Author's note: This is a pre-apology, due to the looming exam season chapter updates will, more than likely, become more sporadic at the end of May to the beginning of June. I promise to write some more when I can - although I do get a little crazy with revision and past papers around this time so you might go a few weeks before you hear from me again.

Right yes, back to the story...

There's not a lot you can say when someone walks in on you with your hand practically rammed down the front of someone's trousers. It's not as if you could say that you simply slipped – because very rarely does one slip and end up virtually fondly someone's scrotum. Irene was just staring at him, her eyebrow slightly cocked, her arms crossed over her chest. John could tell exactly what she was thinking and for once her sexually deviant mind wasn't misreading the situation. It was mortifying! Although, not quite as mortifying as the fact that, in the five minutes that she'd been standing there, John had yet to remove his hand from the general vicinity of Sherlock's crotch. It was almost as if his hand just enjoyed being nestled between the soft fabric of Sherlock's trousers and the warmth of his belly and it point blank refused to move.

"A word of advice John," Irene said as her lips curled up into a shit eating grin, "Never start with the shirt, always work from the bottom up – it's more fun that way."

What was he supposed to say to that? Should he try to deny something that was blatantly obvious or should he simply nod his head and tell her that he'd remember that for next time?

"John was simply examining my injuries." Sherlock said as he forcibly removed John's hand from the waistband of his trousers, his fingers almost painfully tight around John's wrist.

"Are you sure that was all he was trying to examine?"

John closed his eyes, he hadn't felt this mortified since he was fifteen and both his mother and sister had walked in on him masturbating.

"Did you bring the medical bag or did you spend the entire time eavesdropping?" Sherlock asked Irene, almost as if he hadn't heard what she had said. He sat himself down on the bed, wincing slightly as his injured thigh made contact with the mattress.

Irene's eyes flickered around the room before they alighted on Sherlock's tattered shirt that was lying in a crumpled heap in the corner. She silently walked over to it and, very carefully, plucked the shredded garment off the floor. She held it gingerly between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, almost as if she was afraid that the thing would disintegrate if she handled it too roughly. She turned the shirt to the left... and then to the right at an agonisingly slow speed. She scrutinised every inch before she looked up at John,

"What happened to this poor thing? It looks like it's been clawed at by a tiger."

"Irene," Sherlock snapped in exasperation, "Where is the medical bag?"

Irene sighed heavily before she let the ruined shirt plop back onto the floor. She crossed the room and bent down to retrieve the aforementioned medical bag that she had tucked discretely between the door and the bedside dresser.

"There was also a cooler." Sherlock said impatiently as he watched Irene hand the medical bag to John.

"Yes I know, I have eyes." Irene said as she picked up the red cooler and dangled in front of Sherlock, "I assumed that it was something important, you don't strike me as the sort of person who would be thoughtful enough to pack a picnic."

John turned his attention towards the bag and began rummaging around, hardly batting an eyelid when he saw numerous bottles of anaesthetic, iodine, morphine, IV lines, hypodermic syringes, suture kits and...

"Is this a mini defibrillator?" John asked, just managing to keep a tone of incredulity from his voice.

Sherlock, who had been fumbling with the latch on the cooler, turned his attention back to John and nodded. Obviously, in Sherlock's mind, no more explanation was needed. John didn't bother asking why Sherlock had thought it necessary to bring a defibrillator – travel sized or not – because he wasn't really in the mood for condescension. So instead he drew 15ml of anaesthetic into one of the hypodermic syringes before hesitantly approaching Sherlock. He wasn't sure that he should be touching him right now, not after what had happen – not after what had been about to happen. Although John didn't think that it specifically stated in the Hippocratic Oath that it was unethical to stitch up a patient while simultaneously sucking them off, John was sure that it probably wasn't good practice. John hadn't realised that he hadn't moved until Irene cleared her throat and said,

"As entertaining as this is I was hoping that we could discuss the matter of a certain psychopath? Is Moriarty dead?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No, but his friend is. The first shot fired came from Moriarty's gun; it went straight through the man's parietal bone. He was dead before he hit the ground."

"He shot his own accomplice?" John asked incredulously.

"I think it was an accident rather than an act of calculated sadism. His vision probably got impaired by the smoke and that caused him to mistake his accomplice for me."

"Either that or he just wanted to get a buzz from shooting a man in the face."

Sherlock nodded slowly, "That is a possibility – although rather unlikely considering the circumstances_"

"What happened after we left?" Irene asked, her voice slightly tinged with exasperation.

John watched as Sherlock's eyes grew vacant as he began to recite the events in his usual clinical way, "Moriarty fired a second shot and this one hit me in the outer thigh – minimal blood loss, missed the bone, through and through, a mere flesh wound. I fell to my knees, shouted for John to run and then belly crawled across the ground until I felt the dimensions of a corpse. I located the gun with minimal difficulty and tried to get to my feet. The smoke was too thick to see through and I didn't want to shoot in case John was still standing in vicinity acting like an idiot."

John breathed out heavily through his nose, "I was in shock."

Sherlock's eyebrow curled up in disapproval, "That's not an excuse."

"Yes it is. It's actually an incredibly reasonable one_"

"So you had the dead man's gun..." Irene prompted.

Sherlock sighed, "When I was relatively sure that both you and John had finally left the generally vicinity I took a calculated shot in the direction where I believed Moriarty to be. In hindsight it was a bad move because, aside from missing my target, the noise of my gun acted as a sound beacon and gave away my location. That was when Moriarty took a third shot, it missed, he took a fourth, it missed, he took a fifth and this time the bullet went through my shoulder – yielding a more substantial amount of blood loss but again it missed the bone and was a through and through flesh wound."

Sherlock fell silent and after waiting for a few seconds Irene said, "What happened next?"

"I believe I blacked out because the next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing the sky. It was clear and so was the surrounding area so at least ten minutes must have passed to allow the smoke to completely dissipate."

A moment of silence ensued in which John thought about Sherlock lying unconscious and helpless on the ground, the smoke clearing as Moriarty moved to tower over him...

"Why didn't he just kill you?" John asked.

"Because," Sherlock said as he clicked his neck from side to side, grimacing as the movement made the skin around his shoulder wound stretch, "As he so eloquently put it before, he wants to burn me, burn the heart out of me." Sherlock's eyes turned back to John, "Putting a bullet in my brain wouldn't be enough to sate his sadistic desire to destroy me. The only way to truly destroy someone is by hurting the people who they hold most dear..." Sherlock swallowed before he turned his attention back to his injured shoulder, "Which means that you're going to have to stop being so careless."

John blinked, his brain was still processing the idea that Sherlock had – in his own way – just admitted that he was one of the people who he "held most dear".

"Careless? When was I careless?"

"Perhaps we shouldn't start that argument again, these are my favourite trousers after all and I would prefer for them not to be ripped to shreds."

John felt blood rush to his face and anger tingle the base of his spine. He didn't bother with anymore preamble, all former hesitation had now vanished and been consumed with irritation. He crossed the space between them and slid the needle into Sherlock's shoulder, numbing the area around the nasty looking wound.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and grunted slightly in pain, "I could have done with a shot of morphine." He hissed as John slid the needle in at a different angle, "I think two gunshot wounds warrant a few milligrams of pain relief."

"What about your sobriety."

"I couldn't care less, I'm in pain!"

"I care." John said as he moved on to numbing the other side of Sherlock's shoulder, "Because every time the legitimacy of your sobriety comes under question, I have to take you to Bart's so that Molly can watch you urinate into a cup."

"I still don't see a problem, Molly enjoys testing my urine."

"Yes, well, Molly has her own psychological problems."

"What do you suggest I do about the pain then?"

"Well, for starters you could stop whingeing like a spoilt four year old."

"I don't whinge_ Ow that hurts!"

John snorted, "It's a needle Sherlock, you're not going to convince me that a former crack addict isn't accustomed to feeling a slight sting."

"Yes but usually the sting is followed by a rush of euphoria_"

"I'm not drugging you up_"

"Fine, I'll do it myself." Sherlock said as he tried to stand up.

"Make one move towards that medical bag and I'll break your arm." John said as he roughly shoved against Sherlock's chest, making him retake his seat on the mattress.

Sherlock's eyes momentarily burnt bright with excitement "Are you threatening me John, because even encumbered with two wounded limbs I could still take you_"

"Oh boys!" Irene said as she laced her fingers behind her head and stared up at the ceiling in exasperation, "It's like watching the blind leading the blind, if it wasn't so painful it would actually be funny." She turned her head from the ceiling and just stared at them, her expression a mixture of incredulity and adoration, "You both must be so exhausted, it must be torturous to be coiled this tightly all the time.

John watched as Irene looked between them, a devilish smile spreading across his lips, "Good Lord, I actually think that it might kill you. When you finally give in and work out the one way to truly relieve all that pent up tension, I actually think it'll kill you stone dead. It'll be like some sort of cataclysmic explosion." Her eyes appeared to be a little glassy; as if she was picturing something that neither Sherlock nor John could see, "But what a way to die? I don't think I could imagine a more satisfying death."

"John," Sherlock said warily, "What is she talking about?"

"I have no idea." John said, although he did – he was all too aware as to what Irene was referring to. However, the idea of trying to explain to Sherlock that Irene was suggesting that they could literally fuck each other to death didn't seem too appealing.

"Well," Irene said, suddenly snapping out of her thoughts, "Unless you plan on discussing what we need to do next, I think I'm going to go shopping."

"Shopping." Sherlock practically chocked out, "Now is not the time to partake in frivolities_"

"Firstly dear," Irene said, holding up one finger to silence him, "The act of shopping is never frivolous – it's cathartic. Secondly, we are quite literally in the middle of nowhere, the only things around here are a few greasy spoon cafes, an arcade, several charity shops and about a hundred miles of salty water so I doubt I shall be shopping in luxury."

"We're by the sea?"

"No John, there's simply a large pit around here where all the angels come to cry every time someone asks a stupid question."

He could just slap him, no one would judge.

Irene began rummaging around in Sherlock's coat before she located his wallet and pulled out a couple of notes before she continued, "Thirdly, the temperature is just above freezing out there and you – thanks to John and his carnal impulses – have no shirt. Fourthly, going by the fact that Moriarty is yet to be killed and buried in a shallow grave, I'm assuming that we're going to be here for a little while and – unless you enjoy walking around with week old sweat stains – I think we're all going to need a change of clothes. Do I really need to supply you with more reasons or have I justified my decision."

Sherlock scowled and pouted a little but he nodded nonetheless.

Irene smiled, "I'll try and find you another purple shirt." She said before she turned her eyes towards John, "If I remember correctly you're a fan of hideous jumpers. Would you like for me to get you another one or do you think I could pick a design that doesn't make you look like a colour wheel has just vomited all over you?"

John stared blankly at her until she simply smiled and winked at him, "I'll be gone about an hour, when I get back we'll go and get something fried and disgusting from one of the cafes I mentioned." She plucked up the car keys from the bedside table before she said, "Now you be a good boy and patch him up before you start molesting him again. It's no fun to play with a toy when it's broken." She gave him a meaningful look before finally slipping out of the hotel room for the second time that morning.

The moment the door closed behind her John felt the air deflate around him; everything was a lot less tense now that Irene wasn't watching him like he was a stubborn panda refusing to mate. He cast a glance in Sherlock's direction only to see him flicking through his phone,

"What are you doing?"

"Sending a text to Mycroft so that he knows that I'm still alive."

"What did you write?"

"By the beach, having a lovely time, smiley face."

John smirked slightly as he plucked a bottle of iodine from the bag and began soaking a large ball of cotton wall in the pungent liquid,

"I didn't know that you knew how to use emoticons."

"Yes well it has become a necessity of the twenty-first century in which the art of subtlety has been replaced by the acronym "LOL"."

John approached Sherlock and applied a liberal amount of iodine to his shoulder. As the cleansing chemical hit Sherlock's raw flesh he sucked in a shuddering gasp of air and unthinkingly grabbed hold of a handful of John's jeans.

"Sorry, sorry," John soothed as he wiped down the area once more and then screwed the lid shut on the bottle, "How does the area feel?" He asked as he gently prodded the swollen looking flesh, "Are you numb yet?"

"Going by the intense reaction I just had towards the iodine does it look like I'm numbed up yet?" Sherlock asked, his voice strained, his arm and body trembling. He looked like he was in sheer agony and John was just about to relent and give him some pain relief when Sherlock said, "I'm fine, just sew me up and get it over with."

Despite his words John could see that his eyes had watered slightly and his breathing was still laboured with pain. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand there was Sherlock's sobriety and on the other there was his pain.

John watched as Sherlock's hand remained clenched around the fabric of his jeans, his knuckles turning white, and his body continuing to tremble. Morphine was a different type of opiate than cocaine and he didn't need to give him an excessive amount, only enough to take the edge off and stop Sherlock from slipping into shock.

John sighed deeply and rubbed his hand over his brow, "I'm going to give you 5mg of morphine."

"Ten." Sherlock immediately shot back.

"Don't push your luck." John said as he rummaged around in the bag, pulling out a suture kit, a bottle of morphine and another hypodermic needle.

"You're going to need an IV line." Sherlock said.

"Why?"

Sherlock opened the lid of the cooler and placed it on the floor before John, "Blood transfusion. I might have been wrong about the blood loss, I'm starting to feel a little light headed. It's nothing to be too concerned about," he said as he watched John pluck up a blood bag from the cooler and connect it to an IV line, "It's probably caused by a combination of sleep deprivation, shock, blood loss and mild hypoglycaemia."

"Well when you put it like that." John said shaking his head as he pulled a tourniquet tightly around Sherlock's bicep so that the vein stood out blue and rigid against Sherlock's paper white skin.

"Can I ask you – what you will deem to be – a stupid question?"

"Morphine first." Sherlock said between gritted teeth.

John measured out exactly 5mg of morphine into a hypodermic syringe before he slid the needle into Sherlock's erect vein. The effect was instantaneous: his body stopped trembling and his shoulders and spine relaxed. His fingers – which had been gripping the bed sheets – finally loosened and lay flat on the mattress. John wasn't pleased that, in this moment, he had effectively become Sherlock's supplier but he was relieved that he no longer seemed to be in pain.

Sherlock closed his eyes, basking in the pleasure of the strong opiate, before he turned his gaze back to John, "You can ask your question now."

"It's made up of three parts."

"John," Sherlock said almost dreamily, "You could ask me to recite an entire analytical critique on the Ulysses and I would be happy to oblige."

John smiled, apparently Sherlock on morphine was a lot more agreeable than Sherlock on nicotine, "Firstly, did you know that you were going to get shot?"

"I thought that it was a strong possibility that one of us would get badly injured so I thought it best to bring the necessary equipment."

"So you have different blood types in there?" John asked as he went to check the label on the bag he was holding, only to find that there was none.

Sherlock shook his head for a little longer than was necessary, "I didn't need to, we're the same blood type."

John blinked at him, a little shocked that he hadn't known this.

"Where did you get the blood from?" John asked as he slid the IV needle into the crook of Sherlock's arm and watched as the viscous red liquid shot through the cube and into Sherlock's body.

Sherlock lazily slapped the inside of his other elbow, "From my veins, I siphoned off a few bags last month, I always keep a few bags of blood in the freezer in case either of us needs an emergency transfusion."

John was a little taken aback about the idea of Sherlock's blood literally running through his veins. For some strange reason it made him shiver a little. He secured the IV to Sherlock's skin with some medical tape before hanging the bag from the lampshade that was dangling from the ceiling.

They were silent for a few minutes as John got to work sewing up Sherlock's shoulder. He tried to minimise the amount of contact between them but John's hand kept finding its way back to resting against Sherlock's chest. Besides it was reassuring to feel the beat of Sherlock's heart beneath his palm, it was like John was acting as his human heart monitor.

"Why did Irene say that she was going to get me a purple shirt?" Sherlock finally asked after some minutes had passed. From the sound of his voice the morphine had now truly infiltrated his nervous system.

"Because I ripped your other one... and about that, Sherlock I_"

"But why a purple one? The shirt you ripped was black."

"Yes well I think she was making a reference to the other purple shirt that you have, but about what I did, I didn't mean to_"

"But I have other colours." Sherlock pressed, "I have white ones and black ones and a few green ones_"

"Sherlock I know what colour shirts you have, I do the ironing_"

"So why would she pacific... specific... I can't say specifically!" Sherlock said in shock.

"You just did."

Sherlock appearingly pondered this for a moment before he continued, "Why would she spe-cific-cally," he said the word slowly like a child sounding out the alphabet for the first time, "want to buy me a purple shirt."

"I don't know, maybe because you look good in the purple shirt that you already have."

"Are you saying that I don't look good in other shirts?"

"No, you look lovely in all shirts."

"Don't patronise me."

"Then stop saying stupid things."

"Annoying isn't it?" When John looked up from Sherlock's shoulder he saw that Sherlock was smiling broadly at him. It was an odd sight to see Sherlock smiling genuinely rather than smirking with contempt, it suited him, made him look younger, almost like a naughty little boy.

"You are so stoned." John said as he took in Sherlock's dilated pupils and slightly vacant stare. John realised that he had been staring for too long and quickly turned his attention back to Sherlock's shoulder, "Um... I've finished with this wound so I need to..." John gestured towards Sherlock's thigh.

"Oh yes, of course, the other one. Go on then."

"OK then... why don't you take off your trousers?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his expression a little glassy, "I'd rather if you did it." And then he smirked devilishly at John.

Dear God! Obviously a stoned Sherlock was a bit of flirt. It was strange, unnerving and incredibly hot. John reached out and unfastened the button on Sherlock's trousers before unzipping the fly and grasping hold of the fabric on either side of his hips.

Sherlock raised his hips off the bed to allow for John to pull the trousers down his legs. A montage of filthy images flitted through John's mind as he peeled the fabric over Sherlock's hips and down his pale thighs until the bullet wound came into sight. He didn't look up, he didn't dare, instead he focused his task on simply pulling the trousers down to Sherlock's knees so that the entire area was exposed.

John traced the tips of his fingers down the outside of Sherlock's thigh and then gently brushed his thumb up the inside...

Sherlock shuddered and John looked up, only now realising that he was kneeling between Sherlock's spread thighs, "Sherlock," John said and then be coughed slightly because his throat had grown incredibly dry, "I think that we need to talk about something."

Sherlock's face fell before it set hard as stone, "Is this about you moving out."

"What? No, why... why would I be moving out? Do you want me to move out?"

"No, of course not_"

"Then why would you think that I'd be moving out?"

"Because you've been acting increasingly anxious these past months, you don't talk to me as much as you used to, you spend most of your time either at work or with Stamford and when you are in the flat you avoid me. And then we had that fight and you walked out and got yourself abducted by a serial killer_"

"Sherlock_"

"If you've had enough of me then I understand. It's what people do, they stay until the novelty wears off and then... they go. You've lasted longer than anyone else – and that's including my parents because they pretty much had enough of me when I starting to speak in full sentences."

John sighed deeply and rested his forehead against Sherlock's knee, "For someone who sees everything you can be incredibly blind when it comes to obvious things." John kept his forehead pressed against Sherlock's knee, too afraid to look up at his face, "How is it possible for you to work out a person's favourite font by looking at their shoes but you can't work out how I feel about you?"

After a moment of silence John felt fingers in his hair and he brought his face up to see Sherlock staring at him.

"John I... I have to tell you something it's..." His hand brushed against John's head a few more times before he said, almost in awe, "Your hair is shining."

John blinked, "Pardon?"

"Your hair is... glowing, it's like a beacon." Sherlock's other hand came around and he grabbed John on either side of his face before bringing his head closer to his and blowing on his hair as if it was a candle, "It's like looking at a shimmering field of wheat... do you use a special sort of shampoo?"

"Fuck me." John muttered, "I don't remember you being like this when you shot up cocaine last Christmas."

"Cocaine stimulates, morphine sedates. When I'm high on cocaine it feels like my blood's on fire, my mind shoots from one thought to another so fast that they feel like they're about to fly out of my eyes... but morphine makes me want to curl up and sleep on your head."

"Sherlock."

"Yes John?"

"Stop playing with my hair and let me stitch you up."

"But it's so soft."

John slapped Sherlock's hands away in irritation. Of course it would be like this, the first time John tried to tell Sherlock how he felt he'd been abducted by a serial killer, it was only natural that the second time he tried Sherlock would be stoned out of his mind. John wondered if the third time would be the charm – he didn't hold up much hope.

"So you're not going to leave me?" Sherlock asked as he watched John stitch up his leg.

"Sherlock, if I was going to leave you then I'd have packed my bags the first time you used the bathtub as an aquarium."

"The sink was too small to accommodate the coy fish."

"You're missing the point – like you did when it happened the first time... and the second time and the third time_"

"Well then why have you been acting so strangely if you're not planning on moving out?"

John opened his mouth a couple of times but the slightly vacant expression on Sherlock's face – coupled with the fact that he still seemed incredibly fascinated with his hair – gave John the impression that he probably wouldn't remember anything that transpired between them in the next hour or so... so would it really matter? He could just say it, get it off his chest now while Sherlock was in a drug induced haze and then never say it again. Nothing had to change. He'd promised Irene that he'd tell Sherlock how he felt, he hadn't specified that he'd tell him when he was compos mentis.

He should just say it now, let it free and then they could forget about it. Maybe he just needed to say it, maybe once he'd said it out loud it would break the spell – so to speak – and the aching in John's chest and stomach would stop and they could just go back to being friends...

"I'm in love with you." John said as he kept his eyes on the task at hand, sliding the needle beneath Sherlock's skin and pulling the pieces of flesh back together. "Or at least I think that it's love, I can't be sure, because most of the time I want to punch you in the face and usually wanting to inflict pain on someone isn't synonymous with loving them. But I think it's love. And I don't know what I want to do; I don't know how this would work, if it would even work. I don't know if I want to date you or be in a romantic relationship with you, I'm pretty sure I want to fuck you – which is, in itself, an entirely different thing that I have to get my head around - but other than that I don't know what I want and that's why I've been acting strangely."

John took a deep breath, still not looking up, still focusing on closing Sherlock's wound, "Your friendship is the most important thing that I have in my life and the idea of losing you over something like this, something that I could hide and pretend isn't there, well... its unimaginable and I'd rather be your friend than nothing at all."

Sherlock was silent and John imagined him staring up at the light, transfixed like a moth to a flame.

"Look forget it," John mumbled as he tied off the last stitch, "Maybe when you're sober we can talk about this, or maybe we won't, Christ I don't know... But I need to get to the other side of your leg so if you could just roll onto your_"

John stopped mid sentence when he finally looked up and caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face. His drug addled haze had dissipated significantly and although his expression was still slightly vacant his eyes were clear and his body rigid. He hadn't just heard what John had said he'd taken it in, sucked it into that massive brain of his to analyse and dissect. John could see him doing it now, he was making deductions, the cogs and wheels in his head weren't just turning they were flying against one another, moving so fast they were about to overheat. He wasn't loopy, happy, drugged up Sherlock anymore, he wasn't staring at John's "glowing" hair he was staring into his eyes, his expression impassive, his own eyes laced with a mixture of shock and blind terror.

Oh fucking hell.