He'd been lucky this time.

"Sherlock I can hear them coming up the stairs, what do I do?"

"Just stay calm. Find a place to hide and keep quiet, don't let them hear you and don't hang up."

Infiltrating the headquarters of the London's most recent high powered gang had been Sherlock's idea, he'd been doing a favor for Lestrade just as the consulting detective always did when he got bored enough. This gang had been selling heroin at an alarming rate, and sending John in to search for where they kept the lethal drug had seemed so simple at the time. Sherlock was needed elsewhere, he had to capture the lead man. John could handle himself, he was a soldier.

"They'll hear me talking!"

"No, John, don't hang up. You don't have to talk but don't hang up. I've called Lestrade, we're both on our way. Find a place to hide."

"They're coming in! Sherlock what do I do?"

He'd been lucky, they could have killed John.

As it was, he was lucky that John was slumbering in a hospital bed kept company by the constant whirring of machines and dripping of IV's-the many things keeping him alive.

At least, that's the view that Sherlock pictured. He hadn't been to the hospital. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft went.

Sherlock stayed at home.

He was sitting in his favorite armchair, the bow of his violin dangling from his fingers and his violin tossed carelessly across his legs. He kept twirling the bow around in his fingers but he couldn't find any desire to play. He kept hearing John's screams in his head, kept hearing the sounds of a bullet piercing flesh and bone. There was no music in his head, just thoughts running about a mile per minute.

His was aware of his phone buzzing. His hand moved with it's own will and opened the text.

You really should be here

-GL

A scowl fell on the detective's porcelain features. They were all making it so hard for him, the simple normal people didn't understand what he was doing. They didn't understand how much it hurt.

He'd hurt John.

It was his fault that John was being treated for a hole in the chest, his fault that he had screamed in agony and cried Sherlock's name in terror as if he'd been expecting the detective to fall on the scene like an avenging angel and carry him to safety.

John relied on him to keep him safe. He'd hurt John.

That was why the doctor could not continue.

Days later and Sherlock still hadn't been to the hospital. He hadn't even bit out of the flat, he just milled around doing absolutely nothing. Sometimes he lay in John's bed in breathed in the scent of the army doctor, sometimes he smoked in the living room because there was no one there to stop him. Other times he just sat and stared at the wall. A small amount of stubble appeared on his face, and that was the clearest sign of distress. Sherlock always appeared proper and fashionable. Even when dressed in his pajamas or in a bedsheet he was still pale and beautiful. Now he just looked tired, dark circles were more visible around his eyes and his sharp defined angles took on a more saddening look.

This was the man that John came home to.

At first things seemed normal, they both ignored the fact that Sherlock had refused to come visit John when he'd been in the hospital. They both pretended it never happened, and life seemed to go on as usual except that Sherlock had less experiments and less case files draped over the couch. He was more withdrawn, as if he'd gone into the mind palace for good.

One morning when John was laying in bed, staring at the clock and bemoaning the fact that he'd woken up at seven instead of ten or eleven, he heard the detective leaving the flat. John sat up in bed, confused. Sherlock never left unless there was a case involved, and he never left John behind. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and sent Lestrade a hurried text.

Did you just call Sherlock in?

-JW

Yes, are you two on your way?

-GL

John shook his head in disbelief. He'd once had Sherlock burst into his room at eleven at night while John had a girl over because there was a case. Nothing ever stopped Sherlock from making sure John tagged along no matter what sort of distraction he was engaged in.

John shrugged, trying to feel grateful for the chance to go back to sleep. Still, all he could feel was dread.

The next time Sherlock left without John was only a few days later. This time John texted him, asked him what was going on. He'd received no reply.

The next time John followed Sherlock out onto the street and the detective had snarled at him to go back inside and stay away. Then when John tried to disobey the man blended into the crowd and threw John off his trail.

John went home and sat on the couch, wondering what he'd done wrong.

The next week Sherlock was gone most of the time, John tried to fill that time with women and television and searching for a new job now that he wasn't partners with the world's greatest consulting detective, but none of it distracted him from what was going on.

He shuffled back into 221B after a disappointing date spent thinking of what Sherlock could be doing while the poor redheaded girl whose name he couldn't seem to remember asked him what was wrong. He forced himself into the kitchen to make some tea, and that's when he'd come face to face with the business end of a pistol.

"Where's Holmes?" The man growled, jerking his gun in an angry fashion to signal that John submit.

"I-I don't know." John put his hands in the air, trying to seem harmless, all the while searching the room for something to use to his advantage.

"That man has been poking around in my business for too long. You're not going to hide him from me. Where is he?" The man demanded louder, pushing the gun against John's forehead. John felt his heart begin to pound.

"I honestly don't know. He's been gone a lot. Really I don't know."

The man looked like he was about to snarl something else, but at that moment a black glove clad fist had collided with his head. Sherlock appeared behind the man, growling something unintelligible. John fell backwards, watching as Sherlock lifted the man by his throat and tossed him onto the kitchen table where dozens of beakers and test tubes shattered and impaled the man's skin. Sherlock was beating the man around the head with a force John had never seen from him, and soon John realized he was up on his feet again pulling Sherlock back.

"Don't you ever touch him!" Sherlock screamed, his face contorted in rage.

"Sherlock, don't kill him." John nearly laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. The man on the table was slumping into unconsciousness and Sherlock was still shaking with anger.

"Don't you ever touch John or so help me I will destroy you!" He yelled, and John put a hand on his chest and looked his flatmate dead in the eye.

"Sherlock. Calm down. He's not going to hurt me." He spoke quietly, hoping to soothe the detective back into rational thought. Sherlock took a deep breath, leaned against John and gave a rattling sigh.

"Sherlock...?" John asked, and when Sherlock looked at him he could tell exactly what it was he was asking. He wanted to know who this man was and what he was doing here. More importantly he wanted to know why he hadn't been a part of this, why John hadn't been chasing this killer down with Sherlock, why he'd been banished to the flat for some reason.

Sherlock sighed again and buried his face in John's shoulder, having to slouch to do so.

"John...I can't have you hurt again..." He murmured into John's shirt. "I just can't. What if you die? What if it's my fault? I can't protect you...you can't come with me anymore because you'll get hurt..." He was in tears now, though he'd never admit it. Even if John did feel the wet drops seeping into his shirt or hear the wrenched sobs, he would deny any crying.

John's eyes were wide, and he found himself running a hand through Sherlock's hair making calming shushing sounds.

"Sherlock. I can take care of myself, and in case you haven't noticed you just picked a man up in one hand to protect me. I don't feel unsafe at all." He whispered into the detective's ear. "Just don't leave me behind again please? I don't like it, and I don't want to have to worry about you either. You could get hurt too you know."

Sherlock pressed a kiss against John's neck and the doctor did not protest.

"I can't let you get hurt." He repeated.

"You won't." John pushed Sherlock back up into a standing position so they could look into each other's eyes. "I'll be fine." He reassured.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, determined to keep him safe.