-ooo-
Dr. John Watson woke up in easily recognizable settings. The cold white room, dominated by the bed and the medical equipment around it. He had no doubt he was in a Hospital. Actually the name of it was in the bed sheet trims. Yes, of course he'd be brought into that one. It wasn't strange at all. And there was a small table with flowers. So, he'd been there a while now, asleep. Time enough for some people to stop by. The anaesthetics would probably account for the elapsed time. He must have been taken to surgery for the bullet removal. Left shoulder, again. No, not for removal, the bullet had gone through and exited the back, he thought he could remember that much. All the while, Sherlock was keeping a watchful eye on the front wound, he had been bleeding out through the back one. John had known it, he had also known that there was nothing Sherlock could have done about it so there had been no point in saying it and troubling him more. That was about all he remembered, so he must have lost consciousness then.
It suddenly hit him; he had been there for too long already. Sherlock was in danger. The bullet, it had hardly been meant for him, but for his friend. He had to warn him. Where was his phone? One wasn't supposed to use a phone in a Hospital because of the pressurized oxygen bottles, but he saw none beside him, and no duct over him. He'd have to risk it, to warn Sherlock. He was slowly pulling himself straight in the bed when Molly walked in, in her lab coat.
'Molly?'
She smiled, seemed relieved even. 'John, you're awake already. Sherlock just went home to take a shower - we insisted - he'll be right back.' As she spoke, she was picking up something from across the room, her back turned on him.
'He can't, it can be dangerous, I need to tell him...'
She turned sharply to him and stopped his words. 'Tell him that you were shot and so could he? I think it has crossed his mind, don't you think? Sherlock and Greg took all the precautions, John...' She talked to him like she was talking to a small silly child, he noticed, confused. 'I'll tell the nurse to stop by.'
'Why?'
'I think you're developing some infection. You're feverish. It could have been the bullet. It could have been the state of Sherlock's floor. You better have that looked up. Just don't worry about Sherlock. He's being careful.'
'Mrs Hudson...'
'He knows that. Sherlock has taken care of it all, John, stop worrying. And Greg is investigating too.'
John frowned. 'How come you have the bullet? That's the bullet, isn't it? What you came here for. You have the bullet but it was a through and through.'
She pressed her lips. 'Must have been caught in your clothes as they brought you here, John.'
'Oh, right.' He couldn't help closing his eyes, he felt very tired. He'd have to believe in Sherlock for now. That he'd take care of everything, that he'd protect everyone, that all was in his capable hands. John couldn't do it, not just yet.
Molly stepped out of the room quietly, as John fell asleep. Sherlock was in the hallway, waiting. 'Here's John's shirt, Sherlock', she handed him the ragged cloths in a transparent plastic bag. 'Are you sure you want to do this?'
'I have to. There was something in the bullet's coating, something that is crashing John's system. Maybe some sort of poison. I need to find it out, he must forgive me for not being by his bedside.'
'He'll understand', Molly offered.
'No, he won't. He'll think that I should have excused myself from this job, that I'm too close. But I can't just sit by his side and wait... How can people do that?'
Molly smiled sideways. 'He's lucky to have you, he'll see that much.'
'I have to make sure that happens.'
-ooo-
'What do you need me to do next?' Molly inquired to lean controlled figure stooping over the chromatographer, power wishing it to run faster. Sherlock looked back with a haggard expression. He couldn't hide from her how hard it had all been for him, nonstop up till now. And it wasn't over yet either.
'How is he?' Sherlock demanded to know. And yet, for the last six hours straight, Sherlock had refused to even go near John Watson's room again. The emotions could get in the way, he said. How blind could he be, that he didn't see that the emotions he was trying to shelter himself from had already taken over? He was a wreck, half of the investigator he had ever been. Just an hour ago, he had made a procedural mistake that had cost him half an hour's time. Maybe John's view was right and Sherlock should have excused himself. But relinquishing the control wasn't his choice, couldn't have been a real choice for the detective.
The machine beeped and the printer started to run paper. They both rushed in. Too much data, too many components, they had to sort through all of them to pin point the relevant data... Even with the solution in their hands, the mystery fought to remain.
'There!' Sherlock shouted, demanding. 'I was right! Even if the bullet missed the vital organs, there would still be a poison to finish John off. Whoever is behind this, oh, he's clever, he's methodical...'
'Sherlock!' She was shocked by his gloating, his appreciation of the crime.
'What?!' He stopped short, couldn't tell what was going on.
'We need to let the doctor know. Hopefully it's not too late...' Molly pointed out.
He froze as she sped up to the internal telephone. 'What do you mean too late? We solved it. We know what it is!'
Molly was holding the phone. She conveyed the message and didn't reply until it was done. Then she faced him, sober. 'It's been causing damage all this time, Sherlock.'
'He's a tough guy', he'd repeat Lestrade's words, with uneasiness.
'He's been hurt a lot.'
'He was in the war.' (A war hero.)
'And on your cases together as well. He got used for leverage more than once, he tried to be your bodyguard when Jim Moriarty was circling in on you, and he always soldiered on through it all, because he always meant his actions as true genuine generosity. He always hid from you the pain, it must have hurt... Did you even know about that?' she doubted, with a sad expression.
'Of course I did. He's not like that, he doesn't brood over those things.'
'Exactly. But it doesn't erase the fact that he had a hard time in that surgery room. Sherlock, what I'm trying to say is... Just don't go pushing him along in your running around just because he tells you he's fine. I'm sure he'll tell you he's fine. He's not. He won't be for a while. And he'll never admit it.'
He'd hear her words, but he couldn't quite take them to heart. He believed he knew John H. Watson better than Molly did, anyway.
-ooo-
'Toxic poisoning from the bullet's coating', John repeated slowly, admiringly even. He had been Sherlock Holmes client this time, and Sherlock had faithfully solved the case.
Slowly John was getting his coat back on. The left arm cradled by a fabric strip, immobilizing it against his chest. He felt the need to add: 'Maybe an old rifle from the Soviet republic? There were some cases like that there. And I'm sure it was a rifle by the bullet size and the distance. A pistol would have been less accurate.'
'You could have done that shot with a pistol', Sherlock pointed out, in a flat voice, seating in the visitor's chair with his hands pressed together, thinking.
John glanced at him, uncertain what he meant by it. A compliment, a correction, a new theory?
'Anyway, someone was really aiming at offing the first person entering Baker Street.'
Sherlock lowered his hands, hesitating for a second. But he felt he owed it to John, the truth - or the most of it.
'The shooter wanted you, John. He had plenty of opportunity to distinguish you from me.'
'Me? Why would anyone want me?!'
He didn't seem frightened at all. Honestly, Sherlock could recognize that there was an exhilaration emanating from John now, the man of action that had been imprisoned in a Hospital for too long. What he failed to perceive was that there was also relief in John to find that he was the intended target; he could take care of himself, protecting Sherlock would have been much harder when he felt so tired to begin with.
Sherlock held the room door open to let John through, the simple daily gestures were going to be harder now for John. Yet he already had a puzzling dexterity with just his non-dominant arm, one that echoed the fact it wasn't the first time he was in that situation.
'And', John added, confused, 'how did the shooter know that I'd be at Baker Street? I don't live there anymore, Sherlock. How did the shooter know that he could find me entering your living room that night?'
Sherlock raised a brow. John had never been particularly methodical in his analysis processes, but every once in a while, he'd hit the most important notes even without going through all the intermediary steps.
'I hadn't decided on it myself until the cab pulled over at 221B', John insisted. 'How could the shooter be after me in a place I didn't even know I was going to?' He kept persisting in a point already made but this time Sherlock wouldn't point it out. Somehow he was enjoying hearing him talk and talk. Not for what he was actually saying. It just felt nice to hear his voice, controlled, pondered, after the shock of the recent events. Thank goodness John didn't want to discuss what had happened. He was too much the tough guy to talk about it and that was a relief to Sherlock, he didn't want to go around having to relive it. If John wanted to talk about the future and ignore the event, that suited Sherlock just fine.
Sherlock hailed a cab as soon as they got out of the building.
'And I came up the stairs first, you stayed behind with Mrs Hudson. What if you had come up first, would he have shot you instead?'
Sherlock opened the cab door and entered first. That way John sat next to the door, he could close it with the right functional arm. Which he did, not surprised at all that Sherlock had to get in first.
'John, we're going to Baker Street.'
'What?'
'Till Mary comes back, you can stay at Baker Street. Back to our original plan... Don't worry', he added, 'I taped over the bullet hole in the window, it was getting chilly.'
John looked confused. If Sherlock was expecting protests from the man being taken to where he had been shot, he heard none. 'Alright', he said, welcoming going back to Baker Street. What had happened there had hardly changed years of a homely feeling to that place. And it was the right place to start investigating what had happened and how to stop it from repeating.
John was looking straight forward, Sherlock couldn't help himself from staring into his friend's face.