-ooo-

'Come in, Greg', Sherlock stated what to him was way too obvious to be said out loud in normal circumstances. But that day had very little normal to it, so he decided to go mainstream that one time...

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade entered Baker Street once again. As a professional habit he'd look all around before even saying a word. The fireplace was lit, and John was next to it, sitting in his chair, seemingly fast asleep. That was strange to look at. Controlled stiff John laying back on the chair, more relaxed than Greg had ever seen him before in his life, all the while he was in the same room that just over a day ago he had been shot, almost fatally shot. Greg couldn't help looking down on the floor, he was already stepping on it. The red stain of blood on the floor. He stepped back, and looked over at Sherlock without being able to hide the shock. How could they both stand there as if nothing had happened? They were nuts, those two.

'He's been sleeping for the past four hours. I believe it's normal, due to the medication. But you can wake him up if you like.'

Greg looked over at John again. On the small round table next to him there was an assorted collection of mugs, all seemed full of darkened cold liquids. 'You made him tea. Several times.'

Sherlock looked over before saying: 'I thought he might want some. But he didn't wake up.'

'Why not reuse the same cup?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'Why?! I had extra cups.'

'Never mind... So, how have you been doing?'

'I've been catching up on my research on the dissolution of sugar crystals in different temperature tea.'

'Oh, so all of John's teas actually have different amounts of sugar in it?' That explained the kindness; it was merely the leftovers of experiments.

Sherlock frowned, looking at him like that was silly. 'No, he doesn't take sugar. Everybody knows that...'

'Yeah, of course they do... Look, Sherlock...'

'Do you want a cup of tea?'

'What? Yeah, fine, sure.'

'What concentration of sucrose-based solute do you prefer?' he asked, choosing from several cups in front of him.

'Actually, never mind...'

'So, what was it you wanted?'

The inspector looked over at the chair to make sure John was really asleep before saying: 'The shooter. You have to consider the possibility John was the intended target.' Sherlock was visibly bored and about to change the conversation. 'And in that case, we need to figure out why, and fast. If they try that again on John, he won't pull through again. It's serious, Sherlock. Unlike the movies, it's actually not that much of a current procedure to have hits on people in London. That was a hit and you know it. You need to let me in on everything, Sherlock. You'll need an assistant to help you through, it's how you work, and it's hardly going to be John this time, helping to figure out his own hit...'

'Why not?' he couldn't understand. 'He's already been helping me out. I won't run him as hard, Greg, I know he's got his strengths down.'

'Sherlock, it's hardly human to make him relive all that...'

'If you got shot by a sniper wouldn't you want to know why? Wouldn't you help me figuring it out?' he asked passionately.

'He is okay with it? Really?' the detective inspector was stunned.

'Yes. He's a tough guy, remember?'

'And you'll take care of John? He won't live off just cups of tea, you know?'

'If it were the other way around you wouldn't be saying that to him, would you?!'

'You brought him back to where he got shot! He's sleeping by his blood stain! Sherlock...!'

'He's fine, he really is...' his friend minimized.

The inspector took a deep breath. 'Fine, just make sure of that often, will you?'

'What does that even mean?!'

'Just do that, okay?' he insisted. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't answer. 'And about the bullet coating? Any leads there?'

'The bullet was somewhat degraded after it hit the wall behind John, but there was enough of it to determine the exact chemical composition of the bulk. And Molly and I took the shirt to analyse the blood stain for traces of the coating.'

'Heavy metals?'

'I thought so at first, but no. Turns out there were nitrates in the coating, the kind often found in pesticides.'

'John was poisoned by a farmer's bullet? That doesn't add up, Sherlock.'

'No', he was clearly impatient. 'It just means that the bullet was coated with some heat and pressure resistant substance embedded in pesticides. That substance was water soluble and in contact with John's blood stream it melted away releasing the nitrates, thus poisoning him. There was method, Greg, can't you see? If the bullet didn't hit any of the major organs, it'd still kill him in the end. More than that, John's murder was planned like that. They shot him in the left shoulder for a reason. They shot him in the same shoulder he was shot at in Afghanistan as a message. The shooter knows his past, he knew it wasn't the first time. He knew there was scar tissue from the last time all over his shoulder, and that it'd would slow the bullet down and prolong the exposure to the nitrates. All this time he could have just shot him in the head, but no, he wanted to convey his message.'

'John was shot in the shoulder when he was in the army? Really?' Greg was stunned. 'I thought he had just been shot in the leg, he had a limp.' Sherlock was silent but tensely pacing the kitchen. 'A message, you said the shooting was a message? To whom? To John? To you?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'John has no idea of who it might have been. He's convinced that it wasn't someone from his army days.'

'You mean that it had to be someone who knew about the war injuries.'

'Of course it has to be, it was deliberate!'

'Someone from the enemy side?'

'After all this time why come after one army doctor in particular?' he dismissed it.

'Someone that got hold of his medical file, then?'

'Yes, someone did. But it's not easy. Who could have done it?'

'What does John think about all this?'

'I don't know, I didn't ask', Sherlock dismissed.

'So, you didn't tell him.'

'Tell him what?'

Greg shook his head. 'Never mind. Just be careful, Sherlock, and take some care of him, he would do the same for you, you know he would. And keep me updated.' Sherlock waved him off. Greg just walked away, with a sharp glance at John. He was still sitting back on his chair, but his expression was much less relaxed now. Greg thought it was nice that John had slept all through that conversation. He then walked out, circling the red blood stain on the floor. Stepping on his friend's blood was still too shocking for him.

As Greg closed the door downstairs, Sherlock was by the window, peering out. He then turned his face towards John. He was staring into the flames in the hearth.

John didn't bother pretending he had just woken up. He looked back at his friend. Sherlock could tell he hadn't slept a minute of the time he had been on that chair. All the tea cups, he'd lie now to excuse himself from not wishing to reconnect with the world, to discuss his injury with Sherlock, instead had pretended to sleep while Sherlock played the violin, and then carried on his usual experiments. He had needed to recess somewhere inside himself, to try to find a logic to what had happened.

Sherlock knew John had been listening in on all the conversation. It had been one way of letting him know the facts. Greg was wrong because of all the social conventions. John preferred to know. It was also a requirement to keep him safe.

'Want some tea?' Sherlock asked out loud.

'Yeah, my turn to make some', he stated as he bravely got up from the chair in controlled movements. 'You want some? Just for drinking this time... no science.'

'If you must...' (If you must keep me from my experiments when easily we could do both as save me the time...)

Sherlock watched John go into the kitchen with some apprehension. John was sure he could make the tea, and sure enough he was going on at it one handed with the usual speed of both hands.

There were footsteps on the stairs and then there she was, Mrs Hudson, coming up, she honestly spent as much time in 221B as she did in 221A, and she was getting in through the kitchen door...

'John, you mustn't be doing that!?' she darted an accusing look towards Sherlock and tried to persuade John to let go of the porcelain cups and seat back down, all the while he ignored her protests and insisted there was enough tea for her as well, she had had quite a shock, a nice cup of tea would be just the thing for her.

'Mrs Hudson, I'm perfectly capable of making everyone a cup of tea...'

'John, you need to rest, have a seat, dear.'

'No, I really don't need to...'

'John, it's me, Mrs Hudson, you don't need to be all brave to me, I rather have you sit down and enjoy a nice cup of tea.'

'So my cups aren't as nice?!' he misinterpreted, whether on purpose or not, Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell, as he picked his violin up from the long sofa.

'Your cups are just lovely, dear, and you really must sit down now. You are looking very pale at the moment...'

Sherlock turned towards them again, laying down the violin. He went towards them as John actually took a seat in the nearest chair. He was silent and restraint, she was pursing her lips while looking over at Sherlock. John slid his gaze from Mrs Hudson over to Sherlock and there was some anger in his eyes as he told him simply: 'I'm going to need a lighter, a hand mirror, a needle and some sewing thread. It has reopened in the front.'

'You can't do it yourself, John', his friend was blunt.

'I'm not going back to the hospital over such a small thing, Sherlock.'

'Yes, you are.'

'When I'm there, I'm in a lot more danger, you know that. I'm safer here.'

'Well, I'm not doing it, and you won't be able to do it to yourself.'

He laughed dryly. 'I was in a war scenario. Do you really think it'll be my first time sewing my wounds up?' He got up on his own and moved on to the bathroom. Sherlock exchanged a worried look with Mrs Hudson before following him. He didn't agree with it but he'd assist if he must.

Not even five minutes later they were back at the living room. Sherlock was actually sideways directing John's walk to the chair. John's face was drained and he looked weak, his shirt had a small blood stain by his left shoulder. Sherlock helped him down on the tapestry seat, he'd close his eyes for a minute. Mrs Hudson came join them and sat opposite John, in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock picked up his violin once again and started playing gently the vibrant chords. This time he watched John actually falling asleep in the chair as he kept playing and the sound filled the whole room around him.