John stood and stared at the closed door for a moment, debating ringing on the doorbell and begging to be let in. But James was right. He was effectively a civilian here. His presence in theatre would only hinder the delicate surgery that was to follow. He could imagine what would be happening behind those doors; sliding Sherlock onto the operating table, careful not to catch the many lines and wires attached to him, connecting the endotracheal tube to the anaesthetic machine, starting the sevoflurane to ensure an adequate anaesthetic. The anaesthetist would be carefully documenting physiological measurements, twiddling with the knobs on the anaesthetic machine, giving small boluses of meteraminol to attempt to maintain his blood pressure, hanging bags of blood, of platelets, of fresh frozen plasma.

The theatre nurses would be opening surgical packs, slopping betadine over Sherlock's chest, clipping on the surgical drapes while the surgeons scrubbed. Would his heart continue to beat until they were ready to begin, or would there be a hurried scramble to open his chest as the beeping of the heart beat on the monitor got slower and eventually stopped altogether; as his blood pressure dropped precipitously and no amount of fluid or inotropes could bring it back up?

John swallowed and sat down quickly on a handy chair fixed to the wall next to the theatres. Placed there, no doubt for just such eventualities. He couldn't think too hard of what they were doing to Sherlock behind those doors. He had to trust James and his team to do what they could to save his friend. What was the survival rate from a trans-mediastinal gun shot wound? Twenty percent? Twenty five? Higher for the right side than the left perhaps, higher still if you reached hospital and higher yet if you reached theatre. If Sherlock could survive until they could get him on bypass then he had a fighting chance. Christ. John slumped forward, head in hands, trying not to think about it; trying to slow his breathing a little. He hadn't felt like this since the PTSD that he had experienced before he had met Sherlock.

He had been sitting there for several minutes, trying to spur his brain and his body back into action when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'John? Are you okay?'

He looked up. It was the nurse - the one from A&E, the one who had tried to get him to leave the Resus Room. There was a porter standing next to her, and a load of monitors and other kit on the trolley. Of course - she would have stayed to help them transfer Sherlock onto the operating table, and then retrieved the trolley and equipmentto take back to A&E, ready for the next patient.

'Yeah, I'm - I'm fine,' John said slowly, realising that he wasn't. He really, really wasn't. Watching Sherlock die once had been - crucifying. Watching it all happen again was - there were no words for this. None at all.

'You go on Sean, I'll catch up,' the nurse said to the porter, as she squatted next to John, hand still on his arm.

'He'll be okay, you know. He's in the best hands,' she said.

'You don't know that,' John said.

'He's got a fighting chance.'

'He's got a good chance of dying too.'

'For what it's worth, if it was my partner in there, then I'd want James Mcpherson operating on him.'

John nodded. Eyes fixed back on the floor. 'I know. James is a good man. He'll do his best.'

They sat in silence for a while. 'Have you been together long?' the nurse asked finally.

'No,' John said looking up at her and shaking his head. 'We're not - I'm not his partner. I'm married.' And then with increasing exasperation 'To a woman. I'm married to a woman. Sherlock is just a friend - a good friend. The best.' He tailed off.

The nurse looked mortified, stuttering, cheeks flaming, 'Oh God, I'm sorry, I just saw the wedding ring, and how upset you were, and I assumed...'

'You're not the first, and you won't be the last,' John said with a sigh. 'Please don't feel bad about it. He's just - he's important to me. I thought I'd lost him before, and I hadn't, and - Oh Christ, you're not going to sell this to the papers are you?'

The nurse smiled. 'Of course not. Patient confidentiality and all that. Not that I would anyway. Look - do you want to call anyone? To be with you? Your wife perhaps?'

John shook his head, 'No, she's pregnant. I don't want to worry her - not until we know.'

'Were you out of your fucking mind?' they both jumped at Lestrade's voice as he strode towards them down the hospital corridor.

'Greg!' John said, unsure why he was so surprised at the DIs appearance. Both the paramedics and the security in CAM news would have informed the police about the shooting, of course, and someone would have contacted Lestrade as soon as they realised the identity of the victim.

'You do what - you break into Magnussen's office, you knock out the security guard, you threaten him with a gun. What the fuck did you think you were up to?'

'We - no!' John said, ignoring the nurse's shocked expression, and how quickly she dropped her hand from his arm. 'That wasn't it at all. Is that what he's saying? We didn't have a gun for fucks sake. And we didn't break in. Janine - his PA, let us in. Ask her!'

'We will when she's medically fit for interview,' Greg said, calming down a little. 'She's in CT scan at the moment. They brought her in the ambulance behind yours. Suspected concussion. Security guard is still babbling too. He's not going to be up to anything much for a while. Promise that wasn't your doing?'

'What - you think I go around clocking people over the head with blunt objects? I'm a doctor Greg, for heavens sake. I've got far more sophisticated ways of rendering people unconscious if I need to.'

Greg smirked, and John couldn't help but crack a smile too, despite everything.

'So I don't have to arrest you?' Greg asked.

'No,' John told him. 'Technically speaking, we did nothing illegal.'

'Is he okay?' Greg asked, nodding towards the operating theatre doors. 'They said he was in surgery. They didn't say how bad it was.'

'It's bad, Greg,' John said soberly. 'It's about as bad as it can get. I thought he was going to die on me in the ambulance. Again.'

'Stupid bastard,' Greg said. 'What did he want to go and get himself shot for?'

'No idea,' John said wearily. 'I was in another room. What is Magnussen saying?'

'Very little,' Greg said. 'He's in a private medical facility across the city. Sounds as if he got pistol-whipped, and now he's claiming concussion and memory loss.'

'How convenient,' John said dryly, then realising the nurse was still there. 'Look, I'll be fine now. This idiot, believe it or not, is a friend of mine. We'll find our way back to the officers in A&E in a bit. and - thanks,' he said as the nurse turned to go. 'For everything. You've been very kind.'

'Pretty,' Lestrade mused as the lift doors closed behind her.

'I hadn't noticed,' John said sarcastically. 'I'm a married man now Greg, remember? Anyway, can we get back to Magnussen? If he can't remember anything then how come he's accusing us of threatening him with a gun?'

'He says he remembers someone breaking in and threatening him. He conveniently can't remember anything at all about that individual, but he's suggested that we draw our own conclusions from the presence of you and Sherlock in his office.'

'What, so he thinks Sherlock shot himself?'

'He suggests bungled burglary. which reminds me - arms up!'

'What?'

'I need to frisk you for a weapon, John. You know how it is.'

'Oh for fucks sake,' John started to say, but stood up and held his arms out anyway, letting Greg pat him down for concealed weapons. Twice in one day, what was the odds of that? He found himself wondering if this was why Sherlock had told him not to bring his gun. That could have taken some explaining, plus a night or two in a police cell while the ballistics came back on the bullet that James Mcpherson was hopefully even now removing from Sherlock's chest.

'He could die, you know Greg,' John said soberly. 'Just because he's got to theatre doesn't mean that he's going to survive. They shot him in the chest; they damaged his heart.'

'Sherlock Holmes die of a broken heart?' Greg said reassuringly. 'I don't think so John, do you? He'll pull through, the bastard always does. He just enjoys making us sweat. Now can I get you to come downstairs and do the formal interview bit? Dimmock and Donovan are waiting in one of the interview rooms in A&E. We need to catch this bastard, before he does the same thing to someone else.'