By the time John gets back to the flat, he's definitely cooled down, in fact he's downright cold. Not to mention he's emotionally tired and he wants to curl up in bed and get some sleep. Standing at the base of the stairs that lead up to the building, taking in the neighborhood for a moment. And it's certainly not the best of neighborhoods. Still, he supposes that for someone coming out of rehab who is as eccentric as Sherlock is, won't exactly be staying at the Ritz.
Lost in his own thoughts, John doesn't see the black SUV until it's too late. He also doesn't see the other person walking toward him. And while it's not suspicious, it apparently was not good. The sound of gunfire makes John instinctively cringe and duck, but not soon enough apparently. Turning his head to the side to try and tell the other man to get down, John watches him drop to the ground, staining the snow, a second before he feels a burning pain through his side, and he stumbles back, realizing only one thing could make him feel like that. Afraid to look down, John stumbles back a step, foot slipping on a patch of ice before he falls back. With a sickening smack, his head hits the bottom step of Sherlock's building, and his world goes black. His last thought before unconsciousness consumes him is the irony. Not only is this similar to his dream, but he also thinks it's silly that he would be shot here rather than on the battlefield.
It doesn't take long for the ambulance to get there and whisk off the good doctor. It's not until they're pulling away that the sirens pierce the fog of Sherlock's Mind Palace and draws him up from his couch, where he wanders to the window, peeking out with a sort of disinterest. This isn't exactly an uncommon occurrence around this place, so for the moment he doesn't really think anything of it. At least until his phone rings.
"Two calls in one night, brother. The party is going that badly?" Sherlock asks after picking up, seeming a little amused by that fact. And for once, he has one-up on his brother it seems, since he has someone who genuinely wants to spend Christmas with him, whereas he thinks Mycroft is living in torture, faking his way through their mother's party.
"Actually, I was having a lovely conversation when I was interrupted. Seems as if your soldier has gotten himself into a spot of trouble. How many times have I told you that neighborhood isn't safe?" Mycroft tsks softly with a shake of his head. "Surprised you didn't hear the little incident outside your flat. In any case, he's been brought to St. Bartholomew's hospital. From what I understand he was shot, but it's not life threatening. Rather ironic for him to be shot in London when he has survived so long overseas, hm? You should take better care of your toys, Sherlock." He continues in his dry tone but he can't help but throw a few digs in there.
For a few long moments there is silence on the other end of the phone, before Sherlock recovers himself. Even he is rather surprised to hear that the good doctor got shot, and it takes a moment for that to wear off. "I see. Seeing as he left his wallet here, I should go there. I hear doctors make the worst patients." He says in a thoughtful tone, keeping anything else out of his tone. "Goodnight, Mycroft. Happy Christmas." He says before he hangs up. After taking a deep breath, he forces himself to calmly get on his jacket, scarf, grabbing John's wallet which he happened to notice by the door, before he steps out into the night to hurry to St. Bart's.
The biggest concern for the doctors was that John was bleeding quite a bit and he was unconscious. Thankfully at least they determined there was no serious damage. Still, when the doctor start to wake up, he looks around groggily, more than a little confused and turning his head toward the beeping sound from the monitor beside him. "Bloody hell.." he mutters with a small groan, starting to lift his hand to put it against his head, only to find that there's something attached to it. For a moment he can't exactly focus and just blinks until he figures out that he has an IV drip in his hand. That's when everything comes back and it clicks that he's in the hospital.
Upon closer inspection of the room, the older man finally notices the dark figure leaning against the window sill and sneaking a smoke it seems if the puffs of white from his mouth are any indication, thicker and smoother than merely a puff of breath in cold air. "Sherlock?" He asks, wincing a little as he tries to sit himself up and he feels the pain in his side.
"The bullet merely grazed you. A few stitches, you'll be fine." Sherlock says as he stares out the window for a few moments. "You really should remember to take your wallet with you, John, they had you identified as a John Doe." he says before he snorts a little. "At least they got your first name right."
Rolling his eyes a little and managing to sit up, John reaches over for the glass of water they left for him, taking a drink. "What happened?" He asks as he looks at Sherlock. "I was just about to head back to the flat when I heard gunfire.. there was another man I saw get shot, did he make it?" he asks as he watches the taller man, frowning a little at the IV and as much as he wants to pull it out, he decides to leave it where it is for now. Even if it itches.
"He's dead." Sherlock breaks the news quickly and without feeling, flicking the last of his cigarette out the window before he closes it and turns to look at John for the first time. "Apparently he was part of some gang, trying to get away from them or something of the sort, I stopped paying attention. The ones doing the shooting were his gang trying to kill him. You were merely an unfortunate bystander." He says before he walks over and hits the call button for the nurse.
"Blimey, that's a bit of bad luck. I have avoided injury as a soldier, but as a civilian, I get shot within a week. Guess I'm not cut out to be a civilian just yet." John says with a small snicker, wincing and putting a hand on his side for a moment. "Hand me that chart, Sherlock." he says as he points to it. Yep, doctors do not make good patients, and he wants to make sure that his doctors now what the heck they are talking about.
Albeit a little reluctantly since he doesn't like being ordered about, Sherlock picks up the char and hands it to John. "As I said, merely a few stitches. You really should try and believe me once in a while, John, it's becoming quite disheartening." he says with heavy sarcasm in his tone as he looks around the room for a few moments, taking a deep breath and wrinkling his nose at the antiseptic smell.
Looking through the chart after liberating it from Sherlock, John sighs a little. "It's not that I don't trust you, Sherlock, I merely can tell a bit more information from this chart rather than I was shot, which I knew thank you very much." he says with a shake of his head, frustrated a little, putting the chart aside before he removes the pulse monitor and starts to pull out the IV, intending to get out of the hospital as soon as possible.
Going to the chair and retrieving John's clothes, Sherlock brings them back to put them on the foot of the bed. "I got a replacement shirt for you, they had to cut yours off." He says before he watches John curiously. "There's nothing else interesting on that chart." He decides to say, using barbs to disguise how worried he was to know John was in the hospital.
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