(Another) A/N: Thanks to "Guest reviewer", who has taken the time to point out misspellings, that I'll try to rectify in the future. I understand how aggravating it is to read a text and be startled by nonsensical words, vaguely similar to the intended ones. Apologies to everyone who may come across my blunders. English is not my first language and I'll keep doing my best.

Hobbit-Sized Writer: I know, my Mary is creepy, even for me. :) -cfs

-ooo-

John seemed to be gaining strengths by the hour. He was seating upright in his armchair, actually sipping Mrs Hudson's tea. Sherlock was tickling sporadically the violin chords, as he held the violin in his lap, across from John. Mary and Mrs Hudson had just gone upstairs to the old bedroom to take more blankets in. Night had settled its darkness along the street outside the windows.

'So, how's the investigation going?' Sherlock looked over at him. John pushed aside his tea cup onto the small table. 'My investigation, Sherlock. I gathered someone has been checking my army file. Of course there are people who knew, and people who might have known, where I had been shot before. What I don't get is why now. Why try to kill me now.'

'Because of me, Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective', he said, somewhat cold, but John could sense the hurt in his voice. He felt guilty. They sat facing each other honestly, but they couldn't speak the truer words each meant to say.

'Better me than you', John tried to tell him that he didn't blame him, but it didn't come out right. If it had been the other way around, John wouldn't do such a good work pursuing the shooter... Sherlock remained completely motionless, but his eyes narrowed. 'Are you okay? You have been through a lot, Sherlock. You need to rest too. Everyone is trying to make sure I rest, they don't understand how this has been for you. Or if they do, they feel they can't say it out loud because of me. So, I'll say it myself: you need to rest. We can go back to solving this later on. You know we're safe here. We're always safe here.'

'You got shot here.'

'I still feel safe here, I really do', he assured his friend quietly.

'Mary wanted to take you home.'

'I'm glad she agreed to stay for the night.'

'Okay...' Sherlock got up in an energetic move and got to the desk. 'What if Moriarty is really alive and it was him?' He was looking for some papers in particular.

'That's crazy, he's dead. You know that for a fact. Besides, he wouldn't be after me, he'd be after you. Why would I be important to him?'

Sherlock looked away. Because losing John would have crushed him to pieces indeterminately, that's what he couldn't voice out loud. The guilt, the loneliness. How could John not see his importance?

'Maybe he had a plan to get to me and needed to make sure you wouldn't...' He stopped talking, Mary was coming downstairs. Sherlock wondered; had she heard him? Now she would never let go of John...

'And my gun?' John insisted, more cryptic now.

'In your bag', he pointed out.

'Then it's settled, Sherlock?'

'Yes. Tomorrow.'

Mary frowned at those two. She knew they were already onto something.

-ooo-

When Mary got up the next morning, John was already downstairs in the kitchen with Sherlock. She could hear the murmurs of their conversation through the thin walls. She got a robe on and came down at once. She'd find John and Sherlock at the kitchen table, hoovered by a very busy Mrs Hudson that insisted that both her boys get extra portions of all food and beverages around. Sherlock had a pretentious silk gown wrapped around his shirt and trousers, John had found himself some lost snugly oatmeal wool jumper from the past, his left arm still cradled next to his chest. Greg Lestrade was also there, standing up, all formal and lecturing to the pair, and all nice and respectful to Mrs Hudson. 'I already had some coffee today, Mrs Hudson, you're very kind.'

She turned her attention elsewhere. 'Then who's going to have the extra toasts, John, if not you? I'll be needing to talk to Mary, she should know that when you don't have a good breakfast you get cranky all day long. She'll thank me for that piece of information, I tell you.'

'Mrs Hudson, I'm not cranky...!' he assured her, stiffly.

'See? Just have the toasts already, dear.'

Sherlock pretended not to smile as he followed their interaction. Next she'd be convincing him to go watch soaps together...

Mary entered the kitchen stating: 'You're all up early!' Greg noticed that neither Sherlock nor John answered her, and looked away. John looked much better though, so that mustn't had been the reason they both got up early, phoned him and invited him in to discuss the case... was it?

-ooo-

'John?'

Sherlock exited his bedroom with some apprehension. The windows filtered in the early light of dawn over London. Sherlock had heard footstep noises, not sure what they meant, but he was sure they were John's and not some intruder. He crossed the cold empty kitchen into the living room. There he was. Peering through a gap in the window blinds onto the street. 'What is it?'

John looked back, caught by surprise, jumpy, feverish. 'What is what? You mean outside? There's nothing outside, Sherlock. I was just...' he walked away from the window cradling his left arm. 'I was checking the bullets trajectory, Sherlock. I know I said it could wait, but I couldn't sleep anymore. I must have woken you', he realized only then.

'It's okay... You won't go back to bed? Mary might awake soon if she realizes you're not there.'

'No, I... can't sleep right now.'

'Is it the same reason as before?' Sherlock asked, hopefully masking the word "nightmares" enough to let John answer despite himself.

He looked haggard. 'Maybe.'

'Well, it's morning already', Sherlock pointed out.

'Yeah, and I should have a shower. No, no, I can manage! I'm fine... Sherlock?'

'Hm?'

'Thanks, though.' (Thank you even though I can't allow you to help me, it still means a lot.)

-ooo-

'Mary, there you are', Mrs Hudson started at once, 'we should talk, later.' She signalled the secrecy even though right behind her Greg was staring at Mrs Hudson in utter amusement. Mary came sit at the table, and John took the chance to hand her his toasts.

'How are you feeling today, John?' she cared, sweetly. He stiffed, due to the audience.

'All the better. Did you manage to sleep well?'

She nodded and then turn to Greg, in a silent demand to know what he was doing there.

Sherlock spoke first: 'Our friendly neighbourhood Scotland Yarder is here to give us access to an old abandoned ammunition storage bunker in the suburbs of London. That's where we believe the main bulk of the bullet structure that hit John came from.'

Greg looked over at Mary, concerned by the way the information had been delivered, only to find her very natural.

'I see, and who's going, you said?' she returned.

'Greg, John and I, obviously.'

'Sherlock, he was just shot, he mustn't go.'

'Mary!' John sounded embarrassed. 'I know I can do this, and I want to do this.'

'Sherlock...' she tried appealing to him directly. But his loyalty had to go to the long term friend and his own wish for company.

'You heard the doctor, Mary. I'll make sure he's returned to you with the same number of holes in him.' That time even John looked at him sideways.