John tried to quiet his breathing, gripping his revolver with his back to the wall. He strained to hear the conversation going on in the living room, the whole will his heart pounding with fear and excitement. One voice was undeniably Sherlock's, after all it was his text that had summouned John downstairs a minute earlier. It had read:
Unexpected visitor. Take precautions.
-SH
Take precautions always translated to "get a gun" when Sherlock said it.
The other voice took awhile for John to identify, but soon recognized it as the voice of Frank Ire: an arsonist for hire that Sherlock had put away last year. He'd broken out not too long ago, and had wasted no time sending the detective threatening letters which, up until now, had simply been scoffed at and thrown in the trash.
There was still some scoffing to be done apparently, since Sherlock was showing a complete lack of common sense by insulting the man currently holding a gun aimed at his head.
"Your clumsy attempt at concealing yourself in the room shows me that you're not nearly as interesting as I once thought you were. Do try to show some initative next time." The pale man said, his voice acerbic.
"Oi, I said shaddup!" Frank yelled, jerking the gun about with angry intent. "I woz gonna light the whole damn place up, you're just lucky you saw me!"
"Clearly." Sherlock rolled his eyes, unconvinced.
John peeked out into the living room, wishing Sherlock would hurry it up and think of some genius way to distract the crazed criminal. If he leapt out there now with a gun in his hand he'd probably just get Sherlock shot. Of course if Sherlock kept insulting him like that he'd get himself shot anyway.
"I could kill you right now." Frank considered, sounding more like he was convincing himself than informing Sherlock.
"Oh I highly doubt that. You set fires, you burn down shoddy buildings so business owners can buy the property. You're not a killer. You're not even worth my time." Sherlock smirked, and John could have throttled him right then and there.
"I could kill you!" Frank shouted, his face contorted with fear and rage. Sherlock eyed him up and shook his head with a low chuckle. That's when Frank shot.
John heard Sherlock hiss with pain and jumped out, firing instinctivly. His shot connected with Frank's shoulder and the would-be murderer collapsed with a scream. John kicked his gun away and stifled the urge to add a few kicks into Frank's skull and ribs. As it was he allowed himself to smack Frank against the head with his gun to lay him out cold. Sherlock was already pushing himself up into a sitting position, clutching at his arm where the material of his white dress shirt was turning crimson.
"You...you bloody idiot!" John half screamed half gasped. "He has a gun and you stand there... trying to pick a fight?" At this point John had ripped off Sherlock's shirt and tossed it away so he could examine the injury.
"Honestly, John. He was shaking with fear, and he's never used a gun before. His chances of hitting me in a fatal location, as you can see, were slim." Sherlock replied caustically. John growled and decided to examine Sherlock as un-gently as possible.
"Just shut up and call Lestrade. You're lucky he only grazed you." The army doctor's voice fell into a low rumble, he was very clearly not pleased and that was an understatement. Sherlock found himself nervous enough to at least text Lestrade but not enough to follow his orders fully and call him.
Sherlock sat silently while John finished up tending to his injuries using the supplies he'd brought home for situations just like this. Sherlock could tell from the doctor's face that he was not only angry, but relieved, he must have been scared. Sherlock sighed and leaned against him, laying his head against John's.
"...sorry." he murmured.
"You're damn right you're sorry." John huffed, finishing the bandage. He glared up at Sherlock, who was shooting him a pathetic look. Then he sighed and pressed a kiss to the forehead that was framed by those wild dark curls. "For the record you are never allowed to do anything again. You're to pick up some dull hobby and avoid getting yourself killed. No more near death scares." John joked, prodding Sherlock in the chest with his finger.
"Of course. I'll just take up beekeeping and be a stay at home housewife." Sherlock smirked, locking lips with John.
Sherlock curled up in John's arms and the doctor, just happy to see him mostly unhurt, tangled his fingers in his dark hair and laid kisses on his neck and jaw. They stayed that way until Lestrade and the gang showed up to cart Frank off again. They were gone just as quickly as they'd come, most likely because Sherlock began making withering comments about the quality of the force. Normally John would reprimend him for this, but punishment was lenient seeing as the man had already been shot.
Sherlock complained for quite a bit about how the gunshot stung as they settled down on the couch to continue their normal night, but John just ignored it with his usual patience.
"Quite enough excitment for the night, wouldn't you say, John?" Sherlock asked, grinning.
"Only as much as usual." John rolled his eyes. "So...beekeeping?"