He stared at his lifeless figure. Beep. Beep. Beep. White walls, ugly blue curtains, outdated gray tile. White wall clock. Pale John. His mind drifted...he couldn't help but remember.

They rushed in, gathered around John like vultures. He watched, his eyes hollow and the color drained. They lifted him on the gurney, rushed down those damned stairs with speed and skill. He idly wondered how they managed to do so, with such narrow and sharp corners. By the time they were outside, Greg Lestrade had pulled up to the flat, his face and skin riddled with worried lines. He ran up to Sherlock, and together they watched John loaded onto the screaming vehicle. Lestrade put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and although Sherlock wouldn't admit it, the touch was comforting and helped him to stay grounded. On the way to the hospital, Greg rambled about the ungodly call he received from the Yard and how he couldn't drive fast enough. Sherlock really wasn't listening.

And here they were...well, Sherlock was. Lestrade had left to retrieve much needed coffee for the both of them. Good coffee, not the rubbish down the hall.

John had made it out of surgery, a lot of blood lost.

"He's lost almost half his supply, it's a wonder he even made it. Your friend is a fighter, Mr. Holmes." The doctor had said. Sherlock nodded that he knew as he looked at the streak of John's blood on the doctor's scrubs. It wasn't much, hardly a touch of red. He had watched pints pour out of his body at the flat, but this dash of blood on the surgeon was still somehow disturbing to him.

It had been a day. A good 24 hours since it happened. There were no leads on those savaged men, no trace of who they really were or where they'd gone. A watch had been put on all surrounding hospitals matching their descriptions, in case Sherlock and John had hit them hard enough to warrant a visit. So far, nothing.

John felt himself rise to semi-consciousness...it was so hazy. Where am I?

He felt something strange, like an immense pressure on his chest. The hell? His instincts told him to think, to recall what had last happened. To put together the pieces, figure out what was happening. The...the fight. Yes, the fight, he remembered. He remembered seeing Sherlock's almost panicked face as his two attackers began to overcome him. He remembered thinking that he needed to get his friend out of there, out of that situation. He could not handle Sherlock being dead again...he barely made it the first time.

Gunshot? The smell of gunpowder suddenly overwhelmed him. Someone was shot...was it Sherlock? The men? No. No, no wait.

He groaned quietly as he both remembered the pain and felt it in the hospital bed. Damn, it was me. I was shot. Ughh.

Sherlock was at his side quicker than he'd ever moved before.

"John?"

Is that, Sherlock? "Sherlock...?" His voice was so quiet, barely a whisper.

"Oh, John. Jesus." Sherlock put his hands on the bed rails and hung his head in relief. He wasn't sure he'd ever hear his flatmate's voice again, and although the volume and strength of it disturbed him, it was equivalent to the sound of singing angels.

"Sherlock, wha'appened?" His words were slurred and muffled by the oxygen mask. John slowly became aware of it and clumsily lifted his hand to remove it.

"No, John, no. Keep that on." He was far too paranoid of John's lungs halting to let him take that off yet. "You were shot, John." His voice broke slightly on the word 'shot'. His adventurous and persistent mind often wondered what it looked and felt like for John in Afghanistan, to have been penetrated by a small piece of lead and almost die. He was curious about it, really, but never really asked about it. After this time, however...after witnessing it first hand, Sherlock vowed to himself he would never think about it again. He decided he did not want to know what it looked like, even though he now did.

"Do you remember that? Do you remember anything?" Sherlock didn't want to test John's strength, but he needed to know how his mind was fairing. As if his answers to those questions would comfort Sherlock enough to stop his anxiety.

"Uhm..." John's voice was gravelly, his eyes still closed. He tried opening them...he wanted to see his friend's face. His breath sounded ragged, even with the mask on. His eyelids were so, so heavy. He tried to open them, but with every attempt he barely saw blurred white walls before they shut again.

"It's alright, just go back to sleep. Rest." He hated seeing this. His flatmate was always the strong one...the firm, strong, independent man who carried the two of them through even the thickest of times. Now he couldn't even open his eyes or breath on his own. It tore Sherlock down to the core.

"No...hold on." John hazed through the mask. He was determined...although sleep sounded magnificent at the moment, he needed to see Sherlock. Make sure he was alright. He felt Sherlock's hand placed lightly on his shoulder. It strengthened his resolve, that touch. He tried opening them again. It took a moment and a few tries, but he finally fought the heavy lids and looked towards the sound of his friend's voice.

Sherlock watched him fight, and saw the eyes that stared at him. They were foggy, incoherent...was he really looking at him?

"John...?"

"Mmm?" John was focusing on concentrating. He saw shapes, colors, that suggested Sherlock was leaning over him, but he couldn't make it out. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision. Curly, messy hair became more detailed. A signature white dress shirt, that was definitely Sherlock's. But it had...red stripes? That was strange. Sherlock hated stripes. When did he get that shirt?

"That your shirt?" He mumbled. Surprised by the off-place question, Sherlock glanced down at his button up. It was half covered in blood. He grimaced. Along with coffee, Greg was supposed to snag a set of clothes from his own closet for the detective. Being the flat was a crime scene, the DI offered his clothes to Sherlock as nothing could be removed from the Holmes'. It was a kind, unexpected gesture that Sherlock accepted on the fact that he never wanted to see John's blood again.

"Uh, yes, it's my shirt. It's um, well Lestrade is bringing another for me."

Greg? Was he there the whole time? When did he get to the flat? The memories were still hazy, and John hated not knowing. His eyes focused more, the fog clearing a bit. The red stripes formed into strange splatters of blood. His own blood. He groaned again, realizing it.

"Are you alright? Should I fetch a nurse?" The detective said, unsure.

"No, I'm just. I'm sorry for that shirt." Sherlock stifled a rare chuckle, but he couldn't help but lose a small smile. John was still there.

John reached up to take the mask off again, the feel of it's obtrusion bothering him. Sherlock gently but firmly took his hand and set it at his side.

"John, it's to help you breath. You are a doctor, aren't you?"

"I don't like it."

"I don't either." The slightly younger man admitted. John looked at him, thinking about the panic his friend must have felt in that situation. He remembered the questions Sherlock was asking, the manic in his voice rising at his own incompetence. He didn't know what he was doing...

"Not your fault, you know." John felt it needed said.

"I know that. But-"

"No. None of it. Don't argue with me, I'm right." He retorted in his most firm and determined voice, which still happened to be weak and choppy.

Sherlock let out an air of a chuckle and looked his friend over.

"You look like hell." He stated.

"Mmm."

Sherlock realized their conversation had probably exhausted the retired Army doctor. It was, admittedly, a much further progress than Sherlock expected. And he could live with that for now.

"Go back to sleep, John. When you wake up we can talk more about it." He saw a very small movement from John's head that equaled a nod, and with that he slipped under the morphine.

"How is he? Anything new?" Greg opened the door to the private room, bearing gifts of coffee and a bag of clothes. Sherlock accepted them graciously as he answered.

"He woke up for a few minutes."

"What, really? Was he lucid at all?"

"Mhmm." He managed as he gulped down the caffeine. Greg exhaled slowly and plopped into the chair beside Sherlock's.

"Well that's great news. What did he say?"

"Not much...he was confused I think, on the situation. But he saw my shirt, I think he remembered." They both looked at his pathetic and crusted shirt.

"Here, mate." Greg pulled out slacks and a similar work shirt. "The pants are my brothers, he's almost as tall as you. Might be a tad loose on you, but they'll make do." Sherlock put down the cup and brought the clothes with him to the bathroom. He washed his face and changed, feeling loads better without dried blood weighing him down. He looked up into the mirror, realizing his face looked as worn out as he felt. He hadn't left John's side since the man came out of surgery. He splashed water on his skin again, dried it with a towel, and took his familiar place in the chair once more.

The following 12 days, Sherlock did not leave the hospital except once a day to go on a short walk, and that was just on John's demands. After a day or so, John had become conscious enough to carry on conversations and thought processes, and days after that he and Sherlock were able to play cards and exchange memories. As the week bore on, although he was recovering, Sherlock noticed how hollow his friend's face looked. He had lost a substantial amount of weight, and the color in his skin was still pale. Even simple card games warranted beads of sweat from exhaustion. He never let on, but Sherlock truly hated this setting. He and John should be at 221B, playing these cards games and having a drink. They should be arguing over a stupid text message or laughing at Mycroft's latest charade.

Mycroft had visited once. He had made sure Sherlock was out on his walk when he spoke with John. They exchanged words on what the attackers insinuated. Mycroft promised multiple eyes stay on Sherlock, ensuring his safety. John demanded all eyes be on him, not John himself, for if there was a consulting criminal in their midst, they would not be concerned immediately with John. Besides, the two men were almost always together anyways. Eyes on Sherlock meant eyes on John. Mycroft agreed and left with haste, not wanting an exchange with his brother. When Sherlock griped about Mycroft during those days, not once did John mention their meeting. It shook Sherlock down to the bone to think about the return of Moriarty, the one man he truly feared, and John had no desire to resurface such an unpleasant emotion.

By the time John was released, both men were more than ready to return home. The first two days, Greg stayed as long as Sherlock had. After becoming comfortable in his recovery, he slept at home and visited before and after work. Now he helped Sherlock check out of the hospital with an injured man in tow. John denied the use of a wheelchair and instead relied on his friends to help him as he exit the doors, both on either side should he sway.

Greg explained the evidence found at the flat, and the place was cleaned up and good as new. No traces of the traumatic event were to be found. The men, identified by prints and a few drops of blood, were last seen in Ireland. Sherlock surmised they were fleeing, retreating as far as possible from London and the man that once practically owned it.

"You alright?" Sherlock asked John as they exited the cab and stood in front of the daunting step of 221B.

"Yeah." Came his short reply. He was breathing rather heavily. "Let's get this over with."

They began ascending the stairs, one slow step at a time. John realized he was feeling a tad dizzy, but the need for his armchair outweighed the need for rest. Greg followed behind in case someone were to trip. Sherlock readjusted John's good arm over his shoulder as he felt his sway slightly.

"We can stop-"

"No, no let's keep going."

Sherlock admired his determination, but despised his stubbornness. They made it in the flat and were on the flight leading to the door.

John misjudged the placement of a particular middle step and felt his body slip down, his head making for the stairs. Sherlock buckled his knees and held his ground as Greg lurched forward, catching his back. Together, the three of them recovered and made it up and through the door.

"You're a bloody idiot." Greg said half jokingly as Sherlock set John down in his chair.

"I hope you're not talking about me. You normally say that about Sherlock here." John retorted as he found a comfortable position.

"Well I am talking about you." Greg moved closer and stood in front of John, his eyes soft. "You call me if you need anything at all, you hear me?"

Looking up at his friend, John felt his heart sink a bit. When did he deserve such wonderful human beings as these people in his life?

"Yeah, alright. I think we're gonna be OK." He said back. Sherlock, making tea, clumsily dropped the kettle on the floor with a loud KLANG.

"Well, maybe we'll be OK." John smiled up at Greg, who shook his head with a small smile of his own. He patted John's shoulder, said something to Sherlock, and shut the door behind him. John rubbed his bandages absentmindedly. What a very strange life he was living. Thinking about that night, the threats those men made, and why they made them...he began thinking what a very strange life he was still facing.