-ooo-

221B Baker Street. Daylight flooding the room. Sherlock enters first, taking off his gloves. He looks behind him, waiting for John to finish up the stairs. John comes in second, somewhat controlled. He looks around and he finds the spot at once. There's no sugar coating it. The red stain on the floor soaked through the boards, the old wood floor was too porous. Someone had tried to clean the mess up, obviously. Probably sweet Mrs Hudson. And someone had also ripped the wallpaper of the wall, leaving it bare for the moment. There was no stain on the wall, but there was plenty on the floor.

'Won't that scare the clients off?' he remarks, pointing at the floor.

'That's of no concern to me right now', Sherlock brushes it off. As he walks by he steps on the stain, carelessly. John follows him, circling around it, to the kitchen.

'You've been to the opposite flats, I suppose. You know where the bullet was fired from', John started, usually it didn't take much to trick Sherlock into sharing his deductions. A vain compliment disguised as a statement and off he spilled the story out. At least to John, he'd compromise in letting him catch up.

Sherlock glanced at him as he got some tea on, in mechanic gestures. 'Yes, I've been there. The flat was empty to let. The lock on the door was forced. None of the neighbours saw something useful.'

'But surely they got startled with the gunshot. Someone must have called the police.'

'Yes, they did.'

'But they saw nothing none the less... Poor Mrs Hudson, Home Owners Association will give her even more hell for having us here.'

'They tried.' He smiled. 'She told them off.'

'Really?' John was surprised.

'She's very protective of the people she cares for.' (You know that, John.) Sherlock felt embarrassed now, need he really spell it all out for John? Couldn't he add things up on his own?

He tilted his head sideways. 'She's always been very protective of you. But I was just... a tenant.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Well, she always offered you tea', he cut short, abruptly. 'And she watched you being carried out of here in a stretcher, so you might come up with something nicer to say to her.'

John's left hand twitched, and he took the other hand over it. 'You know I care about her. She's always done right by me. She's been more of a mother to me...' He stopped all of a sudden, registering the words he couldn't say to end his sentence. 'I'm going to sit down for a second', and he turned around, in a brisk manner. But he halted suddenly. 'You are, of course, sure that it's safe to have the window blinds open like this, Sherlock.'

'Quite sure.'

'Okay, then.'

John took a seat in his old chair, facing the peaceful light coming in from the window. It was all so eerie. Just a few hours ago he was lying on a Hospital bed. Now he was in Baker Street. Where he was immediately before he had got rushed to the Hospital. And that hardly added up to any sense. He closed his eyes for a second. Somewhere, he could have sworn it was very far away from there and yet so close, the soft comforting sound of a violin being played filled the space. Must be Sherlock. Odd time to play the violin, but then again he wasn't like everyone else. It must have been tough on Sherlock. He really wasn't into Hospitals and patients. He preferred to see it as cases, not people. This time it had worked out for the best, John had to agree. Sherlock hadn't needed him at all, either. Just another mischievous case foiled by the hat detective. Hopefully it was the end of it, too. For now, he'd just sleep for a couple of minutes, that would make it right.