Mary and John left the next morning, planning an all-day outing that no longer require the company of Sherlock and Irene. They were quite thrilled, but Sherlock felt a pang of hurt in his stomach. John had always included him in everything, and though he'd usually despised John's flings, Mary was different. She seemed to be a good fit for John; not dumb at all, just a different thinker. She wasn't witty like Irene, but when compared to John's traits, she matched him entirely. They would be good for each other, and Sherlock finally had a realization that maybe john had finally met his match.

Irene noticed the look in Sherlock's eyes but said nothing. It wasn't her business what Sherlock was thinking. It was more or less her job to make sure that he stopped thinking about it. "Well, since we've been excluded from breakfast, what would you like?"

"Oh, just a muffin." He shrugged, walking over to the sofa. He picked up the newspaper, but jumped suddenly. As Irene turned to see what all the scraping of furniture-on-wood was, she heard the shatter of glass.

As everything went black, she heard Sherlock faintly:

"Shooter!"

John glanced at his watch. It had been at least a half-an-hour since they had ordered their food. Where was the damn waitress?

"Stop it, John. She'll be out any minute. They're busy." Mary continued to scroll through her phone, presumably checking Facebook. John sighed in response, causing him to receive a glare from the woman across from him. He chuckled to himself as he watched their waitress walk over with their food.

"Here you go. Sorry about the wait; another table had some issues with their food. Oh, and there's some old guy here to see you. Says you know him." She nodded towards the entrance, where John saw Mycroft standing, dressed in none other than his signature suit and tie. Mary arched an eyebrow, but John nodded. Before the waitress even turned around, Mycroft stood behind her, waiting. She jumped, but walked away hurriedly.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," Myrcoft murmured.

"Morning, Mycroft." John turned to Mary. "This is Mycroft, Sherlock's brother. He works for the government."

"Pleasure," Mycroft nodded, still looking at John. "An emergency has occurred. You're needed at St. Bart's."

"Why?"

"I'll explain on the way there. Mary, I've arranged a car to take you home. Don't worry, everything will be fine. I've also issued a surveillance team for your flat. Just to be safe. It was a pleasure meeting you." Mycroft turned, not even bothering to make sure John was following him.

John kissed Mary on the cheek, grabbed his food and a take-out box from the bar of the breakfast cafe, and rushed out to Mycroft's car. There, he slid in and shut the door just as the car started to move. "What's the emergency?"

"Sherlock and Irene have been attacked at Baker Street."

John stopped eating. "What?"

"My thoughts exactly. However, with this Moran man on the loose, part of it was expected. I knew it was risky to let him stay with you. Just because you die your hair doesn't mean that you have become a completely different person." Mycroft shook his head.

"But are they okay?"

Mycroft fell silent.

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock is fine."

"Irene?"

"Hit in the shoulder. Left. A few more inches and it would have hit her heart."

It was John's turn to fall silent. In fact, less than twenty-four hours ago, he and Sherlock had been talking about Moran. He smirked to himself. Leave it to irony. "Well, it was bound to happen sometime."

"I guess your hideout plan didn't work so well."

"Guess not. Who are they under at the hospital?"

"That's not the problem. Moran's gone. Untraceable. Even the bullet found in Irene's shoulder isn't traceable."

"It's Moran, Mycroft. He's a professional."

"I'm well aware of that fact, Dr. Watson."

The car stopped, and both men moved to the inside of the hospital. None of the nurses made a move to speak to either of them, almost as though they didn't exist. When they reached the visitor's desk, a short, blunt woman arched an eyebrow at them.

"Names, patient name, and relations?" She arched her fingers over her keyboard, ready to type. Mycroft produced a card and slid it to her. She nodded, handing them wristbands. "They're on the hall to your right; last door on your left. Just scan these at the different locks. Have a good rest of your day."

They nodded, turning. As they walked, an awkward silence fell between them. None really had anything to say; they just hoped Irene would be alright. John scanned his wrist band on the lock, and the door clicked, opening electronically. When he saw the scene before him, he shook his head.

Irene was lying down on the hospital bed, monitors hooked up to different veins on her body. There was a huge patch of bandage on the left side of her chest, starting from her collarbone and covering her left breast. Sherlock sat next to her, hands in his lap, staring out the window towards the sky. He didn't even look to be breathing.

"About time you two arrived."

"How could you be this obvious, Sherlock? You had to think someone would find you eventually." Mycroft started in immediately, causing John to roll his eyes. He walked over to Irene and placed a hand on her right one, patting it softly.

"You're going to be fine, Irene," he whispered into her ear. He swore he heard her chuckle, but he shook his head as he leaned back up. While he watched Sherlock and Mycroft continue to bicker over safety, he felt himself needing a chair. Since Sherlock had stood and was gesturing animatedly, he slid over and took his spot. He mocked Sherlock's previous stance, wondering what was so much more interesting to Sherlock about the sky than Irene in the bed. Then, he saw it.

The glass was so shiny you could see your reflection. Sherlock had been staring at himself because he knew it was his fault that Irene had gotten shot. It was supposed to be him to be in the hospital bed, and he couldn't bear to look at what he'd done to Irene. It was a pride thing. A sentiment thing. And Sherlock Holmes didn't do sentiment.

"I'd like my spot back, John."

"Go look at yourself in the bathroom. There's a mirror. It'd be easier to break by punching, you know."

"You know me, I like a challenge," Sherlock hissed, tapping his fingers on the back of the rigid chair. John sighed.

"Just relax, Sherlock. She's alive, and in stable condition. She'll be awake soon."

"That's not the part I'm worried about."

"They're bulletproof windows. Moran won't be able to get through them."

"Bulletproof windows. Remind me to inform Mrs. Hudson about installing some in the flat."

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice cut through the air, causing John to shudder. "The doctor said that Irene should be waking up in a matter of minutes. I'll be in the cafeteria."

"Have fun with that," Sherlock muttered, waving him away. There was a soft click of the door as Mycroft shut it, leaving John alone with the somewhat-unstable Sherlock.

"Well, what's on the agenda after we get Irene home? Surely you'll want to spend time with her and help her recover." John pulled the other chair from in the corner to the foot of Irene's bed, facing Sherlock.

"No."

"What?" John arched an eyebrow.

Sherlock turned his head from the window, gazing at Irene for a moment. When he turned to look at John, his eyes were on fire. "No."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Kill Sebastian Moran."