend to such a life...especially now that Paul Jefferson was living in his flat - his previous flat. The way Sherlock was exposed to a man who wanted to court him. His friend was not safe...

"I did, my sweetheart, this is the last one-"

"You have a family to care for, John! I don't want you putting yourself in danger. or you getting hurt or worse..." Mary clung to John, the doctor turning to fully face her.

"Family?"

Mary smiled timidly up at the surprised blue eyed man before her, golden hair shining in the sunlight. The cobblestones clicked under the horses hooves as John let the shock and delight flow through him.

"You are going to be a father."