Sherlock was beside himself with worry. And really? Sherlock Holmes is never worried. However, when it came to sitting on an uncomfortable chair at Saint Bartholomew's hospital, watching his best friend and love, sleeping on a just as uncomfortable bed, he was downright anxious. He hated hospitals to begin with unless it was for his use of it's morgue and laboratory. Any other time he tried to avoid it like the plague. Especially, this facility. If it wasn't for John's need of medical assistance he would be at St. Bart's. No, not when he took a giant leap from it's rooftop. It took everything he had to resist the urge to vomit as he walked passed the very pavement in which his fake death had occurred. He shook his head. No need to think about that right now.

Steel-blue eyes trained on his companion just a few feet away from him. Two days ago there was so much blood coming from just his side. His assailant was only millimeters away from nicking one of his lungs and the damage would have been done. Who knows what kind of repercussions that could have made to his soldier. Thankfully, the surgeons were able to repair most of the wound and stopped the internal bleeding. Not that he'd ever admit to it, but Sherlock was almost frightened. He knew John was strong and could survive anything that the world threw at him. But Sherlock? He wouldn't survive without his dear blogger living in the same world that he did. He didn't want to. It was bad enough that he thought John wasn't going to make it.

"Lestrade! Lestrade, get a paramedic up here! NOW!" Sherlock ripped off his scarf and pressed it against John's wound to try to stop the bleeding.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs as the Detective Inspector and two medics ran upstairs and into the flat. The paramedics immediately went to work to stabilize the unconscious man on the floor as Sherlock stood, breathing heavily in his panic. Lestrade pulled him aside, demanding an explanation of what happened.

"All right, Sherlock, from the top." The DI took out his pen and notebook to take notes.

Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet, glancing to see John leaving the flat on a stretcher before replying. "I received a picture message from Moriarty of the flat, 'Let's play' carved into an apple that was left on the table. I immediately informed John and when I didn't hear confirmation from him, I called him on his mobile. It took about ten to fifteen minutes to arrive here and by then John was on the floor, his attacker already dead of a broken neck. I inspected the body before I was made aware of John's injury."

Lestrade nodded, quickly scribbling away on his notepad. "Details?"

"Not much. 'Gun for hire'. Russian by birth, probably here on a visa. Paid assassin hired by James Moriarty to take out John." Sherlock rambled off effortlessly.

The DI finished writing down his data for his report later before tucking his pen and paper away. He called for his team to come into the flat to begin setting up their crime scene. After they were in the motions of setting up, Lestrade turned to Sherlock and discretely rested his hand on his arm. "I'll take it from here."

Sherlock nodded and rushed out the door to hail a cab.

The detective scrubbed his head in frustration with a sigh. He sat back and breathed deeply and closed his eyes, receding into his Mind Palace until John was ready to wake up.

Said doctor-turned-patient, slowly began his wake to the land of the living. His eyes felt heavy and his head felt like it was made of lead. The pain in his side was even worse. Lifting his head was a chore but he did it to look across the room to see his love in a deep trance. Smiling, he took a deep breath and looked around at his monitors and IV bags. One was a saline drip and another was a plasma drip. The latter made him frown so he sat up and winced as he felt a pull on his side but he ignored it in favor of reaching towards the end of his bed and grabbing his chart. His eyes scanned through his chart, his lids narrowing from time to time. No wonder they switched him from whole blood to plasma: his platelet count was far too low for comfort while he was in surgery. However, now that he was conscious and coherent, he would need them to take him completely off of the drip. Satisfied, he pushed his call button and placed his chart back where it belonged.

It wasn't long thereafter when Sherlock was awoken to raised voices. It was peculiar because he was fairly sure that one of the voices was John's. He blinked his eyes into focus before rolling them affectionately. Yes, there was John, sitting up and glaring at a young man in scrubs and a lab coat as the youth was trying to explain John's lack of discharge papers.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but we want to keep you here another couple of days for observation."

"You've been saying that for the past five minutes. Stop giving me the ring-around and give me my discharge papers! I'm quite capable of home-care and aware of when I should be in for a recheck."

Sherlock would have left if it wasn't for the fact that the, quite obvious, intern looked as if he was going to wet himself. However, it didn't stop him from smirking widely as he spoke. "Now now, John, let the poor intern do his job. By the way, no, you're not going to pass your Board Examinations. I would suggest you forget about sleeping with your Professor and actually focus on your studies."

The intern's jaw dropped before he stuttered out something incomprehensible and hurried out of the room. He looked over and John, who was staring at him with a look of pure admiration. "I love you."

Sherlock grinned. "Looks like what they say is true. Doctors do make horrible patients."

"They gave me an intern. Honestly!"

"I also noticed," Sherlock nodded at one of the machines at John's bedside before going over to inspect it, "that you turned off your morphine drip."

"I don't need it. It's unnecessary and I hate the way that those kinds of drugs make me feel. A little pain won't kill me." John waved him off.

"Have they given you anything else?"

John sighed and nodded. "Twelve-hundred milligrams of Acetenol. I don't want anything stronger than that."

"So you yell at the interns instead. Not the best way to take out your pain and frustration." He scoffed.

"They should have just let me be." John's face flushed slightly.

"They're doing their job, John, just like you do. Act like an adult."

"I'm a doctor. I know what I'm talking about."

"You're not a doctor right now, you're a patient."

John scowled. "I'm a doctor first. I don't even need to be here right now. I'm stitched up and ready to go home."

Sherlock stood to walk over to John's bed and picked up his chart to read through it quickly. "Not when you're acting irrationally. You're staying here until they clear you, so enough arguing. Now, get some sleep. You'll need all of the rest you can get."

"Sherlock, I just woke up. I'm not tired." John denied despite the jaw-cracking yawn that escaped his lips.

The detective sat back down in his chair and just smirked. "Maybe not, but the morphine dose that I just administered should make you more than a bit drowsy."

John would have screamed and shouted his displeasure but he was already asleep. When he woke up the next morning, it was to the sight of Sherlock tapping away on John's laptop. He bristled in annoyance but brush it off; there wasn't anything he could do about it anyway. Sighing, he sat up and glanced at the clock indicating mid-morning. After taking care of his morning routine, he took another look at his chart and sighed again.

"You're not going home until a doctor, not you, comes in to check on you. Luckily, someone owed Mycroft a favor, otherwise you wouldn't be leaving for another two or three days." Sherlock's rumbling voice cut through the air. Mind you, his typing never paused it's rapid consistency. "You're welcome."

John rolled his eyes. "I should have been home last night."

"John," Sherlock sighed and closed the laptop, "you're much safer here compared to anywhere else you could be. Here I can see and hear everything. Were you to go home to Baker Street, you would insist on going to work or meander around the flat where we would be separated."

"What if I took a week off of work?"

"I already called Mary from your mobile. You're already on sick leave for the time being."

John balked. "Sherlock! I'm quite capable of calling myself out of work! Give me my phone."

"You were asleep so, no, you were not capable." Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

Rolling his eyes, John got out of bed and grabbed the knapsack by Sherlock's feet and headed into the bathroom to change. He wanted to be ready to go when the nurse came with his discharge papers. The hospital gown, if you could call it that, dropped to his feet and he rummaged in the bag for his clean clothes. He smiled when he spotted his favorite shirt and jumper. Well, Sherlock's favorite shirt and jumper. The man constantly commented on his state of dress but John noticed that he always looked at him for a few seconds longer than normal when he wore this specific outfit. John had no issues changing into his pants, trousers, and button-down shirt but when it came to his jumper, the stitches in his side tugged painfully and he hissed out his discomfort. His eyes fell to the door as it opened and Sherlock stepped in.

"Really, John, you could have just asked for my help."

"Just help me, will you?"

Almost as if he was dressing a doll, Sherlock took great care in helping John slide his arms through his shirt-sleeves and pulling the jumper down to lay over his stomach. When they emerged, John was almost dancing with glee when he saw his attending nurse stand at the foot of his bed with a clipboard holding his discharge papers. He smiled the entire time as he filled out the forms, even signing with one hand when he insisted the nurse remove his IV catheter as he wrote.

From the time he left his hospital room to the time they arrived to Baker Street, Sherlock hadn't said a word. It wasn't unusual, except for the fact that John kept catching him staring at him out of the corner of his eye. After they paid their cab fare, the duo made their way up the stairs after briefly checking in with Mrs. Hudson and stepped into their flat. John shrugged off his jacket and went into the kitchen to make tea; hospital food and beverages were never appetizing in the slightest. Before he could actually pour his tea into his mug, he felt a hand grasp his wrist on his good side and tug him around and into an almost bone-crushing hug. Instinctively, his arms came to rest on narrow hips, his shock preventing him from fully returning the embrace.

"Sherlock?"

Said man grunted but said nothing, only tightening his hold further. John would have been in a panic if he didn't know his consulting detective better. He sighed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and rested his head on a bony collar. "I'm all right..."

"Obviously." Sherlock retorted but his hold remained the same.

John squirmed a bit, pulling back to look into blue steel orbs. He brought up a hand to stroke sharp cheekbones. "I'm all right. We'll be all right."

Sherlock nodded, resting his forehead against John's. The shorter gave himself a small boost to lock his lips with the man before him. The kiss was returned softly, a gentle shift in pressure, before Sherlock pulled away and stared into his eyes again. Pain, concern, worry, sadness, adoration, affection. John could read everything in that solitary glance. The moment was short-lived as the taller pulled away and stepped around him to finish pouring tea. "Right, you didn't eat breakfast. Sit down and I'll heat up lunch."

John could have sworn that he saw Sherlock's eyes mist over but he chose to ignore it. The detective would immediately close himself off if he thought he was being weak. So, John smiled and sat down in the living room, ignoring the urge to console the man he loves. Ten minutes after his plate of food was empty and taken away, the good doctor tried not to frown. Sherlock was still in the kitchen puttering around making all sorts of raucous noises. However, it sounded methodical and not the usual obnoxiousness that he was used to. When Sherlock reappeared it was to climb onto the desk and look into the bookcase. It was then that John realized what his best friend was doing. He'd seen this activity before, numerous times, in fact.

He was searching for bugs.

John sighed after the second time Sherlock had slipped on something, too focussed on his quarry. "Please be careful, Sherlock."

"I'm fine." Sherlock jumped down from his perch and moved in front of the television.

"Do you want help?" John offered.

"No, I'm fine."

It was when the telly was in the process of being dismantled did John speak up again. "If you break it, you're buying a new one."

He was ignored.

"I think we should call Mycroft."

That stopped Sherlock in his tracks. He scowled at John. "Why do you feel the need to phone Mycroft?"

"He's the one who originally got you into this mess. It's high time he did something to rectify it." When the doctor didn't get an answer, he pulled out his phone.

Sherlock sighed. "He hasn't apologized and he won't. Why should there be any kind of communication?" Standing up straight, the detective brought his fingers to his lips in thought.

"Because the very least he can do is protect his younger brother. This is all his fault, Sherlock. He also has the proper equipment to sweep the flat with."

The younger of the two began pacing. "He doesn't know Moriarty's mind as well as I do."

"No, but he does know how to find hidden cameras. He hides enough of them himself."

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock suddenly shouted.

John startled at his outburst. They both listened for a few moments but received no reply. Sherlock frowned. "She should be taking her tea and evening soother before bed right about now. No deviation from her routine." He looked to John, eyes narrowing.

John was already up and moving to his room to retrieve his Sig Sauer by the time Sherlock finished his thought. By the time he arrived back downstairs, Sherlock was off the phone with Lestrade and waiting for John to return before moving. They crept down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat quickly and quietly, alert and listening for anything abnormal coming from the other side of her door. John switched his gun off of safety and nodded, quickly raising his gun hand as he entered the room.

There was a solitary light turned on in the flat, coming from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. The television was off and to the average person, one would assume that no one was home. However, Sherlock knew better. He knew Mrs. Hudson better than that. The two men split up to quickly search for anything amiss. John took to the kitchen while Sherlock made way into the bedroom. The kitchen held no life other than a cooling kettle and he was about to declare that the flat was empty until he heard Sherlock call to him. John hurried down the hall and into Mrs. Hudson's bedroom before dropping to the floor beside the body on the floor. His hands flew to the elderly woman's neck and wrist, sighing in relief when he felt a faint but strong flutter.

While John continued to check their landlady's vitals, Sherlock was examining the entire flat. When he found nothing, he walked back into the room, he caught a flash of off-white by Mrs. Hudson's mouth. He stooped down to pick up the note and opened it.

"Having fun yet, Sherly?"

"She needs an ambulance. Next will be Lestrade. Phone our favorite DI and have him order one over to meet us here." Sherlock glanced as the doctor immediately pulled out his mobile and called their friend.

John stood. "Greg's almost here with a detail and the paramedics are en route."

While they waited, both of them kept trying to get Mrs. Hudson to respond to them. Sherlock especially, but he kept asking her to recall details of her assailant. Getting frustrated, he stood and sat down in one of her chairs with a huff. John, after asking her several simple questions, was satisfied and took one of her hands in his. "Mild concussion after she was hit on the head and took a nasty tumble. I'll keep her awake until the medics get here."

Their wait was short-lived as not five minutes later, flashing lights bathed the flat in red and blue in a cycle. After Mrs. Hudson's sister was called to inform her of where her sister would be staying for the time being, the boys headed back into their flat. John went to sit in his chair to regain his bearings but Sherlock became a flurry of movement. He ran in and out of his room and the kitchen, the sound of glass clinking and footsteps pounding occupying the flat in his frenzy. As John settled in, he heard his love run down the stairs before he heard shouting.

"Everybody shut up! Anderson, you might as well leave, seeing as you're completely useless. No? Fine. LESTRADE! MAKE ANDERSON GO AWAY!"

If John wasn't so tired, he would have fallen over laughing.

The next afternoon, John returned from visiting Mrs. Hudson at the hospital and gave a summary of her condition to the curly-haired lump on the sofa. "They're going to run a few more tests but, honestly, they can only do so much. Blunt force trauma to the back of her head. Concussion was confirmed. They couldn't tell what kind of object and we'll have no way of knowing since there wasn't anything left behind. She'll be fine in a couple of days."

Sherlock grunted. John responded with a sigh. "What's the matter wit you, then?"

Blue steel eyes narrowed and his lips curved downward. John would love to tell him he looked adorable when he pouted but then Sherlock would never pout again. "There's nothing to go on. The hair was synthetic, commonly bought at any beauty supply shop, and the saliva I found was Mrs. Hudson's. We're sitting ducks as far as I'm concerned."

"Sitting ducks?"

"This is Moriarty's doing."

John's lips thinned. "Do you think we need to hide for the time being? A safe house?"

"We could try, but I doubt it would do us any good. He's trying to make a point; he can get to anyone without being caught and this is all on his terms."

John nodded. "But that still makes Baker Street a liability. He was able to get inside 221C without anyone knowing years ago."

After a paused, Sherlock glanced at him. "Where was your flat before you moved into Baker Street?"

John grimaced. "Not in the best part of London. Don't you think Moriarty thought of that already?"

"He's expecting something. We have to stay close and stay together."

"Why not just stay with Mycroft?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's plausible. And what is with your obsession with my brother, anyway? That's the third time this week you've mentioned going to him for help. Is that really what you want? To reside in the same house as the man who practically sentenced me to death by the hand of a madman?"

"Of course not. I would hate it, but it would mean that you would be safe."

Long, elegant fingers waved him off. "My safety is the last thing on my mind."

"That may be," John frowned, "but it's my priority."

"Fine, but you are phoning Mycroft. I'll collect our laptops, mobile chargers, clothes, and your gun." Sherlock then stomped off to gather their things.

Twenty minutes later, he set down two duffle bags on the kitchen table before going to locate John. The ex-captain hadn't bothered to keep his voice down but Sherlock could hear him in the closed living room, practically shouting into the phone receiver.

"You owe us, Mycroft. You owe him! The very least you can do for your brother is to help him from getting killed. I don't care what your differences are, do the right thing and be done with it... Fine, we'll be ready." He heard John's angry footsteps heading to the kitchen. Sherlock didn't bother trying to hide the fact he was eavesdropping. John practically shouted their plans to the entire world.

The two almost collided when John entered the room. "Well, now that everyone and their uncle heard that..."

John ignored him and grabbed his knapsack from the table and headed downstairs. Sherlock huffed and followed with his own bag. "John, come back."

He heard John throw his back to sit at the front door, carelessly kicking it aside even further. The taller grabbed the older man's uninjured arm firmly. "John."

John stopped, agitated. "What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock leaned in close to his ear and whispered. "I understand your agitation towards my brother, believe me. However, you didn't bother to keeping your voice down on the off chance that someone who works for Moriarty could be listening in. Just because I didn't find any bugs, doesn't mean there aren't any in the flat. Think, John, if everyone heard you, is it really wise to go to Mycroft's?"

John sighed, reaching for the door and stepping outside, shouldering his knapsack as a sleek black car pulled to the curb. "Just get in the car. We'll figure it out."

Frowning, Sherlock picked up his bag and followed. This wasn't typical "John" behavior. To the untrained eye, he was just being rude and tetchy. It's why Sherlock had to keep his expression cool and collected despite the fact that he was cheering on the inside. His blogger was so smart, sometimes. He deserved a kiss for being so clever.

When he got in the back of the car with John, he grinned at him and pulled out his phone to type a message, but not send it. He presented his phone to John, almost throwing it at him.

Bravo, my dear blogger. If you ever lose your license to practice medicine, you could always be an actor. -SH

John looked at the driver, making sure he wasn't looking, before grinning and pulling out his own phone.

If anyone was listening in, I wanted to make it convincing. I didn't forget about the flat being bugged so I made sure to make our plans known to anyone that could be observing. It was getting you and Mycroft to agree that was the tricky part. So glad to know I can surprise, even you. -JW

Sherlock pressed a quick but firm kiss to John's lips before typing a quick reply.

Pleasantly so...-SH